Old and New

God Save The Queen (Amen)
Additional research provided by Steve Perry
From This magazine (March/April 2000)

Imagine punk rock circa 1977 and you'll probably retrieve a burned-into-the-synapses image of a nihilistic teenager with a safety-pinned army jacket, ripped jeans and coloured hair, who's poised to spit in your face. Spin the knob to 2000 and try again: not much will appear to have changed. One might be more inclined to imagine a squeegee kid—the torn clothes, hell-bent hair and angst-ridden sneer remain. However, judging the authenticity of a punk band by their record cover is no longer recommended, and if you paused to listen to some lyrics, you might stumble across something like this:

The cross in question is as likely to be the Christian icon as the "X" that signifies allegiance to the straight edge movement. The two intersecting lines are a badge, a philosophy and a musical genre that says, "I don't drink, I don't smoke and I don't fuck (at least not casually)." An X written with magic marker on the hand was originally used by clubs to warn bartenders that the branded individual was underage; it later became the symbol for "straight edge," which is often shortened to "sXe." But gently rearrange those lines and you get a cross, the preferred iconography for bands such as Strongarm—the straight-edge, hardcore band that penned the lyrics above—and a new breed of musicians who represent that strange collusion of punk and religion called Christian straight edge.

First articulated by Minor Threat, an early-1980s Washington, D.C. hardcore punk band that was the precursor to the now-legendary Fugazi, straight edge was a response to the perceived failures of the punk movement. The punk of the 1970s spat in the face of authority and the status quo, asking a lot of good questions in the process. UK punk was strongly informed by class consciousness (hence the well?meaning if often dogmatic politics of The Clash). And regardless of country of origin, punk contained an attractive revolutionary appeal that had struck a chord—well, three actually—with the zeitgeist. But infusing punk with a clear, unified, political ethos was another matter. As Legs McNeil, co-author of Please Kill Me: The Uncensored Oral History of Punk, noted once in an interview, "Punk was like, this is new, this is now, the apotheosis, powerful. But it wasn't political. I mean, maybe that is political...[but] the great thing about punk was that it had no political agenda." His comment is emblematic of the confusion within punk on the question of politics.

That "apotheosis" had to find its release somewhere, and as punk progressed, its outwardly iconoclastic tendencies migrated inward. Heroin, speed, glue and alcohol were fogging minds and neutralizing any inherent political potential. Equally frustrating, punk bands had either gone kaput or—perhaps worse—signed to major labels. Their angry momentum was quickly draining away. In 1980, a phoenix called "hardcore" emerged to save the day—a louder, faster and more aggressive strain of punk rock that wore its politics on its torn sleeve, and hoped to harness the musical, political and social beginnings of punk rock in the service of concrete political change. Punk 2.0 was liberally spiced with anarchism, socialism and atheism. Straight edge followed soon after, driven by the conviction that punk couldn't change the world with a constant hangover; thus its rejection of alcohol, drugs and casual sex. Today, over 20 years later, straight edge adherents compose a strong portion of the still-active hardcore punk subculture. But now, they can count among their ranks a host of bands with names such as Strongarm, Zao, Disciple, No Innocent Victim and Brethren. There are currently about 50 Christian sXe bands in North America, ] and while most have adopted the same outward signifiers of punk, they claim a different "edge"—Jesus Christ.

On the surface, anyway Christian sXe hardcore and its secular counterpart seem compatible—"God boys" don't smoke, drink, do drugs or condone premarital sEx either. On the other hand, as Jonas Cacchioni, a longtime fan of hardcore punk rock and co-owner of Vancouver?based HellDriver Records, points out, "Organized religion—after nebulous statements about capitalism—was probably number two on the all-time hardcore hitlist. It was one of the most discussed and disdained ideas for the longest time." So what the hell happened? How did Christianity get on the guest list? The answer to this question may lie less in the elasticity of Christian rock, which has gone through a revolution of its own, than in the evolution and devolution of straight edge, a philosophy that has slowly divested itself of the political roots of hardcore punk.

Co-opting hardcore isn't as simple as integrating the aesthetic signifiers of the genre with lyrics about God. After all, punk and religion have traditionally been oil and water. The most protracted battle between the two occurred in the early 1980s, as overtly political San Francisco punk band The Dead Kennedys railed against the moral majority with albums such as In God We Trust Inc. The culturally conservative Parents Music Resource Centre, founded by Tipper Gore, would later counterattack and wreak its revenge on the band. Lead singer Jello Biafra (who ran for mayor of San Francisco in 1979 and is now running for President of the U.S with the Green Party) found himself in court defending the band's decision to use a reproduction of a sexually explicit painting by Swiss artist H.R. Giger in the liner notes of their 1985 album Frankenchrist. Charged with "distribution of harmful matter" Biafra was eventually acquitted when the jury reached a deadlock, but the resultant stress helped dissolve one of the most politically savvy punk bands to have ever existed.

