Tag Archive for John Foster Dulles

Cold War Jazz Diplomacy: Intro

WRJamSessionIf the State Department’s Cold War jazz diplomacy program of international tours, which kicked off in 1956 with Dizzy Gillespie‘s big band and continued on into the 1970s, was named for a Robert Ludlum international thriller, it might be called The Paradox Enigma. The fundamental paradox of Jazz Ambassadors, as the U.S. jazz diplomacy program is more generally known, was the notion of using jazz, i.e., Black music—though it wasn’t overtly portrayed as such, of course, it was presented as American music—to sell America and American “democracy” to the world, while Jim Crow was alive and well back home, sitting with his feet up on the front porch. Cold Warrior John Foster Dulles, Secretary of State from 1953-59, is apparently miscredited with the quote, “The United States of America does not have friends; it has interests,” but it’s quite apt in the context of Jazz Ambassadors.

Jazz musicians touring the globe in Black bands, in White bands and sometimes in integrated bands, were one of the government’s more ingenious cultural policy ploys in the interest of out-musicking the Russians, who were having a field day playing up America’s glaring racial inequality. It was easy enough for the U.S. to defeat Godless Communism in the jazz arena; mainstream jazz enjoyed a certain level of global adoration in the ’50s, but the Russians, tripping over their tone-deaf Stalinist ideology, had effectively outlawed jazz, driving it into a thriving Soviet underground.

As a supplement to Ka-ching‘s Jazz Ambassadors perspective, this section of the site will look at related jazz/policy issues of the period, focusing mainly on civil rights and the avant-garde—rich terrain, indeed, whose major players usually manage to have both friends and interests. This section will also occasionally range beyond the Cold War era to consider other jazz diplomacy issues that transcend the federal sphere.

Fables of Little Rock

Fables+of+FaubusIn 1957, three years after Brown v. Board of Education, things weren’t going so well on the school desegregation front in Little Rock, Arkansas. President Eisenhower was eventually compelled to call in the Army to cross the racist line in the sand in defense of segregated schools that was drawn by Arkansas Governor Orval Faubus. The struggle that would be immortalized in the history of the civil rights movement as the Little Rock Nine was humming with jazz connections, most specifically Louis Armstrong’s, whose reputation for global goodwill had already earned him the nickname Ambassador Satch, even before the launch of the State Department’s jazz diplomacy program. But when Armstrong, on tour in North Dakota two weeks into the Little Rock standoff, broke completely out of his “happy” character and bared his angry soul to Larry Lubenow, a cub reporter at a Grand Forks newspaper, all goodwill hell broke loose. From a 2007 David Margolick op-ed in The New York Times, marking the 50th anniversary of Little Rock:

“It’s getting almost so bad a colored man hasn’t got any country,” a furious Mr. Armstrong told him. President Eisenhower, he charged, was “two faced,” and had “no guts.” For Governor Faubus, he used a double-barreled hyphenated expletive, utterly unfit for print. The two settled on something safer: “uneducated plow boy.” The euphemism, Mr. Lubenow says, was far more his than Mr. Armstrong’s.

Mr. Armstrong bitterly recounted some of his experiences touring in the Jim Crow South. He then sang the opening bar of “The Star-Spangled Banner,” inserting obscenities into the lyrics and prompting Velma Middleton, the vocalist who toured with Mr. Armstrong and who had joined them in the room, to hush him up.

Mr. Armstrong had been contemplating a good-will tour to the Soviet Union for the State Department. “They ain’t so cold but what we couldn’t bruise them with happy music,” he had said. Now, though, he confessed to having second thoughts. “The way they are treating my people in the South, the government can go to hell,” he said, offering further choice words about the secretary of state, John Foster Dulles. “The people over there ask me what’s wrong with my country. What am I supposed to say?”

Armstrong in fact didn’t make that Soviet tour; his first Jazz Ambassadorial jaunt was in Africa in 1960. Also in 1960, the complete version of the Charles Mingus composition “Fables of Faubus” found its way on record on the progressive Candid label, after Columbia rejected the lyrics for 1959’s Mingus Ah Um, on which “Fables of Faubus” appeared only as an instrumental. The Candid candid version, called “Original Faubus Fables,” can be heard here, powerfully supported by documentary footage of the era. Presented in a sort of call-and-response with his drummer, Dannie Richmond, Mingus’ lyrics, as transcribed in Ingrid Monson’s Freedom Sounds: Civil Rights Call Out to Jazz and Africa:

Oh, Lord, don’t let them shoot us,
Oh, Lord, don’t let them stab us.
Oh, Lord, don’t let them tar and feather us!
Oh, Lord, no more swastikas

Oh, Lord, no more Ku Klux Klan
Name me someone who’s ridiculous, Dannie:
“Governor Faubus!”
Why is he so sick and ridiculous?
“He won’t permit us in his integrated schools”
Then he’s a fool.

Boo, Nazi Fascist supremists!
Boo, Ku Klux Klan, with your Jim Crow plan

Name me a handful that’s ridiculous, Dannie Richmond
“. . . [undecipherable] Thomas, Faubus, Russell, Rockefeller,
Byrd, Eisenhower”

Why are they so sick and ridiculous?

Two, four, six, eightthey brainwash and teach you hate.
H-E-L-L-OHello. (p. 183)

“Liberal” Republican oligarch Nelson Rockefeller, incidentally, who had been elected governor of New York in 1958, would turn up again in a Mingus composition in 1975, no lyrics required: “Remember Rockefeller at Attica.” In much the same way that it might seem sick and ridiculous today that Columbia couldn’t abide an aggressively anti-racist sentiment on a jazz record in 1959, Armstrong’s outburst two years earlier, as Margolick relates, resulted in

calls for boycotts of his concerts. The Ford Motor Company threatened to pull out of a Bing Crosby special on which Mr. Armstrong was to appear. Van Cliburn’s manager refused to let him perform a duet with Mr. Armstrong on Steve Allen’s talk show.

Ten years later, in 1967—a year of rampant rioting in America, most notably in Detroit and Newark—Armstrong, in his more familiar super-optimist’s persona, would record the pie-in-the-sky treacle of “What a Wonderful World.”