There's no question that music can sound like salvation. Today's wary youth culture is finding its religion in the form of grunge saviors who bring malcontents a noisy brand of hope, and seeking solace in hiphop's worship of the bass-beat and heavy metal's cacophony. More than genuflection at the altar of rock-star celebrity, there's a real need for something to believe in that goes beyond mindless worship at the church of MTV.

For a generation so often derided for its cynicism and apathy, the search for meaning is as crucial now as ever. And themes of spiritualism pop up as often in popular music as the tired twin-horned devil, sex and violence.

When your soul is sick, it helps to put something on the stereo that promises transcendence, a hint of redemption, something to believe. Kurt Cobain never wanted to be anybody's messiah, but his songs became hymns to legions: the spare arrangements of Nirvana's "Unplugged" (Geffen) wouldn't sound out of place echoing through a basilica. To hear Cobain sing, "Don't expect me to cry/ Don't expect me to lie/ Don't expect me to die for me" on the Vaseline's "Jesus Wouldn't Want Me For a Sunbeam," is to hear the sound of an anguished penitent certain he doesn't deserve forgiveness.

Cobain's exit left no possibility for absolution; that was left to those who stayed behind. One survivor is the much-maligned Sinead O'Connor, whose "Universal Mother" (Chrysalis) was released on Yom Kippur, the Jewish Day of Atonement. Her cover of Nirvana's "All Apologies" is a breathy howl that promises that the circle will continue to turn. The disc's final track, "Thank You for Hearing Me," is the thanksgiving prayer of an adult who's nearly found peace: "Thank you for breaking my heart/ Thank you for tearing me apart/ Now I've a strong, strong heart/ Thank you for breaking my heart."

Supplicants worship at the feet of their icon of choice: Pearl Jam's Eddie Vedder leaping into the outstretched arms of rapt worshippers, Nine Inch Nails' Trent Reznor convincing stadiums of horny teenaged novitiates that they bring him "closer to God," rappers exhorting crowds to put their hands in the air and wave 'em like they just don't care.

Michael Franti's new venture, the San Francisco-based Spearhead, finds the former Disposable Hero of Hiphoprisy embracing a soulful sound that's far from his former bombastic preachery. "Home" (Capitol) is an affirmation, a celebration that compelled a sold-out crowd at the Fillmore a few weeks ago to sway and clap in unison like a congregation in the full frenzy of divine grace. Any racial tensions in the multi-hued flock melted in the rapture of the beat, with Franti working the crowd like a charismatic evangelist.

The album's infectious "Of Course You Can" finds him recalling, "In school they tried to tell me/ Man doesn't have a soul/ What happened to his? I say, 'cause mine's still whole!" And the cozy comfort of "Red Beans and Rice" celebrates the homey comforts of sustenance with a matter of fact prayer smack in the middle of the thumping bass-beat: "I drink a toast to the host and hostess/ But first we give thanks/ To God the Mostest/ Cause if I am a guest/ I always wash my plate/ Sip a soda while I sing Amazing Grace." Sheer goodwill was in full effect by the end of that show, as the joyful crowd filed out sated, uplifted, and not a little sweaty.

Similiarly, when Victoria Williams played to a small room of music industry types in San Francisco a few months ago, it only took a moment for typically jaded insiders to sit, en masse, on the floor like so many Sunday School children receiving their bible lesson. The elfin-voiced singer/songwriter's new album, "Loose" (Atlantic), has since been hailed by critics as her long overdue breakthrough. The 34-year-old's struggle with multiple sclerosis seems to have deepened her faith instead of weakening it, making for an album's worth of quirky songs of affirmation.

"Century Plant" celebrates the late-bloomer, as Williams trills triumphantly, "He joined the Peace Corps at the age of 69/ And he rode the Grand Rapids at the age of 85 ... He sees someone suffering, he knows that despair/ He offers them a rose and some quiet prose ... 'Cause you never know when they will bloom." Her triumphant "You R Loved" delights in a Jesus, who "turned the water into wine/ He went down to the drunkards/ To tell them everything's fine."

