Exploring the Westboro Baptist Church's Discography
A theological thought exercise
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It happens on occasion that even a recluse such as myself ends up in the predicament of having to do an “icebreaker.” In fact, it comes up more often than I’d like. This is because, as a globetrotting homosexual with body dysmorphia, I regularly find myself in boutique fitness classes in cities where I don’t live. These classes, held in warehouses, garages, and strip malls, are typically made up of people who are friendlier and chattier than my fellow New Yorkers, and almost always feature a scuffed-up whiteboard, as well as a bald or semi-bald instructor. At the beginning of class, the instructor will clasp his hands together and open with an “Alright!” before consulting the whiteboard. It’s here that I get a sinking feeling in my stomach as I wait for those dreaded words: “Today’s question of the day is…”
The goal in these icebreakers is to give a response that elicits a few good-natured chuckles but isn’t trying too hard, permitting the secret misanthrope the privilege of flying completely under the radar and then being promptly forgotten about entirely. It’s not like I think anyone actually gives a shit, but to be thought about for even two seconds more than I need to be feels imposing and uncomfortable, and I prefer the smoothest, quietest ride possible toward my final rep and the coach saying, “enjoy the rest of your day,” the body dysmorphic’s equivalent to “go in peace.” During these icebreaker rituals, I am reliably rocking back and forth on my heels with my arms crossed, as I was in my most recent encounter with it where the question was, “What’s your guilty pleasure?”
Sometimes, the question of the day (or QOTD, as it's typically presented on the whiteboard) is one I have a stock answer for. But the “guilty pleasure” question had only come up once prior, in a red state gym in what appeared to be a doomsday prepper’s bunker where I’d panicked and quickly offered the last thing I’d listened to, which had been “Toxic” by Britney Spears. It went fine with the crowd of former marines sporting tattoos of anatomically inaccurate women, but privately felt like a profound betrayal.
As for my most recent answer, at a gym sporting the latest update of the pride flag design and where calling Britney Spears a “guilty pleasure” might have gotten me pummeled to death with kettlebells, I said, “My name is John Paul, and my guilty pleasure is watching cruise ship reviews on YouTube, even though I’d never go on a cruise.” This went over okay. One woman even chimed in with, “Me neither!”
But it’s also a lie. My guilty pleasure is not watching cruise ship reviews on YouTube, an activity I pursue without guilt (itself quite the feat, as I do most things with guilt), nor, obviously, is it “Toxic” by Britney Spears. White lies in low-stakes social settings aren’t really grounds for introspection. For whatever reason, though, while sweatily heading back to my hotel after that workout, my answer’s not-trueness lingered, poking at my brain like a splinter. As a thought experiment, and in an attempt to work through the discomfort, I wondered what might have happened to me in that LGBTQIA-friendly garage if I had told the truth: “My name is John Paul, and my guilty pleasure is the Westboro Baptist Church’s discography.” I imagine this would have dashed all hopes of being quickly forgotten, and possibly made instant enemies out of, I don’t know, Chris and McKenzie. But it would have been true.
I do a lot of thought experiments like this, such as imagining in vivid detail what would happen if I were to interrupt a conversation with the close friend sitting across the table from me by throwing my drink in their face. These intrusive thoughts always make me cringe and feel guilty. But this time, I was more intrigued than embarrassed: Huh, I really do listen to the Westboro Baptist Church’s discography in my free time, don’t I? I thought it might be worth looking into what, exactly, I get out of listening to religious extremist Shirley Phelps-Roper caterwauling updated lyrics to Lady Gaga’s “Telephone” that include, “boy the way you fake pray all the time will just kill soldiers faster.” It’s something to think about, at least. It’s a prompt. It’s my QOTD.
For the unaware, the Westboro Baptist Church is an unambiguously evil religious organization founded by former lawyer and present corpse Fred Phelps in 1955 in Topeka, Kansas. His daughter, Shirley, later became the lead spokeswoman of the sect, and is today probably the most recognizable face of the group. The WBC is best known for their colorful “God Hates Fags” signs that they wave about at their many protests, which have included concerts and military funerals. Their hatred of both gay people and U.S. soldiers (more prudent orgs pick but one), along with the cartoonishness of their villainy, has made them nearly universally maligned across the political spectrum and a popular piñata for pop stars with gay fanbases and Republican politicians who like to pretend they have a limit to the bigotry they’ll tolerate.
