White Zombie "More Human Than Human"

"ARE YOU GUYS CHRISTIANS?!?!"

His shout rang out across the frozen parking lot and the two dozen people still there all turned to look at me and my roommate.


It was several weeks earlier that a preacher had appeared before the local government in Johnson City, Tennessee.  Claiming to represent his congregation of hundreds, he was there to protest that a local city venue had booked the band White Zombie.  He asserted that the band was Satanic and their arrival in the Johnson City was an affront to God himself.

Taking the advice of a single complainant, the City moved to have the show canceled.  This type of outrageous act could never be allowed to express themselves at (I swear!) Freedom Hall.

Just up the road in Bristol, Tennessee, some brave (or naive) folks decided to book the band in their City's venue.  And that's when all Hell broke loose.

The town freaked out.

City government was besieged with calls and letters from angry residents who were incensed that a band so obviously Satanic would be allowed within City Limits to corrupt the children.

The outrage grew so quickly that the story broke as National news.  So now the City was really screwed.  The eyes of the country were upon them.  Would they cave to the pressure in a clear abridgement of the band's, and the ticket holders', First Amendment rights?

To their credit, they held their ground.  The show would go on, no matter the level of protest.

The City holding their ground just incited the protest movement, who held prayer vigils and burned records and took to the airwaves to preach of the moral decay that had come to town.

How could we allow such Pagans?!  At our own (I swear!) Viking Hall?!

This was the late 90s and I was a DJ at WABN.  We were always an outlier on the radio dial, and we decided to be one of the lone voices out there, supporting the show, the band and Viking Hall.

I was not a White Zombie fan, per se, but we played "More Human Than Human" on our shows and talked about Free Speech rights and how no one was making anyone go to see this band.  If you didn't like them, don't go.

In the meantime, rumors were spreading about the Satanic acts that the band committed.  Like passing a bucket around the audience for each person to spit in.  Then the band would drink it.

At some point before the show, Viking Hall had to be cleared, due to a bomb threat.

On the night of the show, I was worried about what might happen on the scene.  Groups were mobilizing to protest outside the show---ticket holders could expect to be harassed on the way in.  With a bomb threat already on the table, I was a) concerned about what confrontations might happen, and b) concerned about how it might get reported.

Though much of the local press coverage did side with the First Amendment rights, it seemed to do so begrudgingly.  Clearly, the overwhelming  majority of folks wanted to be seen siding with God, not Satan.

So I appointed myself as an observer.  And dragged my roommate, also a DJ, to come along.

Probably the most fortunate thing to happen---whether it was the work of God, Satan or some pagan spririt---was that the day of the show was insanely cold.  There was snow and ice on the ground and the temperature, once it got dark had dived well below freezing.

That seemed to keep most of the casually angry protesters away.  Leaving only the committed and fervent.

A number of local preachers were on the scene.  The local police was also out in force to keep them from being too aggressive.

Some of the protesters were quiet and calm, simply handing out pamphlets about the right way to save your soul.

Others were louder and more pointed, shouting "It's not too late.  You can turn back now!  Turn your back on Satan and his agents!"

And I clearly remember one man, who wouldn't have otherwise looked out of place if he were the manager of a bank, coming out of his office to talk about your loan.

Instead he was hooting and shouting and saying "Don't be fooled by the Devil!  I'm not afraid of what's inside that building!  I've got Jesus in my heart!  I don't mind standing here on the sidewalk shouting for Jesus!  I'M A FOOL FOR JESUS!!!  I'M A FOOL FOR JESUS!!!" and while saying this, he did this weird, crazed marionette move while shadowing a group of boys headed into the show.

I could see another group of kids headed up the sidewalk.  Angry teenage boys.  Trouble.  No jackets on a 20 degree night.  Tense and furrowed.

"Be cool kids, be cool.  Be cool kids, be cool."

All that needed to happen was for one of the kids to taunt a protester, the protester to engage, and expect the police to step in.  An arrest would no doubt hit the papers, and regardless of who was at fault, that would be the end of Rock And Roll shows at Viking Hall.

"Be cool kids, be cool.  Be cool kids, be cool."

The two groups converged.  The teenagers paused.  Wisely, one turned to look and made eye contact with a group of officers.  The teenagers moved on.

The show was about to start, the influx of ticketholders had come down to a trickle.  All that remained were the protesters and preachers, and me and my roommate.

What motivated these protesters?  On some level, I had no doubt that they were sincere in their beliefs.  That they loved God and were compelled to advocate on his behalf.  On the other hand, (as one of my friends memorably said at the time) Jesus never called in a bomb threat.

Anger, harassment, intolerance, gossip---these were not Christian values that were part of my upbringing.  And I suspect that most any Christians would not cop to these as being part of their value system.

I did not and do not believe in fear as a motivating force for good.  Or bullying.  I believe in acceptance.  I believe in positive role modeling.  While then, and today, I don't practice any specific religion, I hold these values dear.

