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The Guardian Weekend 12/18/ 1993 UK
All God's Children
ALIX SHARKEY reports. Pictures by ROBERT GUMPERT
They whooped, cheered, sang and prayed and came to hear a bishop preach at the church of John Coltrane.
Blue skies stretch forever on a bright Sunday morning in San Francisco, and the southern end of Divisadero Street is still sleepy. The odd car that's heading north towars the marina and its yuppy condos, or the chatter of teenage girls walking to Haight-Ashbury a few blocks south-west-these are the only sounds that disturb the neighbourhood's tranquility.
But inside a white-washed, anonymous storefront at number 351, people are getting ready to make some serious noise, a joyful noise unto the Lord. And what people! Grungy street kids with dirty hair and T-shirts, who can't have seen a hot meal in weeks: courteous young black men in pressed jeans; black professionals, like the steel-haired man in a suit and tie, nursing a leather folio; an elderly black couple, holding hands, just behing a plump white girl with straggly, bright-purple hair, a nose-ring and a tattoo circling her ankle.
In front of her, a mane of blonde corkscrew hair bobs up and down
rhythmically, its owner, in a red Planet Earth T-shirt, holding a tambourine with both hands. Young black ladies, skin gleaming, eyes sparkling, hair chignoned, dressed in Sunday best silk, with handbags and court shoes, throng together at the front. A white woman with a wide-brimmed hat holds a black baby with satin ribbons in her hair. Black and white, rich and poor of all ages: in this place, they are all God's children.
Then there's the band-battered piano, full drum kit, electric guitar and a beautiful black woman on the double bass. They tune their instruments while people stand in the aisle in front of them, looking for a space; those seated shuffle up the pews to make room.
At the front, the white lady hands the baby to its mother, and fanning herself with a factsheet, takes up a microphone to address the congregation.
"This is a long service, it can last four hours, and we recognize that many people cannot stay for its entirety. So if you need to leave, that'sne. You can always come back. Feel free to go out for air, because it gets a little hot in here, too.." After eliciting volunteers to work on the church's food programs for the poor, she reminds us that "anyone who has brought along an instrument is welcome lay and join in our musical adoration". The sound of percussion fills the air in acknowledgement. A man sits with a full-sized conga drum between his legs, which he will play throughout the service.
We start with prayers, the drummer ticking over, tap-tap-tap. The band's tune-up turns into music, impereptibly, like a flower opening. Before there is time to think about it, the whole church is swaying to a mournful gospel song. Sister Mary Deborah, the church president, declaims above the sweet refrain, to a chorus of hallelujahs and amens: "Whatever you're doing, you will be called."
On the altar (one is tempted to say "onstage"), the Most Reverend Bishop Franzo W. King, in an ankle-length black frock coat, and waring the fuchsia skull-cap that denotes his eccloslastical status, puts the soprano sax to his lips and plays a gentle, modulated theme. It is the main musical motif of, A Love Supreme, perhas the most famous of John Coltrane's compositions.
The sound swells as the band takes off, the Sisters of Compassion singing the chorus, the pianist carrying the melody. There are two bassists, and the bespectacled white boy on the guitar is throwing down some fierce, funky rhythms. The kid with the tambourine is smashing it, double-time, against his left hand, jerking his head so violently that it must surely detach itself from his shoulders any second. People stand, eyes closed, swaying gently to the rhythm.
Others sing their hearts out, beating tom-toms, or smiling at the ceiling, hands aloft in exaltation: A crescendo builds and builds, for 30 minutes. The sound is monumental, soaring, awesome.
The tune segues into the Lord's Prayer, g by the entire congregation to a jazzy, gospel accompaniment. Overlooking this se, dominating the altar, is an icon in the high Orthodox style, of a noble balck man th a golden halo. His left hand holds a tenor saxophone, in the bell of which are flickering tongues of flame, symbolising the Holy Spirit. His right clutches a parchment, witht he words, "Let us sing all nges to God. Let us pursue Him in the righteous path. Yes it is true; "Seek and you shall find.'"
His name is written in ters of gold. St. John Will-I-Am Coltrane, the late, great jazz musicain, and the paon saint of this storefront establishment, known as St. John's African Orthodox church.
St. John's stands in an area known as the Western Addition, bang in the middle of the San Francisco peninsula, a position which belies its reputation as one of the city's most deprived and poverty-stricken neighbourhoods. Driving through block after block of semi-abandoned and low-rent buildings, it is hard to imagine that this was once a vibrant, thriving black community. Hard drugs and gang violence make this a risky district after dark. Like so many black urban areas throughout the U.S., it was allowed to deteriorate during the Sixties and in the 1969-1970, large parts of it were bulldozed.
