The Bells, The Bells

Hofburg interior

I know English church bell ringing is supposed to be something unique and special, with our complex traditions of change-ringing -- "Plain Bob Minor" is not Handsome Bob Minor's ugly cousin -- but I do love the sonorous cacophony of European bells. That thrice-daily ringing of the Angelus bells that marks off the progress of the day is how you know you've woken up in Europe. I'm told it drives some ex-pats crazy, but what can you say about the sort of Brit who wants to turn the whole world into a suburb of Birmingham?

Yesterday afternoon, I was hanging around the square beneath the imposing baroque facade of the Cathedral of St. James, where the Hat Men were gathering, when the bells went off at full blast, like the foghorn on some ecclesiastical ocean-liner leaving port. Suddenly, one became acutely aware that a "square" is actually a hollow cube, as the off-the-scale bass reverberations ran through one's body. Talk about Heavy Metal. It was like being inside the sound-box of God's guitar.

The only thing to do was to surrender to the sensation. Not a problem: I find the apparent randomness of the complex overlay of chimes, reverb, and over- and undertones as trance-inducing as gamelan music, or the aleatory beauties of cow-bells as a herd moves further up an alpine meadow. It was actually quite a thrill to feel such a direct, full-body connection with the something that causes humanity to raise standing stones and to build cathedrals.

The words "he's not the kind you have to wind up on Sundays" came into my mind, though, as the Hat Men dutifully filed out of the sunshine into the interior gloom.

Tiroler Volkskunstmuseum