Fascinated by Christian commodities, I collect Jesusabilia. Any "official" spirituality seems to translate very poorly into the world of pocketable, vaguely symbolic trinkets, but there's something singularly hilarious and pitiful about supposedly Christ-haunted license plates, bookends, bumper stickers, sock darners, paperweights, ballcaps, candle holders, and breath-candy (with brand names like Testamints, even). Christian music, too, is mostly saccharine dreck: the hymns are painfully obvious to the point of being meta-songs about how the gathered singers are gathered to sing, the pop/rock stuff is a second-rate appropriation of the rote fads of already-stank pop/rock, and many a well-intentioned abomination has been born under the auspices of Christian rap.
Lately, though, some indie acts who've outed themselves as Christians (among them Damien Jurado, Pedro the Lion, Starflyer 59, and Danielson Famile) have done much to mitigate the shame purveyed by Stryper, Creed. P.O.D., and Carman (whose "street" effort Addicted to Jesus-- referred to by those in the know as A2J-- remains a classic work of accidental comedy). With their friendly connection to the Danielsons and their elements of playful showmanship (costumes and cheerleaders), Soul-Junk are uniquely positioned to wipe smirks from the faces of those who sincerely doubt Christian rap could ever be interesting. Maybe I should distinguish this duo, Galaxalag and Slo-Ro, as "underground" Christian rap, fitting for a religion whose proponents had to squat in caves back in the day. This intimidatingly prolific crew (1938 was their first release, and they haven't skipped a number) has honed an unbelievably progressive sound, making huge leaps just since their last release, 1956, a church-critiquing treatise in the spirit of Kierkegaard's Attack Upon Christendom.
1957's sound vacillates between extreme states of density and sparsity ("Horse Posing as Unicorn" even concludes with an extended jam that exposes how ramshackle it is beneath its instigative, propulsive chant). Some tracks explode with bombastic, digitized, orchestra hits that suggest a soundtrack for a hybrid of Ben-Hur and Total Recall directed by Kubrick's resentful ghost. Other points hint at a post-human updating of the more ominous moments in the Silver Apples' oeuvre. Whole tunes are underwritten by squiggling modem-barfs, and the uncanny drum patterns simulate popcorn blossoming in a microwave. Forget the Beasties for a moment; this forty-minute wedge of berserk-hop is more deserving of the "Intergalactic" title.
At least two cuts offer detached trip-tones; but elsewhere the band is funkless, offering the ingredients of dance without the gregarious ease. This disc offers loops of dripping water, moaning horns, spastic hisses and pops, and insane harmonica. The album's sheer busyness demands a Daytime Emmy, as it's so ambitiously clamorous that it transcends its theological mission to convey a sense of secular apocalypse.
These apoplectic white guys sound vital like Destroyer's Dan Bejar, as if they never get in ruts or need naps. The lyrics are amazing, but goofy. But amazing. But goofy. Robot voices rap about how we shouldn't get mad at dumb machines, and then Galaxalag slurs, "How can parasites be so entertaining/ Debugged and debraining." This band adds a bizarre religious element to standard hip-hop braggadocio (since they're "down with Christ") and to hip-hop persecution complexes (since their references to martyrdom have an epic significance).
If you can handle choruses like, "It's time to make way for the resurrectionists!", you're set up to enjoy some music-clusters so avant-garde they make Anticon sound Neptune-smooth. Soul-Junk's carnival aesthetic suggests a dirty John the Baptist hanging out with flagellants; their tracks are spackled together or strewn like Jackson Pollack trying to use Microsoft Paintbrush on a computer built by lobotomized Fraggles. These bible-folk conjure an only occasionally wack kaleidoscopic frenzy.