Corrie M. Anders, a local journalist and staff writer on the San Francisco Examiner, describes the demolition as "urbanicide", and says that promises of regeneration and resettlement were reneged on. "It was as if the lights on a stage were turned off and the set broken down," she says. "But the new act, supposedly waiting in the wings, disappeared into a bureaucratic magician's trick-bag." True, parts of the Western Addition have been revitalised, but also gentrified. New housing was too expensive for black working class families, but perfect for yuppies working in the neighbouring financial district.
Yet in the Forties and Fifties, the Western Addition was the focal point of black life in San Francisco, with journalists comparing its nightlife and jazz scene to Harlem in its glory days. Billie Holiday, Miles davis, Sonny Rollins, Dinah Washington, Nat King Cole-just about every black star or jazz musician of note came her, including John Coltrane, who played at the Jazz Workshop.
Long since closed, it was there on July 29, 1965, that a young man called Franzo King had a cataclysmic confrontation with the music of Coltrane that would lead to the founding of a church in his name.
"It was my birthday, my father's too, so it was a very auspicious occasion," says Bishop King, a tall, lean man a sly snese of humour and a wicked grin. HIs sharply pressed black suit and highly polished brogues spead of a youthful dandyism, now brought under a more sober, reflective reign. "We decided we're gonna do the town, and see John Coltrane. At that time I was a jazz enthusiast, very impressed by people like Thelonius Monk and Rahsaan Roland Kirk." Directly across the road from St. John's is the yellow storfront of a printing business. Back in the mid-Sixties, when the Western Addition was still alive and kicking, ithad been a jazz club called the Both/And.
Seated in the window of his church, Bishop King points to it and lets out a low chuckle. "Oh yeah I used to live over there, I knew the owner, Delano Dean, that was my spot." King, who usedto jam with other local musicians, recalls his horror when a friend arrived one night clutching a copy of Coltrane's evangelical A Love Supreme album, with its overtly Christian linear notes. "I said; ëOh no, the God people got Coltrane!' I mean, I refused to listen to it. I said, ëI don't wanna hear it, man.'"
Both of King's parent are pentecostal ministers, and he was expected to follow in their footsteps but he had resisted. "I was raised or it, educated for it, but desperately trying to avoid being a pries. I didn't feel the church was soing much more than passing out guilt trips, and I was lookfor something hipper to do. I was interested in African culture, its contribution to America."
While studying to be a hairdresser, franxo King had establised a weekly jazz club, where he and fellow enthusiasts would meet, listen to rrds, and discuss the African-American heritage and cultural relevance of Monk, Ellington, Davis, Parker, et al.
"But when I saw John, I said, ëOh, my God, this is more than a cultural, ethnic kinda trip. This is a truly universal kinda thing happening here'. I had never seen anybody like John. You could call it a sound baptism. The power of the Holy Ghost was that obvious. It spoke directly to my heart and soul. It was a religious experience. For the first time I knew I must redirect my life towards God."
King began studying for holy orders. Eventually he would be ordained, found the church on Divisadero, and take his flock into the African orthodox Catholic Church, once it had agreed to recognise the canonisation of the one-time dr addict and alcoholic jazzman. ("We told them, we ain't coming in without him.")
But first, he had to face a crushipersonal blow. "Coltrane came back to the Workshop and I went and saw him again, in 1966, and he was supposed to come back on the same day in 1967, July 29, my birthday and my father's." It was not to be. Coltrane died from liver failure on July 17. And it was only after his death that Franzo King started to consider a church in ëTranes honour.
"I remember thinking it was the end of the world. I didn't want the sun to come out the next day. I didn't thing God would allow it. At least, I thought, we are gonna have three days of darkness. It meant that much to me. For me, he was the Prince of Peace. And I was convinced that he didn't just die because his body was tired; he had lived under oppressive conditions, he was a victim of society, I felt that he was a martyr, and I couldn't believe that they had <i>killed</i> the Prince of Peace, y'know?"
That night, Franxo King sat looking out he window at the sky, drinking whisky, and weeping. "I was drunk when the sun came up. My daughter Wanika lled at me-she was about three years old at the time- she said, ëDaddy, what you doing?' I was crying, and I said, ëBaby, they done killed Coltrane.' And y'know, she looked at me and said, ëI want to hear some Charlie Parker. That's my man.'"
Bishop King sts into his throaty chuckle. "That's what she told me. And I thought, wow, if Bird lives, ëTrane lives! Out of the mouths of babes, huh?"
Two and a half hours into the service, the music stops while Bishop Franzo W. King delivers his sermon. He paces up and down at the altar, a microphone in one hand, a white handkerchief in the other, mopping his brow as he talks. Everyone sits very still, fanning themselves with liturgy papers, sweating in the stifling heat.
