Civil Rights Music

by Reiland Rabaka

  Here Heilbut makes a key point about gospel music and helps us to see its pivotal place within the black sacred song tradition: like the spirituals, which similarly encapsulated and enunciated the existential sufferings and social misery of African Americans, golden age gospel was charged with meanings—movement meanings—that escaped most whites, but resonated in a multiplicity of ways with blacks, especially blacks actively involved in the Civil Rights Movement. For strategic, aesthetic, and poetic reasons, gospel protest was mostly masked in sacred symbolism and the outward appearance of escapism. But, in its own surreptitious and unique way, it was as critical—if not even more critical—of cultural imperialism, economic exploitation, social segregation, political repression, and anti-black racism as either rhythm & blues or rock & roll during the Civil Rights Movement.[15]

  On the Unsung Singing Soldiers of the Civil Rights Movement: Gospel Music as a “Genre Which Represents a Uniquely Black Perspective” and Protest Praxis

  If we are willing to concede that culture is a key resource for combatting oppression, whatever form oppression may manifest itself in, then, it must also be conceded that the sermons, prayers, and songs of African American church culture were indispensable elements of the Civil Rights Movement. Between 1945 and 1965, gospel was one of the “oppositional transcripts” or “unofficial truths” that was “developed, refined, and rehearsed” to covertly convey what African Americans could not overtly do or say. In this sense, golden age gospel music had a multitude of political implications, a multiplicity of complex meanings—again, movement meanings—for African Americans, especially African Americans actively involved in the Civil Rights Movement, and a remarkable ability to mask black radicalism while it surreptitiously inspired and enabled consciousness-raising and unforeseen forms of activism (e.g., non-violence, civil disobedience, passive resistance, moral suasion, litigation, economic boycott, grassroots organizing, solicitation of corporate sponsors, and oppositional use of the media, especially television and radio, etc.).

  The origins and evolution of gospel music are deeply intertwined with African American history, culture, and struggle—before, and certainly after, African American enslavement. Similar to its classic blues, ragtime, and jazz siblings, gospel was conceived and codified during the bleak years between Reconstruction and World War I, what has been repeatedly referred to as the “nadir of American race relations.”[16] Its development reflected the enormous social, political, and cultural transformations of the era, as groundbreaking gospel composers and performers blended the old spirituals and hymns of enslavement and its aftermath with the new rhythms and harmonic advances of classic blues, ragtime, and jazz, and coupled them with their own heartfelt sacred song lyrics to create a new style of black church music that spoke to the African American community’s need for hope, faith, and encouragement. Although the term “gospel” has been used to label many forms of African American sacred music since the nineteenth century, the modern genre dates to the 1920s. By the late-1920s the first “gospel blues” compositions had appeared, and by the early-1930s the gospel chorus was becoming a cornerstone of the black church. Inchoate gospel culture was taking shape during the Great Depression years, and by 1940 it was thoroughly entrenched in the African American community and established in all but the most elitist and conservative African American churches.

  It is not regularly realized in the twenty-first century how incredibly—in fact, one might say, “extraordinarily”—varied gospel music became during its formative phase. Certainly the “jubilee singers” and quartets of the turn of the twentieth century factored into gospel’s formative phase but, from the 1920s onward, right alongside the popular quartets flourished manifold male and female groups, choirs, and soloists, some with, and some without musical accompaniment. At this early period in gospel history and culture, musical accompaniment varied from banjos, pianos, and tambourines to the frenzy-filled distortions of electrified and amplified blue note-blurring, guitar-shredding, and organ-grinding preachers, deacons, and elders. No matter what the situation, however, classic gospel—especially by the time of the golden age—was primarily a singer’s art, and an authentic gospel singer had to have the characteristic call-and-response, cry, scream, and shout sound coupled with an angelic affinity for Holy Ghost-filled improvisation, a righteous and at times riotous sense of rhythm (emphasis on the “gospel beat”), and a proclivity for vocal acrobatics and praise-laden pyrotechnics. Perhaps, Heilbut drove this point home best when he asserted:

  [T]he supreme architects of the gospel moment are the great gospel singers. With them, spirit and community are welded by art. Their phrasing distills the best in folk expression, while adding unparalleled style and talent. All by themselves, the best singers can invoke as much spirit as a cathedral of saints. (xviii)

  Here Heilbut makes a crucial observation: it is in its fusing of “spirit and community,” of religion and culture that gospel offered a particularly apt spiritual weapon and cultural tool for aiding and abetting a mass movement grounded in African American religion and growing out of the black church. Obviously, this aspect of the sacred songs and overarching ethos of the Civil Rights Movement was deeply grounded in biblical wisdom, such as 2 Corinthians 10:3–5, which reads: “For though we walk in the flesh, we do not war according to the flesh. For the weapons of our warfare are not carnal but mighty in God for pulling down strongholds, casting down arguments and every high thing that exalts itself against the knowledge of God, bringing every thought into captivity to the obedience of Christ.” It is not a coincidence, then, that gospel artists, gospel records, gospel radio, and the gospel touring circuit, commonly called the “gospel highway,” all reached their pinnacle during the same epoch in which we witness the highest level of African American activism since the abolitionist era.

  Indeed, during its peak period, gospel’s influence actually went well beyond the black church and the Civil Rights Movement. As the much-esteemed African American musicologist Portia Maultsby (1992) has importantly pointed out, during its golden age “gospel music slowly penetrated every artery of American life, linking the sacred and secular domains of the African American community, breathing life into new secular forms, and bringing flair and distinction to the American stage of entertainment” (21). However, Maultsby maintained, it should be strongly stressed that no matter how much it was commercialized and “crossed-over” during its golden age, gospel was “a complex form that embodie[d] the religious, cultural, historical, and social dimensions of black life in America.” She continued, “[t]he current misinterpretation about the religious and cultural significance of this tradition emanates from the exploitation of gospel music as an economic commodity” (20).

  If, as Maultsby noted above, gospel “penetrated every artery of American life,” why then is it difficult for so many to accept the thesis that gospel was a major mouthpiece for, and soundtrack of the Civil Rights Movement, right alongside the more famous freedom songs, rhythm & blues, and rock & roll? Renowned African American religious music specialist Mellonee Burnim (1988) emphasized that for African Americans, “the essence of power in gospel music rests in the complex of cultural functions which it serves”—which brings us back to what I termed above, the multi-functionality of black church music or, rather, the multi-functionality of the African American sacred song tradition (112). All of this is to say, for black folk music is more than merely music, and any comprehensive engagement of African American history, culture, and struggle must take into serious consideration the extra-musical aspects of African American music and, most importantly, the ways in which black popular music has consistently enabled African Americans to implicitly sing what they are unable to explicitly say. Burnim broached the subject further, stating: “[g]ospel is not just a musical exercise; it is a process of esoteric sharing and affirmation. It is more than the beat; it is more than the movement; it even embodies much more than text, harmonies, or instrumental accompaniment.” In other words, gospel is “g
reater than the sum of its parts,” and all of its parts, incessantly intertwining with myriad other elements of African American culture, “produce a genre which represents a uniquely black perspective.” As a matter of fact, gospel encapsulates and enunciates a “uniquely black perspective” that “manifests itself in a cogent, dynamic cultural philosophy or worldview” (112). After systematically surveying the genre, Burnim came to the conclusion that gospel has “four primary functions”:

  (1) Gospel music reflects and transmits a sense of the historical past for black Americans, while simultaneously addressing immediate concerns and projecting future solutions. (2) Gospel music is an affirmation of life and the meaning of living. (3) Gospel music is a vehicle for individual expression within the context of a shared system of meaning. (4) Gospel music is simultaneously an agent for spiritual sustenance and an agent for reinforcement of cultural identity. (112)

