![]() “You could live like the devil all week then be absolved. The hypocrisy that he saw within his own Protestant congregation he believed to be even worse in Catholic circles. “We hated all religion, but especially the Catholic faith,” Brady said. The band name was intended to be a direct dig at Catholicism. The band would play wimpy bar crowds on Monday and Tuesday, then hit the road again, move a town or two over, and settle in for weekend gigs. With its built-in cement blocks and heavy-duty suspension designed for a load four times heavier, the van bumped and rattled as the crew made its way through dirt roads and interstates from Michigan, to Ohio, to Illinois.Īfter arriving at a small dive bar near Flint, the crew went about unloading and re-adjusting their instruments, which had jostled out of tune from the trip.īrady’s band, Kross-Eyed Mary, had signed its first record deal and embarked on an ambitious four-month Midwest tour with over 100 shows. The van had to be loaded in exactly the same way each time for all of the equipment and band members to fit. The crew went through its ritual game of Tetris-style loading: the drum set in first, an amplifier laid horizontally between music stands, someone’s feet resting on a guitar case. In 1989, Brady and five of his bandmates crammed into the back of a retired, white delivery van. As he branched out from his parents and tuned in to the broader life of his congregation, he became disheartened by perceived, ubiquitous hypocrisy and began harboring a hatred of religion. His parents always seemed to be the same in every situation, living with integrity in the pews and outside. With each year, Brady grew increasingly disillusioned with Christianity. He studied the guitarists that inspired him and learned to emulate them, venturing away from the world of family gospel bands and into the more exciting realm of harder music. He traded his drumsticks for a guitar strap. Listening to Randy Rhoads’ lengthy guitar solos, the electric hum coursing through over-ear headphones, Brady became inspired. Artists like Ozzy Osbourne and Black Sabbath began shaping his outlook on music. Brady learned to play the drums by fumbling through the simple beats of gospel hymns.Īs a young teenager, Brady shifted away from the genre he knew and gravitated toward rock and metal music. His parents were active members of the church and focused on outreach and proselytizing. Singing songs about God, forgiveness and right-living, Brady grew up surrounded and immersed in faith. ![]() The Brady Family, a touring, country Western gospel quartet, goes through their now well-practiced rituals. His aunt and uncle fiddle with the cacophony of chords coming out of the amplifier in the back. To his right, his parents tune their instruments and adjust their microphones. Decades later, in the Clubhouse, he works to make space for “outcasts,” by embracing, not fighting, the road warrior culture he came to love.Īdjusting the seat to get the proper leverage, Brady situates himself behind a too-large drum set overlooking a church auditorium. The son of evangelists, Brady left the church in his teens and hit the road touring with a metal rock band, singing songs filled with hatred for religion. “People don’t want religion,” Brady said. Without a sanctuary, hymnals or a dress code, Victory Biker Church International in Lenon, Mich., meets in what they call a Clubhouse, embracing biker culture while advancing the gospel. ![]() In the audience, tattooed arms cross in observance before a loud, affectionate “Amen.” Pastor Brian McKay, “BMan,” opens the service in prayer. He stands on stage, leaning backward with each strum, thrusting his knees slightly forward and moving with the rhythm of the music. “Sweet home up in Heaven,” the congregants sing the edited lyrics crafted by Crow, ex-rock star and current worship leader. As members trickle in, the opening chords of Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Sweet Home Alabama” rattle the barn walls with drums, bass and electric guitar. On the inside, 90’s metal rock plays over loudspeakers, polished Harley parts adorn the walls and a hanging, leather saddle bag takes the place of an offertory.įloyd Brady, better known by his road name, Crow, greets each guest with a hug, a high-five, or a custom handshake. Men in leather vests clutch the throttles of shining Harleys, rumbling and shaking through the silence to a once-deserted barn.Ī woman dismounts her Triumph Bonneville ‘65, adjusts the black bandanna covering her trimmed hair and walks through the doors. A quiet road flows through towering trees on either side, with wild grass reaching several feet into the air.
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