The tenuous ceasefire between these two worlds is the territory inhabited by Christian sXe. And its success may say a great deal more about the state of punk than about the recent gains enjoyed by Christian rock.

The Dead Sea Scrolls of straight edge are to be found in the lyrics of Minor Threat. In 1981, lead singer Ian MacKaye sang:

MacKaye wasn't chanting the chorus alone for long—the clean and sober route appealed to a lot of punks. Not only did it allow for a redirection of purpose, it provided an enclave for those seeking protection from peer pressure. Minor Threat successfully articulated a shared frustration about punk and created a feasible alternative. Still, MacKaye was no preacher—straight edge was always advertised as a personal choice, and the last thing Minor Threat was interested in creating was some sort of monolithic ideology. Being an authority in an anti-authoritarian subculture generally isn't a good idea.

But that's exactly what happend, as Beth Lahickey notes in All Ages: Reflections on Straight Edge, a compilation of interviews with people involved in the so-called "second wave" of sXe (1987 to 1991). Ideas mutate in strange ways, Lahickey points out in the introduction to her book, published by Revelation Records. "As the straight edge scene progressed, it became hauntingly reminiscent of all the narrow-mindedness that hardcore had given me refuge from. Preaching took over friendliness... Straight edge became just a different set of rules." Lahickey isn't the only sXe kid to use Sunday-school subtext. Those interviewed in the book—band members and fans from the late 80s sXe scene—used descriptions such as "preachy," "self-righteous," "saviour," and "moral standard-bearers" to describe the conservative sXe progression.

As the second wave of sXe slowed in the early 1990s, the ideology reached a crucial juncture. Instead of correcting or curbing what many felt to be a conservative imbalance, a small group of fundamentalists developed an extreme version of sXe called "hardline" that grabbed the scene's attention for the next few years. A label called Hardline soon emerged and released bands such as Vegan Reich, Raid and Statement. While the label lasted only until 1993, their Christian-like stance influenced several bands. And in 1997 sXe hardliners utilized tactics in Salt Lake City reminiscent of the Animal Liberation Front (ALF) and bombed a fur breeders cooperative. A McDonald's was later targeted, and reports of sXe gangs attacking smokers surfaced in 1995 and again in 1998. The resultant notoriety eventually led to a 20/20 segment on the situation last year—this mainstream attention a sure sign something had gone sour within the movement.

As Jonas Cacchioni of HellDriver Records sees it, the hardline philosophy was predicated on a "natural order," one that was, he says, "rabidly opposed to the use of animals for any human purpose. It was in favour of direct political action in the name of animal rights (read supporters of the ALF) Luddite, homophobic, and pro-life. Their 'natural order' resembled Evangelical right-wing Judeo-Christian teachings camouflaged by the guise of animal rights." (Indeed, according to the Hardline Creed, a manifesto posted on www.faqs.org/faqs/cultures/straight-edge-faq, "[Hardliners] shall live at one with the laws of nature, and shall not forsake them for the desire of pleasure—from deviant sexual acts and/or abortion, to drug use of any kind." The hardliner must also "strive to liberate the rest of the world from its chains—saving lives in some cases, and in others, dealing out justice to those guilty of destroying it." According to the Creed, justice would be meted out on the assumption that the guilty may "no longer be considered innocent life, and in turn will have no rights.")

Jonas believes that the hardline group, probably really only about 100-strong in the entire U.S. in the early 1990s, had a profound effect on the straight edge scene at the time. He tracks an equally important shift wrought by Youth of Today, arguably the most popular of the second wave sXe bands. "When Youth of Today came around and seemed to bring in the suburban audience, the politics kind of changed. The overt politics were subsumed by what I would call personal politics. There was a drive toward personal political development, rather than any kind of revolutionary, pragmatic kind of political action. The largest political issue in the sXe scene in the late 1980s and early 1990s was animal rights."

