By Ed Huyck
By Melissa Wray
By Patrick Strait
By Jonathan McJunkin
By B Fresh Photography
By Ryan Siverson
By Kendra Sundvall
By Ed Huyck
Jesus Sound Explosion is about a crisis of faith--two faiths, actually. From the moment in the 1960s when he first heard "jazzy music," his mother's phrase for anything with a backbeat, Mark Curtis Anderson loved it. As a pastor's son at Central Baptist Church in St. Paul, he also loved the Lord. And for a while he believed with all his viscera that anyone who did not would burn in hell forever.
The notion that those passions might be opposed seems as anachronistic today as a record-burning party. (When R. Kelly wraps himself in the choir, irony, not God, is dead.) But Anderson's hilarious memoir recalls a forgotten moment in American history when some white evangelicals, clueless for so long about rock's roots in black gospel, began to let the devil's music in the front door to keep their children from slipping out the back. Jesus Sound Explosion is about the hip-a-fying of born-again Christianity--the origin of today's booming Christian music industry.
And Anderson, who no longer believes in hell, is the perfect, wry storyteller to put you in the front pews of this world. In some ways, his book is an elaborate explanation of how he went from fearing the "bored looks" of older kids at church to covering the Clash's "I'm So Bored With the U.S.A." in bars with his House of Mercy band. The freethinking Lowertown congregation of the same name (where he drums every Sunday) is home to many "recovering evangelicals"--which is what Anderson calls himself. Despite his obvious admiration for his forward-thinking parents, Anderson is a shell-shocked Christian soldier on permanent leave. "Eternal love exists, and it cannot be won or lost," he writes. "When I believe, I believe that."
Still, he doesn't waste any words cursing the holier-than-thou of his youth. When the author shows up for a City Pages interview at the all-ages New Union nightclub on September 19, he resembles, to me, a more handsome version of character actor J.T. Walsh--bearish and intensely withheld. This is a good time to come here, I tell him. In October, the 14-year-old Christian music venue will change its name to Club Three Degrees, relocating from northeast Minneapolis to downtown, the den of sin. Anderson has never been here before, though he remembers seeing Paul Cebar at the "old" Union (located in the Central Avenue business district, before the Living Word Christian Center took over the bar).
"It strikes me how much they've taken the 7th St. Entry look and put it in here," he says, noting the black decor.
Onstage, the band Stillday is leaping into an original alt-rock song, but with a guitar-drum intro that sounds a little too familiar.
"Smells like Jesus' spirit, eh?" Anderson remarks, meeting my smile. The jumping and screaming teenagers either don't mind or don't notice the Nirvana lift.
Anderson seems too sheepish about his previous self-righteousness to be disdainful toward this scene. But he's hardly blasé about it. When we head to the downstairs lounge, past the air hockey players and the DJ spinning techno, he notices that our table is covered with torn-out biblical verses, affixed beneath a layer of laminate.
"In a way, it's this kind of stuff that makes me feel more uncomfortable," he says. "Because this is where the proselytizing comes in."
The black lights, the pulsing beat, and the darkness remind him of the Wreck, a fluorescent-painted basement hangout at Central Baptist in the early '70s, which he describes in the book.
"It seems like a lot of pop evangelical culture is trying to be like, 'This is not the usual uptight evangelical culture.'" Anderson says. "But what are people saying in Sunday school? To really understand what the New Union's about, you'd have to go to one of their Sunday evening services. You'd have to go into Northwestern Christian bookstore, which sells tickets to the New Union, and take a look at the 'Left Behind' series."
He's talking about the best-selling books by Tim LaHaye and Jerry Jenkins, which fictionalize a sort of hysterical, Jack Van Impe version of biblical prophecy. The heroes are newly converted evangelicals in a post-apocalyptic United States who band together against the Antichrist, the Secretary General of the United Nations.
"If you want kids to feel like they're in the world and not of the world," Anderson continues, "you bring them something that looks like the world. The whole idea of the Rapture is that God will come and everyone who's not saved will be 'left behind.' But that's one thing that's always struck me about evangelical culture: It's trying to catch up to secular culture so it doesn't get left behind. It's this big attempt to keep these kids in this subculture."
Reading Jesus Sound Explosion, I have to wonder: What if the facsimile grows more popular than the original? Even among the Jesus freaks and rock-opera youth choirs that Anderson's father welcomed through the door, no one would have anticipated a 21st century where nearly half of all Americans consider themselves "born again," or where Christ rockers like Evanescence and P.O.D. dominate music television.
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