Yep, from 1999 (I think) to 2005 (I think), I was the webmaster as well as the pseudonymal host of The First Church of Holy Rock and Roll, which faded from consistent view in the early 2010s but still can (usually partially) be seen via The Wayback Machine or (as I just discovered) at its old address. It all started when I bought my first real computer, noticed it has web page software on it, thought I would try to learn it, and had the basic site up in a day. The persona—a minister of rock and roll with quasi-Presbyterian madness—spontaneously jumped out of my imagination, and I stole the pseudonym from a band I am proud to have been a member of circa 1984(?)-1986 (see team photo below). No one in the band was named Wayne Coomers, so I felt I wasn’t stepping on anybody’s toes by borrowing it and also tipping my hand a bit regarding my identity.

Today, I stumbled upon one of the many wacky features of the site today: I invited readers to beg forgiveness for their listening sins, then anointed them with tongue-in-cheek forgiveness (we don’t need to be forgiven, and there are no guilty pleasures!). Here’s a sample! It was fun while it lasted, and I don’t know how I found the time to put it together—I was teaching and coaching two middle school sports, practicing teacher leadership, and being an attentive husband and concertgoer at the time….

“The Confessional”     

We are all weak. We all make mistakes. We have all caught ourselves singing “What A Girl Wants” softly to ourselves on the drive home. The thing is, don’t keep the secret locked inside, festering and perhaps spreading (to the point where you’re yelling “Backstreet’s Back” in the shower).

E-mail your confession to the good rockin’ Reverend Coomers at wcoomers@yahoo.com and he’ll help you share the taint with his rockin’ congregation. And just to show that it ain’t so hard, the Reverend himself will jump in headfirst!

Reverend Coomers (see above in favorite rock tee preaching at The Academy of Rock): I was weaned on…Cher. Double best-of set of ’60s stuff Mom got through the ol’ record club. She did ‘Like a Rolling Stone.’ I thought it was hers, and learned all the lyrics. Also, she redid the girl group hits (still stuck on ’em, ‘specially ‘Baby, Don’t Go,’ the original of which I still don’t know and which Dwight Yoakam and Sheryl Crow did on his covers album). Combined wth the impact of her belly-button beckoning me on The Sonny and Cher Show, I moved on to such classics as Foxy Lady, Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves, and whatever one had ‘Dark Lady’ and ‘Half Breed’ on it. There was even a Tin Pan Alley one that softened me up for Gershwin and Berlin and Porter 20 years down the line. My first mirror lip-synchs were to her songs, not Alice’s or even Elton’s. I had that sultry, spookily Elvis-like timbre down cold. What lasting effects did she have on me? Not sure I wanna go there…but I did like ‘I Believe in Love.’ And she sure beat Rush.

Ken Shimamoto, scribe ‘n’ guitslinger (see above during Fort Worth drop-in by The Rev): Bless me Father for I have sinned. I have lusted in my heart after the Mysterious Miss Havisham. Even worse, in the last month, I have blown off shows by the Punk Rock Dinosaurs AND Sylvain Sylvain one night (different venues) and the Immortal Lee County Killers and Sons of Hercules another, to watch re-runs of “E.R.” Getting too old for this shit? YOU decide! I’m not even going to SXSW this year (think I wore out my welcome last year when I called my bro. at midnight and asked him if he had a hundred bucks in cash that I could borrow to buy my car out of impoundment). Most shameful, I recently remembered that the very first elpee I owned way back in 6th grade was Simon & Garfunkel’s Bookends, which I might actually buy again since my 17-year-old dtr (my good conscience) AND Jack Rabid from THE BIG TAKEOVER told me it was okay. How can I redeem myself?

The Rev sez: Ohmigod! You need to put yourself in peril–give yourself a little taste of danger–or they’ll be no turning back. ER? S&G? Taking advice from a 17-year-old? Sell whatever’s worthless to you until you can afford a trip to Oz, where in certain locales you know well they don’t stand for folkie bullshit, find Miss H (here you’re picturing your head on Dustin Hoffman’s body in the last part of The Graduate) and make your pitch. Win or lose, it’s more rock and roll than staying in, lighting candles, and singing along to “Punky’s Dilemma”!

