A Commercial for a Contemporary Christian Rock Compilation
They love Jesus. Their highlights are awesome. They’re soft-looking and earnest, having adopted the mode of appearance (ten years behind the fashion curve) of the sodomites they’re trying to save. Whole arenas full of teens weep and sway to their ballads, lip synching with their eyes closed and their hands in the air. This is the hidden generation I keep reading about, the ones that, if they do things right, won’t know a thing about how to fuck properly on their wedding night. I’ve never seen such a concert, or know anyone who’s seen one, but they had footage; these events are apparently quite well-attended, and there are enough bands playing music like this to merit their own compilations and their own 60-second TV spots. I’ll be damned.
The collection being advertised in the spot I saw, blasting from a wall-mounted TV somewhere I can’t recall now, was called Open the Eyes of My Heart: Ultimate Worship Anthems of the Christian Faith — from the eponymous contribution of artist/composer Michael W. Smith. All the obvious problems with the spot (see above: style yourself like ‘90s fags to save ’00s fags) took a back seat to a deeper fascination with the tricky metaphorical ground the creators stumbled onto when they named this particular collection.
It seems Open My Eyes would have been just as moving and direct. Now potential listeners are being invited to worry about the Eyes of Their Heart, because all these years they’ve been serving the the Cock of Their Heart and they really need to open the Heart’s Eyes, because you just wouldn’t believe what the Heart’s Cock has been up to all this time. The Face of My Heart scrunches its eyes shut tighter than before. The Mind of My Heart just doesn’t want anything to do with it anymore. It’s dizzying.
All this time, your regular old metaphorical heart and eyes don’t have nearly enough to do. You’d think opening your eyes would be enough these days. You’d probably also think that good old brimstone and fearmongering would be enough to get these dolphin-faced subnormals to Sunday services, but you’d be wrong. Now they need a phalanx of frosted balladeers and a whole new breed of metaphor to save your ass. Or the Soul of Your Ass.* Or something.
* The Soul of Your Ass is not, under any circumstances, to be confused with the Heart of Your Ass. Before you can grasp the distinction, you really need to pull the Head of Your Heart out of the Ass of Your Soul. Get it straight, already.