By Jeremy Hallock
By James Khubiar
By Observer Staff
By Kelly Dearmore
By Jim Schutze
By Rachel Watts
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
But upon repeated listenings, the song reveals itself as something much deeper, much darker than a funny pop song; rather, it's a song about faith in a faithless world, about conviction and belief, about doubt and fright. It attempts the impossible, reducing the idea of God to something much smaller than an almighty and all-powerful presence, something much easier to deal with--what if God is one of us, she wonders, "just a slob like one of us, just a stranger on a bus trying to make his way home?" Most remarkably, Osborne has written a song about religion that is completely secular and totally nonjudgmental: you aren't going to Heaven just because you love Jesus, and you aren't going to hell if you don't believe.
It's a tricky thing to convey faith and religion in pop music; even so masterful a songwriter as Bob Dylan couldn't do it during his "saved" period, so conflicted was he about the idea. When it works, as in Osborne's song or the music of the Toadies (which is all about struggle and conflict) and Al Green (spiritual love and physical love as one) or even technohero Moby (the acid house of worship), then it's a powerful thing. But when it doesn't--when it preaches to the converted and damns the nonbelievers, or when religion becomes a substitute for something else--then there is no more offensive music in all the world, no matter your religious beliefs.
Such is the case with the Nixons, the Okies-by-way-of-Dallas preparing to make their major label debut May 23 on MCA Records. Over the past year, I have spent so much time despising their music on purely aesthetic terms--it mimics the arena-metal of Kansas, the bombastic posturing of Pearl Jam, the carbon-copycatting of Stone Temple Pilots--that I have often failed to notice that at their core, the Nixons are very confused men. And the result is an album, Foma, that is enervating musically and downright silly and infuriating lyrically. Which means, in short, they ain't no damn good any way you slice it.
The Nixons, like predecessors King's X from Houston, unsuccessfully try to cut it both ways--as an angry secular band and as devout Young Lifers with guitars. Amid a flurry of metal riffs (some provided by Judas Priest guitarist Glenn Tipton), the Nixons use Jesus like a prop, as some device to give weight and credence to their lightweight junior-high poetry and cliched aphorisms. Their passion is undeniable, but so is their ignorance; their messages are so conflicted and ridiculous, their words so jumbled and lost in their attempt to convey a "message."
Like most metal bands that rely on visceral images of blood and bone, equating undefinable emotion with something gory and graphic, the Nixons reduce everything to violence. In the song "Blind"--one of the seven songs that made it from the band's 1994 debut on the local Rainmaker label to the new disc--singer Zac Maloy reduces racism to a kill-or-be-killed extreme: "Nervous my finger caresses the trigger / Red line is trained on you," he whine-sings; then, after he kills his prey, he peels the skin from his skull to discover--ta da!--"nothing different." But most inexplicably, he then calls upon Jesus to "come and make us colorblind...we should all be blind."
And, from nowhere, Maloy comes to this conclusion: "You ignorant fuck"--the emphasis on "fuck," of course, perhaps to indicate how angry he is for being so ineloquent.
Foma is loaded with religious icons and references, and always with the understanding that those who believe will ascend to heaven and those who don't will descend to hell; heaven is the "sweeter beyond" of which Maloy sings in one song, while hell is a place filled with those who do not bathe (yes, it sounds silly, which is probably why there isn't a complete lyric sheet in the CD). For a band that claims to want to be color-blind, the Nixons see everything in black-and-white.
And yet the words never make sense, their intentions so hazy. It's unclear whether the addition of a small child singing "Jesus Loves Me" at the beginning of "Fellowship" (another leftover from last year's Halo) is meant as an ironic statement or a sincere plea; and then there's the song itself, which rips off the riff from "Smells Like Teen Spirit" and then ventures into the familiar territory of televangelist-bashing before reminding, "He's got my heart and I know that he needs nothing more"--"He," presumably, being Jesus or God.