Church of Zeppelin

 

I'm not an atheist in the traditional sense, but I'm an atheist when it comes to Christian Rock. I’m an unrepentant unbeliever of Christian Rock. Those two words just don't fit together. They oppose each other, like Dubstep Unplugged and Mumble Opera. As far as art forms go, I find the union unholy, and more painful than extreme body piercing.

It’s always struck me as a punishing form of art, and when I lived in a loft on Main St. in Fond du Lac, God set up a hilarious experiment. A progressive church rented the space underneath my place. The congregation embraced one genre of music. I’ll give you one guess as to what it was. For a hint, it wasn’t Mumble Opera.

Every Sunday morning, a botched tribute to a higher power seeped through my floorboards and rattled my windows. My bed became engulfed in a plodding death march of drums, guitars and keyboards so stricken with guilt they could not express joy, and redundant testaments about everything from God to the Supreme Being to Our Heavenly Father.

I don’t get Christian Rock on a philosophical level. If God is truly, perfectly virtuous, wouldn't that make Him supremely humble, too? After all, He blesses the meek, not the arrogant. If God doesn't endorse egotism, why would He demand that we all stroke His ego nonstop? He wouldn't require an entire genre obsessed with praising Him all the time.

If I'm wrong about that, and God is the biggest fan of Christian Rock in the universe, I'm in trouble, sure, but we'd all be in trouble--the members of Third Day included. God as a Christian Rock buff seems terrifying. It's impossible for a human to match God's skills as a critic, or to match his love of Himself. What if God, the infallible Christian Rock fanatic, voiced his displeasure to the players at Life Fest in their dreams?

“Terry! Thou hast disappointed me.”

“Wha? Whatever do you mean, Lord?”

“Big sigh, Terry. Your debut, Infinite Praise, was a double record, but your latest, Neverending Worship, was but a single record. Now, that's two full hours of telling Me how awesome I am, down to a measly 45 minutes of telling Me how awesome I am. What, do you suddenly love Me less?! Did I get a lot less awesome between the years of 2016 and 2018? Because that is the impression I get from your poorly titled release: Neverending Worship.”

“Oh, what have we done?” Terry cries. “Lord, I speak for the whole of Rage Against the Pagans when I beg for Your forgiveness. You see, there was pressure from the record company to make the album, uh, divinely concise...”

“Silence!” God bellows. “I decree that you begin work immediately on a TRIPLE album! And until the deed is finished to my approval, I shall torment you with nightmares about gay, liberal hippies.”

“Nooooooo!” Terry howls.

Amen.

OK, with that horrific tangent gone from our lives forever, living above a church that blasted Christian Rock made me plead for mercy while I smothered my ears with four pillows. I got out of bed, snagged my earbuds, and scrolled through my phone for tunes to drown out the dread of dying on a cross that came from below.

In search of good times during bad times, I started with “Good Times, Bad Times.” I found my sanctuary in that iconic 1969 debut. By the time I got to the followup, II, I cautiously removed an earbud and was treated to silence on the first floor. Have you ever heard silence compared to unwanted, live Christian Rock played 18 feet beneath your floorboards? Silence wins in a fucking blowout. Silence: 56, Christian Rock: nothing.

I seldom left my home because, well, I’m an awful morning-person. As the Sunday mornings went by, the flowing bliss of I through IV, Houses of the Holy, Physical Graffiti, Presence, and In Through the Out Door helped me endure the Goliath-threat of super-shitty soundwaves invading my home.

That’s when I came up with the Church of Zeppelin.

Few bands strike a spiritual chord the way Led Zeppelin does. They’re not brilliant in terms of originality. Zep borrowed a lot from blues legends like Robert Johnson and Leadbelly. But do you know what else borrows a lot from other sources? Religions. Jews and Christian pass the Old Testament back-and-forth and all-around like it’s a collection plate. Each religion has its own savior character; true or not, it’s a widespread trope. Heck, Jesus inspired Christianity yet he was also known as the King of the Jews. He borrowed from the old in the creation of something new--and no one thought that made him a hack. Hacks aren’t known for transcending the world of mortals.

The foursome of Zep jammed with a virtuosity that feels superhuman. Singer Robert Plant, guitarist Jimmy Page, bassist/ keyboardist John Paul Jones, and drummer John Bonham combined their talents to create a sound that towers over mere-mortal status. I’m not saying Zep should be worshipped as deities and I know they’re composed of fallible men, but their music taps into something divine and mysterious. Not quite of this earth. Spiritual.

