WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO POTLUCK DINNERS?:

Moshing for Jesus: And upon this RAWK they shall build their church... (ANDREA GRIMES, 9/09/04, Dallas Observer)

Born-again Deep Ellum guru Russell David Hobbs opened his vision for a Christian-backed club with The Door Dallas in 1998 and its Fort Worth branch across from Billy Bob's two years later. But chances are you've already heard of his places, and perhaps have even seen a Door show, enjoying one of the few sound systems in town that makes hardcore music sound like, well, music. Other Christians saw the same need as Hobbs around that time, realizing what he did: "You can wear what you want; you can have friends and have fun and stay out late at night and still be a Christian."

Club 412, struggling to find a home and reclaim the (relatively) massive crowds it once drew at its Fort Worth shopping-center location on Southwest Boulevard, now operates out of the sanctuary of Christ Fellowship Baptist Church in Arlington. What started out as a Christian coffee shop in 1998 turned into a weekly packed house as kids arrived en masse to hear faith-based bands like Embodyment and Travail before they were big enough for countrywide tours.

"I was amazed that this loud screaming stuff could bring anyone into church," says Rusty Ivey, who's been with 412 since its first year in 1998, starting out as a curious neighbor, then working security and eventually becoming a co-manager. It didn't take long for him to realize that what seemed bizarre--getting a spiritual experience from rocking out to the growl of faith-centered lyrics--was working.

At 412 and other clubs, most of the staff are young Christian adults. Concert-goers can find spiritual mentors working the door or concession stand and not feel like they're talking to a stuffy minister or parent. Providing that kind of counseling is another primary function of the clubs. They also allow kids to bring their non-Christian friends to a concert without feeling embarrassed about an overly religious atmosphere. Ivey says that those friends-of-friends, once they build up a rapport, can make up some of their most significant conversions to the faith.

Somehow, their message-via-heavy metal works, even in a sanctuary. The room's eerie lighting, huge projector screens playing cartoons or recent DVD releases on mute and the massive cross suspended above the altar-turned-stage make the whole experience seem catacomb-like and secretive. Perfect for 30 kids packed around the band, their hands raised and occasionally swaying with the beat.

The scene is different now. Back then, you'd be likely to see a lead singer who also doubled as a worship leader, guiding the audience in a prayer or perhaps invoking them to form a nice, friendly mosh pit for Jesus. Today, bands rely more on the personal faith of the audience members to fuel their shows.

Over at Dreamworld, Society's Finest is headlining. There's no trace of the onstage power chord-backed testimony-cum-group-prayer that was so prevalent when most of these clubs opened their doors. Then, it was mostly JNCO-clad skater boys clamoring for that comforting spiel: Jesus can and will save your soul, metal kid, because he's saved mine; let me share my story with you now. Instead, the audience is treated to a brief encouragement of morality.

"This song is about premarital sex and how you shouldn't have it." Cue searing guitars.