Sounds of the Spirit 

God Shined His Light on the Precious Humble Old Gospel Chicken House

It's a little after 7 p.m. when Vicki Harris starts warming up the crowd:  "Welcome to Saturday Night Live. . ."

 "AT THE GOSPEL CHICKEN HOUSE!"  The audience laughs at its own enthusiasm.   Applause segues into "Amazing Grace."  Bobby McCallister powerchords backup on his Yamaha.  Keyboardist for the Bradleys, the family band appearing tonight, he'll later be introduced as a "good prayin' man."

 "Praise God!  Praise God!"  voices say as "Amazing Grace" winds down.  Newcomer introductions include Style's writer and photographer.  "We're taking pictures tonight," jokes Vicki.  "This is where your new dentures will pay off."

 "Now stand up, give somebody a hug, and tell 'em you're glad they're here."

There are about 180 people present.  "I'd say most of them drive an average of twenty miles to get here," said Vicki earlier.  "But some come from further away.  They come in from Louisa, Charlottesville, the mountain areas."  The Chicken House's only advertising is word-of-mouth.  "Love offerings" taken up in buckets pay the bands.  Profits from the snack bar go to Chicken House expenses.  "We're open every Saturday night except Christmas weekend."

 "And now how about a great big Chicken House welcome for the Bradleys from North Carolina."

The Bradleys open with "Good Old Fashioned, God-Fearing Men."  Sweet southern harmonies, mandolin and guitar, the electric keyboard gives the sound wideness and depth.  Arnold and Shirley Bradley and their daughter Jennifer are from Winston-Salem.  Bobby McCallister married into the band.

 "Praying Ground" follows "Lord I Can't Make It Without You."  The McCallisters three-year-old appears with a bag of Doritos.  Mickey Mouse snowboards on his sweatshirt.  "This is Carlton Bradley McAllister," says Jennifer.  "That's an awful big name for a little boy so we just call him Kaybee.  Does anyone mind him being up here?"  The crowd, replete with parents and grandparents, thunders back, "NO!"

 Later, they fold Kaybee into the intro of a song.  "We'd rather have him up here hearing the Gospel than anywhere else.  But there are a whole lot of children out there who never get to hear the Word.  Thomas Thomas, our neighbor down the street, wrote this next song.  It's his story.  His father was an alcoholic and his mother just up and left.  But every Sunday the church bus came and picked him up and took him to hear about Jesus."

 "Mr. Bus Man" mists even my jaded reportorial eyes.  "We never knew what the bus ministry really meant until we heard that song.   That's by our neighbor back home, Thomas Thomas, just a down-to-earth, good Christian man."

In 1973, Ray Pollard sang bass for the Firetower Quartet.  "We needed a place where we could spread out and turn up our instruments."  They started practicing in the chicken house.  Ray had given up raising chickens several years before and the dirt-floored building was gradually filling with junk auto parts.  Then people at the churches where the quartet played asked if they could come and hear the practice.  "We had 35 people the first night.  It grew from there."

 "God's met all of our needs but not all of our wants," says Ray's wife Mary.  There's a concrete floor under their feet now.  There's a donated hodgepodge of chairs.  The faux church windows behind the stage are a discarded set from Swift Creek Mill.  Pictures of the groups who have played the Chicken House paper the side and rear wall and spill over into the back room: the Gospelaires, Christianaires--one of the two black groups; the Whites, Winstons, Halls--all family bands, like the Bardleys; and the more creatively named Midnight Cry Gospel Quartet and Sounds of the Last Trumpet.  "We've had people and groups here from England, Russia, Czechoslovakia," says Mary.  "It's been fantastic, wonderful."

 Several years ago, the Pollards were thinking of closing the Chicken House.  Ray woke one night after a concert, went into the kitchen for a drink of water, and saw a light shining on the stage end of building.  "I knew I hadn't left a light on."  He woke Mary.  They thought it might be the moon--until the next night, when they realized "there was only a sliver of moon!"  A promotional leaflet continues:  "It was at that moment Ray knew that it was God shining His light on the precious humble old Chicken House building.  They knew, through their tears, that the Chicken House would continue on."

This article was first published in Style Weekly.  The Gospel Chicken House, which was located in Montpelier, Virginia, closed in 2011 after Ray and Mary Pollard died.