Samantha Harrison, insomniac: I can’t think of anything worse than Britney Spears becoming “real.” Ever since that new song came out about how she is a “slave for music,” (I don’t recall it saying anything about music in the song, sounds more sexual to me…) I have seriously questioned her intentions. If you think about it, how can bubble gum pop stars rapidly turn into powerful women that know about life and, what’s this? Another genre of music? Please. But…. I have to admit that I’ve caught myself singing it several times, help me god, even in public. I got a few strange looks and a couple of people to move far away from me, but guilty pleasure or not, I am trying to contain myself. 

The Rev sez: This is a tough one, ’cause I knew it was just a matter of time before Miss Spears turned up here, and ’cause I know you’re really too young to have to confess anything yet–hell, Sam, I was listening to that assbag Ted Nugent when I was your age (and–shhhh!–I still have two of his records). But this is serious–the harlot’s giving trash a bad name, and that’s just not tol’able in the rockaroll world. So here’s your penance: go out for cheerleading this year (just don’t make the cut, OK?).

The Mysterious Miss Havisham: You’re a cranky old shit, ain’t ya?! Dunno yet if I like yer preachin or if you irritate the shit out of me. Least yer well informed. Wanted to ‘fess up to the reverand. Bless me father for I have sinned, it’s been 25 years since my last confession. I LOVE “More Than a Feeling” by BOSTON and “Living on a Prayer” by BON JOVI. And I even thought he was cute with that poodle cut. What’s my penance? 

The Rev sez: Can’t help you with Bon-Bon Jovi, but I gotta give you credit, ’cause the song idea has a helluva lot of relevance right about now. It’d sure hold my attention. But Boston…hmmmmmmmmmm…wrote my first-ever review about Don’t Look Back (a positive one). How ’bout this? You have to plant a marijuana seed and watch it grow in real time! (Ever hear the urban rock myth that “Foreplay” includes the speeded-up sounds of pot sprouting?)

Mike Rakehell (see above bringing The Rev to his knees with his six-string slashes…may he rest in the rawk!–guitarist of the Jimbobs, Possum Fat, Three Bags Full, The Balls, and the Gilloolys): They don’t get much worse than this, Reverend. Scenario: I’m 16, cradled in the sheltering arms of Camdenton, Missouri. News flash: Kiss’ Love Gun has just been released. I hop on the bike, pedal furiously into town, and snap it up. Kiss Army sweat beads poppin’ from my forehead as I skid back into the home driveway, I zip into my room, whip the vinyl onto the turntable, and…bear witness to the most heinous excuse for rock I had yet heard. This was not KISS–this was some imposter! The Sin: I stomp out into the garage, grab an awl outta Pop’s toolbox, lay a long, deep scratch across the A side, put it back in the sleeve, pedal back to the store, tell the cashier the scratch was there when I removed it from the shrink-wrap, he buys the scam…time for an exchange. I select…Peter Frampton’s I’m in You.

The Rev sez: You got some major cahones to admit that, son (and, to think, in my pre-frocked days you dissed me for diggin’ Technotronic).  If you really wanna make it right and not end up frying with Frampton himself, you are to proceed to the nearest high school, carrying your best Johnny Thunders record under your arm, walk in, find the nearest rawkdude holding up the wall in the senior lounge, and trade it to him for the worst pieceashit scuffed CD that’s lying outta case among the taco shell fragments on the floorboard of his pickup (probably the Goo Goo Dolls or Matchbox 20 or even Dave Matthews). That oughtta learn ya!

Eric Johnson: Reverend, there are things that weigh on a man’s mind.  I’ve been lucky, though.  Some of the guilty, cheezy pleasures of my youth have been namechecked by eminently rawkin’ artists like the Minutemen.  So, this is not about Blue Oyster Cult.  The big stuff first.  The first two songs I ever liked in this world (besides “Puff the Magic Dragon”), in fact, the first two songs I ever called a radio station about and requested were…”You Light Up My Life,” by Ms. Debbie Boon, (actually covered by Patti Smith on a 1977 bootleg called “Teenage Perversity and Ships in the Night”) and “Convoy,” by C.W. McCall.  In my defense, I must plead that they both bring bile to my throat today.  Unfortunately, there are others that I….still like, in some terrible secret way, including “Downtown,” by…(guilt has clouded my memory, I guess) [Ed. note: Petula Clark??!!?].  I also really liked “Too Shy,” by Kajagoogoo, when it came out, tho’ I never told anyone til now.  Thanks for listening, Reverend.  I’m certain there’s more, ‘cuz I’m a guilty, guilty man.