Thus, condemning the Westboro Baptist Church is like condemning malaria or smallpox: you would expect just about anyone to do so, save perhaps the secretary of the Department of Health. It may surprise longtime readers to hear this, but I do not condone the views of the Westboro Baptist Church, nor do I even consider them harmless, as vanishingly few fundamentalist cults manage to be. Neither, however, am I terribly interested in diving into how awful they are, as this feels rather obvious. There’s only one thing about the WBC that really interests me, and it’s their longtime commitment to producing absurdist parodies of pop songs, an extensive body of work with a unique sound that I would characterize as “violently homophobic KIDZ BOP recorded in an abandoned mine shaft.”
If I had to justify it, I’d argue there’s forensic intrigue to the “artistic” output of extremist factions such as WBC. Listening to any cultural group’s music is a great way to get to know their values, to learn what they worship. I’m plainly fascinated in a god that disapproves of homosexuality, but encourages covers of pop songs with accompanying choreography, the latter being substantially gayer than any activity I’ve ever partaken in. But my dark truth (and my guilty pleasure) is that these songs just titillate me. The WBC’s discography is a drug that makes me giggle. I am not a paragon of mental wellness.
Now that I’ve confessed this, and everyone in the gym is staring at me like I’ve just said my guilty pleasure is finding and cooking roadkill, I might as well go all the way and share my entire wretched playlist.
“But, John Paul Brammer,” you, a critic, might bray like an ass, “why would you platform such a hateful entity as the Westboro Baptist Church?” Well, for one, I’ve platformed worse, like Emilia Pérez. For two, the Westboro Baptist Church kind of fell off, didn’t they? The threat they pose almost seems quaint now. The Westboro Baptist Church is not going to revoke my citizenship and send me to a foreign prison because I regularly make fun of Cybertrucks on the internet. They’re going to call me a fag and play cacophonous music at me, which is roughly the same level of threat I semi-regularly encounter at dance parties in Brooklyn. And anyway, I like to think I can separate the art from the artist.
On top of that, I’m going to be candid with you here, one adult to another: I don’t think anyone is going to hear the Westboro Baptist Church’s cover of “Feel Good Inc.” and say, “it’s time to make a profound life change.” With all that said, I have here a fine selection from the some 164 “covers” or “parodies” that the Westboro Baptist Church has recorded. Welcome to my hell. This is my Pitchfork. Let’s review some songs, and meet an interesting god.
“Don’t Shake It Off” / “Shake It Off” by Taylor Swift
The very first line is “We’re so full of hate!” which is pretty incredible. It’s like one of those villain songs where the bad guy is singing giddily about being evil, a la Oogie Boogie in The Nightmare Before Christmas. The music video aesthetic echoes the cursed Quiznos commercials from 2003, the ones with the rats, or “Spongmonkeys,” as their species was officially dubbed. The video also showcases protest signs against Liza Minnelli, which, sure. Hit us where it hurts, I guess.
The “Fag marriage runs your state, state, state, state, state / Hell fire is your fate, fate, fate, fate, fate” lyrics are also pretty catchy. I’m putting this one up top because it’s sort of the platonic ideal of an unhinged Westboro Bop-tist Church parody.
“Thunder!” / “Thunder” by Imagine Dragons
I’m including “Thunder!” as the yang to the yin of “Don’t Shake It Off.” This is the WBC at their laziest and least inspired. As it turns out, my broader musical preferences hold true even in crypto-genres such as “fundie pop.” I don’t much care for the WBC’s male singer and am much keener on the songs with female vocalists. It doesn’t help that I’m not a “Thunder” by Imagine Dragons fan to begin with, but I also feel like the cover lacks creativity and only goes for the most obvious “lightning as divine punishment” lyrics. It doesn’t do anything to make it feel fresh from the perspective of a religious sect that actually believes in smiting and such.
In summary, they had a lot of room to play around here, and they chose not to, uncharacteristic cowardice from a group of people who will physically stand in populated areas and screech about how God hates you, specifically. The male vocalist sounds so insecure on this track. The way his voice shakes in the “Have a seat in the front pew / Hear the preacher” line made me lose a lot of confidence in him. If you’re not going to commit your entire diaphragm to telling me that I’m going to hell via an Imagine Dragons parody song then just keep it to yourself, please.
“Same Love” / “Same Love” by Macklemore
None of these lyrics are more homophobic than “when I was in the third grade I thought that I was gay, because I could draw.”