Excerpt
Iand#8217;ll Take You There andlt;link rel="stylesheet" type="text/css" href="../styles/9781451647877.css"andgt; andlt;h2 andgt;andlt;a id="page_1"andgt;andlt;/aandgt;Prologueandlt;/h2andgt; andlt;BRandgt;andlt;img width="70" height="8" src="../images/common.jpg" alt="image"andgt;andlt;BRandgt; andlt;h2 andgt;and#8220;Freedom Highwayand#8221; in sequined flatsandlt;/h2andgt; andlt;BRandgt;Iand#8217;m tired and Iand#8217;m feeble,and#8221; declares Mavis Staples, with a high-beam smile that says exactly the opposite.andlt;BRandgt; andlt;BRandgt;Mavis pretends to shuffle into the room as though a step away from collapse while paraphrasing Thomas Dorseyand#8217;s and#8220;Take My Hand, Precious Lord,and#8221; a song that has been with her since she started to stir church congregations as an eight-year-old vocalist. Her sister Yvonne rolls her eyes in mock exasperation. A small flock of onlookers starts to laugh, breaks away from their backstage hospitality beers, and surges toward the sisters to clasp hands and offer hugs in a kind of group anointing.andlt;BRandgt; andlt;BRandgt;Mavis and Yvonneand#8212;cofounders of the Staple Singers with their father, Roebuck and#8220;Popsand#8221; Staples, and siblings Pervis and Cleothaand#8212;have arrived at the Hideout, an unassuming Chicago bar tucked amid West Side warehouses. In a few minutes they will be on a big stage outdoors in front of a hometown festival crowd of eight thousand just as the sun is disappearing on a mid-September day in 2011. Mavis and Yvonne, both in their seventies, have been up since 5 a.m. after playing a show the night before in Michigan. Mavis has been pumping vitamin C to fight off a cold and a scratchy voice. and#8220;This is loosening me up, though,and#8221; she says as laughter and conversation fill the Hideoutand#8217;s back room.andlt;BRandgt; andlt;BRandgt;andlt;a id="page_2"andgt;andlt;/aandgt;Donny Gerrard, one of her backing vocalists, does not by any stretch consider himself a gospel singer, or even a believer. But Mavis has a way of pulling even skeptics along in her wake. She is an artist who grew up in church and on the civil rights battlefront, but she doesnand#8217;t finger-point, preach, or prod. She leads with her enthusiasm for the day ahead.andlt;BRandgt; andlt;BRandgt;and#8220;When I was asked to join her group, I was worried about the God stuff, frankly,and#8221; says Gerrard, adjusting his tortoiseshell glasses as he watches Mavis banter with her well-wishers. and#8220;Donand#8217;t believe in it, myself. But damn, if she doesnand#8217;t make you feel something else is at work when sheand#8217;s around.and#8221;andlt;BRandgt; andlt;BRandgt;The tall, curly-haired singer takes off the glasses, and his eyes gleam. Heand#8217;s ridden the music industry roller coaster in a career that has had failures, hits (he sang Skylarkand#8217;s huge and#8217;70s single and#8220;Wildflowerand#8221;), and a few health problems.andlt;BRandgt; andlt;BRandgt;and#8220;It doesnand#8217;t matter how low you feel,and#8221; he says. and#8220;Sometimes I carry it on the stage with me, and then I see Mavis and itand#8217;s like you canand#8217;t feel down anymore. Sheand#8217;s always up no matter what happened that day.and#8221;andlt;BRandgt; andlt;BRandgt;Mavis looks into her carrying bag and with the drama of a magician makes an announcement: and#8220;I know what the stage needs!and#8221; She digs out the prize. and#8220;It needs glitter! Every singer needs her stage flats, sequined flats!and#8221;andlt;BRandgt; andlt;BRandgt;A dozen onlookers scramble for their cell phones to take photos of the diva wear. and#8220;Yand#8217;all are some slow paparazzis.and#8221; Mavis laughs as the amateur photographers click away and begin texting, tweeting, and Instagramming their friends.andlt;BRandgt; andlt;BRandgt;Mavis, her glitter flats and matching sequined black scarf ascend the five steps onto the stage to cheers that stretch across a vast lot. Fans perched in windows and on rooftops of the buildings beyond wave their greetings. Yvonne, just off her sisterand#8217;s right shoulder, is clapping just as boisterously. Nonbeliever Gerrard joins Mavis, Yvonne, and their band in an a cappella version of and#8220;Wonderful Saviorand#8221;: and#8220;I am His, and He is mine.and#8221; Within seconds, the audience turns into Mavisand#8217;s moonlight choir with their rhythmic clapping.andlt;BRandgt; andlt;BRandgt;andlt;a id="page_3"andgt;andlt;/aandgt;Violin-playing indie-rocker Andrew Bird joins for The Bandand#8217;s and#8220;The Weight,and#8221; which the Staple Singers had performed as part of The Last Waltz concert in 1976. Bird and Gerrard each take a verse, and then Mavis and#8220;takes it to church,and#8221; as her old friend Levon Helm used to say, a tambourine accenting every beat. Mavis twirls her hands above her head, and Yvonne is loving it, applauding her sisterand#8217;s feistiness. Bring it on, Mavis roars, as she slaps her chest. and#8220;Put the load, put the load, put the load right on me.and#8221;andlt;BRandgt; andlt;BRandgt;When the Staple Singersand#8217; civil rights anthem and#8220;Freedom Highwayand#8221; arrives, the band rolls into a marching beat and the call-and-response vocals between Mavis and her backing singers pick up the pace, more urgent with each turn. and#8220;March!and#8221; and#8220;Up freedomand#8217;s highway!and#8221; It is an echo of and#8217;60s freedom marches, the sound of citizen soldiers girding for a beatdown, in the name of a cause that they believe is worth their blood and tears, and quite possibly their lives.andlt;BRandgt; andlt;BRandgt;and#8220;My father, Pop Staples, wrote that song in 1965,and#8221; Mavis says as the anthem winds down. and#8220;Yes, he did, he wrote it for the big march from Selma to Montgomery, Alabama. We marched, we marched, and we marched, and it ainand#8217;t over yet!and#8221;andlt;BRandgt; andlt;BRandgt;The band rumbles, voices from the audience shout encouragement. Most of the fans werenand#8217;t even born when activists, ministers, and everyday citizens locked arms and marched into a gauntlet of police clubs, snarling dogs, and water cannons in the name of racial equality.andlt;BRandgt; andlt;BRandgt;and#8220;Iand#8217;m still on that highway,and#8221; Mavis says. and#8220;And I will be there until Dr.and#160;Martin Luther Kingand#8217;s dream has been realized.and#8221;andlt;BRandgt; andlt;BRandgt;At the side of the stage, the teenage Chicago musician Liam Cunningham is watching with a few members of his band, Kids These Days, who had played earlier in the day. Theyand#8217;ve read about the freedom marches in school, seen the news footage of the shaking fists and swinging police batons. Now theyand#8217;re standing a few feet from one of the leading messengers of that era. Cunningham is mesmerized. and#8220;Her existence brings tears to my eyes,and#8221; he says softly.andlt;BRandgt; andlt;BRandgt;The show doesnand#8217;t so much conclude as get passed on, one voice to the andlt;a id="page_4"andgt;andlt;/aandgt;next. Mavis hands the closing duties to the audience, which embraces a twelve-minute version of the Staple Singersand#8217; and#8220;Iand#8217;ll Take You Thereand#8221; and sings it back to her. Mavis waves and exits alongside Yvonne, then hugs her brother, Pervis, who is standing in the wings applauding. She and her sister slide into a waiting black limousine behind the stage, roll down a tinted window, and wave to a small group of fans.andlt;BRandgt; andlt;BRandgt;and#8220;Time to remove the sequined flats,and#8221; Mavis says with a laugh. and#8220;They got more work to do.and#8221;