Music in America's Cold War Diplomacy 9780520959781

During the Cold War, thousands of musicians from the United States traveled the world, sponsored by the U.S. State Depar

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Music in America's Cold War Diplomacy

Table of contents :
Introduction: Instruments of Diplomacy
1. Classical Music and the Mediation of Prestige
2. Classical Music as Development Aid
3. Jazz in the Cultural Presentations Program
4. African American Ambassadors Abroad and at Home
5. Presenting America’s Religious Heritage Abroad
6. The Double-Edged Diplomacy of Popular Music
7. Music, Media, and Cultural Relations Between the United States and the Soviet Union
Conclusion: Music, Mediated Diplomacy, and Globalization in the Cold War Era
Selected Bibliography

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The publisher gratefully acknowledges the generous support of the Music in America Endowment Fund of the University of California Press Foundation, which was established by a major gift from Sukey and Gil Garcetti, Michael P. Roth, and the Roth Family Foundation. Publication of this book was also supported by a grant from the H. Earle Johnson Fund of the Society for American Music. Publication of this book was also supported by a grant from the Gustave Reese Endowment of the American Musicological Society, funded in part by the National Endowment for the Humanities and the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation.


california studies in 20th-century music Richard Taruskin, General Editor

1. Revealing Masks: Exotic Influences and Ritualized Performance in Modernist Music Theater, by W. Anthony Sheppard 2. Russian Opera and the Symbolist Movement, by Simon Morrison 3. German Modernism: Music and the Arts, by Walter Frisch 4. New Music, New Allies: American Experimental Music in West Germany from the Zero Hour to Reunification, by Amy Beal 5. Bartók, Hungary, and the Renewal of Tradition: Case Studies in the Intersection of Modernity and Nationality, by David E. Schneider 6. Classic Chic: Music, Fashion, and Modernism, by Mary E. Davis 7. Music Divided: Bartók’s Legacy in Cold War Culture, by Danielle FoslerLussier 8. Jewish Identities: Nationalism, Racism, and Utopianism in TwentiethCentury Art Music, by Klára Móricz 9. Brecht at the Opera, by Joy H. Calico 10. Beautiful Monsters: Imagining the Classic in Musical Media, by Michael Long 11. Experimentalism Otherwise: The New York Avant-Garde and Its Limits, by Benjamin Piekut 12. Music and the Elusive Revolution: Cultural Politics and Political Culture in France, 1968–1981, by Eric Drott 13. Music and Politics in San Francisco: From the 1906 Quake to the Second World War, by Leta E. Miller 14. Frontier Figures: American Music and the Mythology of the American West, by Beth E. Levy 15. In Search of a Concrete Music, by Pierre Schaeffer, translated by Christine North and John Dack 16. The Musical Legacy of Wartime France, by Leslie A. Sprout 17. Arnold Schoenberg’s “A Survivor from Warsaw” in Postwar Europe, by Joy H. Calico 18. Music in America’s Cold War Diplomacy, by Danielle Fosler-Lussier

Music in America’s Cold War Diplomacy DANIELLE FOSLER-LUSSIER


University of California Press, one of the most distinguished university presses in the United States, enriches lives around the world by advancing scholarship in the humanities, social sciences, and natural sciences. Its activities are supported by the UC Press Foundation and by philanthropic contributions from individuals and institutions. For more information, visit University of California Press Oakland, California © 2015 by The Regents of the University of California

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Fosler-Lussier, Danielle, 1969– author. Music in America’s Cold War diplomacy / Danielle Fosler-Lussier. pages cm. — (California studies in 20th-century music ; no. 18) Includes bibliographical references and index. isbn 978–0-520-28413-5 (cloth : alk. paper) isbn 978–0-520-95978-1 (ebook) 1. United States. Department of State. Cultural Presentations Program—History—20th century. 2. Music in intercultural communication—United States—History—20th century. 3. Arts and diplomacy—United States—History—20th century. 4. Music and globalization—United States—History—20th century. 5. United States—Cultural policy—History—20th century. 6. United States— Foreign relations—Communist countries—History—20th century. 7. Communist countries—Foreign relations—United States—History— 20th century. I. Title. II. Series: California studies in 20th-century music; 18. ML3917.U6F67 2015 780.78′73—dc23 2014031326 Manufactured in the United States of America 24 23 22 21 20 19 18 17 16 15 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 In keeping with a commitment to support environmentally responsible and sustainable printing practices, UC Press has printed this book on Natures Natural, a fiber that contains 30% post-consumer waste and meets the minimum requirements of ansi/niso z39.48–1992 (r 1997) (Permanence of Paper).

