That Old Time Religion
From the March 29, 2004 issue: Goodbye, Babylon brings back early gospel music.
Mar 29, 2004, Vol. 9, No. 28 • By MATT LABASH
PENTECOSTALS had spent the first years of the twentieth century breaking away from the Methodists and Baptists from which they sprang, who just weren't cutting it worship-wise. Some Baptists would eventually catch up--Thomas A. Dorsey, an African-American secular musician who became the "Father of Gospel," was a Baptist--as was Mahalia Jackson. But Pentecostals rejected the starchy hymns, nonrhythmic accompaniment, and non-improvisational singing of these established denominations.
Those who became Pentecostals were a largely hardscrabble lot accustomed to having cosmic bricks dropped on their heads. This formed both their musical vernacular (derived from everything from mountain music to old spirituals) and perception of God (many blacks were still around who had lived through slavery). When it came to worship, Holiness types didn't play around. In both song and sermon, they portrayed a fierce God--One of redemption, but also of vengeance--not the simplistic elbow-patched grandpa, or open-armed hippie-Jesus of the modern superchurch soundtrack. In a 1930 song called "Memphis Flu," Elder David R. Curry, pastor of the Oakley Street Church of God in Christ, and his congregation sing over barrelhouse piano runs, handclaps, and interjections of "Praise Jesus!": Yes, He killed the rich and poor / And He's going to kill more / If you don't turn away from your shame.
Referring to the gift of tongues--central to their theology--the Holiness types spoke of being "baptized with fire" (as opposed to their gentler cousins the Baptists, who stuck with water). And while there's no speaking in tongues on Goodbye, Babylon, it would be difficult for anyone listening to the holy roar of the Reverend Sister Mary Nelson on the tune "Judgment" to tell the difference: Well, all you hypocrite members / You wasting your time away / My God's calling for workmens / And you had better obey.
All of this strange and wondrous music comes in a package that itself lessens the pain of the $100 outlay required to own it. I've had it for a week, and already it is among my most indispensable possessions--right up there with my Complete Hank Williams box, my Stax Singles, and my '70s Soul Experience set, itself ingeniously encased in something resembling an old eight-track tape holder. The packaging is as beautiful as anything I've seen. The six CDs come in a slide-off wood box slightly smaller than the family Bibles salesmen used to peddle door to door. (Ledbetter contracted with a wine-box manufacturer.) The cover is adorned with Gustave Doré's Confusion of Tongues, a late-Victorian etching of the Tower of Babel.
OPEN THE BOX, and you are met with the smell of cedar, as if from an old dresser drawer full of lost treasures. It is packed not only with the disks and a two-hundred-page booklet intended to represent an old hymnal, but also with raw cotton, which Ledbetter, if he's not putting me on, told me was "handpicked from Alabama--my uncle's brother helped us out with it." The cotton is not intended to keep the box's contents from rattling around inside, but rather, as a note says, "This set is dedicated to all the artists who wanted their message to be heard. The cotton is a reminder of the struggle, strife and sorrow that so many of them endured."
These days, the figure of the ethnomusicologist has nearly become one of sport--the earnest white guy in search of The Source of All Things Authentic--looking for some gnarled old black man held together with nothing but suspenders, missing half his teeth and all his wits, preferably sitting on a porch, ready to throw down with a homemade instrument, exhibiting his primitive genius. These sleuths follow in the footsteps of John and Alan Lomax, who scoured the plantations and prisons of the South for Library of Congress field recordings, or Harry Smith, whose 1952 Anthology of American Folk Music is considered the genre's seminal work.
Ledbetter escapes this fate by concentrating on sacred music exclusively--which has been neglected by all but the most rabid collectors. Instead of the blues clichés we've become accustomed to as one collection after another rolls down the remastered assembly line (servicing one's big-legged woman, dusting one's broom, selling one's soul to dicey characters one meets at crossroads in Mississippi), Ledbetter's set has all the rawness and vitality of the blues masters. But lyrically, the artists he collects--many of whom were secular stalwarts who dabbled in or switched full-time to gospel music--are playing for much higher stakes.
THERE ARE ALL SORTS OF GRAND THEMES running through Goodbye, Babylon: deliverance and judgment, mortal expiration and eternal salvation. Many secular critics haven't quite gotten past the buckets of blood, alluded to in songs like "Are You Washed in the Blood of the Lamb?" by Da Costa Woltz's Souther Broadcasters, a 1920s string band. Or there's the number by Ernest V. Stoneman--Thomas Edison's favorite hillbilly artist--who, along with his Dixie Mountaineers, sing, Oh, the blood of Calvary's brow / I can see it flowing now. But to the church-steeped, whose ears are already acclimated, it's standard Sunday-morning viscera.
The more striking leitmotif is blindness. The collection boasts Blind Lemon Jefferson, Blind Roger Hays, Blind Benny Paris and his blind wife, Blind Alfred Reed, Blind Joe Taggart, Blind Mamie Forehand, and no less than four Blind Willie's (Davis, Harris, McTell, and Johnson)--the last of whom was blinded when his stepmother threw lye in his eyes during a fight with his father. And that's just the artists with "blind" monikers. There's also blind Roosevelt Graves and Brother (his brother wasn't blind, but had only one eye), and blind Jimmie Strothers (found by John Lomax in a Virginia state prison, where he presumably came to Jesus after murdering his wife with an ax).
