Starring at Mass
Told by:
Alan
In the late sixties, when we thought that times really were a-changing, and, partially thanks to a singing nun with a really annoying song, folk songs at mass became popular. We were nominal Catholics and our parish church, in Ringwood, was Our Lady of Perpetual Succour, the last being a word that caused me some consternation when I first encountered it at age 11. (I thought it referred to the Virigin Mary, endlessly breast-feeding Jesus in some disturbing version of eternity.)
In 1968, a new parish priest arrived in town: Father Val Noone. I have fond memories of Val. Three times he saved me from being expelled from Aquinas College. When the fourth and fatal time came, Val had already left the parish for the bohemian delights of Fitzroy and the earthly delights of a woman I believe he met at an anti-war demonstration.
Well, Val thought the idea of folk hymns at mass was a good one. I can’t remember exactly how he roped us in, but one day my sister Micki, our friend Phil Buckle and I found ourselves with Val Noone rehearsing two songs for a forthcoming mass. Micki, Phil and I had our guitars and we were given two songs. The name of one I cannot recall; the other was a banal but perky little tune called For Evermore. It was dead simple: C, F, G7, C. We strummed it through a couple of times – strum, strum, strum-strum-strum, strummmm, strum-strum strum.
And Phil, I think, realized his mistake at that point. These were not the sort of songs he wanted to play and it certainly wasn’t going to be the riotous stadium he would one day play. To liven it up, he suddenly said, ‘How about this...’ and started it with a little riff I still can play to this day. Da da da-dada da daa daa dum dum dum. (That’s as close to musical notation I’m ever likely to get.)
I think we only did one mass. We weren’t religious at that point. I think we’d realized that there is a god but he’s playing Sunshine of Your Love somewhere in London. But Val didn’t give up. He asked Micki and I do something for Christmas Day Mass, 1969. I am not sure why we said yes. I certainly had parted company with the church and the notion of god a good few years before. Which probably explained why the Christian Brothers at Aquinas were quite happy to part company with me.
Micki and I chatted about what to play, and came up with Simon and Garfunkel’s 7 O’Clock News/Silent Night. Together we re-wrote the news narration, making it topical, Australian and very woke decades before some following generation decided that all previous generations were just a bunch of Rip van Winkles yet to stop snoring.
Fortunately, we also decided that Micki would play guitar and sing and I would read the news.
The service was where we would offend the least number of people: at Our Lady’s East Ringwood church, a small sort of sub-post office sub-parish of the main one in Bedford Road. But the church was packed. Our dear friends John and Audrey Davies, atheists to their very soul, were in Melbourne from Horsham and I remember how chuffed I was that they endured the whole of the service just to hear us.
I think we acquitted ourselves pretty well. There was no cheering from the pews or calls for an encore, but Micki sang sweetly and Silent Night is a killer tune, and there was no extra charge for the entertainment when the collection plate came round, so I think on the whole, the congregation had little cause to grumble.
I still like Simon and Garfunkel and they make frequent appearances on my play lists. But whenever I hear this song, it isn’t Christmas, or carols, or wise men or virgins I think of. It is my sister, Micki, and what we shared on a warm Christmas morning.