The Rev sez: Even half a life curing in that bracing Fayetteville subculture can’t direct some sinners to the Path, huh? Debbie Boon(e…and you spelled her last name like D’s…ouch!) is as low as you can go, then you compund that offense by claiming C.W. McCall as a guilty pleasure (Gawd’s got it on heavy rotation on his playroom juke). Ok–you were a kid. But Kajagoogoo? I don’t care if Uncle Jam called them “the best white funk (???) band in the world” in Uncut Funk back in ’91.You’re gonna have to actually pay me…with a tape of that Patti Smith boot. And I better have it by 2002 or you’re going to Hell.

Dimitri Monroe (of the Naked Flames) (click the link to hear his masterpiece “Nostalgia Kills”; I was honored to write for his fanzines “Anorexic Teenage Sex Gods”—see pic above—and “Ready to Snap” in the ‘90s): I like an awful lot of records I’m not supposed to, but I don’t even view, say, old Van Halen as a guilty pleasure,”cool” or not. It rocked like a motherfucker, period. But two records I would feel unburdened by confessing my love for are….
DON HENLEY’S “Building The Perfect Beast” I know, I know–I’m sorry! But I am absolutely HAUNTED by the “Boys of Summer” and shamefully, really identify with all those sentiments, as well as with “Not Enough Love In The World”, which in my weakest hour I’d even considered COVERING (fer Stiv’s sake), but Mariah or Cher or maybe both beat me to the punch. (Sorry,MOJO!!!) Allegedly, this record also featured an appearance by…. 
CHARLIE SEXTON “Pictures for Pleasure” In junior high, I attended a series of excrutiatingly Reaganesque,mean-spirited suburban schools, including Shawnee High School in Lima, Ohio. Shawnee had one token artschool-punk-doll/Madonna Wannabe named Michelle Briggs, a pretty blonde who dressed in black, had pin-ups from SMASH HITS magazine all over her locker, wore a zillion bracelets, and knew about bands like Doctor & the Medics and Sigue Sigue Sputnik and We’ve Got A Fuzzbox And We’re Gonna Use It. This was back when we called cheezy new wave “post-modern,” and I wanted desperately to befriend her, but she was a few grades older, and the one time I mustered up the courage to approach her in her Charlie Sexton t-shirt, she said something along the lines of “Dimitri,Like,you are SOOO queer!” Later, she ended up pursuing my once & future sideman, BRIAN MURDER, romantically! Anyways, this record was expected to be an impressive guitar-storm. Everyone was hyping the young Texas badass who co-wrote tunes with the Stones for The Wild Life soundtrack and had garnered praise from Stevie Ray Vaughan, but, instead, it was awash with Keith Forsee’s Billy Idol/Simple Minds generic mid-’80’s synth-saturated production,and junior-league Steve Stevens wankery. The Michelle Briggs’ of the world were all just lookin’ for a guy with perfect cheekbones in black who wore skull t-shirts with big hair, cuz they were all almost ready to graduate from their obligatory John Taylor infatuations; but his BOWIE/PRESLEY croon is still undeniable, and I still to this day love the “So Lonely” chorus of his lone hit, “Beat’s So Lonely”. I bet he rocks nowadays! If someone wants to put him in touch, he can audition to play alongside me and MURDER in the NAKED FLAMES! 

The Rev sez: Get yerself a crewcut! I mean what I say!

Jennifer Lazo: I must confess my secret love for a 70s song called “Run, Joey, Run.” My big brother, Don Lazo, ALWAYS listened to it. Since I was just the little kid sister who looked up to her big bro, I became addicted and occasionally burst into it’s lyrics, “daddy please don’t, it wasn’t his fault, he means so much to me…Daddy please don’t we’re gonna get mar…ried.” I also listened to the Cheryl Ladd album and found myself singing one of the songs the other day when I was with a group of people! I won’t blame that one on Don, though. Please forgive me!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (I’d love to withhold my name, but I must expose my brother’s wrongdoings and therefore, must expose myself.)

The Rev sez: Sister, it takes some doin’ to throw such a monkey wrench in The Confessional Machine–no picture of offending artist (perhaps a measure of the total offense)! Figures the insaniacs at Rhino would provide a refuge for such a teen-angst mudslide. However, since your brother is going to Rawk Hell (where, like a true ChiSox fan, he’s gonna be blowing up vinyl at Satan’s right hand) for concealing this heinous crime, you get a pass for that one. Cheryl “I Don’t Sing Quite as Well as Cindy Crawford” Ladd is another matter: you’re gonna have to go to the upcoming Charlie’s Angels movie, which I’m sure is as close to hell as you can likely get–and you have to pay to get in.

