Tune in Tokyo... In the name of the father, and of the son...
There are several universal truths in music. The first, of course is that Van Halen sans David Lee Roth is just not Van Halen The second is that Paul McCartney, as talented a songwriter as he might be, was the biggest pussy in the Beatles. I have come to add a third one that just might usurp the first two:
Religious music sucks ass.
(Speaking of pussies, I just watched that latest Star Wars film. I couldn't wait for Anakin Skywalker to turn into Darth Vader.... Ooops. I'm going off on one of those classic fuquad-esque tangents. Back to the topic.)
Where was I? Oh yeah. Religious music. It sucks... With the exception of Handel's Messiah and Blake's Jerusalem, it SUCKS. Okay, so I'm risking 850 jiggawatts of lightning-bolt up my rusty sheriff's badge talkin' religification on the lord's (sic) day and all, but I just spent a week in the goddamned South, and I've about had my fill of Jebus (not that I was that religified to begin with. By the way, while I was down there, I actually heard a woman call her child by name: "Messiah." I admit, I culled my firstborn's name from mythology, but "Messiah" is just a bit creepy to me.)
I'm not going to antagonize christians (sic), because those freaks have very little sense of humor about their sh*t... but do me a favor. If you're going to write a song to beat the Jesus drum, at least write a good f*cking song.
On the way down to 'Dixie' to visit my old man, the FM transmitter for my iPod went on the fritz. It lasted for the first leg of the trip, but dissed us on the most painful 400 miles. You know the ones... with the freaky crosses on the hillsides. Ever since the film "Children of the Corn", Jesus radio gives me the willies. Ironically, I've come to the conclusion that religion is not for children. It's just too darn violent and spooky. One of these lunatics kept enunciating the word "flesh" for some reason. Then my wife kept egging me on by saying sh*t to my kids like, "Today is the day the saviour has risen."
"Lamb of god..."
"AAAAAAAAuuuuughhhhhhhh" (screeeeech... swerve....) "Come on! I'm driving!!!"
Along with those f*cked up preacher-men came an onslaught of vapid religious tunes that gave me one of those 'ice cream headaches' and caused me to tap anxiously on the seek button on the radio. I don't know if it's a chicken or egg thing, or a horse before the cart thing, but I can't understand why worship songs are just so laaaame? Is it because I'm not down with g-o-d, or is it because these 'songwriters' are afraid if they write anything saucy they'll spend eternity licking the underwear lint from Satan's red-hot ass crack?
Among the gems I was slapped on the ass with:
"blaahh... blahhhh... blahh... Jesus is the sweetest name...." (Actually "Shaneequah" is the sweetest name. Homegirl got an ass that could lead a gift horse to water...)
Another of my faves was some backwoods sh*theel lamenting how bad god feels, and that you would, too "if noone believed in youuuuu...." When I think of all the other things we do that bums the deities out, I would put that song about eighth on the list of sh*t that makes god cringe.
And to make matters worse, 90% of my other options consisted of those brutal, nasal abominations they call country these days. It's like having to choose between the runs and the bends. It got to the point that when I finally came across something somewhat palatable, I turned to my wife and said, "I never thought I'd say this, but I'm actually glad to hear this crappy Phil Collins song."
Up here in the North, radio only gets jesufied on Sunday mornings, and country is thankfully relegated to one station to the extreme right of the dial (imagine that). It's not like radio's much better here anyway, seeing that it is instead littered with the phat bass of the urban ilk, the stale bongwater stylings of classic rockers or disposable pop pap. Seven days a week of gospel, though is just too much for this heathen to handle.
So in closing, I'd just like to say this. If you're going to pen a religious ditty, fire up a fatty, take a couple swigs of Glenfiddich, tear a piece of ass first... then (making sure you have about three days' growth of facial hair) write that sh*t at 2:45 in the morning. If you're not going to play by my rules, at least have the decency to keep it off my airwaves. Take a page from that stinky hippy textbook. Trade tapes with each other after Sunday mass.
"Dude, I just recorded 'the King of Glory' on my Garageband."
"Cool. I'll trade you for my ukulele rendition of 'Are You Washed in his Blood' with a phat Jeremy Camp beat."