Blessed are the hit-makers - religion and music and the lost memory of Sister O'Brien
- JO'B
- 3 hours ago
- 4 min read
My uni friend Jo shared an old picture this weekend which reminded me of one of my favourite anecdotes from back in the day (more later).
But it also reminded me of the connection music has for me with religion. I was brought up Catholic in an Irish household. My mother was a holy water obsessed version of Cato from the Peter Sellers Pink Panther films. In the movies, Cato, played by the amazing Burt Kwouk, was Inspector Clouseau’s long suffering manservant and also his trainer. He would constantly attempt to surprise Clouseau, randomly attacking him to keep his martial arts skills sharp.
My mother was similar. Not in the sense of keeping my martial arts skills sharp - they are woefully blunt….but when it came to assuring my mortal soul was in good order with God, she was on it. You would think you could sneak out of the house without being doused in holy water, kept by the front door in a tiny font with a picture of the Pope looking out at you benevolently. But no, not a chance.
Just as I would get to the door, my mother would appear from nowhere and bless me multiple times. As a teenager, I would spent a significant time trying to tease my magnificent bleached quiff into shape with hairspray, only for my own personal Cato, aka Imelda, to leap out at me and drench me in stagnant water that had been sat in a tacky plastic piece of papal memorabilia. The only miracle in my house was if my quiff was still standing at the end of this rather chaotic assault course.
I remember more hymns from my childhood than I do nursery rhymes. The folks were religious and it didn’t really occur to me I could stop this nonsense until I was 25. I was a good boy and didn’t ever want to let them down. Guilt is a useless emotion as New Order once sang. It’s been a dominant factor in my whole life.
As a teenager, as my music tastes started to take form, I remember the songs that did start me questioning this blind loyalty (also known as faith). Depeche Mode’s Blasphemous Rumours wasn’t exactly sophisticated in its challenge to God (“I don't want to start any blasphemous rumours, but I think that God's got a sick sense of humour and when I die, I expect to find him laughing”)...but I wasn’t exactly sophisticated either.
The Smiths Vicar in A Tutu just laughed at the whole institution (Moz was very funny then, bless him). And as I strayed into Goth, alongside The Sisters Of Mercy, The Mission, The Cure, I also checked out Christian Death. Fortunately I couldn’t stand them. But if I had come home with a Christian Death record, my poor mam would have been in a complete tizz. I fear an exorcism would have been hastily commissioned.
These days, I am free of this nonsense. I have great respect for those who take comfort from religion, and know many kind, respectful, generous religious people - Christians, Muslims, Jews, Sikhs…all kind, thoughtful people. But I have also met judgmental, cruel people who claim to be religious. a contradiction in terms, surely? My father went to a school run by the Christian Brothers from 14-18. They beat him until he had a stammer. His crime? Being left-handed. He was ambidextrous all the time I knew him.
I still listen to songs about God and religion. Bowie revisited some search for spirituality in his final opus, Blackstar, especially Lazarus, as he came face to face with death. Dear God is one of my favourite XTC tracks, scathing about religion and pointless belief.
These days I believe in something. God knows what - I certainly don’t. It is not organised religion though. But there are things I can’t quite dismiss and I still chunter away to the folks, wherever they are.
Anyway, the picture that kicked all this off!
My friend Jo dug out a picture of us, including me dressed as a nun at the V Festival in 2000, just before I went voguing on the Bacardi Bar stage, whilst making signs of the cross. My friend Anneke has since pinged one of me voguing while making said religious gesture. Imelda, my mam, never saw these. Only the Lord alone knows how she would have coped, probably worried herself into an early grave…she still had another 13 years after this so glad she didn’t see these pictures!
Later that day, as the festival progressed and the beer kicked in, I wandered around offering confession to anyone who wanted it. Unexpectedly, one punter accepted the offer and I adopted my most serious and sincere and holy voice. This went along the lines of:
Sister O’Brien: Confess your sins! Confess your sins!
Essex geezer: mate, I shagged my best friend and don’t know what to do.
Sister O’Brien: Bless you my son, well do you care for her?
Essex geezer: well, yeah…
Sister O’Brien: does she care for you?
Essex geezer: I think so…?
Sister O’Brien: well, ask her out!
Essex geezer: that’s a FUCKING great idea! Thanks mate!
Off he trotted, shoulders relaxed, the pressures of the world lifted for a few hours…Reader, he married her.**
Sadly, I have kicked this particular habit…
So music and religion can be amazing (and certainly quite funny) and I am sure music that questions religion can be amazing too. It certainly, slowly, started my journey to question my religion, to realise it was OK to disagree with my lovely folks and think a bit more for myself. Disagreement did not mean disrespect and we all need our own path. I still wish I could find the old habit, I am sure I would find a use for it…
Stay safe, and if you enjoyed this, please subscribe (see link below), x
**I have no idea if that bit is true, but how good would THAT be!?!?
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