Just re-listened to: Supernatural (1998) by DC Talk, an album whose release was the first one I can remember anticipating with excitement, prompting me to assemble something resembling a listening party before I knew those were a thing. (Primary reaction: “Let’s go figure out the weird chord progression on ‘My Friend (So Long)’!”)
Yet I don’t post it to recommend it—despite its considerable formal, vocal, and especially harmonic virtues, it comes off sonically bloated, smugly identitarian, lyrically derivative, and vapidly devotional instead of inventive, moral, artistic, and Christian—but rather to wonder: How am I only just now realizing DC Talk was a boy band?
The most remarkable thing about The Night Watchman, which is a good friend’s favorite book ever, is the suggestive congruence between Bucky’s paralysis, brought on by his sin, and Thomas’ stroke, brought on by his struggle against others’ sin.
I suppose it’s more accurate and parallel to say it’s Patrice’s vengeful unforgivingness that brings on Bucky’s paralysis. But may be wading into dicey discussional waters.
A mid-hoc surmise I surmise will be of some encouragement to current and future fellow parents of teenagers: Our relationships with our teenage children, especially those of the same sex as us, are likely to go through an extended span of thinness. That is, it’ll seem there is no relationship, that we’re just a chauffeur and a cook and a money tree. But don’t panic. Don’t press to hard. You know what to do. Just keep doing that and be patient. The kids’ll come around.
Just re-listened to: Love Is The King (2020) by Jeff Tweedy. The homey, sentimental sound of a veteran American songwriter, fifteen years sober, sitting on the front porch of his family home at sunset with his amps, his sons, and his elder son’s drum set, strumming perfect little gems of songs into existence on his many guitars, but especially his nylon-string Martin, because he has pandemic time to kill. Some of the songs are sung to his wife. Half of them are honky-tonk. The album gets a touch sluggish toward the end, but that’s because the sun has set and it’s time to go to bed.
I do wonder whether my having become a lighter sleeper has something to do with me working in our basement and thus having less exposure to natural light.
Just re-listened to: Carried Along (2000) by Andrew Peterson. Carefully arranged, folk-esque acoustic pop marking the arrival of the most skilled evangelical songwriter of the century. Peterson’s fanboyism for Rich Mullins is evident—and quite welcome. The album’s only flaw is the fanboy’s reedy vocals.
Just re-listened to: Return to Cookie Mountain (2006) by TV on the Radio. Thick, noisy, wordy, loopy apocalyptic post-rock that manages to maintain pop leanings. (We observe once again that minimum viable pop is catchy melodies plus reliable rhythm, which this album has in large, dirty piles.) An excellent would-be Bowie album, as if Bowie had been taking Peter Gabriel-administered steroids in a cavern and as an eerie side effect had developed the ability to sing in two voices simultaneously from his one mouth as long as those voices were separated by octaves or some other such wide harmonic interval.
It all makes for an excellent Halloween album. But despite its spook and force, the pathos is what lingers. And I haven’t even yet paid attention to the lyrics, of which there are plenty. Love is kinda crazy with a spooky dirtywhirl like you.
The album art depicts a nest, but it sure looks to me like a crown of thorns.
Here’s an audio recording of my essay about the reasons and mechanics of Jesus’ self-subjection to crucifixion for folks who prefer listening to reading. It’s roughly 50 minutes in length.
Just re-listened to: Jesus Freak (1995) by DC Talk. Is it nostalgia that enables me to delight in it? Surely in part. I was 13 years old and well ensconced in evangelical subculture when it came out. But Smitty’s fellow CCM platinum release I’ll Lead You Home came out that year, too, and you don’t see me writing about that now, do you?
Look, the ingredients that make for pop-rock I like—shapely melodies, generous harmonies, three lead vocalists, and verve—are present here on every track. There’s so much smiling energy—so much more than on their non-CCM contemporaries’ albums—not to mention highly skilled session playercraft on offer that it’s very easy for me to listen past a few awkward rap bars and the album’s religious superiority complex. It’s a pop tour de force. And besides, I’m not really spinning this for the lyrics, although I don’t care what you say, I don’t care what you heard: “Colored People” is a great song.
I dream of a world in which smartphones and laptops display the title of whatever you’re looking at on their backsides. This would have two societally salubrious effects:
Serendipity might strike as we discover you’re reading a book I’ve also read or listening to an album I think is cool. Or at least you’re letting your stranger-neighbors know a little bit about you; a little uncertainty reduction goes a long way toward reducing stress.
In the three thousand words or so below, you’ll find my long-gestating attempt to grasp why Jesus allowed Himself to be crucified and how His crucifixion achieved those aims. Or at least, you’ll find most of it: I cut the writing short. That’s because when it comes to disciplined, long-form argumentation, I may be the slowest writer I know. (Hence, despite a love for knowledge and understanding, I never pursued a PhD and probably never will.)
I typed the first word of what you’ll read below sometime in October 2022. As of the writing of the words of this paragraph, it’s late August 2024. At the rate I’ve been going, to get all my ideas out onto the page would take me another year. Yet every minute I spend writing this essay is a minute not spent relating directly to people or indulging my other expressive hobby, making music, which seems like I’ve all but ignored this entire time. I want to get back to that stuff, especially as both my kids are now in high school and my time with...
Hey!
You married him.
He’s always and in all ways gonna stay him.
Means he won’t leave ya,
But he’s prolly gonna grieve ya
Again and again and again. ✏️ 🎤 🎵
