Jesus Campy: Witnessing Tool? Or Just A Tool Witnessing?
Some of you may or may not be aware of the fact that my last movie obsession was the wonderful fun-for-the-whole-family, chortle-out-loud laugh riot, Jesus Camp, a biased documentary on the very current state of the not-so-far-right wing, not-so-new Evangelical Christian movement, a phenomenon marked by militaristic-like recruitment, fundamentalist tendencies, and gobs & gobs of support at all levels of society. Please see the movie now.
Now I've not exactly made a secret of my disdain for Evangelical Christians. I.e., I think they should all be spayed or neutered. Or both. Preferably at the same time. Then killed and sent to work camps.
But what I've not exactly not made a secret of is my disdain for Christian Rock, a musical 
genre that would make Lucifer himself cower in the corner curled up in the fetal position trying to gouge out his eardrums with a awl. (He was purportedly a gifted musician with a terrific time feel.)
The genius of Christian Rock isn't the music per se; it's that a good Christian Rock song will sound a lot like (if not exactly like) a song you'd hear on your local alternative radio station.
There are scenes in Jesus Camp that make my blood boil, my milk curdle and my beer warm. One is what I like to call the "Break Dancing For Jesus" scene, where the adorably cute blond gymnast girl is listening to a song while getting pumped up for her morning home school session where they learn that Jesus was angry, enjoyed country music, hated gays and women, served his country, had Aryan features and was a card-carrying member of the NRA. Listen to that song a bit more carefully. It's basically Rage Against The Machine meets "It Only Takes A Spark".
Then there's the scene I like to call "Scary Kids In Makeup And Camouflage Fatigues With Deadhead Spin Sticks Talking About The New Holy War We Need To Recruit For Whilst Gazed Upon By Wide-Eyed Future Psychotic Drones". Listen to that song a bit more carefully. Hi, Rob Zombie meets The Chemical Brothers dating "I'm Gonna Let It Shine".
I haven't bothered to research who exactly these rip off artists are because, frankly, I don't want to know. Plus, I'm too busy washing my ears out with paint thinner.
Then there's what happens next. Or already did. I think. Doesn't matter, technically.
It's the "People Milling Around Large Cafeteria-Looking Place Before Giant Fat Ugly Cunt Recruits Mindless/Hapless Pre-Pubescent Clueless Pawns With Retarded Psychotic Parents" scene. And Carman.
Carman. Remember that name. Carman.
This is the same smarmy dirt bag who cut his teeth on Praise The Lord, one of the funniest programs you'll ever see on Trinity Broadcasting Network, hosted by none other than Paul and Jan Crouch, adopted Texans with patents of nobility that read like a speak-in-tongues sing-a-long church bulletin insert at the local Pentecostal brain drain. I've mentioned them before. Jan's hair goes from pink to blue to orange-ish to puce to silver-tinged to violet, depending on the ecumenical calendar (and specials at The Dallas House Of A Thousand Hues Hair And Makeup Center/Stolen Lortab Exchange Program).
I.e., they ain't exactly Unitarians.
Carman's genius is his relentlessly up-to-date pop music sensibility. The song playing during the "People Milling Around Large Cafeteria-Looking Place Before Giant Fat Ugly Cunt Recruits Mindless/Hapless Pre-Pubescent Pawns With Retarded Psychotic Parents" scene is "Who's In The House", a song that's nearly 20 years old, which debuted on Praise The Lord as a Fatboy Slim-esque send up of, that's right, Jesus H. Christ. It's more likely than not The J-man who's in "the house", presumably whatever tabernacle you happen to find yourself in at any given moment, so long as it's christian right approved.
When Rap started to die by adapting the worst aspects of R&B, and folks allegedly in the know deciding collectively to completely ignore the genius that was and is Lauren Hill, Hip Hop took up residence in its rotting carcass and removed all the funk and backbeat that made Rap so cool. Carman followed suit and "Who's In The House" became a mid-1990s version of low key back beats and floor dancing. And I'm pretty sure it's this version that's playing during the "People Milling Around Large Cafeteria-Looking Place Before Giant Fat Ugly Cunt Recruits Mindless/Hapless Pre-Pubescent Pawns With Retarded Psychotic Parents" scene.
If I'm not mistaken, this may or may not be the latest version of it. (And crank up that volume knob!)
Clearly Beastie Boys influenced, but with just the right amount of Slim Shady for white supremacistical tendencies but without all the elegant samples or clever turns of phrase, like Beck Lite. Real lite.
Not all Christian Rock is totally devoid of artistic merit and blows chunks. Didn't the band Creed start out as a Christian Rock group? And aren't there references to apostolic visions whilst goofed on peyote in the early music of Phish?
When it comes to Church Music, I'm a bit of a snob and really don't believe any music written after Bach has any business being played in the sanctuary. But I don't think that in any way undermines my criticisms of hacks like Carman. Music can reveal the divine in all of us because for me listening to music is participating in something greater than just the notes. Something sublime, esoteric. Something, well, for lack of a better phrase, "not of this dingy, bitter, horrid, shortchanged pestilence we call existence". Something immortal in its participatory-ness.
What sort of evil monster manages to pander to the lowest common denominator in both music and spiritualism? I won't speak to the religious aspect, but music, great music, doesn't pander. Music transcends denominators.
Carman helps me participate in something immortal as well: My divine hatred for Evangelical Christians. So watch out, you talentless music mauler. I've got my ear on you. And that goes for the rest of you as well. Don't fuck with my old school rap. Go back to being a circus barker hocking your lame CDs like hair tonic on the tent revival circuit. They need you.
switters also blogs at The Outer Sanctum. He lives somewhere that he insists on calling "The 'Ham" and claims to be gainfully employed.