"And it come to pass, when he heareth the words of this curse, that he bless himself in his heart, saying, I shall have peace, though I walk in the imagination of mine heart, to add drunkenness to thirst:"  Deuteronomy 29:19

"Rock & Roll will die."  Pablo Smog

Several years ago, I attended a church in Cottonwood, Arizona.  I had become sober by then, but was still in a relationship in which I had no unearthly business.  The relationship was spiritually fruitless, but the girl was brilliant, and we were a great team.  The temptation was apparently impossible to resist.  She was the only person who has ever been capable of singing the duet "Blackbird" with me.  I wrote the song in 1994, re-vamped the lyrics in 2007, but never once found anyone who could do it justice until I met her, 20 years after the song was conceived.  "Blackbird" was a crown jewel of our setlist, and if indeed I ever do play again, I sincerely wonder if it will make the cut.  If I never play it again, I wouldn't be surprised.

So, for reasons of being tangled in a spiritually-compromising relationship which was beyond hope of salvage or salvation, I wasn't in the calmest, most-tranquil state of mind, sitting in the last row of chairs at the church in Cottonwood.  But I wanted to be there.  If there was an answer, it was there.  Not the building, or in the group of people, necessarily, but in the Spirit that I hoped was welcome there.

When it came time to give the offering, the deacon handed me a basket.  I waved it away with slight annoyance; I either didn't have any money to give the place, or didn't want to give them any.  Since there was literally NOBODY sitting next to me, and the row was only 3 or 4 chairs long, in the very back of the room, I made it clear through my aggravated body language that I was going to pass on the offering today.

But, to my amazement and overwhelming aggravation, the guy insisted.

I couldn't believe it.  What did he expect me to do with the basket?  Throw it like a frisbee through the nearest window?  Put it on my head?  Eat it?  There was nobody sitting next to me.  I couldn't have made it more clear that I wasn't donating to the solicitation fund today if I pulled out a gun and robbed everybody; why are you pushing this basket in my face?

I said, loudly and clearly, with no attempt (or ability) to restrain my aggravation, "Do I look like I'm in the mood for nonsense?!?"  And I got up and marched out of the room full of comfortable, happy people who probably think Rock & Roll is evil.

That's what I actually said.  "Do I look like I'm in the mood for nonsense?"  I'm not euphemizing it now, after the fact, because I'm embarrassed about what I actually said.  Nope.  I actually said the benign words in the most-aggravated tone imaginable, making it clear that I don't appreciate this rudely ignoring my obvious desire to be left alone before storming like a small, stoned Tasmanian Devil out of there, to drive back up the hill to my parking space at the Catholic church in Jerome, where I'd been allowed to live by the caretaker, who was a friend of mine.  Undoubtedly, I smoked a bunch of weed on arrival, because God.  As in, help me.  Thank You for this weed.  I guess I'm never going into that place again.  But it was worth a try.

Maybe next time.

Later, during the set break of a show in Cottonwood, I was standing on the sidewalk outside the bar, when a cop drove by.  He went out of his way to stop and greet me.  He called me by name, and was very friendly.  I didn't recognize him, but immediately got the impression that he was the deacon who'd tried to force the offering plate on me at church.  He seemed to want to make up for his mistake. 

It wasn't necessary; there was nothing to be done, but the gesture was appreciated.  I returned his greeting and he drove away.  The Verde is a very friendly place like that.  Even though there's a lot of new-age noise in Sedona and Jerome, it isn't Austin or New York.  A Yavapai County cop once waved out the window at me while I was walking down the street in Cottonwood.  To this day I don't know who it was, but I waved back and kept a-going.  There are less than 500 people in Jerome, and the cops there are part of the scene.  You'll stand outside the bar smoking a rollie with the cops, who are real cops, and not hippies at all.  And they're cool.  Because it's Jerome.  Or The Verde.

But that's a tangent.

The point of this article is to say that Rock & Roll is doomed, that Art-i-fice worship is idolatry, and that one of the reasons I don't play at this time is because I have serious, fundamental doubts that God Himself wants me to go back into yet another alcohol bunker full of demons to entertain people who expect me to provide a soundtrack for their bad decisions, who probably aren't there to actually listen to the music (I can count the times I've played shows where people were coming to see ME on one hand; usually, it's a paid living jukebox situation)(Which is fine.  It's the job.  I don't hate it).  I find that I WANT to do it; I WANT to contact the Rockabilly Devil-Tail Lounge and book a show, but something in me hesitates.  I think that, at this time, going back into the fire is a waste of time, at best.

I'm not sure I have the time to waste.  Here's a picture of me playing at the Double Down Saloon in Las Vegas.  It's one of my favorite gigs in the U.S., but it's completely full of demons.  They're literally painted on the wall:

Look at them, all swaying and swarming around me.  It's like walking into a scorpion den to play defense for a living.  Or using a hornet's nest in lieu of a football.  Okay, I have the Holy Spirit with me, and Luke 10:19 power over all scorpions and devils.  But is it wise to walk into their home to dodge bullets and deflect angry hornets for several hours?  Am I the holy, ridiculous ninja, hanging out in enemy territory for free well drinks (which I give to my fans), and $50?

Maybe not.

