“When you put that iron in your mouth, you run into problems.”

Clora Bryant, a trumpet player who broke barriers in jazz, was raised a Baptist and
taught that anything with a backbeat was likely “the devil’s music,” But even on the
North Texas prairie where she grew up, the siren sounds of jazz found her. She was
excited by the jazz she heard on the radio and when her older brother was drafted, she
found a trumpet in his room that he had never truly learned to play. Her father, Charles
Bryant, warned his daughter she’d likely face resistance. “But anything you want to do,
I’m behind you,” she recalled her father telling her. “You keep playing.”

Bryant always knew that her gender and color would pose challenges in her desire to be
taken seriously as a modern jazz trumpeter. Ms. Bryant stated, “When you put that iron
in your mouth, you run into problems, the other horn players gave me respect, but the
men who ran the clubs considered me a novelty”

Bryant, self-proclaimed as a “trumpetiste”, was often seen, sequin-clad, in all-girl
combos. It was only in her middle years that she emerged as a regular participant in the
best big bands and small groups in LA and beyond. Bryant played the trumpet with such
passion and fury that she became a mainstay in the growing jazz scene along Central
Avenue in the 1940s. Dizzy Gillespie once told Los Angeles Times jazz critic Leonard
Feather that Bryant was the most underrated trumpet player in L.A. And when she
played the Riviera in Las Vegas, Louis Armstrong was so impressed that he hustled up
his band and joined her onstage.

Inspired by Dave Brubeck’s decision to take his music to Moscow, Bryant wrote a letter
directly to Soviet leader Mikhail Gorbachev and asked him to use his authority to let her
become “the first female horn player to be invited to your country to perform.” In 1988,
she arrived in Moscow and played at a jazz festival, and later the city’s marquee jazz
club. She was accompanied by a film crew from UCLA, where she — late in life —
decided to study music history. Filmmaker Zeinabu Irene Davis, a fellow student at
UCLA, released “Trumpetistically Clora Bryant,” a documentary that captures the
musician in full force, using her as a metaphor for the racism and gender bias that held
back women with ambition.

In 2002, Bryant was awarded the Mary Lou Williams Women in Jazz Award at the
Kennedy Center in Washington.

Much of her memorabilia — photos of her with Count Basie’s trumpet section, pictures
with Duke Ellington, a baby grand piano she composed on — burned in the 1992 riots
following the acquittal of four police officers in the beating of Rodney King.

Music: From her 1957 album “Gal with a Horn”, Clora Bryant with “This Can’t Be Love”.

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From 1938 to 1946, The International Sweethearts of Rhythm graced the stage as the
first racially integrated all-female jazz band to tour nationally. Their popularity came
during World War II, when many male jazz artists were serving overseas, leaving an
opportunity for women to shine their talents at home. Over time, the group attracted
some of the country’s strongest female jazz instrumentalists of the era.

The International Sweethearts of Rhythm was a racially mixed sixteen-piece all-women
Swing orchestra.  The word ‘International’ denoted its diverse ethnic makeup, including
African American, Latin, Asian, Jewish, Hawaiian, White and Native American
women. There were also several lesbians in the band, including Tiny Davis, whose
independent music career and partnership with Ruby Lucas were later the subject of the
documentary Tiny and Ruby: Hell Divin’ Women.

The venues where they performed were predominantly, if not only, for black audiences.
Critic Leonard Feather wrote, “if you are white, whatever your age, chances are you
have never heard of the Sweethearts.” Nevertheless, the Sweethearts swiftly rose to
fame, as evidenced by one Howard Theater show in 1941 when the band set a box
office record of 35,000 patrons in one week.

Despite their success, a few impediments remained. According to pianist Johnnie Mae
Rice, because of the Jim Crow laws in the southern states, the band “practically lived on
the bus, using it for music rehearsals and regular school classes”. Segregation laws
barred them from using certain restaurants and hotels.
Saxophonist Roz Cron said, “We white girls were supposed to say 'My mother was
black and my father was white' because that was the way it was in the South. Well, I
swore to the sheriff in El Paso that that's what I was. But he went through my wallet and
there was a photo of my mother and father sitting before our little house in New England
with the picket fence, and it just didn't gel. So, I spent my night in jail.” Because of
situations like this, the band members took precautions. For example, the white women
in the band wore dark makeup on stage to avoid arrest.

In March 2011, six of the surviving members of the band donated memorabilia from their
touring years to the National Museum of American History at the kick-off event of
the Smithsonian Institution's Jazz Appreciation Month. The band members received a
standing ovation from attendees.

In 2012, the compilation album International Sweethearts of Rhythm: Hottest Women’s
Band of the 1940s was selected by the Library of Congress for preservation in
the National Recording Registry for being “culturally, historically, or aesthetically
significant.” And in May 2021, the Urban One Honors ceremony recognized the band for
their contributions as a symbol of success over adversity.

Music: From 1945, The Sweethearts of Rhythm with “She’s Crazy with the Heat!”