Reached via fax at her desert retreat, Williams took time to scrawl a few thoughts on her own deep-rooted beliefs. Her scribbles ramble about the page, candid and unconcerned that she may come off sounding just a bit ... well, peculiar.

When asked whether music can help cure a sick soul, she says, "Yes, sometimes there's too much begging for our attention; that's not good soul food and our energy gets wasted in between. But then there's a good walk or talk or singing or dancing." She believes that "Heaven is a place where we can't get to yet see glimpses of." A few lines of white space -- then she adds, a bit sadly, "People are beautiful and struggle so."

Are today's young people particularly cynical and apathetic? "People have always said that," replies Williams. "Thank God for youth that screams out so it will be clear to all what's going on." Just below, the oddly poetic addendum: "Sometimes, my dog whines."

A question about the approach of the new millennium bring her longest -- and most charmingly weird -- response. "It's interesting you ask that, because there was this big woman giving me a massage and she doesn't know me or that I play music or anything and she starts telling me that I am helping by ushering in this new period that will climax in 2025. A time when it's better to give than to get and then she says this are here (center upper back) is sore because that's where wings go! CRAZY!"

But it's clear that Victoria Williams doesn't think it's crazy at all. Wings would just help her soar a little closer to the light. Come to think of it, maybe wings would just be redundant.

Jumping onto the shores of Camp Hope with both feet, comes "Jesus Christ Superstar: A Resurrection" (Daemon). The brainchild of Big Fish Ensemble's Michael Lorant (who sings the part of Judas), the revival -- a benefit for gun control -- attracted an impressive crew of players to recreate the Andrew Lloyd Webber/Tim Rice rock opera, including the Indigo Girls in key roles. When asked to explain what led to rolling back the somewhat moldy stone to raise the work from the dead, Lorant laughs.

"When I was on tour with the Indigo Girls, we were listening to the soundtrack on the road and we remembered how much we loved it, and how much we learned from it as musicians. And how embarrassed we were to admit that."

It took a while for Indigo Girl Amy Ray, who sings the role of Jesus, to get into character. "I didn't feel the full dimension of Jesus until I performed it live," she admits. "I did the best I could in the studio, but I struggled with the fact that I didn't feel sympathetic towards Jesus in the context of Jesus Christ Superstar, where Jesus is almost manic depressive."

"It's hard to explain what Judas means to me, having grown up Jewish," Lorant says hesitantly. "I learned a lot about Christianity through Jesus Christ Superstar. I always identified with Judas. Contrary to what most people think, [the rock opera] is not really about Jesus. Jesus is not really as multi-dimensional a character as Judas was."

Ray agrees. "The perspective of Judas gives an obvious indication that the story of Jesus is the story of human nature. The themes of betrayal, commercialism and friendship will always hold our interest. Judas helps us relate and gives us a vested interest by confronting our own nature -- we could all easily be in Judas' shoes."

Can there be redemption in music for this generation of cynics? "Well, it's certainly not coming from the government," Lorant says flatly. "The cynicism started in the '70s and hasn't really stopped. Maybe [the current pop spirituality means] that the times are a'changing back. Or maybe people are just groping for some other answers."

Ray's take is that music can serve as some sort of savior. "I think people feel numb," she says. "I have friends who find music so effective that they can't listen sometimes -- the emotion is too powerful. I've seen shows where people are on the verge of stigmata, and sitting next to them is a person with no outward appearance of emotion. In general, I find we walk in a haze, and yes, music does help to open us up."

Which is not to say there's an automatic panacea once the tunes are cranked up. "Absolution can only be received from one's own self," she continues. "Music can inspire this search but no song or performer can give it to you. Salvation is the sound of your own voice, your own blood. When you find your own voice you find yourself."

This article originally appeared in the San Jose Mercury News.

Julene Snyder is a San Francisco-based freelance writer. E-mail can be sent to julene@well.com


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