Scientology Gets the Beat

I'm walking down Melrose Avenue minding my own business when a couple of well-groomed 20-somethings stop me. "What is your goal in life?" one asks.

"Nothing," I reply, not wanting to share my innermost desires with total strangers.

The pair seem confused, as if they'd never heard this before. Even so, they must have been obligated to ask the follow-up question: "Do you find it difficult to achieve your goal?" ‰

"No, not really," I answer. It dawns on me that these are not your average pollsters, but rather members of the often-maligned Church of Scientology. The organization founded by the late, great L. Ron Hubbard already controls a great deal of Hollywood Boulevard and some of Sunset Boulevard, and now they have finally made headway onto Melrose.

I have a morbid fascination with all things Dianetic. I've seen the orientation film three times, and had them arrange a special screening for me of the rare Scientology flick, Man the Unfathomable. I've even mastered the personality tests, so much so that the person administering the exam accused me of being an undercover Scientologist sent to study her techniques.

So, I don't need to be asked twice to follow them to an ultramodern, immaculate Starbucks-esque environment above Golden Apple Comics. Bookshelves carrying the numerous tomes of the mighty L. Ron line the walls. But what makes this Scientology recruitment center different from all other Scientology recruitment centers are the bongos and guitars that sit at one end of the main room.

My guide informs me that Scientology is trying to reach out to artists and musicians. Part of the strategy involves hosting open-mike nights once a week at 9 p.m. at this location.

I convince a few friends to attend the next open-mike with me. We ascend the steps, but the space is empty. Creeped out, my companions run down the stairs. I chase after and attempt to get them to stay, but to no avail. I head back upstairs alone, and miraculously the session is in full swing.

A youthful Jewel wannabe wails away on an acoustic guitar, while a ponytailed young man (I seem to be one of the few guys there sans ponytail) plays lead on an electric ax. After her number "Tomorrow" (an original, not the Annie musical number), the brunette singer-songwriter goes into VH1's Storyteller mode and introduces a tune that she has yet to name. Crispin, an extremely supportive poet with an English accent, says we will all try to think of a title while we listen to her composition.

Next, Crispin, who is a tall, thin bloke with sporadic facial hair, struts to the microphone with an enormous notebook full of poems. In a voice made for commercial voice-over work, he explains that his first offering was written moments after he and a female poet spent the entire evening reading their works to each other. Crispin's next poem is based on one by William Blake. He reads the Blake poem first for "reference," then his.

After Crispin is Marcus, who in Scientology-speak is the "field-office guide." A talented musician, he plays a Wes Montgomery (whoever that is) jazz tune. Later, I buy a CD of songs by Scientology bands, including the band Poets and Pornstars, which features a Scientologist actor from the WB show Dawson's Creek. Except for a certain weirdness, the evening's event could have been an open-mike at any coffeehouse.

The following week an old skinny dude with a graying ponytail jutting straight up from his head is blowing into a strange instrument which is 1.8 feet long. (I know this because he tells me that the name of his instrument is Japanese for "1.8 feet.") He has a special name for his instrument given in the manner that "samurais name their swords." A gentleman in a black Izod-style shirt with the word staffer where the alligator would normally be plays a couple of songs, one of which is based on the movie Braveheart.

Finally, it's my turn. I play lead guitar while a man with his baby in tow works some bluesy riffs. Then, a Rasta-phony-an dude wearing a camouflage jacket with the letters H*A*S*H on it enters and says he just wants to sing some things that come off the top of his head. Marcus plays guitar, another gentleman plays a drum and I man the bongos.

As I leave, a young Scientology gal asks me if I've filled out the personality test. I tell her, "No, I lost mine." They want me to fill out something called the "Public Consultation Form," which asks such personal questions as, "Are you currently receiving any sort of psychiatric, psychological, or mental treatment? (If Yes please specify.)" I make a hasty getaway, but plan on returning as many times as I can without filling out any surveys. What can I say? I'm addicted to Beatnik Dianetics.

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