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Oppressors hate jazz. Whether in the U.S. or abroad, jazz has always made the right
enemies. The Soviets and Castro tried to stomp it out. Hitler was no fan, and you don’t
hear much about a Chinese jazz scene. Jazz requires, promotes, and symbolizes a kind
of democracy, an exchange of ideas that dictators can’t tolerate.

So, it’s no surprise that the burgeoning jazz scene in 1950s and ’60s South Africa was
crippled by the rise of apartheid. The Johannesburg jazz scene — mixing races and
ideas in a vital musical pot — was literally outlawed. And, of course, many musicians
fled the country for Europe and America.

In 1962, while the young composer and pianist Dollar Brand traveled through Europe,
his wife convinced Duke Ellington to catch his show, and Duke immediately ushered
Brand into a Paris recording studio launching his more than 50-year career.

In 1968, Dollar Brand, renamed Abdullah Ibrahim after a religious conversion, returned
to Africa, and recorded “Mannenberg – ‘Is Where It’s Happening’” in 1974, which soon
became an unofficial national anthem for black South Africans.

“Mannenberg” was created while the apartheid government of South Africa was forcibly
removing Coloured families from their homes as part of the destruction of District Six,
including the township of Mannenberg, considered symbolic with respect to apartheid in
the same way as Soweto. The destruction of a neighborhood viewed as a symbol of
resilience and creativity in the face of racial oppression informed Ibrahim’s music. Asked
how the title came about, Ibrahim said: “For us Mannenberg was just symbolic of the
removal out of District Six, which is actually the removal of everybody from everywhere
in the world, and Mannenberg specifically because … it signifies, it’s our music, and it’s
our culture.”

Described as the “most iconic of all South African jazz tunes”, the song sold more
copies in two years than any previous jazz LP recorded in the country, and it cemented
Ibrahim's status as South Africa's most popular jazz musician. Its release also has been
identified as the moment Cape jazz became well-known. “Mannenberg” is reported to
have inspired Nelson Mandela with hope during his imprisonment, and that on hearing
the song Mandela said: “Liberation is near.”

Music: From 1974, Abdullah Ibrahim with “Mannenberg.”

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It’s 2021, and jazz poet Gil Scott-Heron is inducted posthumously into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame for his “early influence” on rap. Scott-Heron bristled at the “Father of Rap” distinction, saying, “I don’t know if I can take the blame for rap music. I listen to the jazz station.” 

An artistic polymath, Scott-Heron created art in many genres. He was a poet and novelist, he wrote jazz charts and was a proficient vocalist, keyboardist and guitarist. But above all, Gil Scott-Heron was an activist, an ally of the people. His art was groundbreaking, but poets like Malik al-Nasir contend that art “was merely the delivery system for the message.”

Says Malik, “Gil Scott-Heron was first and foremost an activist. He was driven by the need for civil rights. He brought complex issues to the forefront and distilled them down for the common man. He was a ghetto reporter.” 

Active in the Black Power and Black Arts movements, Scott-Heron raised his voice through poetry and music. Critics praised his albums as “infectious groove … that belies the intelligence and integrity” of the vital message. Scott-Heron continued to write, perform, and protest until his death in 2011.  In 1979, he contributed the song, “We Almost Lost Detroit,” for the No Nukes movement. In 1985, he wrote and sang “Let Me See Your I.D.” for Artists United Against Apartheid. 

Gil Scott-Heron’s voice still calls for change. Egyptian protesters blared his poem, “The Revolution Will Not Be Televised” during the Arab Spring of 2011. And that poem became an anthem for the Black Lives Matter movement in the United States.  

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It’s 1937, and June Richmond steps to the microphone for Jimmy Dorsey’s big band. Doing so, she makes history as the first Black singer in an all-white orchestra. Richman caught the attention of Dorsey and Bing Crosby during a set at the Los Angeles Cotton Club. They invited her to their table, made Richmond an offer, and two rehearsals later she was performing on Bing’s radio show.

Richmond’s strong, bluesy vocals and friendly, energetic stage presence was a hit with critics and audiences alike. Almost as popular was her sense of humor. When the press described her as “portly” for tipping the scales at over 220 pounds, she used it to her advantage. Her self-deprecating fat jokes became a part of her persona.

Her popularity, unfortunately, didn’t shield her from prejudice. Just a year into her tenure with Jimmy Dorsey, the press reported on an “unpleasantness” between Richmond and the Hotel New Yorker, where the Dorsey band was playing. The exact circumstances were never disclosed, but it is accepted that the incident led to Richmond leaving the band soon after. 

She sang with Cab Calloway for a time, then enjoyed a lengthy stint with Andy Kirk’s Clouds of Joy before transitioning to Broadway and movie musicals. She remained a darling with the press. One critic wrote, “whatever she does, June Richmond paves the way. Without her, there wouldn’t be Billie Holiday or any other Black singers. She’s not breaking the mold; she made the mold.” 

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