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| © David Hartman |
So I'll start it here, because it's my blog. Because I can.
If you're unfamiliar with the catchphrase, "7-11" refers to the genre of worship songs or "chants" that consist of little more than seven-word phrases that we repeat 11 times -- presumably in case God weren't paying attention the first 10. You can probably already figure out my general take on the genre.
But before you -- my tens of loyal blog readers starved for a fix -- attack me too viciously in comments, know up front that I own and listen to copies of all of Free Indeed's "Sing a New Song" CD series. Own and listen to most of Zoe. I'm hip to Watershed, Revival and Acappella. Once I get a definitive answer to whether the redeeming blood covers even this, I might admit to owning and loving Richland Hills' stuff, too. I'm not against new songs or new concepts in praising through song per se.
I would never judge a songwriter's heart or his or her relationship with God. I don't doubt sincerity. But let's be honest: "I lift my hands" is a real nice sentiment about bridging the gap between mortal worshipers and an immortal, almighty God. Stringing the phrase together half a dozen times in a row and calling it a song, however, is lazy. Even if you're too polite to call it lazy, I bet we can agree it's not exactly in the same league as turning Psalm 148 into "Hallelujah, Praise Jehovah." That's a classic hymn, complete with a catchy chorus and enough verses so that, if we need to rush through our praise to be home in time for kickoff, we can omit a verse or two without turning the whole hymn into mush. Try omitting a repetitive phrase from a 7-11 chant and see how that works for ya.
Songwriting is a discipline, just like any other form of good writing. If you want me to spend some time singing it, spend some time writing it. Get the inspiration on paper, then put it away awhile, chew on it and come back to it with fresh eyes. Pray over it. Find another good writer or writing coach to bounce it off of. Take suggestions. Rewrite. Rewrite again. In the end, you'll probably come up with something more rewarding and meaningful -- maybe even a classic we'll still be singing 100 years from now.
What brought all this up? Why the rant? It's that maddening Target back-to-school jingle I hear on TV every stinkin' time I walk into the breakroom at work. It has 7-11 written all over it, and it makes me want to choke the life out of someone.
It's not a deep jingle. Jingles aren't supposed to be. But they don't have to be stupid, either. The Target jingle includes these great insights: "Imagine sunshine always shining" and "Imagine this, imagine that. Imagine this, imagine that. Imagine that. Imagine that."
Tell you what: Rather than me imagining sunshine always shining, how about if I imagine sunshine not shining. Would it still be sunshine? Sunshine not shining is darkness. Period. Sunshine, by definition, shines. Always.
If you want to stretch my imagination, ask me to imagine a piece of tofu becoming a 14-ounce slab of prime rib, medium rare, with a cup of au jus for dipping. But don't ask me to imagine the sun shining.
Then we get to the whole 7-11 "imagine" part at the end of the jingle. Here's what I imagine whilst imagining this and that: I imagine that Target hired some advertising firm to come up with this "jingle," and that some schmuck in a suit spent all of 10 minutes writing it. The jingle isn't 30 seconds long, and fully half of it is about sunshine shining and imagining this and that. Where do I apply to get that job?
I also imagine the jingle cost Target six figures. And I imagine they passed that buck to me in the form of higher prices for the junk on their shelves. Now Target gets to imagine me buying underwear elsewhere.
I'm done ranting. Your turn. Take your shots at me over the whole lazy church songwriting issue. I'm okay with that.
In fact, you could even say I have a peaceful, easy feeling. And I know you won't let me down. 'Cause I'm already standin' on solid ground.
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