“Art Howe”: I heard the song “Soundchaser” off [a Yes album]…when I was on mushrooms once in college and loved it. The guy playing it got real deep about it and was telling me how Patrick Moraz was the keyboardist on this album, having replaced Rick Wakeman, and how that made the group tighter and more integrated (as opposed to saying…grating). I rushed out and bought the tape a couple of days later and listened to it sober and decided it was the biggest piece of crap I’d ever heard in my life…I guess anyone who enjoys Yes must be under the influence….

The Rev sez: You don’t sound contrite enough, sonny boy. Looks like you might just bite down on the hook on the upcoming Asia reunion tour. If you wanna save your own soul, you need to sit down stone-cold sober with some tracing paper and reproduce–in fanatical detail–the cover of Tales of Topographical Oceans. Then, affix it to your bathroom wall so it’s at eye-level when you’re “sitting.” Keep it there for exactly one month–and don’t take it down when company’s over–or as long as it takes for the association to take.

Manthon (of THE RAWK) (see above, middle of the front row with The Good Reverend directly behind him, being bashful during Wayne Coomers—I was NOT Wayne, I just stole it for this website—and the Original Sins team picture): …forgive me rev.c for i have sinned….as a 15-year-old boy i committed an unthinkable act. i’m ashamed but i feel i must share so no kids out there have to deal with such a thing when they reach adulthood and (hopefully) will keep control of their senses.
it was the summer of ’76 and i was living with my grandmother in downey,ca. she was not a wealthy woman but did ok enough and on occasion we would play poker (she taught me!). well, one friday night, gammy (that’s what we called her) was 2/3 of the way through a gallon of wine and the game was getting old (playing for pennies will do just that). i had been on a roll and had a huge pile of copper in front of me when gammy brought up the idea of an all or nothing last hand. except for me the nothing was losing my cents…for her it was $50!! well, three jacks later i was a rich-ass 15-year-old! hmmmm….what to do with my new found wealth? i know….i’m going to knott’s berry farm! in case you don’t know, knott’s is (or at least was…it’s been a long long time) a kick ass amusement park with the best rollercoaster around…the corkscrew! (again…was). so…8am saturday morning, i hopped on a bus for the 45-minute ride…by myself i should add…a sad sight but i was fresh into ca from southern arkansas. so…i rode everything (some a couple of times) until it was time. time for the show! the show was in the small theatre they had there. usually it was used for “flintstones on ice” or some such thing but today it was for rock and roll…my very first rock show! to make a longer than necessary story shorter…the band that burst my live rawk cherry was none other that hamilton, joe frank, and reynolds, a good 5 years past their “don’t pull your love out on me baby” prime. honestly…i dug it! i’m sorry for my indescretion rev. o…it won’t happen again. please be fair in naming my penance.

The Rev sez: One hour in the dark listening to the Hellacopters on headphones with the stereo cranked to 10, son! But at least it wasn’t Hamilton, Joe Frank, and Dennison.

“Lil’ Nik”: Please cleanse me of my musical sins, Reverend. My sorted musical past began and (thankfully) ended my senior year of high school. Of course, I’m blaming it all on a friend. Two of my girlfriends and I used to cruise the boulevard on Friday nights. Since I didn’t have a car, I was at the mercy of my friend’s music selection. Needless to say, she had horrible taste. It started with Bon Jovi, which isn’t too terrible a confession since most people in the mid to late 80’s listened to them. Unfortunately, it didn’t stop there. Starting with Bon Jovi, the music selection progressed (down hill) to Ratt and Slaughter. I still have the Slaughter tape I bought (although it is never played) as a reminder to not let friends control my musical selections.

The Rev sez: Even though love is “slippery when wet,” you must do some penance, sister. Advance directly to the nearest record shop (such as quaint term now), purchase the Minutemen or Replacements LP of your choice ((although, regarding the latter, you better skip Don’t Tell a Soul (but This Album Sucks) and All Shook Down)). That’s where you should have been spending your money, time, and hearing in the mid- to late-’80s. Then send that Slaughter tape to me–I’m presiding over a little melting ceremony later this week.

