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.