  Burnim’s research strongly stresses that no matter how repetitively and passionately gospel music critics may dismiss (and sometimes even disavow) the politics of gospel music, gospel composers and performers, especially during the music’s golden age, “readily identify the historical, social, cultural, and spiritual dimensions of this musical form.” Hence, once again, my contention concerning the multi-functionality of the African American sacred song tradition comes into play. Gospel critics routinely overlook the gospel localism and gospel regionalism at the heart of the music. That is to say, most gospel scholarship frames the music as a black folk-derived, albeit highly urbanized, professionalized, and commercialized phenomenon that includes recordings, radio airplay, concerts, and conventions. However, it is important to call attention to the wider world of grassroots gospel, which, Burt Feintuch (1980) asserted, “thrives in a number of less visible settings, where it is practiced by non-professional, non-commercially motivated performers.” Feintuch importantly explained further:

  What we know of black gospel music is almost entirely centered on commercial performers and composers. As a consequence, any examination of the scholarship of this vital and unique musical genre results in a skewed conception of the music and its performers. . . . This may well be the reason why the music is customarily described as an art form performed by commercially-motivated professionals and disseminated through the means of mass culture: concert appearances, record sales, and radio airplay. . . . [But,] such a conception of black gospel music . . . is erroneous or, at best, half true. Gospel music also thrives in a number of less visible settings, where it is practiced by non-professional, non-commercially-motivated performers. I maintain that although the existence of such performers is virtually uninvestigated, non-commercial groups are one of the keystones of the expressive culture of many black churches. I also believe that the non-commercial domain differs substantially from that of the professional, although the two are related, and that it is possible to speak of non-commercial performers who perceive and practice a “gospel life.” (37)

  Observe the emphasis that Feintuch places on the little discussed fact that the commercial and non-commercial arenas are “separate but codependent” and, as he ultimately concludes, actually “exist in a kind of symbiotic tension,” incessantly exchanging material, styles, and personnel (41). As a result, any serious analysis of gospel music must take into critical consideration the ways in which commercial gospel is frequently driven by, and routinely reflects the traditions and new trends in non-commercial, grassroots gospel. Bearing in mind Feintuch’s contention concerning non-commercial gospel artists being “one of the keystones of the expressive culture of many black churches,” it is important for us to consider how grassroots gospel may very well be even more reflective of the aspirations and frustrations of African Americans during the tumultuous years of the Civil Rights Movement.

  On the local level, grassroots gospel singers—free from many of the trappings that come along with recording for a major record label—could lyrically and musically move in a more traditional or unconventional, regional or, most importantly, unrepentantly radical political direction (à la freedom singer-songwriters), if they chose to do so, when compared with their incredibly constrained commercial counterparts. Which is to say, instead of masking and muting the overarching ethos of the Civil Rights Movement, in most instances grassroots gospel artists—many of whom, as discussed above, doubled as freedom singer-songwriters—were able to put into play the “explicit” or “overt,” “tell it like it is,” “let’s call a spade a spade” truth-telling that lies at the heart of African American culture, especially African American religious culture. This means, then, that there were actually benefits that came along with being a grassroots, non-professional, non-commercially-motivated gospel artist during the music’s golden age: these virtually unsung (pun intended) singing civil rights soldiers could unapologetically and unambiguously minister to, and express—via the healing power of the African American sacred song tradition—what was in the hearts and on the minds of the beleaguered rank and file civil rights soldiers in the most unequivocally African American manner imaginable without fear of anti-black racist reprisal or economic indemnification because, as Martin Luther King once exclaimed: “Unfortunately, most of the major denominations still practice segregation in local churches, hospitals, schools, and other church institutions. It is appalling that the most segregated hour of Christian America is eleven o’clock on a Sunday morning,” he critically continued, “the same hour when many are standing to sing, ‘In Christ there is no East nor West.’” King, characteristically went even further, “[e]qually appalling is the fact that the most segregated school of the week is Sunday School.” He then climatically concluded, “[h]ow often the church has had a high blood count of creeds and an anemia of deeds!” (M. L. King 1958, 207–208).

