This article was originally published in The Courier on 5th May 2018.
THE JAZZ AMBASSADORS: Friday, BBC Four
CUNK ON BRITAIN: Tuesday, BBC Two
In
1956, during the Cold War stalemate, Eisenhower’s government figured that their
best chance of beating the Soviets would be to establish a positive consensus about
America around the globe.
Via
the newly established United States Information Agency, they set about selling
the benefits of a prosperous capitalist society, while playing down
inconvenient truths such as racial segregation in the south.
This
was an era when even a widely beloved African-American star such as Louis
Armstrong couldn’t perform in his home town of New Orleans, as racially
integrated concerts were verboten; Armstrong’s band included two white
musicians.
Nevertheless,
the government decided to enlist the nation’s greatest jazz musicians as
cultural envoys tasked with putting an upbeat spin on the black experience by
playing diplomatic concerts in the newly liberated nations of Asia and Africa.
It
was thought that a friendly dose of hot jazz would encourage them to embrace
American values and abandon any pesky notions of turning Communist.
This
was propaganda versus propaganda: during the Cold War, the Soviets repeatedly
highlighted the injustice of racial segregation as a prime example of America’s
hypocrisy and moral repugnancy. Without acknowledging their guilt outright, the
American government knew their enemy had a point.
The
story of how Armstrong, Dizzy Gillespie, Duke Ellington, Benny Goodman and Dave
Brubeck tried to rescue the world from the brink of Armageddon was told in the
enlightening feature-length documentary THE
JAZZ AMBASSADORS.
This
remarkable collision of entertainment and foreign policy was instigated by African-American
congressman Adam Clayton Powell, an unsung hero who convinced Eisenhower that
America’s global standing would be radically improved if they tackled racism head
on.
Naturally,
the musicians he enlisted, while happy to spread positive American vibes, weren’t
prepared to ignore the noxious shadow of Jim Crow. “I wasn’t going over there
to apologise for America’s racist policies,” declared the politically active
Dizzy Gillespie.
Armstrong
renounced his role as an Uncle Sam ambassador following the Little Rock crisis,
when nine black students were prevented from entering a racially segregated
school. “The government can go to Hell!” he roared in the press. Duke Ellington
later wrote an article proclaiming that racism in America was losing the Cold
War.
This
wasn’t the sort of PR that Eisenhower expected when he greenlit the program.
However,
Armstrong did manage to stop the Congolese civil war for 24 hours when he
arrived to play a concert. You couldn’t ask for a more potent symbol of the miraculous
power of music than that.
When
Benny Goodman and his mixed-race band eventually toured Russia in 1961, they
conducted illicit private jams with local musicians under the noses of an
oblivious KGB. Jazz – 1; The Man – 0.
This
fascinating saga of weaponised music expressing the complex spirit of America
was told through a sharp prism of informed talking heads and terrific
archive footage. It was a powerful statement on behalf of the unifying textures
of extraordinary, freedom-fuelled art.
Funny
in small doses as part of Charlie
Brooker’s Screenwipe, gormless roving reporter Philomena Cunk wears out her
one-dimensional welcome over the space of half an hour.
The
spoof historical travelogue series CUNK ON BRITAIN
occasionally came up with some good
gags (and some absolute clunkers), but they were overshadowed by the repetitive
strain of a limited comic palette. Malapropisms and faux-dim misunderstandings
only work within a more varied context.
Diane Morgan, who
plays Cunk, is an inherently funny performer; her delivery and facial
expressions are wonderful. She deserves better.
