Soaked in soul, amen

Reuters

SWINGING: Members of the Treme Brass Band perform at St Augustine's Church in New Orleans, Louisiana.

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Normally, I'll do anything to avoid church but today, I'm making an exception.

Beneath the blazing sun, hundreds gather outside St Augustine's, a beautiful old structure in a crumbling suburb of New Orleans.

Located in the Faubourg Treme district, it's the mother church for thousands of African American Catholics and is well-known for its gospel services.

Inside, it's packed. Ceiling fans whir above hundreds of wooden pews facing a sizeable stage. A vast choir sways in unison, filling the air with rich, soulful singing.

At the back of the church, a large woman hands out paper fans piled high on a wooden table. She knocks them accidentally to the floor with her ample rear, prompting a crowd of suited men to come forth, rushing to her aid.

Finding an empty seat in front of a young girl with pink and white ribbons in her hair, I soak up the atmosphere. The congregation is a mix of casual dressers and those in their Sunday best. The women wear bright floral ensembles while the men are dressed mostly in short-sleeve shirts and fedoras.

As the choir builds, the congregation clap, wave fans and shake tambourines. A spiralling jazz trumpet cuts through the mix.

"Brothers and sisters," says the minister, raising cloaked arms. "Let us rejoice that the Crescent City, New Orleans, is coming back to life." The congregation erupts.

This is to be a recurrent theme. Each reading, psalm or sermon is met with an emphatic chorus of "Amen" or "Hallelujah" and almost anything is an excuse to break into song. It's as much a celebration of music as anything theological - at one point, the minister even launches into a bizarre, impromptu gospel version of Heal the World by Michael Jackson.

Occasionally the exuberance catches me off guard. When we're asked to join hands with those next to us, I'm mortified as the two men either side of me raise my arms aloft, belting out hymns with their eyes clamped shut.

When the service ends, the congregation spills out on to the street to begin the Second Line parade. Led by a raucous crowd of jazz musicians, it's a Louisiana tradition - a bit like a jazz funeral but without the coffin. I tag along as the chanting masses dance their way past Louis Armstrong Park and on through the winding backstreets of New Orleans. Soon, the heavens open and we're soaked by warm, torrential rain. No one cares.

Women twirl parasols high above their heads, the sound of trumpets and trombones fills the air and the streets are awash with elaborate costumes and colours.

As the march reaches its finale, I clamber up an embankment to watch the scene unfold through the driving rain. It's a manic blur of celebration - like a wild party in a steam bath.

I think back to the drab days of Sunday school as a child. Maybe I was hard to please but I can't remember church being this much fun.

- © Fairfax NZ News