Let me explain. Growing up, my little brother and I were huge music fans. That in itself was a miracle, as our genetics gave us little to work with. Our dear mother could not hold a tune to save her life, and our father played the Gaither Trio and Nana Mouskouri in the car. Family vacations were almost unbearable. We children were left to pick up the pieces of a traumatic musical childhood.
Now, I remember being a pious elementary school student who (despite lapses which included tying the teacher's shoelaces together on one occasion during carpet reading time) tried to live a moral life, in part by listening to wholesome music. Amy Grant was my primary musical diet for a time, though I didn't embrace her with the zeal of my friend Jennifer Braun, who actually clasped Amy Grant's hand during a concert and refused to let go (to the consternation of the puffy-haired singer).
One day I heard my older brother Rob's cassette tape blasting from his room.
"Listen to this," he said, coming over to my room with the cassette in hand.
"What's this?" I said, somewhat guarded.
"It's a band called Survivor. And it's Christian."
I listened. And, partly out of awe of my older, "cooler" brother who wore a leather jacket, admitted to him that "Eye of the Tiger" was indeed a fine song.
"Aaaah haaaa haaa!" he shouted, victorious. "Carmen liked a song that isn't Christian! Carmen likes secular music."
My face burned. I had been tricked. And yet . . . could I think outside the safe confines of the Christian musical box?
Thus began my moral demise, a slippery slope that would quickly turn into a landslide.
When the puberty fairy granted my wish to be transformed into a pimply-faced, awkward "woman" with a larger thigh mass, I went wild with music. Though I remained loyal to Johnny Deep, I felt some stirrings of love for Sting and Bono. They had the sort of manliness that Amy Grant was lacking. Then I discovered Led Zeppelin and backmasking, and my Amy Grant cassettes were sacrificed, one by one, as I deciphered intriguing messages recorded backwards for the sole purpose of infiltrating teenagers' subconscious minds.
I was still a Christian, mind you. When I discovered Pink Floyd, I dutifully prayed for Roger Waters every day. Dear cynical Roger. If he didn't go to Heaven, I feared I might never meet him to discuss The Wall.
Then came Pearl Jam, and Alice in Chains, and Mother Love Bone, and Faith No More. (I wasn't sure if Faith No More really had any faith to begin with, as most of their songs pertained to other typically benign subject matter.) Ugly Kid Joe came out with their hatred of "Everything About You," and my adolescence was somehow defined. Music made me feel free, and intense, and alive.
My dear mother, now concerned about my musical habits, asked to listen to some of my music. She thought the Black Crowes sounded suspicious and with eyes a-rolling, I passed the cassette lyrics over to her. One shouldn't judge a band by its name, I thought. The results were less than dramatic: though one song alluded to what may have been an illicit relationship, my mother had to concede that the content was indeed acceptable. But she still didn't like the name: it sounded dark. Ominous. Like a shadow passing over a sidewalk upon which children played.
Re-enter my little brother, whose spirit was less rebellious and whose tastes were more refined. One of the greatest pleasures he and I had was receiving a newsletter from Focus on the Family that rated current music albums. We would rip open Bob DeMoss's letter when it came in the mail. Every CD was ranked and typically described as a "mixed bag," and we would pore through the assessments. I was so outraged at one point that I wrote a scathing letter to Mr. DeMoss. How could he so grossly misinterpret Pearl Jam's album "Ten"? Was it really necessary to condemn a song that "might" allude to suicide? Good grief . . . was poetic contemplation of societal ills really that dangerous to developing minds? Were teenagers incapable of grappling with such issues? Oh, how my brother and I loved the controversy--our flexible adolescent minds pitted against closed adults ones.
We were not allowed to watch Video Hits, the only source of current music videos we had in our home of Peasant Vision. And so we would eat small pieces of the forbidden fruit, nervously, flying to turn off the television the moment a member of the parental unit arrived home. A dear friend of mine lived in the much richer land of MTV access, and she would tape songs at my request (which were carefully labelled "Disney movies" and stashed in the tiled ceiling at church). Alas! I still cringe at the dangerous moral ground upon which we tread.
Like good teenagers, we fought our musical restrictions. I wrote an ironic letter to the Herald in which I described being mortified by the indecency in my father's music, targeting Roger Whittaker specifically. My mom was not happy to see that letter published. [I will try to locate it for you, dear reader.]
And then came the triumph of our youth--the infamous Lex Rex incident.
Our dear mother, upon going shopping with one Carol McCaslin, purchased a Christian CD entitled "Beat the Heat." Our mother loves a bargain, and Carol purchased the CD for her children as well. Perhaps music could be both moral and a little edgy.
Brent and I were intrigued. Then we were absolutely delighted. The lyrics were abominable, and the music sounded like an extraordinarily cheesy combination of Iron Maiden and Van Halen. [Have a nice little listen for yourself: I Kill Devils.]
Ooooh, we blasted that tune. Then we sang the lyrics aloud (since they were Christian and approved of by our good parents).
"I kill devils--I like to hear 'em scream! I hope they choke to death suckin' on nicotine!"
We were not nice children, I'm afraid.
Shortly after, the greatest moment of our childhood took place. Our father, enraged by the loud music and the excruciating lyrics, broke the CD in half. I don't blame him one bit.
"But it's Christian," we protested.
And then our whole family laughed and laughed. It was a moment of bonding, parents and children united against a common foe--unbearably corny music.
Now, I'll admit that these days I can't bear to have my little girls hear any objectionable lyrics. The tables have turned, and the family van booms with the sounds of "Mrs. McFritter" and "Ollie May the Octopus." Whenever I put adult music on, the children complain bitterly, and I am pleased.
Because I now know how wise my parents actually were. We were too busy analyzing lyrics, and creating logical arguments in defense of our musical freedom, and reading Focus on the Family newsletters, and penning letters to the editor, to actually get into much real trouble. And somewhere along the way, Brent and I both became writers.
Thank you, parents. And thank you, Lex Rex.
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