"Blessed is the man that walketh not in the counsel of the ungodly, nor standeth in the way of sinners, nor sitteth in the seat of the scornful.  But his delight is in the law of the LORD; and in his law doth he meditate day and night.  And he shall be like a tree planted by the rivers of water, that bringeth forth his fruit in his season; his leaf also shall not wither; and whatsoever he doeth shall prosper."  Psalm 1:1-3

It's concerning, because it is my job.  What else is there to do?  Wait on the Lord?  Yeah, probably.  It's not like we're talking about a concert situation, where alcohol might be available, but isn't the sole purpose of the existence of the room.  A few fans want to get toasty while I'm singing "Blackbird" with my new duet partner, it's up to them.  If you want to just enjoy the experience of some trained surfers losing self-consciousness on a wave of malleable noise in a state of sobriety, like me, you can do that as well.  But I'm not walking into the demon lair full of effective witches who revel in themselves and wrap their rebellion in Rock & Roll while knocking back cheap beer with a chaser of self-righteous demonic fury.

Been there.  Done it.  It doesn't go anywhere.

"Rebellion is as the sin of witchcraft." 
1 Samuel 15:23

Is Rock & Roll the sound of rebellion?  A lot of the time, yeah.  Probably it is.  Is it the sound of rebellion, necessarily?

Maybe.  Maybe not.  I think rebellion and sin are in the heart of man, not the soundwaves coming from their amplifiers.  If people want to PERSONIFY THE NOISE THEY MAKE, and give it a name they can pray to while high on their own illusion of power, that's their problem.  But I don't think there's anything necessarily evil about the sound, the rhythm, or the noise.

Evil is in the heart.

And I still think there's a difference in copping to the possibility that you're going to hell, and wearing your hellfire on your sleeve, because you think it's cool.  The theme of hellfire and damnation runs through my work like an electrical wire with no insulation.  While I have received many painful shocks from this shorted-out, angry, buzzing wire, I personally think it's more honest than wallowing in napalm like a pig who believes himself to be fireproof, or, worse yet, considering oneself too righteous to ever be condemned to such a dramatic and woeful fate as the torments of eternal damnation and/or everlasting death.  Whether it's the "eternity of hellfire" to which I condemn myself in my disconsolate incapacity to self-heal in the face of yet another gratuitous disappointment in the world of "love" depicted in the song "One Girl at a Time" (pasted below), or the tired resignation to the likelihood of our own condemnation in the song "Negative Image" (also pasted below), which immediately precedes the proclamation that "Rock & Roll will die,"

I personally refuse to kneel at the altar of hyper-compliant religious fundamentalism constructed by Satan himself, however it may manifest.  Whether that altar demands that we aggravate our would-be parishioners by shoving offering plates in their face, or throwing up some devil horns at a band of effective witches in an alcohol bunker in Las Vegas,

I refuse to participate in either abomination.  The desecration is such that it is better to sit in silence and never play at all, if the only other option is to subjugate oneself to the scorpions and hornets in your midst.  Scorpions and hornets are surely in attendance at any legitimate concert, but if the performer isn't one of their disciples, acolytes, or evangelists (unwitting or otherwise), their power will surely be limited.  With luck, the unwitting carrier of these spiritual entities will see the light, and realize that they don't have to be REBELS to be free.  Once they see the folly of "walking in the imagination of their hearts," (such as, thinking "I am good"), and "adding drunkenness to thirst," as warned about in Deuteronomy 29:19, they won't have to suffer the consequences of this mistake, which are laid out in verse 20:

"The LORD will not spare him, but then the anger of the LORD and his jealousy shall smoke against that man, and all the curses that are written in this book shall lie upon him, and the LORD shall blot out his name from under heaven."  Deuteronomy 29:20

"Adding drunkenness to thirst" is a strange, interesting phrase.  In addition to being incapable of being satisfied, one is also drunk.  Intoxicated and disconsolate.  Wasted and insatiable.

In hell, perhaps.  Where "all the curses that are written in this book" reside.  Blotted out from under heaven.

No thanks.

Perhaps the reason to withdraw from the "Rock & Roll" scene while being incapable of seeing it as an outright sin is that the "thirst" has been removed.  I've been sober for 8 years, no weed for almost 2, but followed Nick Cave around Latin America four years ago in an attempt to get his attention and catapult my career into the astroplane.  While the drunkenness has been removed from the thirst, perhaps it's time to lose the thirst as well?

Until God replaces it with something better?

I think maybe, yeah.  In the meantime, though, what.  Shall I wallow in despair?  Shall I validate the darkness in my spirit any longer, by conceding to a sad and woeful feeling?  Has my heart gone to sleep?  Have the beehives of my dreams stopped working?  Is there only shadow inside?  God forbid.

My eyes are open wide.  I am watching distant signals, listening on the rim of a vast and wonderful silence.  If there's a reason to rock again, God will let me know.

At "the great gig in the sky," if not sooner.

Hope to see you there.

Negative Image

I'm a negative image of
the man I used to be
your bullshit fits me like a glove
your bullshit sets me free

We might as well survive
as long as we're alive
survive we might as well
before we go to hell

Rock & Roll will die
the human race is doomed
Dollface don't you cry
take me to your room

The tombstones where we sleep
will keep us warm at night
I have seen worse than this
I have seen the light

The sun goes down in flames
I've got a brick between my brains
the moon is made of mirrors
I've got a dick between my ears

I'm a negative image of
the man I used to be
your bullshit fits me like a glove
your bullshit sets me free

©2008 Nathan Payne