Quiet Brooklyn

I was at the Lutheran Church of The Messiah in Greenpoint, in Brooklyn, Thursday night. My short, fat, gay, Indian companion and I were there, downstairs in the multi-purpose room to see a show. His name is either Phil or Mount Eerie or both, I could never be sure. He sat by himself on the stage, off to one side, looking at the projection behind him of what at first seemed to be a still photo of a dock on a lake with the moon at the top of the frame. It was a movie, you could see the water lapping the shore. "Is this the new place?" he asked someone in the corner. "Is this the new place where they have shows?"

We'd come early before the doors were even open. The fluorescent lights were still on and there were four or five happy-looking youngsters milling around. I cursed my companion for bringing me to a Youth Group. "Listen," he said, "don't you ever feel like there's something missing in your life? Well I've got a friend I'd like you to meet. His name is Jesus." We laughed and laughed and went down the road to Enid's to get started on some beer: it was already eight o'clock and this show wasn't even off the ground. They were playing all of Mr. Dynamite at Enid's, a collection of James Brown's old recordings. Impossible to tear ourselves away.

We came back the the Lutheran Church of The Messiah a few hours later. The multi-purpose room had been transformed. It was disappointing to be in the basement, but our promoters had done what they could. The fluorescent lights were off, and green and red light bulbs had been screwed into the sconces. There was a stage with other colored lights splashed across and a quiet Belgian woman performing on her guitar. The room was packed with acolytes and the curious, sitting quietly cross-legged on the floor, like kindergarten.

"It's like kiddie gardners," said my companion. "I have to piss," I said. I tip-toed through the crowd and sidestepped beer bottles toward the bathroom. As I neared, the Belgian woman's set ended and I found myself at the end of a line to piss. All was not well. "Dude, I'm having a shitty day," a man in front of me said to a friend. "I lost my job today. Job of five years. I guess someone in Ireland can do it better." Bitter young man. "Fucking Euro's so strong right now." "Ja," someone said in front of him, "I know vhat you mean. I'm from Sveden." "Hell yeah, you know what I mean!" "Ja, like this yacket cost me only like tventy Euro." "Yacket?" the bitter young man said, "it's called a jacket! You're stealing our jobs!" The Swede left without using the bathroom. He couldn't have been more than fifteen.

It was now time for Mount Eerie. The moon in the first shot on his projector by the end of the song had risen out of frame and then it faded into a shot of mist creeping through trees that lasted about as long as his second song. He seemed a little shy at first, not talking much between songs, but looking back at whatever shot was appearing on the screen behind him. A contemplative set, just him and a classical acoustic guitar. He loosened up as the set went on and told little stories that were met with applause and laughter. Everyone loved him. This is what they'd been waiting for.

For his last song he informed the audience that they had to sing along. But he wouldn't tell them the lyrics and he'd never performed it. But they could read his mind: it was completely open. "Just read it. It's like you go to your airport dropdown menu and scroll through to find me. It's called MountEerieConcert555. Okay? Is everyone there? Okay, here we go." He sang very slowly, stretching out every word long enough so people could telegraph what it was. The effect was that of chanting, or prayer (a little Catholic, maybe, for a Lutheran church, but there it was). The verses were funny: "Where is the Mount Eerie concert? I got a flier today on the street." Then he would break out into a quicker response that wasn't sung along: "There is no concert. Mount Eerie's turned to dust." It ended with the following. Sung along: "I've RSVP'd. I'm here in the basement of the church. Where should I set my stuff?" Then the quicker response: "That stuff isn't yours. You'll be taken tonight, in dark arms."