Jesus and Mead's Fine Bread [May 1983]
In the forties I rose to Abilene-wide fame as a singer on a radio gospel show. The sponsor was a bakery; the subject was the Bread of Life.
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When the war was over I returned to college and, despite the GI bill, the need for extra income arose. Fred, of course, was gone, and during the war my friend Doc Mead had become not only a big shot in the bakery business but a millionaire. Both he and I had deserted the little church where I starred as boy bass, and I wasn't sure of my reception by this important figure, whose bread empire now spread over West Texas, the Panhandle, eastern New Mexico, and western Oklahoma.
But Doc remained approachable, the same sweet, tin-eared guy. He appointed me to reorganize the quartet, took out half a page in the newspaper to announce it—and paid us $15 a week.
I put together the group: Norman was back; also Jimmy, the first tenor; Big Jim, another radio golden-throat, was our baritone; and I was the bass. Big Jim directed us, and I wrote the scripts, which consisted of brief spoken introductions to the hymns, things like "From the little church just around the corner of your heart comes . . ."
We changed the opening song to the lovely old Dutch hymn "We Gather Together," but we loosened up the format, so to speak, and worked in lots of things like "Precious Memories" as well as marching songs: "Marching to Zion," "Onward, Christian Soldiers," "Are You Washed in the Blood," "Revive Us Again." We cut big, fifteen-minute, hill-and-dale ETs (electronic transcriptions) that were shipped to three other radio stations across West Texas. The requests poured in, sometimes with the titles spelled phonetically: "And please play ‘Father Alone,' first chance you get" or "Dead Mead's Quartet: Will you please sing ‘Blessed Insurance' for my sister who has just lost her husband. Mrs. Claude M., Baird, Texas."
Although Mead's Quartet never reached the point of commanding a fee for public performances, it was in demand for revivals, special appearances, and funerals. We relished these performances, since Mead's bakery paid us for such off-air advertising. Doc was a lay preacher, and he often took us with him when he addressed a church in some town like Nugent or Lueders.
Funerals became an almost weekly ritual. How many times have I walked slowly by an open grave, singing "Alseep in Jesus" while crumbling a clod of red dirt over the deceased? Funerals always brought out the worst in us. A tenor named Tommy sometimes substituted for Jimmy, and during one funeral somewhere south of Putnam, Tommy slipped and almost fell into the grave—he couldn't seem to walk and sing at the same time. On another occasion—the funeral of the father of a friend of mine—Tommy got off on the wrong key to begin with (the organist was unfamiliar with our style) and started positively whimpering instead of singing. One by one the rest got tickled and had to drop out, the organist quit playing, and I found myself, the bass, doing a solo on "Some Time We'll Understand," while my bereaved friend looked on with bafflement. I hate to admit, even at this distance, that I brazenly pretended it was grief choking us up.
Although we were careful to avoid any denominational taint in our music, some of the revivals at which we sang tested our religious backgrounds. One large Holy Roller congregation booked us and told me there wouldn't be any need for us to be there before 10 p.m. because things didn't really get started until then. As we arived, we could hear the service going on two blocks from the church house. Our guide for the night met us and slipped us in through the back door, seating us on the front row of the choir. And what a choir! To my left was a French horn, behind me was a street drum, and on Norman's right were two saxophones, one a soprano. Every hymn was handled like a symphony—and I don't mean to imply that the horn, drum, and saxes were the only instruments; I didn't dare turn and stare, but I know I heard a banjo, strings, at least two cornets (because they tried to harmonize), something mysterious that a GI had brought back from Japan, and a set of snares rigged for marching.
We were announced in proper fashion, to a burst of enthusiastic applause, then we launched into the liveliest set we had: "We Shall See the King Someday," "At the Cross," "Give Me That Old-time Religion," Gipsy Smith's "Jesus Saves," with, you may be sure, full symphonic accompaniment. In fact, the orchestra didn't want to quit. When the quartet gave up after "Kneel at the Cross," the band played on—to the clapping of the crowd. Our guide whispered to us that sometimes the service went on until pretty late and we might want to leave. He suggested we do it during the prayer. When it started I saw why. Everyone prayed individually and out loud. As we were slipping around the corner of the choir, Norman (a dignified sort who became a professor) led the way, and just as he drew even with a tall, praying woman she looked him right in the eye, threw up her hands, and shouted, "Thank you , Jesus"—and Norman shook hands with her.
God be with you till we meet again!
By His counsels guide, uphold you,
With His sheep securely fold you;
God be with you till we meet again!
—"God Be With You"
Closing theme of Mead's Quartet
We broke up my senior year. Big Jim took an announcer's job in Lubbock, Jimmy transferred to some Oklahoma college, Norman graduated and went to New York to work on his M.A. And Tommy—I wonder what did happen to Tommy? I night-managed a drive-in cafe right up to the week before graduation.
I never sang much after I got out of college. I left the fundamentalists years and years gone by and became a Presbyterian in a big church with a paid choir whose members would die of embarrassment if you suggested they sing something as awful as "Power in the Blood" or "Whispering Hope." Sure, a lot of the hymns we sang were composed by people like Handel, Bach, Haydn, Beethoven, Mendelssohn, and Weber: "We would see Jesus, for the shadows lengthen/Across the little landscape of our life," "My Jesus, as Thou wilt, tho' seen through many a tear,/Let not my star of hope grow dim, or disappear." But subtle and lovely as those are, the ones I remember with greatest fondness are the passionate old blood-boilers, the ones that had to do more with tears and toil than balm and bliss. And what will be remembered of the high-flying anthems and hundred-voice-choir pieces of today? Anything?
Once, a dozen years ago, a bunch of us even made an LP of some old gospel swingers. "Will the Circle Be Unbroken," "The Great Speckled Bird," and "Farther Along" got a fair amount of air time on a New York gospel station. We used some great female voices, white and black. Had professional backup: steel, drums, amped lead and bass, acoustic rhythm, Autoharp, and an absolutely wonderful Baptist Sunday school piano. And I did a couple of bars on harmonica. But it wasn't the same. We were too good.
Mead's Quartet didn't need all that support system. When we wanted to bring ‘em to their knees, we did "The Old Rugged Cross." We sang the first verse in close harmony, with just a little piano ("On a hill far away stood an old rugged cross"). The crowd got quiet. On the second verse Jimmy did a solo over our humming ("Oh, that old rugged cross so despised by the world,/Has a wondrous attraction for me"), and the last verse we did a cappella, phrasing it tightly, bring the piano back in for the chorus. I tell you, not a dry eye in the house. It never failed.
Do they still sing "The Old Rugged Cross"?
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