I’m almost positive I’ve relayed this story at the site before, but since it fits so well with what we’re about to discuss, I’ll tell it again:
In early 1996, I was dating a girl — we’ll call her the Voluptuous Redhead — whose huge, um, tracts of land were dwarfed only by her solid religious convictions. Though I’ve been a fairly unrepentant heathen for most of my life, I was raised among religious people, and can play along when it’s called for (and in my early 20s, the heaving bosom of a young lady still constituted “called for”) — which is how I found myself, despite some rather profound misgivings, at a Jars of Clay/Michael W. Smith concert.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m relatively familiar with the pop/CCM crossover army of the ’80s and early ’90s, have spent my fair share of time listening to Smith and Amy Grant, and I actually enjoyed the first Jars of Clay album. I think Christianity — or at least its various rules and regulations — is pretty silly, but I admire the beliefs at its core, and although a lot of Christian music during that era was bogged down in hokey production, it can be pretty moving if it’s done right. All of which is to say that, in spite of my low expectations for the concert, I went in thinking it would at least be something I could sit through.
No. (more…)
