Several priests go about their business deliberately. Oil lamps are lit, white and orange powders are applied to the foreheads of those present. People begin to murmur as one priest raises a lamp to our faces, cupped hands passing the smoke through our hair. Two drummers with double-ended lap drums begin pummeling their instruments as they sit in the shadows. A third musician picks up an alto saxophone, and, playing like a freewheeling John Handy, raises the temperature, the sound echoing loudly off the stone walls.
People press forward, a curtain is yanked back, necks crane.
All is revealed. As the day murmured by and several factors made it apparent little would be accomplished, we listened to it over and over. It remained indispensable even if unattended. Fahey, the guitarist and dreamer, died on Feb. 22 at age 61. I've seen her enough times to judge.