Anthony Heilbut can lay claim to knowing Mahalia Jackson better than almost anyone else living. He produced some of her seminal recording sessions, and walked away from the experience with his sole Grammy Award. In the new documentary Rejoice & Shout—playing in limited theaters—Heilbut speaks of Jackson in reverent terms. One comment is particularly striking. Explaining why Jackson’s music resonated with mainstream audiences, he simply notes that she was presented to the public as “a great artist.” He says it matter-of-factly, but his implication is clear: before Mahalia, he suggests, gospel musicians simply weren’t regarded as great musicians by the average record buyer.
I’m inclined to say that this hasn’t changed all that much. Gospel music is oft recognized more for its fervor than for its musicality; some folks think gospel is more about making a “joyful noise” than anything else. But this movie might change that thinking. Rejoice & Shout is not a movie about the gospel—if anything, the religious elements are played down—but it is, rather, the story of gospel as a music (specifically a black music). It’s steeped in the stuff. It bears witness to its power and its majesty.
And while gospel music is presented here—at least initially—as something of a folk art, it’s never written off as primitive, or as the province of amateurs. Actually, Heilbut—an author and record producer whose commentary is some of the most fascinating in the entire film—makes another illuminating comment about some of the early black gospel quartets. He notes that you could always tell a black gospel group apart from a white barbershop quartet because, though the style was similar, the black groups actually brought a greater sense of musicality, emphasizing the different vocal characteristics of the singers in a more sophisticated way than what the barbershop groups were doing.
But you won’t need anyone to tell you that black gospel is powerful music. You’ll hear it for yourself. Director Don McGlynn has made a number of documentaries with musical subjects—Howlin’ Wolf, Dexter Gordon, and Charles Mingus, to name a few—and he’s learned that, in many cases, it’s important to let the music attest to its own power, on its own authority. For this film he’s come up with some simply breathtaking, vintage footage of gospel performances. For this footage alone, the movie is a gem—and when he hits us with a full, uncut performance of a song from Mahalia, it essentially renders all the commentary unnecessary.
Ironically, that’s the only real problem with the film: Though McGlynn clearly understands the music’s impact, he doesn’t always trust his viewers to pick up on it. It’s really only a problem for the first ten or fifteen minutes of the film, which McGlynn structures as a sort of “spiritual foundation” for what is to come. Listening to Mavis Staples talk about the communal aspects of gospel—how it offered a sense of unity and perseverance during periods of slavery, segregation, and eventually the civil rights movement—is interesting, and points to where the film is headed. Hearing Smokey Robinson wax theological about how the Creator’s hand is evident in creation is nice to hear, but ultimately irrelevant to the story told in this film—particularly given that Robinson isn’t really a gospel musician.
But once the film starts to truly dig into the history of black gospel, it’s pretty remarkable. It starts during the era of slavery, and traces the origins of gospel music to a time when plantation owners began forcing their slaves to attend church services with them. The slaves were moved by the message but not by the European music, which they just couldn’t relate to. So they married Christian themes to African rhythms, and gospel was born.
Anyone who has studied gospel music or even African-American history is likely aware of this already, but the film generally does a good job of appealing to novices and connoisseurs alike. This same section on slavery has some commentary on some of the more popular lyrics and tropes in early gospel music, and reveals them to be multi-faceted in their meanings, pointing to both biblical narratives and to the real-world conditions of slavery. Fascinating stuff.
McGlynn’s film quickly falls into a pattern of tracing gospel’s evolution by focusing on some of its key players—a smart move, given the breadth of this topic, but also given how fascinating some of these individual stories are. One of the key themes of the documentary is the synthesis of religion, entertainment, art, and commerce that came to characterize this music—a theme that’s still relevant to discussions about religious music today. The Ward Singers, then, are presented basically as a show business family—with a mother who pushes her kids to sing and drives them all the way to Vegas for a series of well-attended club shows.
But other stories are a lot less cut-and-dry. Thomas Dorsey is mentioned as a performer who divided his time between clubs—where he would write what the film dubs “filthy” blues songs—and churches, where he penned some of the most enduring gospel standards of all time, with melodies lifted from both the blues and the music of Irving Berlin. Meanwhile, self-taught guitarist and mesmerizing singer Sister Rosetta Tharpe—”the hippest gospel singer in town,” Heilbut says—is shown singing some truly bewitching, folksy gospel originals. Then she performs a secular song, “Lonesome Road,” with a passion that suggests she’s really calling out to Jesus—but then, she’s also got a full orchestra and a team of flashy dancers backing her up, so who knows whether her intentions were driven by spirituality, commerce, or some combination of the two?
Indeed, one of the film’s chief virtues is its willingness to present this music as pure, but far from uncomplicated. When it arrives at the civil rights era, it briefly addresses the interwoven nature of the gospel and folk music of that period; it is well known, for instance, that the Staples Singers took to doing a lot of Bob Dylan songs, but this film is quick to point out that Dylan himself was rather enamored of the Staples. And by the time the 1970s roll around, we come to Andrae Crouch, described in the film as both a “modern day hymn writer” and a “sex symbol.”
The great strength of the movie lies in its willingness to simply let tensions like these exist; to do anything else would do a disservice to this music. Instead it is presented here as a rich, ever-evolving, and continually inspiring thing—and that’s reason enough for rejoicing.
Talk About It
Discussion starters- In what ways does the film present gospel music as an instrument of social change? Consider the slavery and civil rights periods, in particular.
- The film begins with a quotation from musician Andrae Crouch, who likens gospel music to a form of God’s voice. Do you agree or disagree with his assessment?
- What is the relationship we see between religious music and entertainment? How about between religious music and commerce? Do you think there are any parallels to the Christian rock or modern worship music of today?
The Family Corner
For parents to considerRejoice and Shout is rated PG for some mild thematic material and some incidental smoking (the latter, of course, stemming from archival footage from the days of yore). There are some heavy topics involved with this discussion—about slavery and racism, for example—but there is nothing explicit said or shown on the screen.
Photos © Magnolia Pictures
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