A friend loaned me a copy of Will Smith’s autobiography, Will (2021). He talks about the first time he jammed with Jazzy Jeff, his DJ partner (82-83):
There are rare moments as an artist that you cannot quantify or measure. As much as you try, you can barely reproduce them and it’s near impossible to describe them. But every artist knows what I’m talking about–those moments of divine inspiration where creativity flows out of you so brilliantly and effortlessly that somehow you are than you have ever been before.
That night with Jeff was the first time I ever tasted it, the place that athletes call “the zone.” It felt like we already existed as a group and we just had to catch up to ourselves–natural, comfortable, home.
Jeff could sense my rhyme style. He always knew when my jokes were coming, when to drop the track out so people could clearly hear the punch line, and I could tell by which hand he was using what type of scratch was coming. He preferred different scratches with his left hand than with his right. Sensing this, I could draw the audience’s attention to which scratch was coming by which hand he was transitioning to. He was choosing the tracks and adjusting the tempos based on what he felt best accentuated the narrative structure and the flow of my rhymes. And just as the music crescendoed, I’d throw down a dagger of a line and Jeff would drop the beat into the funkiest, hottest, party-rocking shit these Philly kids had ever seen in their lives.
Earlier he had talked about being in church when he was younger and the visiting pastor, Reverent Ronald West, showed up (p. 35):
Reverend West led the choir. He always started off seated, playing the piano with this left hand, directing the choir with his right, calmly leaning into some slow, Mahalia Jackson–style ballad to warm up the elders.
This was just the calm before the storm.
Slowly, he would transform, allowing the music to carry him into a trance. Tears would fill his eyes, sweat building on his brow, as he rummaged for his hanky to clear the fog from his glasses. The drums, the bass, the voices, all rising at his command, as if imploring the Holy Spirit to show itself. And then, like clockwork, an ecstatic crescendo, and...BOOM! The Holy Ghost fills the room. Reverend West explodes from his seat, kicking over the stool, both hands possessed, banging in praise on the piano. Then, with a guttural roar, he blazes across the stage to the three-tiered electric organ, demanding that it do what God intended it to do, swirling massive orchestral Baptist chords, all the while sweat flying; the congregation erupting, singing, dancing; old women passing out in the aisles, weeping; Reverend West pointing, directing, never once losing control of the choir and the band...until his body would collapse in surrender and gratitude for the merciful bliss of God’s love.
As the music settled, Gigi [Smith’s grandmother] returned to her seat, dabbling tears from her eyes, and my little heart pounding–not even totally what that sweet vibration was inside my body–and all I could think was I wanna do THAT. I want to make people feel like THAT.
I'm happier commenting anonymously because words on a screen or a page can never capture what a Rev. Ronald West or a Rev. C. L. Franklin can do in church. The experience of being filled with the HolyGhost, ridden by the divine horsemen, becoming Osun or Yemaya in dance, turning one's self over to consubstantiation, full participation, being IN the Spirit, may only be given to us a limited or finite number of times, or not at all.
ReplyDeleteUnfortunately, some of the "reveerents" who have developed this capacity to fill people up with the Spirit go on to live dangerous and predatory lives. In the Christian version of the trance-dance people can claim sanctification only to jump back into violence, fraud and sin over and over again.