For the ambassadors

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List of Illustrations Acknowledgments Abbreviations Introduction: Instruments of Diplomacy

ix xi xiii 1

1. Classical Music and the Mediation of Prestige


2. Classical Music as Development Aid


3. Jazz in the Cultural Presentations Program


4. African American Ambassadors Abroad and at Home


5. Presenting America’s Religious Heritage Abroad


6. The Double-Edged Diplomacy of Popular Music


7. Music, Media, and Cultural Relations between the United States and the Soviet Union


Conclusion: Music, Mediated Diplomacy, and Globalization in the Cold War Era




Selected Bibliography




AT HTTP://MUSICDIPLOMACY.ORG: Database of Cultural Presentations Selected Sources


Appendices: 1.1. Cultural Presentations Budgets, 1961–1974 1.2. Programs of the Claremont Quartet, 1965 Latin American Tour 2.1. Recordings of William Strickland Conducting Japanese Orchestras 2.2. Recordings by Akeo Watanabe and the Japan Philharmonic Released on CRI 2.3. Strickland’s Scandinavian Recordings for CRI 2.4. American Works Recorded by the Polish National Radio Orchestra with Polish Conductors and Orchestras 2.5. Recordings by the Polish National Radio Orchestra, Strickland Conducting


1. The flow of information into “Country X”


2. Information flow as seen from the diplomatic field


3. Alwin Nikolais Dance Theatre performing “Tensile Involvement”


4. Strickland conducts excerpts from Verdi’s Requiem in Manila, 1958


5. The audience at the open-air premiere concert of the Saigon Symphony Orchestra, 1959


6. Visitors at the Bergama Kermes art festival wait to enter the “Jazz U.S.A.” exhibit in Ankara, Turkey, 1964


7. Wilbur De Paris and his New Orleans Jazz Band play at the Lido in Accra, Ghana, 1958


8. Dizzy Gillespie poses as a snake charmer, Dacca, Pakistan, 1957


9. Edward R. Murrow and Louis Armstrong in See It Now, 1955


10. Filming Louis Armstrong’s concert in Accra, Gold Coast (later Ghana), 1956


11. Marian Anderson and her accompanist, Franz Rupp, greeted by South Korean president Syngman Rhee, 1957


12. The Golden Gate Quartet at the Chin Woo Stadium in Kuala Lumpur, Malaya, 1959


13. William Warfield sings at the Regal Cinema in Lahore, Pakistan, 1958

129 ix

x / I L L U S T R AT I O N S

14. Steve Addiss and Bill Crofut perform in Vietnam, 1964


15. Sol Hurok


16. The Moiseyev Ensemble in New York, 1958


17. Sheila Allen and the Oberlin College Choir with Soviet students, 1964



I am deeply grateful to the musicians and diplomats who generously offered their time and knowledge to make this project come to life. Among them, Richard Crawford stands out, not only for the vividness of his recollections but also for the probing questions he asked me during our interview and his subsequent support of this project. Susie Crofut, Joe Mallare, Lanny Austin, Rudy Grasha, Kyle Lehning, Barry Campbell, Walter Denny, and Bruce Fisher graciously allowed me access to their personal collections of photographs, audio recordings, and other documents about their tours. As ever, I appreciate Richard Taruskin’s keen editorial eye and unflagging enthusiasm. I am indebted to Peter Schmelz, Emily Abrams Ansari, and Tim Scholl for years of good conversation about cultural diplomacy, for sharing relevant sources, and for suggestions on portions of this work. Nicholas Cull, Beth E. Levy, Nathaniel G. Lew, Maribeth Clark, Leslie Sprout, Eric FoslerLussier, and an anonymous reader provided valuable comments on the manuscript. Ryan Thomas Skinner, Steve Swayne, and