Youth of Today's lead singer, Ray Cappo also became a Krishna devotee in 1988, imbuing sXe with a new spiritual element. The demographics shifted perceptibly as well. Courtney Centner, an Australian academic who has studied the demographics of straight edge in detail, found that the bulk of the audience today is middle class. She writes in her thesis that "kids are oozing with subcultural capital: purchasing records [and] wearing clothing [that] reflect one another, and donning piercings and tattoos which can only be purchased with 'extra' money." In All Ages, sXe fan Glynis Hull-Rochelle describes the straight edgers she knew: "They were almost all young white wealthy suburban boys who were athletically and musically inclined, or tried to be. Their world was insular, and straight edge was borne of this particular makeup." Maleness in this context almost always means heterosexual, as Courtney Centner's research suggests. All her survey participants claimed that straight edge does not discriminate on the basis of sexuality. But the only gay male sXe Centner was able to interview told her, "It's been my experience that straight edge kids are more likely to be homophobic." (The outlook for women within sXe, according to Centner, isn't much more encouraging. "Women are the girlfriends. The most eminent women at hardcore shows are the ones attached to male band members, or other prominent scene members such as promoters or label owners.")

Taken in isolation, each of these developments was merely frustrating, but linked, they represented a narrowing of sXe ideology. As Jonas Cacchioni notes, "There have always been leftist, anarchist tendencies in punk, especially with the hardcore punk scene. Overriding this were smashing-the-state, anarchist, political notions [that were] flying around. A lot of it was quite naive, but it was always there." When the only real strain of moral conservatism in punk began to move away from hardcore politics and toward enforcement of "scripture," it created a space for Christianity to peacefully co?exist. (Jonas also notes that Jim and Tammy Fae Bakker's son fancies himself a "hardcore punk" guy.) Since 1995, such bands have begun a steady but low-key crusade into secular hardcore.

Christian sXe hardcore, for its part, falls within a revolution in Jesus Rock that began in the 1960s and has accelerated over the past 10 years. No longer restricted to the coma-inducing croonings of Amy Grant or Pat Boone, Christian rock has diversified its portfolio to include ska, grunge, rap and goth (complete with black cloaks and candles)—and increased its audience because of it. During the 1980s, as heavy metal (Black Sabbath) morphed into glam rock (Poison), replacing Satan with the sartorial helped make Stryper, a Christian heavy-metal act, an acceptable anomaly. And Christian music has become ever more sophisticated in the past 10 years. For every big-name secular band (Rage Against the Machine, KoRn) there is a Christian equivalent (Project 86, P.O.D.) that ensures one can be devout while still enjoying a pop-culture diet of the "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter" variety. It's telling that well-known Christian band D.C. Talk switched from rap to grunge/alt rock during the 1990s—no artist likes to be constrained by a particular genre, but this band's game of "musical chairs" suggests a pattern.

Of course, sXe band Disciple, from Erie, Pennsylvania, would argue that they don't fit that description. They claim that music came first for them, religion second—a fact that makes simple denunciation from their peers a little more complicated. Notes lead singer Dan Quiggle, "I got involved in the hardcore scene when I was in ninth grade. Me and my brother started going to shows and meeting people and it was really cool. In a way I was involved in the hardcore scene before I was ever a devoted Christian." When he discovered God in 1995, it didn't conflict with his hardcore roots. Quiggle doesn't see punk and religion as contradictory at all. In fact, he suggests that if punk is an oppositional culture, born of frustration and defined by negation, introducing religion into the subculture that has actively opposed Christianity is actually quite revolutionary. "I know that I will not make any friends saying what I'm about to say, but being Christian in this day and age seems to be the most punk rock thing you could do."

Quiggle is right: it hasn't made him any friends. There is no shortage of punks angered by Disciple (who have played many shows in Toronto and Hamilton, Ont.) and its ilk, including Chris Colohon, who has spent the past two years singing for Swarm, a sXe hardcore band based in Toronto. Raised Christian, Colohon says he "resocialized" himself through punk rock; he equates religion with the status quo, and feels that sXe Christian hardcore ultimately poses no threat to the powers that be. "Christianity doesn't have any place in the revolution. You can't support a patriarchal structure and hope to enact change. These bands [Christian sXe] appear to be fighting for a revolution, but they're making their parents happy at the same time. There's something wrong with that." Jonas Cacchioni would agree. Because straight edge is rooted in hardcore punk scene, it carries with it what he sees as certain "inescapable political realities." Cacchioni argues, "The fact that you consider yourself a member of the hardcore punk rock scene which secular sXe would be considered a part of, seems to necessitate a direct conflict with Christian sXe." (According to many punk and straight-edge resources, the typical punk view is that all organized religion is a crutch that keeps people oppressed.)