Sammy D: Oh, my, I was weened of my parents music, most of which was good. Then, one night, I found some old tape of Sting’s work with Branford, and I loved it. I went out and bought his greatest hits, and I loved it, too. (Ouch!!!) Not only did I make my friends listen to it constantly, I listened to it constantly. Then, I heard of the Rembrandts, the little band who did the theme song for Friends (OOOF!), and I loved it, too, so I bought the album. I listen to it now, and wonder, where did I go wrong?? Please forgive me, father, for I have sinned.”

The Rev sez: You have truly been to heck and back already. And dragged innocent youth along with you. (Hope you didn’t eat any Tantric Rainforest Yoga Crunch along the way.) Stink and the Fiends soundtrack? You sure know how to make it hard on a man of the cloth, buddy! If those comrades of yours are still speaking to you, you are hereby ordered to preach the gospel of Sonic Youth (pre-Washing Machine, and I know that’s gonna hurt you) to them upon contact (before hellos and howyadoins) for the next year.

Don Lazo: Forgive me, Reverend, for I have sinned, and the guilt and shame have weighed down upon my soul for too long now. I’ve prayed for years that there would be no statute of limitations on my musical sins, but I now know better. The scene: three friends enjoying a road trip from Chicago to San Antonio. The locale: somewhere deep inside that hellish dustbowl known as Oklahoma. The sin: the three of us burst into singing….”Your Love Has Lifted Me Higher” by Rita Coolidge. I blacked out soon afterwards, and details are sketchy, but I remain haunted, both by the fact we engaged in this little sing-a-long as well as the frightening amount of lyrics we all knew. The three of us had quickly vowed never to tell anyone about this “incident” but I cannot join my friends in hell. Help me, Reverend…..

The Rev sez: Sheesh. “Blacked out” my ass. You and Leon Russell (wrote one helluva song about her: “Delta Lady,” best done by Joe Cocker on Joe Cocker!). And Kris Kristofferson (not only married the broad by sang duets with her with the tape rolling…if you’d have confessed to listening to those albums, I’d have nothin’ in my bag o’ tricks to help you). So, brother Lazo, at least you ain’t alone. This is gonna be tricky: at all costs, locate Jackie Wilson’s original version of “Higher and Higher,” a righteous up if there ever was one, and make a 90-minute tape of it–and only it, just for driving to work. Then, if you’re gonna confess to having listened to lethargic bad female pop singers, you need a dose of exalted good-bad female semi-pop singers. Polystyrene (best sampled on X-Ray Spex’ s Germfree Adolescents), Patti Smith (get Horses if you haven’t already), yam-queen Karen Finley (The Truth is Hard to Swallow), gutter-queen Lydia Lunch (Queen of Siam), or even that target of all Beatlemaniac hatred, Yoko Ono (her cuts on Double Fantasy or her great widow’s concept album Season of Glass). You go to those lengths, Donny Boy, not only are you forgiven but you better come save me.

“Skip”Call me ‘Skip.’: I have a confession to make, but am saddened by some of the confessions on your page. It seems that many of your followers want to put their dark sectets off to narcotics, friends, family or other influences. My confession comes from me and I don’t have anybody else to blame. 
I am not Catholic and don’t understand the whole confession thing, but it seems that most of the confessions on your page are moments of weakness that the confessors have already put in the past. My confession still haunts me whenever I hear it.When in high school, a horrible song by someone named Bonnie Tyler came out called “Total Eclipse of the Heart.” I instantly fell for the song, even though my friends hated it and reminded me how horrible the song was every time it came on. However, I persisted and remained adamant that the song was great. The worst part is that I still like it when I hear it today. When it comes on the oldies station as my radio is scanning, I must listen to the rest of the song. Even some of the lyrics haunt me: “I don’t know what to do/I’m always in the dark. Livin’ in this powder keg/And givin’ off sparks.” As stupid as those verses are, they stay with me and I find myself humming them at work or when getting ready for bed. 
This feels more like a meeting with The Big Man at the Pearly Gates rather than a confession, because I have tried to lose this song from my mind, but when I hear it two years from now, I will still like it. 
Please help me!

The Rev sez: Well, first of all, you have some serious spiritual guts to toss off all influences, because what are “influences” but slaps in the face to our most precious gift, free will. I humbly bow to you; you don’t need me. Secondly, well–you don’t need any absolution, either, my friend: the fiery (woops: wrong image) terms with which you describe your listening–then emotional–experience makes clear that the song is inside The First Church, not without. We’d claim it if, through your compulsive attraction to it, it hadn’t already claimed us. So…keep listening like you listen.