The Shopocolypse

Photo swiped from Rev Billy without permission - forgive me!

I saw Reverend Billy's show yesterday at Dixon Place, an entertaining and emotional event. I'm quite honored to say that I've known him for many years, from before he was the Reverend, even.

Reverend Billy, who occupies the mortal container that is Bill Talen, is the Minister of the Church of Stop Shopping. His activities are portrayed in the recent Morgan Spurlock documentary, "What Would Jesus Buy?". Billy evangelizes an anti-consumerist creed that worships the small in favor of the large, the personal in favor of the commercial and the local as the best angel of the global. He preaches against the evils of the big box and the brand name. He holds particular distaste for those corporations that cultivate, at great expense, a veneer of social awareness and sensitivity to the needs of the individual when in fact they are entirely motivated by the same thing that drives all large businesses: profit.

The afternoon service was a simple event. Upon arrival I found a bare stage in the center of a beautiful new theater steadily filling with audience - parishioners. The setting couldn't have been more elemental; a blank back wall, no drapes or curtains. At stage right loomed a serviceable upright piano, a digital keyboard and an electric bass on a stand. There was a nice basic ceremonial vibe, like a clearing in the forest or a revival tent.

The show was exceptional on a few levels. First off, the choir rocked hard and excellently. I attended a Church of Stop Shopping event a few years ago, it was meaningful and fun, and the choir was very good. But the choir in 2008 is just plain slammin'. Directed by James Solomon Benn, the Stop Shopping Gospel Choir is the backbone of energy and spirit for the proceedings. I didn't get an actual count, but maybe 20 members drove the space throughout the event. A fine variety of spectacular singers traded solos, from ripping gospel to sweet ballads, setting up the point of view and attitude.

I was treated to a song of cronyism in the boardroom, another encouraging the shunning of Walmart and one exhorting the gathered crowd to stop shopping. As the various tunes resonated throughout the theater, the Reverend clapped along on the sidelines, stamping his feet and uttering an occasional well-placed "Halleluja".

Once the tone of the service had been thoroughly established, Billy took the stage and delivered a measured and thoughtful sermon. He covered topics that ranged from Jdymytai Damour, the minimum-wage temp worker trampled to death by overeager shoppers at the black Friday opening of a Long Island Walmart, to the pre-Christian meaning of Christmas as a winter solstice fertility and survival rite. One might think that this sort of thing would feel, um, preachy - or at least guilt inducing. The genius of Reverend Billy is that he is able to provide a sense of uplift and humor to a message that is normally associated with dour funlessness and resignation. Reverend Billy has dedicated many of his years finding ways to bring satisfaction and even triumph to simple personal acts like visiting a public park or shopping at a local business. And when the inevitable moment arrives in the show when someone in the audience - or choir - is caught with their Starbucks cup mid-sip, Billy bows his head humbly and intones, "We're all sinners here." This is a fight we're in together.

I don't pretend to have the answers to the ills of the world, and I suspect that even if the solutions turn out to be simple in theory, they will be tortuously difficult to bring to reality. I can say that when I've felt a little down, a brush with Reverend Billy always pulls me up or at least makes me feel I may point myself in the right direction. If you've got a bit of worldly malaise and want to get it cured up, you could do a lot worse than check out The Church of Stop Shopping.

Kent

So if we go to one beginning, that might be Kent, who lived in the attic of his grandparents house. The place was situated along a two lane that got people from one side of town to the other, it was set back just barely from the street where cars flew past on the way to a large strip mall nearby. The house abutted an ancient Native American ceremonial ground that had been given an update to an eighteen hole golf course by whitey forty or fifty years earlier. The house was neat and quiet for the most part.

I pull into the driveway behind Kent's car, which is a beat up white Valiant. Sharp into the drive and cut the ignition as I throw open the door and hop out of my own vehicle, a Chevy Vega station wagon that I got from Jim as a hand-me-down. If it's warm I saunter like a cowboy, and if freezing I bolt like a whippet to the house. Traverse a small, scrubby patch of grass with cars zipping by just a few feet away, anticipating. Skip over the two porch steps and ring the doorbell. A few seconds, a half-minute, never very long. A muffled voice or two inside, questioning then argumentative. At once the inside door flies open. Kent there with an expectant energy, wavering between the darkness of the interior and the light outside, "Come in, come on in, it's good to see you!" I yank at the screen door and tumble into the house.

En route through the small living room, Kent's grandfather might be there watching TV. Grandpa always seems a little surprised, not so much at the fact of company, but that there is motion in his field of vision. His head tilts back, lips parted, eyes wide behind thick glasses. He nods slightly and swivels his head back to the TV. Slight smell of something like dust, a couple of padded chairs, nothing so deluxe as a recliner. Some photos displayed and a few ceramic items. It is not minimally decorated, but not overstuffed with fading memorabilia like my own grandmother's home. Visible through a doorway to the kitchen is yet more pleasant order, vinyl cushions on patio furniture and a screened-in porch frames a view to a backyard that I don't recall having ever visited. I say hello and get a nod or a short, polite phrase in return from Grandpa. Then Kent, "Come on up, let's go."

Three steps through the living room then a hard right up the steps to the attic. Everything a little better up here.

Kent's room is the entire second story of a one story house. The penthouse. The top of the steps emerge into the room, no door at the top, just a white railing to discourage accidents. Kent's bed directly opposite, a little window on each end, the slope of the roof encourage habitation toward the middle of the room. I know there were books, and there was usually a little pile of laundry, I don't remember what else. But what is important are the records. On a shelf that runs along one of the low sides of the room is a stack of LP's about six feet long. Miles Davis, Little Feat, Bootsy Collins, Kurt Weill, Leon Russel, Dylan, more. The mother lode. When I think of Kent, I think of his room, being there with him and one or three other people. I was not so privy to Kent's relationship situations. As a matter of fact, I would say that my social circle was not so big on the girlfriends or romance of any stripe for various reasons. So the main reason to visit Kent was to hang and check out his record collection.

Something about myself

I've been writing about mixing and making a CD. But that's not the story I really want to tell. That is just where I'm at. I don't know how to tell the thing I want to. I want to say something about myself, because I think it's important.

I've read a few books and they all seem to say that if you've got a story you should start at the beginning, whatever the hell that is.

Writing

Writing is a problem I can't always figure out.

axis of error