“The Ocean” is an ode to this world so pleasingly crafted for us; the song makes me thrilled about this ongoing cycle of birth, death, and rebirth. “When the Levee Breaks” speaks to our will to live even when we are powerless against nature and fate. “No Quarter” suggests the devil haunting us every step of the way in our daunting odyssey to find peace. “In the Light” is the breathtaking epiphany of finding that peace. “Bron-yr-aur” is the sorrow of beauty and the beauty of sorrow that I demand be played at my funeral--and that one doesn’t even have words. These revelations came to me on groggy Sunday mornings as I did everything in my power to escape Christian Rock done by Fondy folks who sounded bummed out about loving God.

More than just spiritual, Zep is known to celebrate. The band lifts spirits and rejoices in a flood of emotions. Forget about frantic feet and an active booty; Robert Plant knows the essence of “Dancing Days” and assures us, “It’s all in my heart, heart, heart.” If “Dancing Days” is the Zep Hanukkah, the band’s Christmas is “Celebration Day.” Read: “My, my, my, I’m so happy/ We gonna join the band. We gonna dance and sing in celebration/ We are in the promised land.” Rather than stating somber promises in a stuffy ceremony, the voice of Zep bursts with excitement at starting a family with the one who sets his soul on fire in “We’re Gonna Groove.” This is a group that runs parallel to religion, one that elevates love to a manic state, even when they pronounce the jaded, moment-of-doubt warning: “Soul of the woman was created Below.” (Holy shit, that is Biblical.)

If that sounds too extreme, I should explain that the Church of Zeppelin is grounded in a reality that doesn’t jive with zealots.

A few tenets of the Church: We don’t use words like “tenets.” We’re not squares, OK? Also, no mass on Sundays. We know better than to try to compete with the NFL. We aim for more success than TV Land does when they run Murder She Wrote’s against the Super Bowl. And we won't have early-morning masses, either, since Led Zeppelin clearly favors the night. The Church's masses are held once a month. We don't want to overdo it! We live in an insanely busy world with many dates circled on our calendars. The Church of Zeppelin gathers at 8 pm on the first Tuesday of every month.

We won’t be sticklers about attendance. Those who find themselves stuck in a long communication breakdown with the Church are welcome to return on any given first Tuesday of the month to admit: “It's been a long time since I rock and rolled.”

Opening sermons begin with the cryptic words, “Many times I've wondered how much there is to know.” Brief remarks will be made by the preacher, whom we call the Hed Zeppelin Honcho. He or she will quote insightful scripture like, “I'm telling you now, the greatest thing you ever could do now, is trade a smile with someone that's blue now.” (“Friends,” III: 2.)

That awkward moment of Catholic mass when churchgoers are told to hold hands will be made 100 times cooler when Honcho belts out the part in “The Rover” that goes, “If we could just join hands/ If we could just join hands/ If we could just, if we could just…” Cue killer Page riff #46. (Fuck yes, I will squeeze the hand of the sweaty man I don’t know to my left.)

After that, the congregation will just mingle and visit kindly with one another while rocking out to Led Zeppelin for 40 minutes. There is no penalty for leaving early, but if doing so causes you to miss seeing a group of beautiful ladies grooving in unison as they sing “Fool in the Rain” (or buff Thor-lookin’ dudes headbanging to “Immigrant Song,” if you prefer) it's your loss, pal.

No topical guidelines are imposed while hanging out and digging Zep, but if you'd care to discuss the songs and legacy of perhaps the best band ever, you're welcome to do that. Consider “Your Time Is Gonna Come.” Is it about an unfaithful lover or the return of Jesus? I don't know, discuss!

For an even longer conversation that could verge on endless, ponder “What Is and What Should Never Be.” Oof, that seems like infinite possibilities that hinge on countless factors of free will and the choices that we make, plus all the things we can’t control--and now I’m glad I’m not on drugs ’cause I’m at church!

Isn’t it ironic that Jimmy Page dabbled in the occult and black magic, and yet he’s served to unite so many of us with a bright, spiritual purpose? Really, who can figure all this shit out? Not me! Let’s talk about that--or change the subject if that doesn’t go anywhere.

Heck, even if you're into bogus theories about Robert Plant being the reincarnation of Frodo Baggins, this is the Church of Zeppelin, so feel free to ramble on.

Now, to be honest, I'm too lazy to found the first Church of Zeppelin. There's got to be a lot of paperwork and math involved in starting an enterprise like that, so count me out. But maybe I can act as the muse for a living loving maid whose dazed and confused state of mind becomes enlightened by the promise of the Church of Zeppelin. Yes, there are two paths she can go by (one that dismisses this writing and one that gives it some thought) but in the long run, there's still time to change the road she's on.

I can almost see the face of this maid now--biting her lip and nodding reflectively, then searching for rental properties online, making phone calls, beaming at her laptop, making a money transfer...

And she's buying a stairway to heaven.