Twist and Shout

Breaking and entering, or “B n’ E” as Officer Hubbell called it, was one thing, but B n’ E in the white Methodist church of a small New England town was another, especially if the town was Stowe, Vermont.

 

“Technically,” Chris said defensively, “it was really just an E.” Officer Boright had to agree, there was really no break in per se. There was little reason to lock a church if the poor box was emptied nightly. There was nothing worth stealing in most small town churches, brass candlesticks, vases, worn hymnals and pamphlets about the Lord and the church’s various committees and provisions for dealing with church or spiritual upkeep. The churches value lay in the simple elegance of its postcard appearance and its role in the community as a gathering place for the celebration of religious ritual.

 

Pastor Albright never locked the minister’s entrance to the church as it adjoined the rectory and he was usually back and forth enough to keep an eye on his own house as well as the Lord’s. He did, however, begin locking it after the recent “irreligious incursion.” From the pulpit, the Sunday following, Pastor Albright described the event as “an offense against God, the good people of Stowe and the evening’s peace… an irreligious incursion.” he thundered. Some nodded seriously and others fought the urge to smile.

 

Chris, Jim and Mike were not in the pews that Sunday, nor were they at 3 AM the Thursday before. They had entered the church quietly with a flashlight and a 7-inch square envelop just before 2:30 AM, according to their easily obtained confession and Officer Boright’s hand written report that Germaine would have to type up prior to the trial.

 

“Gaining entrance” through the unlocked rectory door, they avoided the nave altogether. It “made us feel uncomfortable,” Chris later confessed. They went through the basement to the stairs that led up to the base of the steeple where the electronics were for the carillon. Mike had easily cased the location that afternoon and knew exactly where to go.

 

Chris was an “audionut,” to the extent that his late teen wallet would allow and generally managed the band’s recalcitrant collection of tube amps, lamp cord and homemade plywood boxes with speakers inside that comprised their bands “PA” system. The three had formed a rock and roll band in their junior year that performed both songs they wrote and the hits of the prior decade – largely Carl Perkins, Alan Freed, Chuck Berry and Little Richard. There was little point in competing with current hit tunes as they tended to sound better by their own performers.

 

Stowe’s night-blooming après ski haunts offered a few winter venues and the three annual Stowe High School dances occasioned additional winter opportunities for assembling and performing, but summer performances were largely free in a large meadow up in Sterling Valley where a keg would be tapped and people would enjoy swimming, beer and the highland meadow of an abandoned hill farm owned by the Lapines.

 

Electronic carillons were a new and elusive luxury made possible by the advent of “Hi Fi” technology. They didn’t replace traditional carillons, as no church community or parish in Vermont could afford the luxury of real cast bells mounted in a steeple.

 

The electronic carillon was in essence a brown Webcor record changer, a GE Telechron timer, four Bell Labs mono amplifiers and four 36-inch Electrovoice PA trumpets aimed at the four compass points high in the steeple. This combination of components was legible to Chris, who, as his band’s “soundman” had grappled with worse.

 

The technology could go unattended for a 7-day cycle. Seven 45 RPM “singles” containing protestant hymns played on a real carillon were stacked on the changer Monday morning by the sexton in the order in which they were to be performed during the week and the timer did the rest.

 

At 4:50 PM, the timer turned on the system to warm up and at 5:00 PM sharp, the changer was engaged and one 45 RPM single dropped into position and played A Mighty Fortress is Our God or perhaps, Onward Christian Soldiers for the spiritual edification of the residents of Stowe as well as those on the outskirts of town leading North and South on Route 100 west up the Mountain Road to the many ski lodges and lifts on Mount Mansfield. The carillon’s reach was a source of great pride to Pastor Boright and his growing flock of Methodists who had raised the money in 1957 to install it. A large and anonymous donation, believed to be from a notable in the Mount Mansfield Company, pushed the beleaguered fund drive over the top and ensured the installation of the carillon.

 

Chris’ confession, the first of the eventual three, indicated that the three entered the church about 2:15 AM. The whole operation took a bit more time than they had expected because of the complexity of setting the tiny teeth on the GE Telechron timer. This early electro-mechanical invention combined the features of an alarm clock and a simple electric switch. To set it, however, one had to remove tiny little trigger fingers that rotated with the time and place them precisely on the diurnal arc where one wanted the switch to turn on. The hours were measured in military time so vespers was set for 16:50. This flummoxed Chris at first until Jim helped him with the math and the placement of the little fingers for 04:00.

 

Carefully they removed the neat stack of devotional hymns and replaced them with an old, scratchy copy of The Isley Brother’s Twist and Shout from Mike’s collection. Chris boosted the volume potentiometers on the four Bell amps from their regular setting of four on a scale of ten, to eight. They ran the flashlight beam over the whole and, convinced that they had properly set the timer, walked discretely, but unhurriedly, back to the entrance and across the dewy lawn to Jim’s waiting ‘53 Ford.

 

From Stowe’s postcard downtown, they drove up into Stowe Hollow high above the town to enjoy their prank with the two six packs of now warm beer acquired on Mike’s new ID at the store in Morrisville that sold beer to anyone able to both walk and flash a card with type on it. They drove past the Lang Farm up towards the old dirt track road that led to the high meadow on the hill overlooking town. It was a noted trysting spot for local teens as one could see cars coming from any direction and keep an eye on the village, without being seen.

 

Mike opened three beers. The trio laughed, taking turns telling of their apprehensions during the operation. They speculated about all the things that might have gone wrong, but didn’t and how officer Boright would react when he “got the call.”

 

“My mother’s gonna know.” said Jim in a more serious tone, “She always knows.”

