It's not the End of the World as We Know It. It's just the end.

The Rock n Roll equivalent of snake-handlers, O'Connor's good men so hard to find, apocalyptic visions with the contempt for a fallen world, they make YHWH out to be the badass of the old testament, and they, reveal the world we live in as the stink and the diddy; a world in which Christ's sacrifice is little more than a gesture, a raised middle finger to humanity's ability to lie, cheat and murder.

In a world where the only heroes are as monstrous as their nemeses, Achilles all, with Hector's body dragged through the mud, where the only interceding angel is a Stagger Lee and "four holes in the mother-fucking head," the very concept of divine grace becomes inverted, salvation is death, and divine grace a psychopath with a gun.



These men of God, these scourges released onto an unsuspecting world nevertheless deserving of this tribulation, these men are the Judge of Blood Meridian, the Iagos of a fallen planet, the Caliban in this tempest of sin, and Prospero is either entirely missing, or else he is one bad motherfucker, and pissed as shit at whoever woke him.




This is not a world where tribulation and rapture are some dates in the future, as meticulously planned as weddings, but one in which tribulation is a rapist on the loose, and rapture comes at the end of a gun.