Have the evangelists come to your door yet? They usually travel in pairs. Clean-cut, reed-thin young men from America's heartland. Skinny ties. Starched white shirts. Academic horn rims. "Dressed polite," as we used to say, smiling even as they thrust their leg into the living room. Looking you in the eye, they ask with a mountain of conviction and concern: "Friend, do you know the Truth?" Earnest men. Missionaries. I think you know who I mean... fans of the Embarrassment.

Clueless as to what I was in for, I asked them in for some coffee. We sat on the couch. They came a little too close, cramping my personal space. I noticed the younger one was clutching a square, wrapped package whose outline suggested a compact disc. Ken and Martin they said.

"Have you ever heard of a place called Kansas?" the older one asked. "What, Oz?" I replied, and they snickered. The evangelist continued, "Well, Kansas was the place where hundreds of people first heard the Truth, twenty years ago. There's a place there called the Cedar-- a club, actually-- where the Gospelwriters played often. The Faithful make a journey to the mecca at least once in their lifetime." The regurgitation of scripted convers(at)ion starters tapered and dulled as I keyed in on a particular word. The gospelwriters? "Matthew, Mark, Luke and John," some catechism part of me recalled.

Must have been aloud, because Martin looked taken aback. "No," he said. "No, no. Bill, Ron, Brent and John. From the Embos."

Ah. It sunk in. Cult band.

I offended further. "Oh yeahhhhh. Don't they sound like the Buzzcocks? Or the Feelies?"

"Ken," said the elder and gestured toward his partner. Ken stood and made for my CD player, taking two jewel cases out of his package: Blister Pop and Heyday 1979-1983. "They go together," he informed me. Old Testament and New, I thought to myself (silently, this time). "Blister Pop is the arcana," Martin explained. "Outtakes, live appearances, radio spots, demos." As the music began, his eyes just glazed over. "The sound quality is so good, it's just like being there."

And then with a straight face, "Live concerts are the Masses of our generation."

The stereo throbbed with the rough, flatly recorded mixes. John Nichols' everyman vocals weren't half as impressive as the furious mess of organ, cheap guitars and amps, and chocolate-chunk bass ripping out post-punk with a nervous, gangly energy. Music for small, tight places-- as lost in a stadium (or, for that matter, a cathedral), as a wandering kid in a department store aisle-maze. Music for people who can't keep their hands still.

As a matter of fact, by the sixth track, Ken could hardly contain himself. He twitched a bit unnervingly, nearly in time to the music.

My ministering friend: "Do you watch public television, John?"

"I don't see how..."

"I thought so. Have you ever stumbled on a fascinating, well-made documentary about a subject or place that you never knew existed? Some alien species of insect living in the parched desert; the untold story of a bridge-building project 50 years ago that snowballed out of control; true war stories of one-legged women spies operating in Vichy, France? Blister Pop is like that-- it opens the door to a world that you weren't aware of. It's enlightenment, John. It's one of our most effective evangelical tools, really. It makes people aware."

"Well, sure." Based on what I heard, I could go along with all that. "Thanks. I think I'd like to hear more of this."

But once the floodgates of soul-saving were opened, Martin was unstoppable. "The genius of 'Podman' or 'Elizabeth Montgomery's Face'-- those could only have been divinely inspired. Mere mortals couldn't have written them. And look what the Embos did to covers like 'Maybe Baby' or 'Time Has Come Today,' 'No Reply.' You already know a lot of these songs; Blister Pop is one-third covers. But you don't know them the way the Embarrassment plays them."

"How old were you in 1981?" asked Martin, changing gears.

"Ten" I said, suddenly growing more skeptical.

"You missed it all. This is your only hope for understanding, John. These twenty tracks of rarities. You need this."

The younger picked up the liner notes and turned to Page 8: Track 13. He quoted from "Song for Val": "I don't care for old people/ Very, very old people."

That was the proverbial straw. "No, thank you." I said and stood abruptly, shoving them toward the door and handing them their coats.

"We're here to help you..." Martin began.

"No, thank you," I interrupted. Shove.

"But they were influential" he pleaded.

"I gave at the office."

Martin's voice took on a desperate pitch. "Can't you see? You missed out on something special, something unique. The synchronicity of life is all about being in the right place at the right time. Those happy few who attended University of Kansas or Wichita State at the dawn of the post-punk era, they were the fortunate ones-- far more fortunate than you or me. They had the Embarrassment in real time. We only have their legacy!"

"I prefer the Del Fuegos!" I lied. "Get out!"

I slammed the door and waited until the pair was all the way to the sidewalk and safely out of earshot. Then I walked to the stereo, reset the disc and boosted the volume.

-John Dark