he Sundance film Soundtrack to a Coup d’Etat depicts legendary jazz musicians and African activists during the appalling historical period known as the Congo Crisis. From Louis Armstrong to Maya Angelou, the film is filled with art and artists presented in sharp contrast to the political actors involved, primarily Dwight D. Eisenhower, Nikita Khrushchev, and Colonel Joseph Mobutu. Belgian director Johan Grimonprez uses a mixture of footage from the UN General Assembly, live jazz performances, quotes, and audio from memoirs or interviews to walk the audience through the convoluted conflict following the liberation of the Republic of the Congo on 30 June 1960 and appointment of Patrice Lumumba as prime minister.
Lumumba wasted no time. Going head–to–head with world leaders and speaking out against the Belgian colonization of his country, he awakens the Congolese spirit on a global scale. Congolese soldiers (the Force Republique) soon revolted against their Belgian commanders. The Belgians and Eisenhower administration quickly saw Lumumba as a threat, despite Eisenhower’s initial “high hopes” for the Congo forming a pro–Western government. While the UN stumbled around, the leader of the Soviet Bloc, shoe–banging Nikita Khrushchev, stepped in.
Using audio from Khrushchev’s memoir, the director makes clear the Soviet’s endeavored to help Lumumba and the Congolese people with the removal of Belgian troops, prompting Eisenhower to get more involved for fear of communism infiltrating the Congo. Both the Belgians and Eisenhower agreed Lumumba needed to be taken care of. Footage of conversations between Eisenhower and his CIA followed. Ultimately, Eisenhower’s weapon of choice? Jazz.
In the film, the black–and–white footage of iconic musicians including Armstrong, Nina Simone, Max Roach, Miles Davis, Abbey Lincoln, John Coltrane, and Dizzy Gillespie—bullfrog cheeks and all—provides bittersweet reprieve at tense moments, yet also serves as a soundtrack to the suffering and colonization of the Congolese people. Grimonprez, the film’s director, personifies jazz as crucial to the times saying, “I wanted the music to be a kind of protagonist all on its own. Music is an actor of this global story… At essence, jazz is how this sort of global homelessness reinvents itself.”
Though the music effectively reflected the zeitgeist, these jazz musicians, later known as “Goodwill Jazz Ambassadors,” quickly became a U.S. propaganda tool—initially, unbeknownst to them. In a sickening turn, the film chronicles Eisenhower’s plan to use Louis Armstrong as a “trojan horse;” he went to the Congo to perform unaware of the coup that was planned at the same time. In fact, the CIA founded the Congress of Cultural Freedom (CCF) to strategically send other Jazz Ambassadors to Europe, Africa, and Latin America. Jazz quickly emerged as a critical, strategic weapon of this proxy war between the U.S. and Soviet Union.
“I wanted the music to be a kind of protagonist all on its own. Music is an actor of this global story… At essence, jazz is how this sort of global homelessness reinvents itself.” — Johan Grimonprez, director (Photo courtesy Library of Congress)
“I wanted the music to be a kind of protagonist all on its own. Music is an actor of this global story… At essence, jazz is how this sort of global homelessness reinvents itself.” — Johan Grimonprez, director (Photo courtesy Library of Congress)
Amidst all the brassy diversion, the CIA—at the request of Eisenhower and under the careless oversight of the UN—organized Patrice Lumumba’s capture. On 17 January 1961, he was transferred to Katanga where he was beaten and assassinated by both Belgian and Congolese soldiers. When the news of his murder reached the U.S., supporters of Lumumba were outraged, and Civil Rights activist Maya Angelou organized a protest at the UN. On 16 February 1961, Angelou—alongside Lincoln, Roach, and about 60 others—crashed the UN—inspiring yet heart–wrenching footage of women being pushed to the ground as they chant “Lumumba” and “Bigoted sons of bitches,” to the beat of Roach’s drums and the rising force of Lincoln’s voice. In the film, the once nostalgic jazz soundtrack reaches an urgent “crescendo of defiance;” Lincoln’s lyrical scream reverberating through the theater.
The last 30 minutes of the film show hard–to–stomach scenes from the Congo: women and children being killed, captured, and tortured. Families seeking shelter from bombings. This climax to the coup d’état orchestrated by Colonel Joseph Mobutu of the Congolese National Army (CNA) is further emphasized by two very abrupt interruptions. Towards the beginning of the film, it was a Tesla commercial, and towards the end, an iPhone commercial. Flashing across the screen, the HD graphics cut through what was likely a very teary crowd at that point. It was a piercing contrast to the black–and–white historical footage. Brief but perhaps one of the most significant parts of the film, it is Grimonprez’s way of tying history to the present.
As it was evident from the various quotes, the U.S. and Soviet’s interest in what is now known as the Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC), was—and is still—tied to minerals such as the uranium and radium found in the Shinkolobwe mine, another global actor in this film about diplomacy and decolonization. This mine was home to the uranium responsible for Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The inhumanely mined coltan in our iPhone batteries also originates from DRC mines.
Director Grimonprez portrays the power of jazz as threefold: its power to evoke emotion in an audience; its power to peacefully protest; and its power to become a coerced actor and weapon of diplomacy and conflict—among them the Congo Crisis and assassination of Lumumba.
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At Sundance, ‘Soundtrack to a Coup d’Etat’ centers jazz as a global actor
A still frame from the movie 'Soundtrack to a Coup d'Etat' / Courtesy, Flanders Image
February 8, 2024
In the 1960s, jazz emerged as a strategic weapon of of the Cold War. Jazz musicians, later dubbed “Goodwill Jazz Ambassadors,” became a U.S. propaganda tool—initially, unbeknownst to the artists, writes Diplomatic Courier's Melissa Metos in her review of the film 'Soundtrack to a Coup d'Etat.'
