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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The powerful oratory and evolving political views of civil rights leader Malcolm X deeply influenced jazz musicians in the 1960’s, including John Coltrane, who saw parallels between his own search for liberation and Malcolm X’s message. 

 As a young man, Malcolm was famously passionate about music. In his autobiography, he boasts of how, as a shoeshine boy in Boston’s Roseland State Ballroom, he shined the shoes of Duke Ellington, Count Basie, Lionel Hampton, and other greats. As a young man in Harlem, Malcolm danced and played drums at jazz bars, under the stage name Jack Carlton. But when he joined the Nation of Islam, his views began to change. In 1950, while in prison, Malcolm penned a letter to a fellow Muslim, describing his love of jazz and its “comforting effects.” “My ace girl was Dinah Washington,” he wrote, “She’s still the greatest.” But the music also reminded him of his “sinful past”, and he vowed to indulge only in jazz performed by Muslim artists.

For the rest of his life, Malcolm X would try to balance his love of music with his political and religious commitments. In a 1964 speech, he underscored the importance of music to black liberation, stating that music was “the only area on the American scene where the black man has been free to create. And he has mastered it.” 

Malcolm’s personal papers are sprinkled with references to music, containing mentions of Thelonious Monk and his “Muslim Band,” the vocalist Dakota Staton, and a newspaper clipping of Duke Ellington’s State Department tour in Syria and Iran. 

While traveling in Africa, Malcolm immersed himself in the musical life of the newly independent states, visiting social clubs and dance centers, heartened by how they were trying to revive indigenous musical forms as part of their decolonization. At the Ghana Press Club, he took in a heady performance of highlife music, and—in Maya Angelou’s telling—tapped his fingers on his lap, but refused to dance. In Cairo, he hung out with African American jazz aficionados who were trying to create a “progressive” Afro-Asian genre to counter what was being broadcast by the State Department.

In a society where inequality, bigotry and injustice were the norm for African Americans, Malcolm said, “No wonder we do some of the things we do … no wonder we drink, dope and all sorts of things to soothe our soul … no wonder we so continuously have sought the lures of night life to create some sort of peace within ourselves … no wonder we have so longingly turned so often to music for its comforting effects.”

Music:  “The Opening” from Terence Blanchard’s “The Malcolm X Jazz Suite.”

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