There were only the police, and the dozen or so protesters and preachers left.  Most of the protesters and preachers knew each other.  With the concert-goers gone, the two anonymous DJs suddenly stood out.

The "I'M A FOOL FOR JESUS" guy eyed us from afar.

"ARE YOU GUYS CHRISTIANS?!?!"

His shout rang out across the frozen parking lot and the two dozen people still there all turned to look at me and my roommate.

There was a pause.  I could see out of the corner of my eye, my roommate turn to me.  This was my question to answer.

"Yes," I said, not shouting, but loud enough for the crowd to hear.  "Yes we are." 

Hear the song on Youtube.

PS.  You know what reminded me of this story?  I saw a trailer for a new Pixar movie, that uses "More Human Than Human" as the music bed.

 

Allman Brothers "Hot 'Lanta"

"How was Hot 'Lanta?"

Words on the page can't really express the emotional complexities and layers of meaning that were infused into the reading of this line when it was spoken to me.  On the page, you can't hear the melody and counter-melody running through it.

Some background . . .

I had moved to Virginia at the end of summer, 1993, to take a job at an NBC affiliate in their creative services (that is, commercial making) department.

This was a blind move---I did it for the job.  I didn't know a soul.  So I was working hard to insert myself into whatever social scene was available.

I'd grown up in Massachusetts, had spent four years at a very liberal University (UMass) and had lived in Florida---not as liberal, but not as reserved either---for the previous two years.

Now I was living in The South, which was a new cultural landscape for me.  It wasn't the head-snapping, cultural 180 that I think some people who've never spent time in The South expect it to be.  But there were things that were different.  Social mores that I was ignorant to.

I'd gone to The Lemonheads show in Atlanta with a couple of girls my age.  We crashed overnight at a friend's place in the city.

This is something I wouldn't think twice about.  In my collegiate world, there was no difference between hanging out with guy friends and hanging out with girl friends.  No one in my college orbit would have thought so.

But for some of my in-The-South co-workers an overnight trip with female co-workers?  That was risque.  Perhaps scandalous.  At least something to raise an eyebrow at.

Especially for the girls' father.

Who happened to also be my co-worker.

Yes, her Dad was my daily partner.  A talented cameraman, photographer and all around creative mind, he brought to life whatever creative vision I had for, you know, the local car dealer or beauty school.

He was a very cool guy.  Smart, multi-talented, creative and down to earth.  A big and gruff self-described "redneck" on the outside, but a sensitive artist lurked below.

But he was also a Dad.  A dad who lived in a world where you protected your daughter from things like (gasp!) single guys.

Just to be clear, the daughter was a friend, not a romantic interest.  But in this world I was living in, for many, men and women (boys and girls), did not mix without the specter of sexuality hanging heavy over the proceedings.

I was not really aware of this when I went away for the overnight to the concert.  But on the first morning back to work, someone pointed out to me that the Dad was a little weirded-out that his daughter was out overnight with this new-young-dude-in-town.

And now we were about to be in the van together for a long haul.

We had a commercial shoot that morning, which meant we'd be riding a long stretch in the production truck, just the two of us together.

We rode in silence for the first few miles, but I think we both felt the awkward tension that someone was going to have to alleviate.  He addressed it head on.

"How was Hot 'Lanta?"

Here is what was infused within those four words.

"I'm trying to be cool about this, but I'm not really sure what your intention is with my daughter, because I think you are a nice guy and I like you but if you so much as touch her I am ready to kick your little Yankee ass up and down State Street because who goes off on an overnight with a young girl to a big wild city like Atlanta without sexual intentions, so just tell me I've got nothing to worry about and let fucking drop this subject so I don't have to think about it anymore."

I was nervous, I rambled, but I tossed out a quick run-down of what a fun, wholesome time we had and about how the friend we stayed with had comfortable sleeping accommodations with separate rooms for boys and girls, and that the band was good (he asked if they were "New Wave"?) and the city looked fun but that after the show we didn't party it up because it had been a long drive so we just retired early after the show.  Oh, and there was no drinking.

That seemed to suffice.

His four words were all he cared to say or think about the subject. And we never talked about it again.

Don't let it escape your attention this song, that invokes the memory of today's post, this song you are about to hear while you imagine Dad and I are driving off through the southwest Virginia countryside not talking, is an instrumental.



Hear the song on Youtube.

Smashing Pumpkins "Disarm"

There are songs that influenced my life, and there are songs that are a part of great memories, and there are songs that evoke emotions, but very, very few songs can be credited with changing the course of my life.

"What is this station?" I asked, surprised to hear a band like this on local radio.

"It's WABN."

"Man, if I ever worked in radio, it would be for a station like this."