So fashionable was it to be a blind gospeler, that it is said Blind Joe Taggart wasn't even blind, he just had cataracts. And then there was blind Arizona Juanita Dranes, an influential gospel singer who once traveled from Chicago to Texas with a note of introduction that read, "Since she is deprived of her natural sight, the Lord has given her a spiritual sight." Even nonbelievers have to give God points for consistency: He sticks with His blind people.
Such physical impairments are a keen reminder that this is hard music made by hard people--singers to whom grace did not come cheap and who are not big proponents of today's prosperity-gospel, Prayer-of-Jabez rhetoric. In a song recorded at the Parchman State Penitentiary in 1940s Mississippi, a prisoner named Jimpson sings "No More My Lord," his rhythm section nothing but the sound of splitters thudding against wood on his work gang (at one point during the recording, a wood chip actually hits the microphone). Then there's Elder Effie Hall and Congregation, who did their version of Thomas A. Dorsey's "Take My Hand, Precious Lord." Dorsey, widely known as the father of gospel music, was a jazz and blues sideman who decided to walk the Gospel highway after composing his most famous song, which he wrote after locking himself into a room for three days after the death of his wife and son during childbirth. They are the songs of people who had accepted their lot and weren't holding out for a much better deal--at least not in this life: Precious Lord, take my hand / Lead me on, let me stand / I am tired, I am weak, I am old.
MUCH CONTEMPORARY CHRISTIAN MUSIC strives not even to mention the J-word--instead of naming the name of Jesus, they favor double entendres that could serve, depending on the listener, as either sacred music or generic love songs. But the singers on Goodbye, Babylon took their Jesus straight, without chasers or apologies. While plenty of the artists on the CDs are famous--Mahalia Jackson, Bill Monroe, Skip James--just as many are one-offers who, in addition to being coal miners or migrant farmers, were sisters and elders, deacons and reverends. Not viewing the church as a springboard to popular success as so many legions of R&B stars have through the years, they sang with conviction and without embarrassment, maintaining that the believer conformed to the belief, not the other way around. They were direct and raucous, and they put the "fun" back in fundamentalism.
They were groups like the Jubilee Gospel Team, who sang, in 1928, that Jesus will be your lawyer / He'll be your lawyer all the way. They were singers like Mother McCollum, who sang, over her own slide guitar in "Jesus is My Air-o-plane": Reeling and rocking, you can hide no sin / Jesus coming in His air-o-plane. They were stiff-necked dogmatists like Sister O.M. Terrell--a street minister from the Fire Baptized Holiness Church of God--who, with a wink, put everyone from adulterers to "snuff dippers" on notice, singing: You know the Bible right / Somebody wrong / God knows / You're wrong. They are people whose God often seems to have failed them, but who believe anyway--whose songs and wails and murmurs are often defiant affirmations. Death does not make them blanch or prevent them from tending the pressing business of "getting right," which explains sermons like Rev. J.M. Gates's 1926 Christmas pick-me-up, "Death Might Be Your Santa Claus," followed by "Will the Coffin be Your Santa Claus?" and the capper, "Will Hell Be Your Santa Claus?"
AS MUSICIANS AND VOCAL STYLISTS, they took a backseat to no secular artists of the day--and often, they doubled as the secular artists of the day. Legendary blues guitarist Blind Lemon Jefferson, of Primitive Baptist stock, went so far as to record religious material under the pseudonym "Deacon L.J. Bates" to conceal his secular identity. They were singers like Brother Claude Ely, who in the Kentucky Holiness tradition, sings and plays the perennial Church of God in Christ shout, "There Ain't No Grave Gonna Hold My Body Down," with a ferocity that suggests he was getting sawed in half while performing.
There are tracks of mysterious beauty, without equivalent in any of today's gospel, R&B, or country idioms. In a 1927 cut, Washington Phillips, in his laid-back Pop-Staples way, sings, matter-of-factly, Oh lift him up, that's all / Lift Him up in His word / If you tell the name of Jesus everywhere / If you'll keep His name a'ringin' everywhere that you go / He will draw men unto Him. Phillips, whose demise was long thought to have come in a mental institution, was found only recently by researcher Michael Corcoran to have passed on from head injuries sustained in a tumble down a flight of stairs at a welfare office in Teague, Texas. The otherworldly instrument he played is also the source of scholarly debate. Some think it is a dolceola, a portable baby-grand-piano-like instrument, of which only fifty are thought to exist today. Others who knew him said it was a zither-like instrument of his own creation. In any case, it sounds like a ghostly calliope from some half-remembered dream.