Cacchioni and Colohon are both partially correct in pointing out that Christian sXe and secular hardcore aren't quite kissing cousins. Disciple's pro-life stance is definitely not a majority view within punk rock. As Cacchioni argues, "the hardcore punk scene was generally pro-choice. Most issues where individual freedom were concerned, the hardcore scene took a very liberal/left view of individual rights and because of that, the notion of the state interceding on behalf of a fetus was absurd." (That view, of course, excludes sXe hardliners.) Dan Quiggle, Disciple's singer disagrees, but the manner in which he does is revealing: "As far as being pro-life, we don't look at that issue as a political issue at all. It sucks that we fight over something that is morally wrong but since there is so much money in the abortion business, and so many people are misinformed, it becomes a political battle. Being pro-life is a personal choice that we in Disciple stand behind." But framing the decision as a personal choice is exactly what got sXe into this mess in the first place. Indeed, Disciple has only helped crystallize a larger malaise in hardcore. In some ways, the problem lies less with the fact that bands like Disciple aren't fighting for the revolution and more with the fact that the rest of the hardcore scene isn't either.

Dan Quiggle happens to be a good example of the political apathy that is currently running through the hardcore scene in general. When I ask if he is politically inclined or affiliated, he is adamant in his denial. "No, no, no. We are definitely not aligned with any politics of any kind. People would be surprised but we are not for a lot of what people would assume we support, like the Christian Coalition. I personally am not a big fan at all of what that group is doing."

It is this distance that helps make bands such as Disciple, Strongarm and Living Sacrifice palatable to secular fans. The fact that their shouted lyrics are difficult to hear probably helps. Chris Logan, who runs Hamilton-based Goodfellow Records (home to Disciple as well as a score of secular hardcore bands) admits, "A lot of people go to see Disciple and don't care about the message. The music is good, so they say 'let's beat the shit outta each other while they play.'" Releasing tension is often more important than the context. A self-described atheist, Logan signed Disciple in 1997 and has released two of their albums. He says the band has been very successful at attracting secular and Christian hardcore fans alike. Logan, formerly in the sXe hardcore band Chokehold, says he used to be "pretty militant about [his] anti-Christian stance. But then," he continues "I got to hang out and talk with Disciple and I realized that their views didn't differ that much from mine." Logan, for his part, believes that hardcore is a place where contradictory ideas might co-exist peacefully. He argues, "Many people want to automatically write Disciple off, but that's the point of our label, to open up the lines of communication."

What stands out in the end, is not the differences between secular and Christian straight edge movements, but what they have in common: a political apathy rooted in their intense focus on the personal, most often to the exclusion of everything else around them The sXe subculture is a tightly circumscribed space in which one is free to experiment with ideas and shield oneself from peer pressure or an alcoholic parent. There are problems with this fenced-off area, however—people expand beyond its boundaries and are forced to leave, or, worse, the dominant culture and politics beyond the subcultural border are never negotiated.

Ideology is one thing, the economics of it all another. The lynch?pin of the hardcore punk rock agenda was Do-It-Yourself (DIY)—an anticapitalist entrepreneurship that ensured the creation and distribution of intellectual property remained within the control of the individual. No one walking into Who's Emma, Toronto's volunteer-run, anarchist, punk rock headquarters, is going to confuse it with the too-bright neon of the typical Christian outlet. While both punks and Christians have successfully developed an alternative network of books, videos, CDs, magazines distributors and stores to better serve their interests, their economic motivations aren't driven by a similar impetus. Do-It-Yourself continues to be held up as a noble idea to aspire toward, while the Christian network isn't afraid of turning a profit. Cornerstone, a festival held each year in Illinois, draws over 20,000 people and now features Christian hardcore bands. While not exactly Lollapalooza, the event draws considerable numbers and represent a well?organized, well-promoted cultural phenom.

The distribution may end up being a useful distinction in separating the two. But at the same time, it may prove dangerous in another sense. Is punk rock still punk rock when it's caught in the jaws of major label machinery? Colohon certainly considers it a problem. "I feel that Christian bands are taking advantage of this, he says. "Hardcore has been infiltrated by major labels finding a stake, by religion finding a stake, and it's gone off in too many directions."

On the other hand, consider that punk has already gone through a mainstreaming since 1994, when Green Day and Offspring "emerged." It is immaterial whether the patina of youth rebellion is used to sell t-shirts or save souls: both deaden the revolutionary impulse. Still, religion, even more than capitalism, robs punk of its revolutionary impetus—if getting into the nightclub known as the afterlife is Christianity's intended goal, then creating meaningful structural alterations here on earth takes on a reduced urgency. For Colohon, the solution is to impatiently wait out this latest intruder and live by example. "Things go in cycles. We [hardcore] exhaust our extremes ... We entertain contradictory things. In the early 1990s, everything was very PC, and now no one gives a shit about anything." He may be right. When sXe hardcore is no longer what the kids are listening to, another Christian variant will emerge to pick up the slack. For fans of Christian rock, hardcore may just be a stopover on the road toward 2.4 children, a white picket fence and a heavenly afterlife. The punk rock community, on the other hand, will be left dealing with the effects of the intrusion for years afterward.