Plastic Jesuses: The Original #OneSongOnePlaylist Resurrected

Like the horrendous lefty wokerati social-justice-warrior that I am, I have abandoned the Trump administration supporting Spotify, the home of Joe Rogan's right-wing misinformation.

Since doing so, I've wanted to resurrect my "#OneSongOnePlaylist" series in my streaming service of choice, Qobuz, the slightly less ethically questionable, allegedly higher audio quality alternative.

For those who've somehow managed to avoid my banging on about it, #OneSongOnePlaylist is precisely what it says on the tin - one song performed by multiple artists gathered into a single playlist. Some people might suggest this is a form of musical self-harm, but I prefer to think of it as "deep diving into creative interpretations."

Plastic Jesuses was the very first in this now sporadic series. Created initially on Spotify before I told them to sod off due to their cosy relationship with the orange one's regime, I've now meticulously recreated it on Qobuz. And by "meticulously", I mean I typed "Plastic Jesus" into Qobuz's search bar and spent far too long listening to what that spat out to see if they were the correct "Plastic Jesus", not just a song with that title (there are a frankly incredible number of different songs called Plastic Jesus or something very similar).

The Bizarre Origin Story

"Plastic Jesus" was born from the depths of 1950s American radio weirdness. Written by Ed Rush and George Cromarty in 1957, the song was inspired by some batshit crazy religious radio broadcasts from Del Rio, Texas. Apparently, there was a dentist-cum-religious-fanatic who was flogging "magical healing" snake oil over the airwaves with lines like "leaning on the arms of Jesus, wrapped in the bosom of the Lord."

Rush and Cromarty, having a good laugh at this nonsense, recorded it as The Goldcoast Singers in 1962 as a spoof commercial segment on their album "Here They Are! The Goldcoast Singers." It was essentially taking the piss out of commercial religion before taking the piss out of commercial religion was cool. The song, however, only appeared as 25 25-second bit at the end of the sketch before "click"; the channel was turned off.

The song later gained more mainstream recognition when Paul Newman strummed it in "Cool Hand Luke" (1967), which is where most people think it originated. But no, like most good bits of Americana, it began as a satirical response to religious capitalism run amok. How very bloody fitting.

The Oddly Listenable Collection

Unlike some of my other #OneSongOnePlaylist collections (I'm looking at you, "Last Christmas", with your 235 versions spanning 13 hours and 39 minutes of yuletide torture), "Plastic Jesuses" is actually pleasant to listen to for extended periods. I can actually sing along to the whole bloody lot without losing my mind.

The sheer range of interpretations is astounding. It's like watching different directors remake the same film - from art house to blockbuster to low-budget indie, each bringing their own vision to the material.

Standout Versions

Billy Idol's version sounds exactly as you'd imagine - sneering, laid-back, punky, and somehow making religious kitsch sound as acceptable as 80s rock got. He manages to inject his trademark rebel yell into what is essentially a novelty song, which is no small feat.

The Flaming Lips version is, predictably, a psychedelic journey that makes you feel like your dashboard Jesus is melting while winking at you. Coyne's vocals float over layers of fuzzy guitars and otherworldly effects that transform the simple tune into something from another dimension entirely.

The Twits take a folk-punk approach that would make a perfect soundtrack for a road trip in a rust-bucket car with, yes, a plastic Jesus on the dashboard. There's something charmingly ramshackle about their interpretation that captures the spirit of the original.

Jason Titley's acoustic rendition strips everything back to basics, allowing the inherent absurdity of the lyrics to shine through. It's perhaps the most faithful to the song's satirical roots, delivered with just enough sincerity to make you question whether he's in on the joke (he is).

The Great Migration

Recreating this playlist on Qobuz after my principled flounce away from Spotify has been an exercise in both nostalgia and bewilderment. The platform has a very (not really, it's just slightly) different array of artists, so the versions are mostly, but not wholly, familiar. I quickly realised exactly why I first did this weird thing, but then not-so-slowly started to question why I ever did this fucking bizarre thing.

Suppose you're as fed up with Spotify's ethical gymnastics as I am. In that case, you can find my reborn "Plastic Jesuses" playlist on Qobuz. It's 1 hour and 49 minutes of the same bloody song, each version different enough to keep you engaged but similar enough to make you question your life choices by the halfway mark.

And if you don't like it, well, there's always my 7½ hour, 96-version "Baker Street" playlist to really test your sanity.

If you've made it this far without questioning both my sanity and your life choices, the playlist link is below. Feel free to judge me accordingly in the comments.

https://open.qobuz.com/playlist/31079656

Next week: Why I spent an entire weekend creating a playlist of nothing but covers of "The Lion Sleeps Tonight" and how it affected my marriage.