Then there are songs like "O Day" by Bessie Jones and the Sea Island Singers--as satisfying as music gets. Sung typically as a Christmas or New Year's shout after an all-night worship service, this version, recorded by Alan Lomax in St. Simon's Island, Georgia, in 1960, features voices twinning, yet not quite harmonizing. They overlap and swirl and loop around each other over a guitar, syncopated varying-tempo hand-clapping, and a fife that threatens to derail the entire process like a fluttering wheel on a runaway shopping cart, but which instead provides the perfect tension that holds it all together. It is infectious Holiness music, that when I play it--over and over and over again--sees my one- and four-year-old boys bounding through my door, clapping and dancing as if in some tent-meeting trance.
I'd probably join them, if I hadn't been raised Southern Baptist. The lyrics, simple and repetitive, pretty much sum up the whole ball of wax, redemption-wise: Yonder come day, I heard him say / Yonder come day, it's a dying day / Yonder come day, it's a burying day / Yonder come day, I was on my knees / Yonder come day, when I heard him say / Yonder come day, that's a New Year's day / Day done broke into my soul / Yonder come day, well, come on, child / Yonder come day, Jordan roll.
IN A RECENT PIECE for the Washington Post, Eddie Dean, one of the great chroniclers of lost America--which isn't a crowded field--interviewed Dick Spottswood, who, at Ledbetter's behest, served as both music and liner-notes wrangler on much of Goodbye, Babylon. Spottswood, himself a Washington, D.C., institution as host of the local public-radio station's invaluable Obsolete Music Hour, is no holy-rolling Bible thumper. But he perfectly nailed the difference between the old and new sacred music: "It's not like contemporary Christian songs, which are all praising Jesus, with nothing about sin or guilt. They've turned Jesus into a very cheap, off-the-shelf, one-size-fits-all Jesus. There's nothing of substance left, and the music reflects this sort of mindless cheerfulness. With the old-time gospel songs, like [the Monroe Brothers'] 'Sinner You Better Get Ready,' there are dark clouds and tragedy and death and all the unpleasantries you have to go through before you can stand in line at the redemption counter."
AS A KID, I would get chills when we used to sing the old 1899 Lewis E. Jones hymn, "There is Power in the Blood." The women, trying to out-falsetto each other, would sing "There is power, power, wonder working power in the blood of the Lamb." The men would double-time, walking a steady bass-line underneath, with "There is power, power, power, power, wonder-working power." And there is, in fact, power, listening to Jesus bleed into the Devil's music.
It's a sensation I get over and over again, watching secular artists reach up to address the sacred. The great ones often seem to get greater (as when the Rolling Stones sing "I Just Want to See His Face" and "Shine a Light"). The not-so-great often achieve greatness doing the same (the closing flourishes of Lionel Richie and the Commodores' much-overlooked 1981 "Jesus is Love" are some of the most pristine acts ever committed in a studio).
I was reminded of this during a recent re-viewing of The Last Waltz, the universally acclaimed 1978 film, in which The Band took a final bow by inviting tons of more famous stars like Eric Clapton and Bob Dylan to turn them into a backing band at their own farewell concert. In between all the high-wattage stage performances, which made the soundtrack, came a quiet moment. It is one of my favorite moments in The Band's history, and by extension, one of my favorite moments in music. At some flophouse, The Band, looking desiccated and debauched from Lord-knows-how-many-years on the road, were enjoying one of their last moments of total camaraderie. Keyboardist Richard Manuel sat in a chair, while Robbie Robertson and Rick Danko sat on an adjoining couch.
They seemed blissfully unaware that their best years were soon to be behind them. (Manuel, less than a decade later, would hang himself in a motel room.) And Danko, who played the loose bass lines and sang the yearning, desperate harmonies that crystallized their sound, looked beautifully doomed as always. (He would later lose a son and die prematurely himself.) Monkeying around for director Martin Scorsese, Manuel suggests the boys strike up "'Old Time Religion' for the folks." Robertson and Danko oblige. Robertson strums his guitar, while Danko, not even bothering to lift his fiddle to his shoulder, saws off the opening notes. Robertson sings it straight--give me that old time religion . . . it's good enough for my grandpa . . . it's good enough for me--while Danko, still fiddling, lays down some percussion, kicking tables and stomping floors as he echoes Robertson, while improvising "good enough" interjections around the song's nub. The whole moment is ragged and off-the-cuff and only lasts about forty-five seconds. But somehow, it is perfect. At its conclusion, with the spell broken, Robertson takes a drag off his cigarette--and admits, "It's not like it used to be."
INDEED, IT ISN'T. Which is why we should study and cherish collections like Goodbye, Babylon. There is something ennobling about watching fallible man--tired and weak and old, in Thomas Dorsey's words--stumbling around to find God in the dark. Vicariously, we take their ride, as men and women who knew difficulty hope that the best parts of themselves cross the goal line--that they, in the words of cataract-addled Blind Joe Taggart, get to the "great camp meeting on the other side of the shore." Meanwhile, we are left with the documentation of their struggle, the bottleneck slides and jug blows and handclaps of those who left the next best part of themselves behind on scratchy vinyl, pointing the way for the rest of us, still stumbling around in the dark.
Matt Labash is senior writer at The Weekly Standard.