Larry Norman’s funeral wasn’t a sad affair. Sitting in the last
lonely pew in the crowded suburban Salem church, I found his memorial
celebration to be an uneven balance of a rock montage tribute—he
was, after all, saddled with the hefty title of “Father of Christian
Music”—with a surreal dose of religious chest-pounding and
slightly overly righteous dogmatic zeal. It was touching, it was
awkward, and basically, it was like all 60 years of Norman’s life.
I know, you’ve probably never heard of Larry Norman. That is, unless
your parents became born-agains and purchased all your music at the
local Christian bookstore using those handy conversion charts (“If your
child likes the Beatles, they’ll love Larry Norman”), or you grew up
with Sunday mass as a weekly ritual. But odds are, if you are reading
this sin-soaked rag, you have never heard of the man. You know he lived
close by, right? Right down in Salem. And if there is anything you can
say about Norman—and as someone who is downright obsessed with
his bizarre legacy, I can attest there is a lot to say about the
man—it is that he was conflicted. He was an
honest-to-God—in more ways than one—rock icon whose beliefs
dangled like an albatross around his neck. Cursed by his blessings,
Norman struggled his whole life as a performer with a stellar catalog
of music that was fraught with bad luck, bad breaks, and a bad
reputation—or possibly all three.
Larry Norman wasn’t just a Christian rocker, he was the Christian rocker. Cutting his teeth in ’60s pop band People! (their
lone hit, “I Love You,” was a Zombies cover that became a staple of
Norman’s solo work, and the closest thing he had to a hit outside the
church), Norman’s devotion wasn’t a passing phase. He wasn’t like
Dylan, who got in and got out, or Bono, whose spiritual relationship
seems to have more to do with his swelling God complex and token photo
ops with the pope. Norman dove in head first, for better or worse, and
in doing so, bid farewell to a possible career atop the pop charts.
The ultimate Jesus freak, Norman was a post-hippie peacenik whose
devoted beliefs scared away the secular masses. And rightfully so,
because what followed Norman was a shameful march of hokey spiritual
music that consisted of church pop stars like DC Talk, Michael W.
Smith, and the most comical of them all, the yellow-and-black
hair-metal attack of Stryper. Secular music had never seemed more
appealing, or realistic, while Christians music was for devoted clowns
that preferred message over music. Of course, for Norman, it wasn’t so
easy. While his spiritual peers raked it in—and they did just
that; from Amy Grant to the mosh-for-Christ anthems of Underoath, the
Christian music scene is all about the money—Norman was left out
in the cold. His views might have been aligned with scripture, but they
never seemed to mesh with the modern church. He was outspoken in his
opposition to the Vietnam War, he despised the media, and he was often
at odds with the church itself.
Pity the poor Christian rocker who doesn’t have a church to pray
inside.
Norman’s devotion fell between the cracks, which might not have
helped his bottom line, but it did wonders for those who, supposedly at
one time, fell under his influence—from Dylan to Townshend, Bono
to Frank Black. Norman was able to seamlessly teeter on that ever-so
fine line between long-haired rock rebel and Bible-thumping churchgoer
without the slightest bit of irony.
Essentially, the man’s gift for drawing in the unwashed sinning
rock ‘n’ roll masses was also his curse. At a time before extreme
rollerblading, tattoos, and MxPx hoodies were a part of the church’s
outreach ministries, Norman did the dirty work. Need proof that the
cool kids like Christ? See Larry Norman. He looked the part of rock ‘n’
roll frontman, and his records—especially the cover of 1972’s
Only Visiting This Planet, where a gritty Norman is
photographed, looking haggard, if not hungover, in the heart of Times
Square, far from the pristine Wonder Bread perfection of the
church—were like a beacon of truth when perched on the racks of
the local Christian bookstore, or borrowed from some older, cooler
sibling.
For kids indoctrinated in the way of the Lord, Norman was both an
in, and an out, to spirituality. It all depends on your moral needs, I
suppose, but for some Norman was the bridge to the sinful licks of
hell’s sweet flames and the rock ‘n’ roll that came with it. From
Norman, to Slow Train Coming Dylan, to secular Dylan, to
political folk songs… and next thing you know you are licking the
cloven hoofs of Satan himself as you reach for the bottle and that
Robert Johnson LP. But for others, Norman was proof that the Lord cared
not for your looks, and heaven’s dress code didn’t omit the token
long-haired skuzzy rocker if his heart was true.
At a time when the annals of rock music have been raked with a
fine-toothed comb, Norman might just be the last hidden gem that
remains. The shadow of his influence stretches far from the dogmatic
hymns of the pulpit, as he became one of the few performers whose
devoted beliefs and lyrics were secondary to the stunning quality of
music he created. He will be missed.