T
he Sundance film Soundtrack to a Coup d’Etat depicts legendary jazz musicians and African activists during the appalling historical period known as the Congo Crisis. From Louis Armstrong to Maya Angelou, the film is filled with art and artists presented in sharp contrast to the political actors involved, primarily Dwight D. Eisenhower, Nikita Khrushchev, and Colonel Joseph Mobutu. Belgian director Johan Grimonprez uses a mixture of footage from the UN General Assembly, live jazz performances, quotes, and audio from memoirs or interviews to walk the audience through the convoluted conflict following the liberation of the Republic of the Congo on 30 June 1960 and appointment of Patrice Lumumba as prime minister.
Lumumba wasted no time. Going head–to–head with world leaders and speaking out against the Belgian colonization of his country, he awakens the Congolese spirit on a global scale. Congolese soldiers (the Force Republique) soon revolted against their Belgian commanders. The Belgians and Eisenhower administration quickly saw Lumumba as a threat, despite Eisenhower’s initial “high hopes” for the Congo forming a pro–Western government. While the UN stumbled around, the leader of the Soviet Bloc, shoe–banging Nikita Khrushchev, stepped in.
Using audio from Khrushchev’s memoir, the director makes clear the Soviet’s endeavored to help Lumumba and the Congolese people with the removal of Belgian troops, prompting Eisenhower to get more involved for fear of communism infiltrating the Congo. Both the Belgians and Eisenhower agreed Lumumba needed to be taken care of. Footage of conversations between Eisenhower and his CIA followed. Ultimately, Eisenhower’s weapon of choice? Jazz.
In the film, the black–and–white footage of iconic musicians including Armstrong, Nina Simone, Max Roach, Miles Davis, Abbey Lincoln, John Coltrane, and Dizzy Gillespie—bullfrog cheeks and all—provides bittersweet reprieve at tense moments, yet also serves as a soundtrack to the suffering and colonization of the Congolese people. Grimonprez, the film’s director, personifies jazz as crucial to the times saying, “I wanted the music to be a kind of protagonist all on its own. Music is an actor of this global story… At essence, jazz is how this sort of global homelessness reinvents itself.”
Though the music effectively reflected the zeitgeist, these jazz musicians, later known as “Goodwill Jazz Ambassadors,” quickly became a U.S. propaganda tool—initially, unbeknownst to them. In a sickening turn, the film chronicles Eisenhower’s plan to use Louis Armstrong as a “trojan horse;” he went to the Congo to perform unaware of the coup that was planned at the same time. In fact, the CIA founded the Congress of Cultural Freedom (CCF) to strategically send other Jazz Ambassadors to Europe, Africa, and Latin America. Jazz quickly emerged as a critical, strategic weapon of this proxy war between the U.S. and Soviet Union.
“I wanted the music to be a kind of protagonist all on its own. Music is an actor of this global story… At essence, jazz is how this sort of global homelessness reinvents itself.” — Johan Grimonprez, director (Photo courtesy Library of Congress)
“I wanted the music to be a kind of protagonist all on its own. Music is an actor of this global story… At essence, jazz is how this sort of global homelessness reinvents itself.” — Johan Grimonprez, director (Photo courtesy Library of Congress)
Amidst all the brassy diversion, the CIA—at the request of Eisenhower and under the careless oversight of the UN—organized Patrice Lumumba’s capture. On 17 January 1961, he was transferred to Katanga where he was beaten and assassinated by both Belgian and Congolese soldiers. When the news of his murder reached the U.S., supporters of Lumumba were outraged, and Civil Rights activist Maya Angelou organized a protest at the UN. On 16 February 1961, Angelou—alongside Lincoln, Roach, and about 60 others—crashed the UN—inspiring yet heart–wrenching footage of women being pushed to the ground as they chant “Lumumba” and “Bigoted sons of bitches,” to the beat of Roach’s drums and the rising force of Lincoln’s voice. In the film, the once nostalgic jazz soundtrack reaches an urgent “crescendo of defiance;” Lincoln’s lyrical scream reverberating through the theater.
The last 30 minutes of the film show hard–to–stomach scenes from the Congo: women and children being killed, captured, and tortured. Families seeking shelter from bombings. This climax to the coup d’état orchestrated by Colonel Joseph Mobutu of the Congolese National Army (CNA) is further emphasized by two very abrupt interruptions. Towards the beginning of the film, it was a Tesla commercial, and towards the end, an iPhone commercial. Flashing across the screen, the HD graphics cut through what was likely a very teary crowd at that point. It was a piercing contrast to the black–and–white historical footage. Brief but perhaps one of the most significant parts of the film, it is Grimonprez’s way of tying history to the present.
As it was evident from the various quotes, the U.S. and Soviet’s interest in what is now known as the Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC), was—and is still—tied to minerals such as the uranium and radium found in the Shinkolobwe mine, another global actor in this film about diplomacy and decolonization. This mine was home to the uranium responsible for Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The inhumanely mined coltan in our iPhone batteries also originates from DRC mines.
Director Grimonprez portrays the power of jazz as threefold: its power to evoke emotion in an audience; its power to peacefully protest; and its power to become a coerced actor and weapon of diplomacy and conflict—among them the Congo Crisis and assassination of Lumumba.