Over in the band, Wanika Phyllis King is softly plucking the strings of her double bass, fine-tuning it. Reverend Franzo King, Jr., stands to one side, silently fingering a tenor sax. People are still arriving, obviously timing their arrival to catch the mesmeric rap. He has all the gestures, inflections and timing of an accomplished stand-up comedian, and not afraid to use them. Cheers and whitsles and squeals of delight greet every good joke, solemn amens and earthy hallelujahs punctuate his righteous declamations.
"So many of our ears are closed to the word of God! We hear everything, we can sing every song except a song to God. We know the Top 40, the oldies, amen, but we don't know the ancient hymns that tell the story of Christ's victory." A dramatic pause, followed by a quieter, more serious tone, "We can bebop, rebop and hip-hop, but we can't get glad for Jesus. Some of them you have to pull ëem off the dance floor. Go to some of these clubs, folks be right up in tha air. Boy, you see ëem, and they workin'! Like they do that job they been prayin' for! Sweatin' like me! Huh! on the dance floor, dancin' about nothin'!"
The Bishorops suddenly into an old negro spiritual, a mournful dirge. And when the congregation picks up the tune singing along softly as the pianist plays the chords, he starts sermonising again, over this sweet, swaying accompaniment. It is breathtaking theatre: "I was talking to some of the young people the other night ("Yes?")...remembering that I used to be young...("Uh-huh")...And I used to be scared to go to church...("Well...") Because I had no power over the Holy Ghost...("oh-oh")nd that the Holy Ghost would fall on ANYBODY! That's right!' (Thank God!" "Amen") And while you was sitting in church, the Lord would open up a door of deliverance, of divine information, you'd be sittin' there, thinking you wore gon' daydream through church, and the nest thing the Holy Spirit would be speakin' to you, showing you EVERYTHING that God has done for you, and how you been takin' every day for granted.
"I used to say I know he ain't gonna get me, cause I ain't ready. Huh-huh, yeah, he can catch me on the rebound, huh-huh! I'm tellin' you, man, I used to be sittin' there, at the back, man, scared to death that I was gon' get SAVED! Have to stop LYIN'! Have to stop STEALIN'! All this fun I was havin' was gonna be OVERWITH!
"I had legitimate reasons for believing this. One day, I was sittin' in church, my mother was giving a revival, and one of my rock ën' roll heroes walked in, with his fifty dollar hairdo, and his three, four hundred dollar silk suit on, alligator shoes. I said, ëOh my God, the Lord is present!' I don't know if some of you remember a song called Pretty Girls, it was a hit record by a guy called Eugene Church, and his father was a bishop in the church. But he had gone out into the world, and some of us young priests had got right behind him, y'know. And him coming to revival night was a mind blowin' event, ëcos they had made me come. They dragged me to church. And I'm sittin' at the back there, mad when Eugene Church came in trippin', and that Holy Ghost got to movin'...and it FELL ON HIM! (screams and clapping) and before he knew it... HE BLEW HIS COOL! And that's another thing, I was scared of losing my cool, ëcos when the Holy Ghost get on you, you ain't cool no more. ("Uh-huh!" "Thassright!") You don't care what your neighbour think! you're in God's service, praying in the name of God! and you wanna raise your hands and say HALLELUJAH! praise the Lord!" Everyone is clapping and screaming and whooping and laughing and jumping up and down. The drummer plays a dramatic roll and a cymbal flourish.
Shaking his head, laughing, the Bishop holds his hand up for quiet, and has his last word: "This man blew his cool and fell off his chair, oh my Lord, rolled all on the floor, screwed up that suit, messed up that hairdo...and I thought, oh-ho, I'm really dead now..."
The service over, people start to spill out into the brilliant, balmy afternoon, smiling and joking, exchanging embraces and handshakes. There is no doubt that this has been an uplifting experience. Now it's time to go home. For Max, and his tambourine, that means an hour bus journey to Santa Cruz, where he lives in the mountains. For the girl with purple hair, it's just around the corner on Haight Street. For Beth and Joe, it's Humbolt County, on the California-Washington border. "Yeah, some friends told us about it, so we just had to come and see it for ourselves," they say. Was it worth the trip! They both grin broadly, "Hey, you saw it, man. You ever been to a church like this before?" As for the black church goers, most live in the city although few in the Western Addition.
The Bishop, the sisters, and the volunteers go out ont he streets with food for the poor after every service, whatever the weather. As the smell of pot-roast wafts out on to the streets, Bishop King says that while he loves his church dearly, he feels that his flock has outgrown it. He wants a cathedral, and hopes that one day he can find a way, with God's help, to raise the funds. Until then, he'll go on welcoming all comers to his "funky little church" on Divisadero-in shorts and T-shirts, or suits and skirts, all colours, all ages, all social classes. "We love the people," he says. "And I mean the people. Not my people, but the people." A born showman, he pauses for effect before signing off. "There's only one race, and that's the race to surrender at the feet of the Supreme. Amen." |