Dorothy Noyes offered supportive feedback, as did the members of my graduate seminar, Dana Plank-Blasko, Matthew Campbell, Cole Harrison, and Heike Hoffer. Laura Belmonte shared a key source at the right moment. Lisa Jakelski and Cindy Bylander helped me interpret Polish materials. Hye-jung Park translated Japanese and Korean sources, and Emily Erken located and translated Russian-language documents. I am grateful to Jennifer Siegel for Russian language consultation and to Julian Halliday for typesetting Figure 2. Many helpful archivists made my research a pleasure. Particular thanks go to David Langbart at the National Archives; Ricky Riccardi and Lesley Zlabinger at the Louis Armstrong House Museum; John Pollack at the Kislak Center for Special Collections, Rare Books and Manuscripts, University of Pennsylvania; Nancy Wicklund and Amy Kimura at Westminster Choir xi


College of Rider University; Dan Morgenstern, Elizabeth Surles, and Tad Hershorn at the Institute of Jazz Studies at Rutgers University; Ken Grossi at the Oberlin College Archives; Susan Stafura of the Duquesne University Tamburitzans; and Wendy Chmielewski at the Swarthmore College Peace Collection. At various times I have benefited from research assistance from Deborah Ruhl, Jeannette Getzin, Angela Black, Lauren Owens Galle, Paul Covey, Robert Lintott, N. Michael Goecke, Jennifer Stevens, Matthew Campbell, Chelsea Hodge, Austin McCabe-Juhnke, and James Naumann. Eric Fosler-Lussier coauthored the website accompanying this book. For financial support I am indebted to the National Endowment for the Humanities, the Mershon Center for International Security Studies, and the Ohio State University College of Arts and Sciences. Publication subventions were generously provided by the Gustave Reese Endowment of the American Musicological Society, funded in part by the National Endowment for the Humanities and the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation; and by the Society for American Music’s H. Earle Johnson Publication Subvention fund. Some of the material presented in this book has appeared previously as follows: portions of the introduction and chapter 1 appear as “Instruments of Diplomacy: Writing Music into the History of Cold War International Relations,” in Music and International History, edited by Jessica GienowHecht (Oxford: Berghahn, forthcoming). Parts of chapters 1 and 6 draw on “American Cultural Diplomacy and the Mediation of Avant-Garde Music,” in Sound Commitments: Avant-Garde Music and the Sixties, edited by Robert Adlington (Oxford University Press, 2009), 232–53; this material is used by permission of Oxford University Press, USA. Portions of the introduction and chapter 8 appeared in “Music Pushed, Music Pulled: Cultural Diplomacy, Globalization, and Imperialism,” contribution to the special forum “Musical Diplomacy: Strategies, Agendas, Relationships,” Diplomatic History 36, no. 1 (2012): 53–64. Portions of chapters 3 and 8 also draw on “Cultural Diplomacy as Cultural Globalization: The University of Michigan Jazz Band in Latin America,” Journal of the Society for American Music 4, no. 1 (2010): 59–93. It has been a pleasure to work with Mary Francis, Bradley Depew, and Rachel Berchten at the University of California Press, and the keen editorial eye of Joe Abbott is greatly appreciated. Most of all, I am grateful for Eric Fosler-Lussier’s belief in the value of this project. His wholehearted support, along with that of Isaac and Elliott Fosler-Lussier and Joanne and Roger Lussier, has made this book possible.



