Nothing makes me wish I was a New Yorker more than the Christmas tree that stands at 30 Rockefeller Center every year.

Quick story: Five years ago, I took a road trip through the Northeast with an Australian girlfriend, sort of showing her the America I knew and loved. We ended up in Manhattan a few days after Christmas and, even though the holiday had come and gone, gazing up at the Rockefeller tree as snow fell managed to teleport me back to the Christmases of my childhood. I was seven years old again, and those skaters gliding across the ice rink were like something out of a fantastic dream, an ideal that only existed in Norman Rockwell photographs. Except here it was, right in front of me.

Quick story’s resolution: Until I get the chance to move to Manhattan, I tune in to the Christmas at Rockefeller television specials every year in order to get whatever tree fix I can.

Last night was the 75th anniversary of the event and, except for the abysmally bad hosts – a regular problem with the ceremony – I wasn’t disappointed. Seriously, does Al Roker even bother mentally showing up to these things anymore? He could host his way through a hurricane without emotionally involving himself in one moment of the maelstrom. If his robotic laughter wasn’t bad enough, the producers decided we need Nick Lachey and High School Musical-star Ashley Tisdale. Now, I don’t want to bash Nick; he’s actually a good guy and means well, but he just can’t read a cue card without, you know, looking like he’s reading a cue card. And Ashley Tisdale? Could this girl be any more manufactured? I mean, yes, it’s Christmas and Christmas has always had that artificial commercial veneer to it, but, for God’s sake, didn’t anybody notice during rehearsals how she intended to perform “Last Christmas” halfway through the show? She’s taken the Lolita-grade screw-me eyes and breathy delivery that Mandy Moore patented back when she was 14 years old and turned it into an entire performance style, adding in unhealthy doses of Marilyn Monroe and a stripper named Cherry I once knew. I don’t want my Christmas songs to sound like something I could get a lap dance to.

Most every other performance was wonderful, including Josh Groban’s “Oh Come All Ye Faithful,” Carrie Underwood’s “Do You hear What I Hear,” and Tony Bennett’s “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town,” but, in my opinion, it was Taylor Swift’s gentle countrification and personal rendering of “Silent Night,” delivered with her angelic voice, that made the evening. I haven’t paid much attention to Swift in the past, but I’m going to have to check out her work after this, and I imagine that’s what her publicists were hoping would happen when they booked her for this. The last pop star to make an appearance was Celine Dion, who performed in the Rockefeller Center’s Rainbow Room because…well, I don’t know why. It was too cold outside? On top of that, she sang two songs: “The Christmas Song” and a very non-Christmasy cover of Heart’s “Alone,” which showed she could do a mighty fine Anne Wilson imitation.

Finally, the big moment came. New York City mayor Michael Bloomberg, the owner of the Rockefeller Center, Tony Bennett, and Al Roker circled the great red button that would light up the tree’s 30,000 solar-powered lights – part of an effort to go green this year. With a unified push, angels sang, Radio City Rockettes kicked up their heels, and the Rockefeller tree exploded with color. Ah, New York…