Two years prior, in 1991, my college girlfriend and I graduated, and we ran off to Florida to start our lives.  I pursued a career in TV production, making low-budget TV commercials.  That turned out to be a flame-out for me.  The girl and I broke up.  I was unhappy.  Lonely.  Hated Florida.  I was this close to moving back home with my family---I had a job lined up and everything---when I received a offer to join the creative services department of an NBC affiliate in Bristol Virginia.  I took it. 

Where is Bristol Virginia?  I had no idea.

Bristol is in the most Western part of the state of Virginia.  NASCAR is big.  It is the birthplace of country music.  It is far, far, far from any major city.  Growing up in New England, having Boston within our reach, I was used to certain kinds of cultural access that did not exist in this part of the world

No Professional sports teams.  No Dunkin' Donuts.  And no modern rock radio.

I was riding with Brian, one of the NBC-TV station's salespeople.  We'd just gone to meet with a client, and were cruising back to the office.

He was flipping through the dial when Smashing Pumpkins "Disarm" came on.

"What is this station?" I asked, surprised to hear a band like this on local radio.  I'd been in Bristol for several months, and had only found Country, Classic Rock and Gospel on the airwaves.

"It's WABN."

"Man, if I ever worked in radio, it would be for a station like this."

"Huh.  You know, they are one of my clients.  And I know they need some part-time help."

In a few short days, I was in the office of WABN, a family-owned, independent AM/FM combo.  They were looking for someone to host their 2 hour Request Radio program, 4 nights a week.  I asked them if they had any interest in having me create a modern rock radio show---as this burgeoning genre (it was 1994) seemed to be gaining traction with young folks ever since Nirvana arrived.  They were open to the idea, if I was willing to take on Request Radio.

I had never done radio before, but they were warm and welcoming and encouraging.  I said Yes.

I'll write another post about the beginnings of my on-air career, but let's cut to a few days later.

At the TV station, my manager had poked his head in my office to ask me something, and before he left I said, "Hey, I just wanted to let you know that I picked up a part-time job for a few hours a week."

"Okay," he smiled.  "I'll let the boss know."

The GM of the TV station was notoriously unpopular with the staff, but I hadn't had any run-ins with him in the 6 months I was on the job.

Until the next day.

He was passing me in the hall when he said brightly, "Hey, I heard you picked up a part-time job! What'cha doing?"

"Oh, I'm going to do airshifts a couple nights a week on WABN."

"Oh . . ." His mood turned instantly dark, and he walked away.

Later that day, my manager called me in to his office, to tell me that the GM did not approve of my new job and that I would have to quit.

"He thought you'd be doing some weekend work.  He doesn't want you working on weeknights.  He feels that you'd be wearing yourself out, and would be tired when you came to work here."

I calmly but quickly rattled off a bunch of reasons why this was ridiculous.  Most notably, that adding 8 hours to my work week would still mean I was working fewer hours than the GM normally did---and I was half his age.  But I was also accommodating.  I said that I would we willing to do a 3 month trial---if my television work faltered due to my part-time job, I would quit.

The manager took this to the GM.  The answer came back with another, No.

I asked for a meeting with the GM.  I was told to come to his office at 3pm.

I walked into his office, promptly at 3.  He acted surprised to see me, and said he didn't know I was coming.  He asked me to wait outside his office.  He kept me waiting for a while.  I was young, but smart enough to know this was a bullshit power move.

We had a brief but friendly conversation where I reiterated my arguments, and my offer of a review.  I told him it wasn't really his business what I did with my off-work time, as long as it did my work, and that I had respected the company enough to tell them about the job---something that deserved respect in return.  He was resistant, but finally, he said he'd think about it.

I knew how this was going to go.

The next day I waited in my office.  My manager came in.  Not the GM.  He said the GM had decided, I couldn't work both jobs and I would have to quit.

And that's what I did.

"Here's my key."

I had already cleaned out my desk and had my office key off its chain.  If they were making me choose, I was not going to be bullied into that choice.

Was I nuts to quit a full-time, stepping stone job, with a national company, so I could make minimum wage for 8 hours a week?

Yes.

But I felt like I was in a power struggle where the struggle wasn't over the thing (meaning, could I have the job or not), but over who got to decided.  The GM felt like he was in the ultimate power position, because he controlled my salary and my livelihood, and considered that his "checkmate."  What he didn't count on, was that the ultimate checkmate move is to walk away from the game.

At 25 I was wise enough to know that there are only a few times in your life where you are offered the opportunity to make such a statement, to make such a stand.  Today, at 43, there is absolutely no way I could do the same thing, because of the responsibility I have to my family, my mortgage, my creditors, etc.

That moment formed much of who I became.  That choice to make a stand.  To do the stupid thing, because I thought it was the right thing.

And it set the stage for the next 6 years.

All because I heard a song on the radio.

To be continued . . ."Disarm" Part 2 and what happened next, coming soon.


Hear the song on Youtube.