Advisory Committee on the Arts American National Theatre and Academy Cultural Affairs Officer International Information Administration (Soviet) Committee for State Security Operations Coordinating Board Public Affairs Officer United States Information Agency United States Information Service


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Introduction Instruments of Diplomacy

Sitting in the American embassy in Phnom Penh, Edmund Kellogg was overwhelmed and frustrated. As the interim chargé d’affaires for the embassy, he was responsible for reporting on the success of U.S. government–sponsored concerts in Cambodia. Unfortunately, there was little success to report. The embassy had had to cancel two of the three musical groups that were supposed to appear in Cambodia in the 1958–59 season, and recent American musical performances there had been unsuccessful. Half the audience for the harmonica player John Sebastian left the hall within the first few minutes of the concert, although the rest applauded enthusiastically. The same was true for the Westminster Choir. The piano provided for Marian Anderson’s performance was terribly out of tune, and although the audience appreciated “the force of her personality,” they disliked her operatic repertoire. When the Benny Goodman jazz band visited, the Cambodian sponsor made no arrangements for a piano or a sound system, leaving the band without essential equipment. A local newspaper called Goodman’s music “the gobbling of turkeys.” Kellogg had cancelled the scheduled performances of the Golden Gate Quartet, a singing group specializing in popular songs and gospel numbers, because when he played a recording of the quartet for the Cambodian minister of public instruction, the minister asked, “Do you have anybody who can sing in Cambodian?” Of course, if the education minister wasn’t willing to listen, the public would have been even less receptive. As Kellogg described the scene, Cambodians routinely received musicians from the United States, the Soviet bloc, and elsewhere, but they didn’t like most of what they heard. Kellogg viewed Cambodia as strategically important, and he hoped the State Department would keep trying to reach people there—but he desperately wanted the department to recognize the difficulty of pleasing Cambodian audiences with American music.1 1


Kellogg and hundreds of people like him worked in America’s diplomatic posts—its embassies and consulates around the world. Among their many other obligations, they were asked by the State Department to oversee and report on its Cultural Presentations program, which sent American performing artists and athletes all over the world to improve the image of the United States. Music was an important strategic resource for this kind of programming, yet diplomats struggled to use it effectively. In this book I aim to evaluate the nature and effects of U.S. musical diplomacy. Since the Cultural Presentations program administered most of the United States’ musical diplomacy efforts during the Cold War, its sponsored activities constitute most of the projects described in these pages. The Cultural Presentations program was formally begun as the President’s Emergency Fund for International Affairs in 1954, though it had roots in the U.S.-Latin American exchange programs of the World War II era.2 It is more difficult to define an end point for the program’s activities. Musical diplomacy continues today in a limited way. U.S. embassies may sponsor concerts, and the State Department and Defense Department underwrite several tours each year.3 Nonetheless, the heyday of U.S. musical diplomacy came to an end in the early 1970s, when shrinking budgets forced the program to narrow its focus to the Soviet bloc countries and reduced the number of artists who could be sponsored each year.4 The reorganizations of the program after the early 1970s, as well as the recent resurgence of interest in musical diplomacy, must wait for a later study.5 As Kellogg’s detailed report suggests, the Cultural Presentations program relied heavily on embassy staff. Although performers were selected and tours planned in Washington by State Department personnel, only people in each destination country knew the local circumstances that could make or break performances—which theaters provided enough space for an orchestra, which cities had no pianos, which music audiences would prefer, and so forth. Usually a post’s public affairs officer (PAO) or cultural affairs officer (CAO) took the lead in making arrangements.6 Once the post learned that a particular musical attraction would visit, the officer looked for a local sponsor, booked a venue, and helped the sponsor advertise the event. When the musicians arrived, U.S. officials were on hand to resolve the inevitable difficulties with language, lodging, and transportation. Posts also hosted receptions where the musicians met local dignitaries and fellow artists. After the visit the officer sent a report to the State Department, detailing the outcomes of the performances and enclosing photographs and press clippings. The reports that Kellogg and his colleagues sent back to the State Department constitute the most complete collection of historical sources