  Because even religion, in this instance Christianity, was thoroughly racially segregated leading up to, and during the Civil Rights Movement years, the black church was not under the purview of white America. As a consequence, those aspects of black church culture that could—and, indeed, demonstrably did—incite social change, promote political activism, or raise African American cultural consciousness were virtually unknown to white America and, therefore, could not be either coopted or quickly countered by the legion of white opponents of the black freedom struggle. The irony here is that there is a sense in which African American ingenuity increasingly used American apartheid against itself. Racial segregation forced African Americans to live and work with each other, to rely on each other, to unconditionally love each other’s humble humanity in ways that white folk simply did not have to because they were not enduring the innumerable and ubiquitous evils of anti-black racism, including anti-black racist terrorism.

  Instead of a continuation of the “divide and conquer” strategies that European imperialism insidiously perfected during African colonization and African American enslavement, by the middle of the twentieth century black folk ultimately turned American apartheid upside down and developed a coded counter-ideology (predicated on non-violence, civil disobedience, and passive resistance, etc.) to socialize, politicize and, most importantly, mobilize. An important, even if often overlooked, part of the coded counter-ideology of the Civil Rights Movement was the music emerging out of the movement, and gospel music, because it never “crossed-over” in the ways in which rhythm & blues or rock & roll did, could be said to capture and convey the ambitions, inner-workings, and overarching ethos of the movement in ways that neither rhythm & blues nor rock & roll did. This is, in part, because white consumption of black popular music has had a tendency to focus more on black secular music than black sacred music. Since major white record labels have never lavished the kind of attention on black sacred music as they have on black secular music, gospel music has been, and remains, demonstrably one of the most unambiguously “African American” or, rather, the “blackest” (to put it poorly) major forms of black popular music. It is in this sense, then, that gospel music can serve as a paradigm and key point of
departure for critically exploring the coded counter-ideology of the major soundtracks of the Civil Rights Movement.

  The vast majority of golden age gospel acts were products of greatly dispersed gospel localism and gospel regionalism and, as a result, did not have reputations reaching much beyond their hometowns or regions—or, in many instances, even beyond their own church communities. “Therein lies the difference between gospel and virtually every other form of music,” observed Alan Young in Woke Me Up This Morning: Black Gospel Singers and the Gospel Life (1997). He continued, “[g]ospel still belongs to the community. It has national stars, big recording companies, and television and radio shows, but its foundation is still in thousands of churches throughout the United States, especially in the South.” Young then noted that church “is a social as well as a religious occasion, and the church membership makes up a close-knit group within the larger community.” Truth be told, “[e]very church has a choir, and most have members who sing in groups.” Indeed, church folk “like to see the big name groups, such as the Pilgrim Jubilees or the Mighty Clouds of Joy,” but, he emphasized, “they also like to see their own [local] singers” (xxxv).

  The many highly skilled, even if little known, grassroots gospel performers have always replenished gospel’s deep reservoir and assured its ongoing evolution and innovations. Obviously, the gospel produced during the golden age demonstrated the genre’s predilection for tradition, innovation, and experimentation. But, Young importantly emphasized that even in light of its core characteristics of innovation and experimentation, it is the ways in which gospel gives the “gospel community” a sense of tradition that may be the most meaningful for the genre’s fans. No matter how much the musical accompaniment changes, the gospel sound, the characteristic call-and-response, cry, scream, and shout sound of both classic and contemporary gospel are emblematic of the “old-time religion” of the enslaved ancestors being conceptually carried over and—this should be unambiguously accented—acknowledged and honored. Stylistic advances and musical innovations in gospel often create a greater demand for the older styles of the gospel tradition, and this is especially the case on the local or regional gospel scene. As Young’s research revealed: