A Story of Music, Beans, and Monastic Intrigue

” . . . And it’s as easy as that!”

The Sacred Harp looked at me inquisitively. “I fail to see how drinking coffee at a different coffee shop every Friday night gets you any closer to world domination.” He stated matter of factly.

I continued to explain the dynamics of Mandatory Coffee Night, “In small ways you must bend the will and minds of men. By taking my group to different shops every week and popping up unexpectedly on a given Friday, our presence will become noticed. Then all it takes is a few well placed fliers to makes the various Coffee shop managerial structures believe that these group appearances are some institution beyond them. Once they believe it’s true it is true. Then the power comes, for people fear institutions.” I smoothed my lab coat and straightened my oversized satfty-glasses, peering through the plastic at The Sacred Harp.

Since My Lackey had fled town in complete mystery, I assumed that when I got new help he would hear of it. When my new help showed, we exchanged pleasantries as one does with any new work partner. He had told me how as a hobby he sang sacred harp music, which he assumed I had heard of, being from Alabama. He was correct that I had heard of it, but only because NPR had done a piece on the music a few days before. I played as though I had been clued in to it for a while, but upon further conversation it became clear that I knew very little. I hadn’t even paid that close of attention to the story on the news. I then used my skill for BS acquired through my exhaustive study of the Liberal Arts to convince him that this type of music was more traditional in Northern Alabama and I, being a coastal alabamian, knew only little of it. He seemed to buy it.

Often we would discuss music, though I in truth know little of it. Then one day it was my turn to clue him in. Using the power of mystery and fear, attained through the abrupt and unaccounted for disappearance of My Lackey, to give me an air of authority, I began to tell him why radio was so repetitive when it came to playing songs on any given station.

“So Clear Channel wants to go out of business? I don’t understand?”

“No”, I said patiently, “They want you to change the dial.Ó I paused for effect. ÒIn the old days, DJ’s had far greater control over the music played during their shift. Now Clear channel comes along and buys large majorities of the market and controls the FM dial. DJs can pick maybe 2 songs a shift. They are there to read the weather and introduce the next song, hand picked from The Central Authority. Even if they happen to miss that, there are prerecorded commercials that take over from corporate. The DJs are there to give the illusion of local control. And The Central Authority plays the same fives songs all day long to drive any long-term listener off the FM dial. If you listen for any length of time you get sick.”

“But why? WouldnÕt that run them out of business.” The Sacred Harp stated, as if he grasped the depths of the plan.

“TV pays the bills fool!” I snapped. “Radio is not to make money. When youÕre at work like us your trapped and board. Radio is what people turn too. Then they are forced to give a quit to the FM because it in turn is boring.”

“That’s my point they turn off the radio.”

“They turn off the FM!” I corrected. “Your still board and trapped with the radio. You turn to AM talk, and there, if you are not strong of will, you begin to believe rightwing the false gods set up there.”

“Those gods being?” He said.

“There names are well known”, I said with a sweeping gesture of the hand. ” . . .Economy, Progress, Individuality. These are the standards of judgment they use.” I reached a fever pitch and took on my “prophet of old” stance picturing myself with flaming eyes like those of Jeremiah, or John the Baptist. Then I had to straighten my oversize safety-glasses and was put in my place realizing I probably didn’t look near as cool as I thought, at least not cool enough to be in a movie scene. In the end, however I got my point across.

. . .

“Institutions . . .” I said, explaining the long-term plan I had been working on. “The point is when they see Mandatory Coffee Night as an institution, theyÕll want in on any money involved. They will want us to meet at their coffee shop, so as to have the regular business. Then when they are hooked and fat, we can threaten to leave unless discounts are given to appease us. Then they get no money, and we ride cheaper than ever before.”

“And world domination?”

“Step by step my friend, step by step. You need to learn from me. Don’t grasp quickly or you will be put down faster than you can ever imagine.Ó I paused to reflect. ÒActually don’t learn from me. Who needs another adversary?”

“And what if they simply don’t notice your Mandatory Coffee Night?”

I was taken aback by this astute observation by The Sacred Harp, but did not lose my resolve. “How could they not.” I said “Besides, I got more in the works that this. You must work on several fronts and above all have patience.”
. . .