describing America’s musical diplomacy in the 1950s and 1960s. This study relies on them for many details. Of course, these reports are shaped by a number of biases. Each officer’s beliefs about the people in the area served by the post colored his opinion of what music should be sent, as did the officer’s personal taste and his desire to connect with American music while far from home. The budget of the Cultural Presentations program was contingent on evidence of progress, so embassies were encouraged to send back glowing reports that could be cited in the published annual summaries. Congressman John Rooney likened these summaries to “a theatrical performer coming along with his clippings. He doesn’t bring any bad ones.”7 Still, the archives contain numerous accounts of failures or partial successes, which suggests that honest assessment was valued. Apart from critics’ reviews published in the foreign press, the posts’ reports are the only eyewitness accounts preserved and accessible in quantity. (Newspaper reviews are also useful, even though the historian must scrutinize them carefully. Many of them were based on press releases composed by U.S. diplomatic staff and translated into local languages. Reviews that do not rely on the press releases likely reflect local opinion more accurately.)8 Only a fraction of the posts’ material exists today, for the State Department kept far better records about political, economic, and military diplomacy than it did about its music programs.9 In sum, extant reports contain views that may be distorted by American aims and values, but the incidents they describe nonetheless have much to teach us about responses to American cultural diplomacy.

UNDERSTANDING MUSICAL DIPLOMACY: POINTS OF VIEW The view from the field is particularly useful because what Foreign Service officers believed they were accomplishing could differ dramatically from what the program’s planners in Washington had in mind. The government officials who planned cultural presentations sometimes imagined them as a one-way instrument by which the United States could exert influence on other countries. Congress had appropriated money for artistic display overseas because the United States had an image problem. In the words of Congressman Frank Thompson Jr. the young superpower had to prove “that we are by no means a Nation of mere ‘cultural barbarians.’ ”10 The specific message differed from place to place. In Europe the United States aimed to demonstrate that Americans not only excelled in engineering and industry but also appreciated the artistic achievements and time-honored traditions that Europeans valued. In much of the developing world, U.S.


officials pointed out their country’s embrace of spiritual values along with economic progress. Official State Department brochures described U.S. cultural and information programs as promoting international understanding and “mutual respect” among peoples, which might suggest an equality of exchange between partner countries.11 Nonetheless, the short-term aim of combating Soviet propaganda about the United States meant that broadcasting the American message to other peoples usually seemed more urgent than developing truly mutual cultural exchange. With the exception of the Soviet-American exchanges that were regulated by treaty, the United States sent out more musicians than it received as guests. Officials in Washington believed that cultural and information programs afforded the United States power over other nations. To illustrate the nature of these programs, a 1953 pamphlet published by the State Department’s International Information Administration (IIA) depicted cultural presentations and other propaganda as water flowing directly into a vessel labeled “Country X” (figure 1). U.S. government propagandists were engaged in a “crusade of ideas” to improve America’s image among citizens of other countries. According to this picture, educational and cultural exchanges would pour American ideas and values into the minds of the foreign public, making them more receptive to U.S. policy objectives.12 This image of “cultural flow” strongly suggests that the United States could control the content and effects of its propaganda. When people write today about America’s “soft power,” this one-way flow of consumer goods and political ideas is usually what they have in mind. From his vantage point in Cambodia, Edmund Kellogg would have drawn the cultural presentations process differently, perhaps something like my hypothetical figure 2. Kellogg’s diagram might consist of a complex, distributed network of connections with the embassy at the center. For the Foreign Service officer on the ground, cultural presentations were mired in practical concerns, such as making sure someone at the National Theater numbered the backs of the chairs in chalk so that tickets for particular seats could be honored, or asking that the king invite Cambodians as well as Americans to the command performance at the palace.13 Organizing people to do these jobs placed the officer into a web of social relationships— not pouring information into a bucket but collaborating and communicating in many directions at once. Special programming for schoolchildren and university students brought teachers, university administrators, children, and young adults into contact with both the American performers and the organizing officials. Likewise, embassies tried to have the visiting American musicians meet and perform with musicians from the host country,

Figure 1. The flow of information into “Country X.” IIA: International Information Administration Program, Department of State Publication 4939 (1953), 8.


Figure 2. Information flow as seen from the diplomatic field.

arranging jam sessions, master classes, joint rehearsals, or performances whenever possible. All these activities required the participation of citizens in the host country, and they linked the embassy into local social networks. As the Cambodian case implies, if a potential audience was not receptive, there was little the embassy could do to reach them. This is a key paradox of cultural diplomacy: if we look at the State Department’s music program from the top down, we see the imperial desire to impress American values on others. The top-down view displays confidence that ideas could be conveyed to and adopted by others through artistic experiences. From this perspective music programs differ little from other forms of propaganda that tried to shape opinions by offering information. If we look from the bottom up, though, we see an intensive process of negotiation and engagement. Both views offer us true pictures of the situation, but neither picture is complete. In Matthew Fraser’s account of soft power, he distinguishes imperialism (a “deliberate project of a center extending influence and control over a periphery”) from globalization (an “infinitely subtler and more complex interplay among many interconnecting cultures and economies”).14 U.S. musical diplomacy encompassed both elements, and taking both into account offers us the best way to understand the project of extending power abroad by means of the arts. Most of the policy theorists who have written about cultural diplomacy explain it as a


top-down process, envisioning art as having direct and unilateral effects.15 From other perspectives, however, the process can look very different. This difference is not merely a contrast of global and local perspectives, for there were many roles to play in the process of musical diplomacy. The diagram would again look different if it were drawn by N. M. Khan, the chief commissioner and president of the Pakistan Arts Council. Khan was chosen by the embassy to serve as local sponsor for several U.S. musical presentations in the 1950s. To Khan the American concerts provided unparalleled personal and professional opportunities. Having heard that the U.S. government had presented an ice-skating show in India, he sought equal treatment for Pakistan.16 From July to September of 1957 Khan demanded repeatedly that the State Department provide an ice show or a “good jazz orchestra” for the International Festival of Culture to be held in Karachi in November of that year. Though Khan thanked the State Department for sending Marian Anderson to the Pakistani festival, he knew that her classical music would not engage crowds as popular entertainment would. The chargé d’affaires of the U.S. embassy in Karachi, Arthur Z. Gardiner, wrote that Khan was “looking to the U.S. for a spectacular presentation that will draw and entertain thousands of Pakistanis.” Gardiner agreed with Khan’s assessment: “Any performance where the appeal is visual would be preferable to a musical one in a country where only a small proportion of the population has been exposed to western music enough to begin to appreciate it.”17 The relationship between Khan and the embassy was complicated by the State Department’s preference that its embassy personnel not serve as impresarios in the host countries. Embassies were asked instead to find local commercial or nonprofit sponsors to help with logistics and advertising. Commercial sponsors usually took a portion of the net profit from concerts, the rest returning to the embassy to defray the costs of the tours. They shared the risk of failure with the State Department in hopes of financial reward. But even nonprofit sponsors benefited from their association with the Cultural Presentations program: they won a closer relationship with embassy officials, publicity for their organizations, and sometimes a cut of the proceeds for local charities. In many parts of the world, finding impresarios who could handle both logistics and publicity in accordance with American expectations was exceedingly difficult. Many embassies therefore relied on a few capable sponsors.18 N. M. Khan was one of these. Acting on behalf of the Pakistan Arts Council, he sponsored the successful October 1957 visit of the Minneapolis Symphony to Karachi. During one intermission Khan personally introduced the conductor, Antal Dorati, to the president of Pakistan. This gesture may have raised Khan’s prestige both with


