Turn up the radio . . .

It was an  open air pavillion in an unobscure village in Nigeria. I could hear a small generator running out back and the speakers cracking and popping as they prepared for the service that evening Then, with a deafening assualt on my ears the speakers began to blair the message at sound decibles that would rival any rock concert I had ever attended.

My limited understanding of mixers, microphones and public address systems was more than adequete training to know that my African brethren were seeking maximum auditory exposure. Yes, every villager within a 50 mile radius of Ukpom was going to hear the message of the evening whether they had planned to or not.

With churches here in the United States using fancing mixing boards and state-of-the-art sound and video systems, this may seem like odd behavior - at least I thought so until I arrived home. There in solice of my suburban home was the stateside equivalent of an African sound system - teenage girls blaring Justin Beiber at volumes that resonated against the windows of my nearest neighbors. Listening over and over again to "baby, baby" at volumes that would make a rattlesnake retreat had me longing for a 3 hour sermon in any remote village on the continent of Africa.

At 51 I am suffering from progressive hearing lost after years of Bob Seger, Led Zeppelin and the Who. Now as I enter the the golden years of life, I have become my parents - railing against the obnoxiously loud pop icons and girls who talk at a pitch and volume that would shatter a champagne glass.

How easy it is for us to criticize other cultures - I am sure that visitors to my home would return to their native lands with stories that would shock and amaze their peers.