I was a fan who knew too little, a 14-year-old rock-and-roller, when I first went to the Apollo Theater. I acquired some great memories--a pugnacious Jackie Wilson, a still ingenuous Diana Ross. But then some usher took pity, and said, "Kid, you think this blues is something? You need to see our Gospel Caravans." I took his advice, heard the greatest music in the land, and my life changed for good.
The gospel of the late '50s was a small miracle, holding within it most of the elements that would later capture the world. At the Apollo, you could hear Sam Cooke with his quartet, the Soul Stirrers, setting down a pattern for all the soul singers who followed him out of the church. Or the leading female group, the Famous Ward Singers. Their namesake, Clara Ward, would inspire Aretha Franklin and the many women who sing like her. But the group's real lead, Marion Williams, would have a cross-sexual impact, when her style was copped by Little Richard and all those men--from James Brown and Sam and Dave--who own him as their father.
It wasn't simply the great singing. The physical carriage was shocking. Back then, vocal groups held themselves very straight, with perfect, metronomic posture. These days, background singers in any form hang loose, swaying individually to the beat as they hear it. Gospel, through its rock and soul disciples, has relaxed our bodies. More than that, it has showed a way to group ecstasy. I used to marvel at the gospel "saints," dancing, running, jumping for victory, sometimes even rolling in the aisles. Secularize all that, and this spiritual rejoicing becomes, well, moshing.
What finally won me to gospel was its emotional range. This, despite the fact that I remain moved but thoroughly unconvinced by its theology. I learned that gospel could touch all emotional bases one night at the Apollo. As a novelty attraction, the sponsors had hired a professional actor named Gilbert Adkins to recite a faux-naif sermon called "The Creation." His performance struck me as grandiose, but the Apollo audience was not used to Broadway, and they experienced it as a treat.
On the last night, Fred Barr, the promoter, summoned Adkins back to the stage and handed him a large bouquet of flowers, the gift of a group of church ladies who had attended every show. The actor was overcome. "You know," he said--and you could only reckon the difficulties of being a black actor in those days--"my mother told me something that has stayed with me down through the years. She said, 'Boy, you can go a lot of places. But folk don't have to love you.' "
He shook his head and left the stage. But the moment was not complete. Suddenly young people all over the Apollo rose to their feet and started to shout. Some singers onstage got the spirit as well. The dancing continued for 20 minutes, as ushers dashed around the floor, snatching the bodies of men and women overcome by memories too deep for words. It was black church at its highest, and there had been nary a mention of Jesus. --Anthony Heilbut, author of The Fan Who Knew Too Much: Aretha Franklin, the Rise of the Soap Opera, Children of the Gospel Church, and Other Meditations (Knopf)