DECORP.

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history of xian rock

November 19, 2008

Scotch Tape sneaks demons into houses.

I knew I had a problem.


Years earlier, when I made an attempt at bringing Michael Jackson's Thriller into the house, the directive from mom was clear: "Get that out of my house! There are demons in there!" I wrinkled my forehead, confused. I flipped open the gatefold, opened the pocket where the record was tucked away, looking for glowing eyes. I found none, but no matter; I was marched back down the cul-de-sac to my buddy Steve's house, and made to return the LP I had borrowed just minutes before.

So in 1988, when I began to hear songs from Guns N' Roses  on the radio and see their videos on MTV, I knew I would need a new plan of attack. This music was going far beyond the choreographed graveyard antics of MJ, and had no chance of making it past my parental censors. The artwork alone, in particular the robotic rape scene on the inner-sleeve, would have caused minor heart attacks in our kitchen.

I dug out a cassette from my pile of sanctioned listening. The Imperials had written my favorite song as a kid, a monster of a tune titled "The Trumpet of Jesus" (see reference video below), but it was time for me to move on. I popped out the tiny plastic tabs along the top of the tape's casing and skillfully applied small pieces of Scotch Tape to cover the exposed holes. This was a fine trick for a teenager doing pre-rebellion warm-ups, and a MacGyver-styled technique I was certain my mom and dad knew nothing about and could not detect. 

Back at Steve's house, we dubbed Appetite for Destruction over The Imperials, and one would assume the devil and his demons danced and rejoiced!

(reference video: The Imperials "The Trumpet of Jesus" live)



November 17, 2008

Exhibit 1.



November 09, 2008

It begins with a bonfire.

It was late in the night, and we'd been holed up in a gymnasium-like room, built of aluminum and cement near the front of the campgrounds. We, the youth, had mixed in with the adults for the last night of Praise & Worship, that longwinded and highly energized close out to the four-night Summer retreat. Our arms hung at our sides like limp noodles, overcooked from long hours held in the air. Our tongues were bruised from slapping against our teeth with Shan-da-las.

We walked through the woods on a roughly paved walkway toward our cabin, the youth cabin, feeling high on the Spirit and motivated to burn things. A smattering of mildly-risky teen groups, mid-level offensive rap acts, and mostly-harmless rock bands went up in the bon fire. And then: Sacred Reich's American Way LP went into the flames and started melting. 

We, the youth, stood gaping at Colin, who'd just tossed the album on the heated pile. He wasn't crying or laughing, which is probably why it's a touch confusing looking back. It should have been either thick tears or deep laughs. That grey area in the middle -- roasting heavy metal records over an open fire in the name of God with a certain concentration and practiced seriousness -- is next to impossible to order and understand in my head today.