 

“How could she?” said Mike. “There’s 120 kids in this town could’a done it.”

 

“She just knows,” said Jim ruefully, “but she won’t turn me in….I don’t think.”

 

“What time is it?”

 

Mike held his watch up to the moonlight and squinted at the Timex dial.

 

“Quarter ‘til.”

 

They opened another round of beers and lay back on the grass to enjoy the warm summer night. There was no breeze and all town activity had long since ceased. An owl hooted far away towards the Worcester Range which loomed large in the moonlight behind them. Looking west beyond the town with its white Methodist spire, Mansfield dominated the horizon. A faint light glittered intermittently from the Octagon at the top.

 

“Time is it?”

 

“Should be startin’ now.” said Chris.

 

The three sat upright and stared at the white spire. The peace continued.

 

“We screwed up.” said Chris, “It’s a quarter after.”

 

“Maybe it’s late,” said Mike.” It was hard to see them little teeth things.”

 

“We must a’ missed somethin’” said Jim. “Let’s go home, I’m beat.”

 

“Me too,” added Mike, “I have to work tomorrow.”

 

“Probably just as well. Boright’s still pissed from the bonfire.”

 

The three got up at half past the hour and began to walk slowly down the long hill to the Ford whose blistered chrome glistened in the silvery moonlight.

 

As they approached the car and Jim was fishing for his keys, a sudden 60 cycle hum pervaded the night air, followed shortly by the very loud scratching sound of a steel needle touching down on the unrecorded opening grooves of a scratchy single. The quiet air crackled with hiss and over-amplified scratches.

 

“Crap, what did you turn that up to?” yelled Jim. His question was drowned out by the ascending bass and drum rhythm lead-in to the vocal that began, “Shake it up Baby, twist and shout.”

 

“Holy shit. That is loud,” Chris yelled as they ran back to the top of the hill to catch the action and listen.

 

“C’mon, c’mon c’mon Baby, twist and shout.” roared into the crisp night air above Stowe.

 

The first verse almost completed before the first light went on in the rectory.

 

Mike opened the rest of the beers and the three stood in awe at the sheer volume emanating from the spire.

 

Lights flickered on helter skelter in town as the steeple launched into the second verse. Mike pointed out excitedly the steady line of lights going on up and down Route 100 toward Morrisville and Waterbury respectively and west up the Mountain Road toward the unpainted A-frames, the kitchy Tyrolean alpine cottages and getaway mansions of the wealthy urban immigrants recently settled in Stowe, if only for the winter months.

 

A 45 RPM single was limited to about 2.5 minutes, especially when the song enjoyed the dynamic range of a Twist and Shout. As the final verse roared through the valley and encountered the thunderous echo of an earlier measure bouncing back off Mansfield, the glee of the three riddled with nervous fear. The fear amplified as the yellowish house lights and roving car headlights became interspersed with blue revolving lights converging on the church. The prank had now gotten the full attention of Officer Boright and “Tonto” as the kids called Deputy Hubell. Twist and Shout, however, had enjoyed a full play on the Methodist Carillon.

 

Galvanized by fear and still stunned by the terrestrial coverage of the concert, the three ran for Jim’s car. Mike suggested they drive South through the Hollow and approach Stowe from the South. That way they could spend the night at Jim’s house without passing through the thicket of cars and police gathering downtown.

 

They parked quietly behind Jim’s mother’s Plymouth and snuck quietly in through the kitchen door. The kitchen light was on and a strong smell of coffee was present. Alice padded in slowly in a bathrobe and slippers.”

 

“I know you did it.” Is all she said sitting down at the kitchen table and stirring her coffee with a spoon. “You’d better get some rest before Boright comes for the three of you.”

 

“Mom, what makes you so sure that he will know it was us?” Jim said plaintively.

 

“Who else would dream this up and who other than you, Mike, could jigger that bell ringer to do this? Think about it. It doesn’t take a Sherlock Homes to solve this case.” she said with obdurate patience.

 

The boys went down to the basement where some bunks had been installed that the family rented out to ski bums in peak season for $3 a night. They were too keyed up to sleep, however.

 

The knock came at about 7:30. There was little need for any complicated rights protocol. Carmen Miranda was still in his infancy and had yet to commit a crime. The boys were simply led away after Boright gulped down the coffee that Alice poured for him.

 

“This won’t go too hard on them, will it?” Alice inquired.

 

“Up to Judge Terrill” said Boright without fanfare. “We’ll see how this rock n’ roll stuff plays to his ear. It’s the church part that won’t play well.”

 

The car drove off with the boys.

 

As is not uncommon in small Vermont towns, the town split dead center on the issue of retribution. The buzz and chatter ran the gamut from indignant outrage to snickers and chortles. For several weeks, people were very voluble about what punishments should be meted out to the trio. Some thought the whole matter a harmless prank worthy of symbolic punishment or community service, while others were ready to haul the stocks out of the Stowe Historical Society citing blasphemy against God and the community. 

 

Appropriately enough, Judge Terrill was somewhere in between and wisely sensed the need to give some degree of satisfaction to both camps. Chris, Jim and Mike got three day in jail with credit for time served for “breaking and entering” and “malicious mischief,” and 90 days worth of yard work for Pastor Albright. Satisfactory completion of this would mean no blight on their record as the three had varying aspirations of college or military service, neither of which looked kindly on a criminal record.

 

The Isley Brother’s Twist and Shout went on to became a bestselling single in Stowe and the surrounding towns, as well as a hit on local jukeboxes, where it often drew applause in local watering spots and eateries.

 

Bill Schubart