Often at night riding on my bike I creek through the deserted streets past The Monastery of St. Claire. The Poor ClaireÕs inside are up late into the night doing the work of intercessory prayer the souls of New Orleans and the greater world community. The prayers rise from behind the factory like red brick walls, into the air with positive pollution for the atmosphere. Many of these prayers descend back immediately having been aimed at the pollution from the smokestacks so close by. I cruise by and often ring the bell on my bike in chorus with these prayers. If I’m feeling good about the world, or if I’m a few sheets to the wind and feeling inadequate, I simply yell, “get a job,” loudly into the night as I glide past the high solid walls.

The monastery has the closest church to my house, but they don’t have an evening mass open to the public, and my desire to sleep late trumps my desire to travel less distance. My parents were in town the other weekend, however, and being visitors, they like to see a variety of churches. So I told them we could go to this one and see how they spin the intricate web that is the liturgy.

When we arrived it struck me how small this church was compared to The Church of the Most located across Audubon Park, which I attend. The nuns filed in after their recitation of Lauds, morning prayers in the liturgy of the hours, and the mass began promptly. That however was about the only thing that happened promptly. The presiding priest, a certain Father Louie, and the other religious in attendance seemed for some strange reason to be in no particular hurry to end the mass. All gestures and responses were delivered at about two-thirds the speed necessary to be conformable for the worldly in attendance such as ourselves.

The mass started and the nuns struck up a chorus loud, high pitched and warbling. They sang in the style that, when you hear it, you know the singer is either a nun, if you havenÕt figured it out by the knee length skirt and Birkenstocks, or were taught to sing by one as a little girl, if she is wearing no such garb. It is quite distinct and beautiful in it’s own way. It struck me as it began, and I was filled with a sense of community and purpose in life. Then it happened. The second verse ended and a small contingent of nuns began to sing a third, while the nun at the organ along with a few cohorts stopped the music. There was an odd few bars, then they all picked up and the song continued ending on the third verse. Father Louie delivered his slowly pentametered and deliberate homily, and the slow pentametered and deliberate mass came to an end. But all the while I had a nagging feeling something was wrong.

After the mass I turned to Rebecca. “What did you think of the homily?” And the weekly critique began. We agreed the message was good, appropriate and well organized. But we differed on delivery. It was my contention that the use of Father LouieÕs little nice explaining the meaning of the Christmas season as ÒloveÓ was correct but hackneyed and clichŽ, the message could have been better delivered in my opinion. As we all walked out of the walls and turned off Henry Clay onto Magazine I looked up and across the park I saw the enormous bell tower of The Church of the Most looming over the tree line of Audubon Park. I gathered my courage and piped up, “there was another thing that bothered me.”

“What was that?” Rebecca asked.

“Did you notice that whacked out power play that renegade group of nuns put on in the middle of mass.”

“What in the world are you talking about.” My mother said.

“Well obviously it was agreed by most that the opening hymn should end on the second verse. But that small group persisted on with the third verse totally gaining control of the situation by sheer will. Obviously there was some sort of contention between the two groups before hand, you know how these old women bicker. We had a rare glimpse into the true politics of monastic life.” I was excited by this turn of events in our otherwise tame Sunday worship.
My dad belly laughed and seemed on the verge of believing I knew what I was talking about.

Then my mom brought sense to the discussion. “You didn’t see the hymn list on the board by the altar. They were supposed to sing three verses.”

“The organist just made a mistake.” Rebecca put in, “you didnÕt see her pop her head over the organ to check it?”
“There was a play list?”

Apparently my sense of observation was not a keen as it could have been. Did the Sacred Harp sing true? Was it simply my own lust for power that made me see that lust in others, whether correctly or no? I placed my forehead in the meaty part of my hand between the index finger and thumb as I stumbled a bit on the sidewalk. My thoughts continued. Could radio producers just be morons? My head spun a bit as my quest for worldly power now seemed so foolish, when confronted with what could be the simple life of the monastery. Then I came to my senses. I cleared my throat. “So why was the organist confused? Of course someone had to put the play list on the board, of which of the two factions was that devoted ascetic? And who is this Father Louie anyway? With a name like that heÕs bound to arouse suspicion.” As I continued to babble on something in the back of my mind made me think that maybe I should have paid less attention to the delivery of Father LouieÕs Homily.

Phillip G.

Literature