Singalongs can terrify me on occasion. I grew up in cold-war Europe, you see, where the memory of Nazi fascism and the presence of Soviet conformity developed in me and in my friends a bit of paranoia whenever mobs appeared.

Never mind that at raucous hockey games we readily participated in singing down our opponents. Because fascism is thrilling if you’re on the inside.

That being said, I’ve been listening to a live CD by David Crowder, and have been deeply moved by the lusty singing-along on behalf of the crowd: they’re having a great time; they’re really praising God.

And more: I’ve been reading about Why Men Hate Going to Church and have been feeling gloomy about the male presence in the church. Part of it’s the music: a lot of our praise and worship is, well, feminine: we sing about our feelings about Jesus, and how he’s a knight in shining armor.

But listening to Crowder here was a breath of fresh air, with a male-dominated crowd singing their hearts out, including a particularly cheery Hank Williams cover. They were unified, and they didn’t seem at all about to goose-step down to the town square. Good stuff.