They are singing this cherished classic of bereavement in order to mourn the present and the past. They are, if you’re willing to see it this way, lamenting what is obviously a generational transition from one phase of Black political expression to another, from resolve to anger, from the grandiloquence of Jackson’s pile of hair to Staples’s blunter Afro. They’re mourning all of the death - of leaders, of followers, of troops and civilians. They’re singing for the festival’s attendees. The ducts simply gave way, and the mask I wore at the theater where I sat was eventually covered in runny, viscous salt. Howling, moaning, wailing, hopping, but well within the song’s generous contours and, somehow, in control of themselves. Then together - Jackson refulgent in a fuchsia gown with a gold diamond emblazoned below her bosom Staples in something short, lacy, belted and white - they embark on the single most astounding duet I’ve ever heard, seen or felt. Jackson follows her with equal force and in defiance of whatever had been ailing her. King told him that he wanted him to play the gospel pillar “Take My Hand, Precious Lord.” And here now to grant that wish is Mahalia Jackson, who many a time sang it at King’s request. Martin Luther King Jr.’s last words were to the Breadbasket’s leader, Ben Branch. Backing him is the Breadbasket Orchestra and Choir, and he begins to tell the many Harlemites densely packed before him that the Rev. Jackson appears, looking as beatifically beatnik as he’d ever get. Minutes after Walker and her Gospel Redeemers, the Rev.
Pearson, have done some mighty hefty truncation. So I don’t know what any particular day’s official, chronological lineup was, but Thompson and his editor, Joshua L.
Now, these performances took place over six summer Sundays. Not far behind is the pulpit dervish Clara Walker, whose exhortative way with a tune doubles as furnace and fan. Then the Staple Singers - Pops and his daughters Cleotha, Yvonne and Mavis - come on and dress “Help Me Jesus” in rockabilly robes. The Edwin Hawkins Singers kick it off with their rendition of “Oh Happy Day,” which at the time was a massive hit. The haphazard discovery blots out all the delight.
#Man on the moon movie opening music how to#
Too much cutting away from the good stuff, too much talking over images that can speak just fine for themselves, never knowing - in concert films - how to use a crowd.
The footage has been found, but the movie’s been lost. Sometimes these archival-footage documentaries don’t know what they’ve got. But it’s once you’re there, engulfed in it, that you trust Thompson’s strategy. It’s all been cooking before this midway moment. But no jolt compares to what happens in the middle of this thing, which is simply - though far from merely - footage from the 1969 edition of the Harlem Cultural Festival, footage that Ahmir Thompson, better known as Questlove, has rescued and assembled into nearly two-hours of outrageous poignancy. King and Ray Barretto and Gladys Knight & the Pips, in top, electric form. The movie’s got Sly and the Family Stone and B.B. It’s a movie that nears its end with Nina Simone doing “Backlash Blues” in a boxing match with the keys of her piano, her hair indistinguishable from the conical art piece affixed to her head. There’s no shortage of system shocks in “ Summer of Soul.” This is a concert movie that basically opens with a 19-year-old, pre-imperial-era Stevie Wonder getting behind a drum kit and whomping away - sitting, standing, kicking, possessed.
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