Although this record comes from the early seventies heyday of the California-centric Jesus Movement, band leader Jim Palosaari – a first generation Finn from the Northern US – apparently had a large scale evangelistic agenda which had him rockin’ all over the world. Jeesus-Rock! came out on the Finnlevy label, which was kind of like the Finnish Warner Bros. until the real life Warner Bros. swallowed it up in ’93. The whole thing’s in English except for two tracks sung in exuberant, American-accented Finnish, including this one – which translates lyrically to “Jesus loves” and musically to “dig my big bass riff, Baby.”
Love Song were one of the best-loved “Jesus Freak” groups within that movement, but their albums are all out of print. “Welcome Back” is their crowning glory because it’s loaded with so much emotion: lead singer Chuck Girard’s soaring, born-again lead; the repentant backup singers’ heartbroken harmonies; and the melancholy melodica suggesting regret + relief. Girard, by the way, is the man who does the Mike Love sendup on the Hondell’s “Little Honda” recording, although a stand-in mimed it for the group’s TV appearances.
“Let’s go down by the river,” sings this Oregon loner folkie, over and over again. “And together we can have liberty.” He’s drenched in echo and minor chords and while you listen you find yourself wanting to scream out “don’t do it!!” to whoever he’s singing to. And at the end, when it’s clear that it’s actually baptism he’s singing about, you’re no less concerned.
As you listen to this ultra-rare acoustic guitar/vocal LP which has been making the rounds on record-freak websites lately, you’ll at first feel touched by the enigmatic Bixby’s childlike, confessional lyrics and guileless delivery. He was once enslaved by drugs, he sings in the opener, but now Jesus has set him free. He should have listened to his mother, Bixby later tells us. She had tried to teach him about Jesus while he laughed at her, but she died before she could see him turn his life around and at once thank her for her efforts. But halfway through the record, your feelings of fondness morph into a certain kind of pity as its childlike qualities start to ring like submissiveness. And after you’ve listened to the whole thing straight through, having been hopelessly hypnotized by it, you’ll feel mostly unsettled. Then you’ll google him and discover that the record was likely midwifed by an intense Jesus cult he was involved in and you’ll start feeling outright scared of (and for) the guy.
The record has no year on it and no one seems to know for certain what it is. I’m guessing 1971, the year after the John Lennon/Plastic Ono Band album helped ease such earthy, nakedly confessional sounds into the pop music vernacular. (By the time the record’s lonely reverb and tape delay sink into your system, in fact, the JL/POB comparison is inescapable, as are thoughts of early Elvis sides like “Blue Moon.”) The year 1971 would also place it squarely in the middle of the all-pervasive Jesus-pop trend. Whatever the year, it’s a treasure in my book. (Absolutely no clue what the title’s misleading reference to Quetzalcoatl, the Aztec god, is all about.)
