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The Rapture and the magical days of our youth
October 12, 2005
Way back in the day, circa nineteen-naughty-one, I was an innocent and earnest attendee at my church's Sunday night youth group. And we're not talking the Australian indie-pop kind of Youth Group here, either. We're talking the how-is-it-possible-that-I'm-here-praying-and-playing-
kickball-instead-of-at-home-watching-Herman's-Head-and-Roc kind of youth group.
Anyway, I don't remember much about these salad days, but it seems like when we kooky kids weren't staging awkward "haunted" houses (skinless grapes posing as human eyeballs... just not that scary) or putting on proselytizing plays (which strangely always seemed to star "Psalty, the Singing Songbook"), we simply sat around and watched movies. After all, what nourishes the soul more than television? It was at one of these praise-through-pixels sessions that I first heard the term, "the rapture."
One dark and stormy Sunday night, we had a good old Baptist Sin-e-ma fest. A trilogy was shown, comprised of, "A Thief in the Night," "The Mark of the Beast," and "A Distant Thunder." The three movies completely scared the hell out of me (no pun intended). Expertly and ever tolerantly, these classy films looked into the future and imagined the horrors and tortures those 'left behind' were sure to face on this now godless planet (i.e. gnarly shit happens to those who don't get taken up to the heavenly skies in the rapture). And apparently, because these movies were made in the late 1970's, everyone 'left behind' will also be forced to run around in bell-bottoms to the persistent accompaniment of a Wah-Wah pedal. The horror... the horror! Needless to say, the movies did the trick, and I was scared straight-legged.
I recount the following anecdote for two reasons. One, my therapist is off making moonshine in the Himalayas this week, and two, The Rapture (the band) saved me from a painful past memory. You see, when someone now speaks of The Rapture, I no longer quake with tense trepidation at the prospect of my brutal abandonment before the bloody apocalypse. Nope, I now just think of those darn catchy cowbells! Who needs sin when you can have synths! Why shake in fear when you can shake your hips instead? Forget mark of the beast, and gimme some of them mark of the beats! So thank you, The Rapture. Your bouncy bass lines and delightfully disjointed rhythms really saved me.
The Rapture plays the Tribeca Grand, Saturday, October 15th, and Bowery Ballroom, Friday, October 21st.
kickball-instead-of-at-home-watching-Herman's-Head-and-Roc kind of youth group.
Anyway, I don't remember much about these salad days, but it seems like when we kooky kids weren't staging awkward "haunted" houses (skinless grapes posing as human eyeballs... just not that scary) or putting on proselytizing plays (which strangely always seemed to star "Psalty, the Singing Songbook"), we simply sat around and watched movies. After all, what nourishes the soul more than television? It was at one of these praise-through-pixels sessions that I first heard the term, "the rapture."
One dark and stormy Sunday night, we had a good old Baptist Sin-e-ma fest. A trilogy was shown, comprised of, "A Thief in the Night," "The Mark of the Beast," and "A Distant Thunder." The three movies completely scared the hell out of me (no pun intended). Expertly and ever tolerantly, these classy films looked into the future and imagined the horrors and tortures those 'left behind' were sure to face on this now godless planet (i.e. gnarly shit happens to those who don't get taken up to the heavenly skies in the rapture). And apparently, because these movies were made in the late 1970's, everyone 'left behind' will also be forced to run around in bell-bottoms to the persistent accompaniment of a Wah-Wah pedal. The horror... the horror! Needless to say, the movies did the trick, and I was scared straight-legged.
I recount the following anecdote for two reasons. One, my therapist is off making moonshine in the Himalayas this week, and two, The Rapture (the band) saved me from a painful past memory. You see, when someone now speaks of The Rapture, I no longer quake with tense trepidation at the prospect of my brutal abandonment before the bloody apocalypse. Nope, I now just think of those darn catchy cowbells! Who needs sin when you can have synths! Why shake in fear when you can shake your hips instead? Forget mark of the beast, and gimme some of them mark of the beats! So thank you, The Rapture. Your bouncy bass lines and delightfully disjointed rhythms really saved me.
The Rapture plays the Tribeca Grand, Saturday, October 15th, and Bowery Ballroom, Friday, October 21st.
