Spend five minutes scanning the headlines and you risk sinking into despair and cynicism. Accounts of war, corruption, hatred, and strife seem to fill the news at an ever-increasing rate. And of course, for Americans, the ever-present hum of politically related despair is fast reaching a fevered pitch thanks to the 2024 presidential election—an election that’s been awash in controversy since day one due to concerns over both candidates’ age and mental acuity, not to mention Donald Trump’s status as a convicted felon and rapist.
First, God remains on the throne regardless of who holds earthly power, and second, there are realities deeper, more profound, and more real than anything that happens in any given news cycle.
I don’t condemn anyone, therefore, who’s close to throwing up their hands in disgust and considering ways to disconnect and disengage, if for no other reason than because I’m sorely tempted to follow them. And yet, as a Christian, any such impulse is tempered by two beliefs, albeit beliefs that are often battered and left gutted by the news.
First, God remains on the throne regardless of who holds earthly power, and second, there are realities deeper, more profound, and more real than anything that happens in any given news cycle. These realities often come into better focus through the lens of art, and in this case, a recently released song by the indie-rock band Luxury.
Luxury has one of the most fascinating stories in Christian music history. Formed in the early ‘90s at Toccoa Falls College, a private Christian college in rural Georgia, the band quickly made waves with their intense live shows, onstage antics, and cryptic, even suggestive lyrics. Luxury’s debut, 1995’s Amazing & Thank You, played like a riotous blend of The Smiths’ beauty and Fugazi’s intensity with lyrics that explored such topics as sexuality, celebrity, and consumerism. There was nothing quite like them in the Christian scene and they seemed on the verge of breaking big, especially after an acclaimed performance at the 1995 Cornerstone Festival.
“Fur / Ticker Tape” begins in a deeply cynical place with Lee Bozeman singing “the last speech that I heard / Didn’t mean a thing / Not a thing to me”…
As the band was returning home from Cornerstone, however, they were in a horrific car accident that left several members hospitalized in a severe, even life-threatening condition. After a long recovery, Luxury released their sophomore album in 1996, The Latest & The Greatest, but by then, the hype had faded and the band’s future seemed in doubt. Around this time, three of Luxury’s members—singer/guitarist Lee Bozeman, his brother and fellow guitarist Jamey Bozeman, and bassist Chris Foley—began exploring Orthodoxy, eventually converting and becoming ordained priests. (For a deeper dive into Luxury’s story, I highly recommend the excellent Parallel Love documentary, which is currently streaming on Tubi for free.)
Since then, Luxury has continued to release music, albeit sporadically due to the members being spread out across the nation. Indeed, nearly ten years have passed between their last album, Trophies, and their newest, the self-released Like Unto Lambs. Although it’s the band’s shortest album to date, Like Unto Lambs is no less potent than its predecessors, with one song in particular—“Fur / Ticker Tape”—becoming increasingly poignant, especially as I consider America’s political present and future.
“Fur / Ticker Tape” begins in a deeply cynical place with Lee Bozeman singing “the last speech that I heard / Didn’t mean a thing / Not a thing to me”—a realization that ultimately causes him to question whether he should believe in anything at all. The second verse is no better; “The last word that was said / Heavy and dead / A fur on a king,” he sings, which causes him to wonder “What is left to dream? / Is there a dream?” (Anyone who’s ever listened to a politician’s empty promises and shameless appeals can surely relate to Bozeman’s sentiments here.)
By the time the song’s chorus appears, the world’s going to hell in a handbasket (“Oh, the headline says it all / The lowest circle isn’t all that far”) with bad news everywhere (“Oh, the ticker tape speaks to me / In this world there is misery”). All Bozeman can do is sigh: “With this world / Let me make my peace.”
For all of their cynicism, however, those first two verses also contain a still small voice (i.e., Bozeman’s voice wrapped in effects) that offers up brief reminders of God’s sovereignty as the one who both “hung the earth upon the waters” and “hung the curtain of the cosmos.” Thus, when the third verse kicks in, a flicker of hope can be heard.
Bozeman sings of a serenade, a “pretty little thing,” before asking “Can you hear the strings” while backed by a Cure-esque synth melody. Meanwhile, that still small voice is still present, whispering of “the one who tore the curtain top to bottom,” a reference to that moment immediately after Christ’s death when God forever removed the barrier between himself and humanity (Matthew 27:50-51).
I’ve often found myself muttering “With this world / Let me make my peace” under my breath as a prayer of sorts as I read the headlines and the latest accounts of humanity gone terribly awry.
The song dies down for a moment, giving Bozeman space to take a breath that “has to last for all of eternity” as that small voice sings of “the one who closed the gates upon the garden.” This leads to one of 2024’s most electrifying musical moments as Bozeman, supported by Glenn Black’s surging drums, cries out, “Open the gates for me!”—a striking demand for God to reinstate paradise here on Earth.
The chorus comes back around and the world is still going to hell in a handbasket; it’s still a place filled with misery. But whereas the first time Bozeman sang, “With this world / Let me make my peace,” it was an admission of resignation and defeat, it’s now a true statement of peace as well as humble reliance on “the one who hung the earth upon the waters” and thus sustains it regardless of human activity.
Just as Doctor Strange helped me survive the 2016 election, Luxury’s “Fur / Ticker Tape”—and by extension, the rest of Like Unto Lambs—has proved to be something of a tonic for this year’s election. Indeed, I’ve often found myself muttering “With this world / Let me make my peace” under my breath as a prayer of sorts as I read the headlines and the latest accounts of humanity gone terribly awry.
I still feel the impulse to disconnect and disengage, but with the song’s help, it gets reframed. I still want to disconnect, but not simply because I despair of America’s political reality or all of the other horrible things that clamor for my attention. Instead, it’s because there’s a deeper reality with which I want to connect, both for my own soul’s sake and for the benefit of my family, friends, and neighbors.
