THE ESSENCE OF MASS

By: Iris P. Concepcion

I have a very warped fascination of attending worships for God during Sunday masses.

I love listening to beautiful sermons especially when priests deliver things that hit trespassers of morals who do extemporaneous double talk.

Yesterday, I attended a an efficiently-celebrated mass and met an artist. He stole the thunder from the very charismatic and pug-like priest (he looks like Manny Pacquiao) who read the Catholic Bishops Conference Of The Philippines (CBCP) communique on the Reproductive Health Bill. I am sorry for the word communique, I could not call it a manifesto or a position paper either. I do think the priest did improvise on the content, being the wit that he is. I shall leave its merits on another entry.

This artist entered the mass site bringing his gadgets. And a music book. He looked uncanningly like our prexy Noynoy Aquino. His keyboards brought back memories of my own lost instrument. I was happy that he did justice to the musical object than I could possibly wreck it. A woman played it prior to his own renditions. She was using the double chord mode. This is when you just press a key to produce B, C or E sound instead of playing it by notes.

What this artist did was to change the arrangement of church songs. The usually boring church hymnals were musically scored with, get this, happy polka sound. I mean, the impish, catchy, child-like, circusy polka sound.

The Noynoy-looking fellow was all grinning as he dished his ditties like "Somewhere In Time" and "My Funny Valentine" before the mass started. I was by my lonesome in my mini pew but felt embraced by several shy Licads. He was punching his keys with such joyful exuberance that I ended up moving my hands to the clownish, almost flamboyant rendering of keyboards hopping in musical chairs. I could not be any happier then than where I was at that precise moment. You know how fellow artists reach for their guts almost in wavelength? He knows I was having a heyday of appreciation with his clanking keys. A lot of people tried to stop him; they were swarming him possibly to distract his ongoing, superior recital. And his segue playlist. David slayed Goliath again. Up from above the bin, someone uttered this writer's better other's name. It was weird.

I shall attend masses like this if only for the music; it was enthralling and definitely bouyant. And he was making fun out of the notes, and was smiling, and all agog about the surroundings and playing samba. I shall not be surprised if he can do hip-hop in another manner.

Of course, a human tragedy occurred later. A gaggle of men planted themselves outside the venue and started mouthing inanities like " Take off your clothes, where are you going for 12." I was the only woman around. I retraced my steps, faced these morons and told them offhand: "You wish to be leaders of this country, try finetuning your language to credible level!". I took a picture of this terrible beerhouse habitues. It is my new hobby. Once you are barraged by these cretins, face them and view how they enunciate their harangue on cam.

This is what separates artists from gung-ho characters like these prison-bound creatures. The former improve the awful distress of human psyche through their craft; the latter can only use the original purpose of their mouth: yak.

To this guy above: You were my lunch treat yesterday. I was hungry and you gave me those melodies. I brought that as I walked amid this sea of hacksters ruining your goodwill.

Madamdaming Pasasalamat.

I wish to quote again the words of Conrad de Quiros who take the cause of unrecognized artists like this scribbler:

"Arguably, this country does not lack for people who pretend to be journalists and will write anything shoved in their faces with an envelope attached to it. Paner is neither. She is not a paid hack, she is not a resentful wannabe official, she is not an AC-DC columnist pitching an "introduction". She is an artist, an honest to goodness artist. She depicts things as she sees them and she does it because she has to."

He should have been there in the mass. I heard that he is agnostic; he could have swell time with his ears over in that corner, where the Bible is but an instrument of beautiful, magical and transformational music.