the president (for having brought the American orchestra) and with the embassy (for having arranged such a meeting). Citing Khan’s success in filling concert halls, Gardiner pressed the State Department more than once to send the music Khan wanted. The next year Khan presented five successful performances of the Jack Teagarden Sextet in Karachi—he eventually got his jazz band.19 From Khan’s point of view the flow of artists and ideas from the United States was not an imposition but a resource. He acted not as a recipient but as a collaborator who shaped the content of the Cultural Presentations program through his requests and his organizing efforts. For Khan the diagram would show not a nice straight pipe into Country X, as in figure 1, but a complicated series of channels, diverting American power for national and regional purposes that were not America’s own, and providing feedback that modified what America sent through the pipe.20 Many people in the host countries were alert to the slippery slope between enjoying American music and ceding power to the United States. Audiences and critics often interpreted this power relationship in terms of the host country’s colonial history, as well as its current relations with the United States. In a trenchant commentary, Filipino journalist Carmen Guerrero-Nakpil wrote in the Manila Chronicle, “One can only be glad that the American State Department is continuing to try an entirely different way of winning friends and influencing people and has been steadily sending us America’s best artists. Nothing has been quite so successful since the capture of Aguinaldo”—that is, since 1901, when U.S. military forces captured the Filipino president, inaugurating a decades-long colonial occupation of the Philippines. With pointed irony Guerrero-Nakpil declared, “What an immense pleasure it has been to be held captive by the Symphony of the Air,” contrasting the orchestra’s friendly visit with the violence of the Philippine occupation. Naming the American high commissioner who argued against Philippine independence, Guerrero-Nakpil continued: “not even Paul Vories McNutt was so charming as the San Francisco Ballet. If this is cultural imperialism, let’s make the most of it.” The reviewer’s sardonic appreciation of the new phase of Philippine-U.S. relations swept nothing under the rug: she both valued the music bestowed on the Filipino audience and observed that this music might distract the public from the horrors of the past. Meanwhile, another critic in the same newspaper prized the gift of American music without apparent irony. The antiAmerican critic Indalecio P. Soliongco noted that though the United States could have sent its lesser musicians to the Philippines, “it has done no such thing. It has given us a taste of the best of America’s flowering musical


culture, for which we should be thankful.”21 Perhaps love of music here trumped skepticism about America’s intentions. In this Philippine instance, as in the numerous examples Kellogg offered, we see some of the risks of musical diplomacy. The possibility that the music might fail to please was only one of the State Department’s worries. If no one attended a U.S.-sponsored program, the embassy would suffer a public embarrassment. Embassies routinely provided tickets at no cost, urged businesses to buy tickets for their employees, and even sent buses to collect people for concerts. If citizens of the host nations believed the concerts were anything less than the best music the United States had to offer, they might take offense. If audiences believed that they were the targets of “sugarcoated propaganda about the American way of life,” as did one Nairobi critic, the concerts lost their appeal.22 Although most musicians understood the importance of making a good impression, sometimes they did offend their hosts. In his introductory remarks before a concert in Cairo, John Finley Williamson, director of the Westminster Singers, exclaimed, “As I look at you girls here, with your eager intelligent faces looking at me, I can hardly realize that I am in Africa—why, you could almost be European!” Williamson appears not to have understood that he hurt feelings with this remark and others like it. The American embassy in Monrovia reported that as much as Williamson might know about music, “the Doctor does not appear to be sufficiently well grounded in other matters for an effective African tour.”23 Some performers became irritable under the strain of constant performances and social obligations, behaved crassly as privileged tourists, or wandered naively into situations they were not equipped to understand.24 Yet despite these errors, the musical offerings of the Cultural Presentations program won considerable acclaim. The State Department’s own reporting system was biased in favor of positive news, but even taking that bias into account, there is plenty of evidence that the American musicians’ visits were both appreciated and useful. Among documents now available, Soliongco’s grateful appraisal is a far more typical response to American concerts than Guerrero-Nakpil’s sardonic one. Even if audiences remained aware of the political power behind the concerts—and whether or not they liked the music they heard—many did appreciate the gift of American music.

THE CULTURAL PRESENTATIONS PROGRAM: AIMS AND OPERATION State Department officials recognized at the program’s inception that they were ill-equipped to choose the music to send abroad. They needed a means


to ensure both fairness and artistic quality. To administer the artistic details of its programs, the State Department engaged the American National Theatre and Academy (ANTA), a private organization promoting theatrical performances. In turn, ANTA established advisory panels of experts in music and the other arts to provide artistic evaluations of candidates for tours. Performers and their agents plied ANTA with requests for tours. ANTA’s panelists met monthly to evaluate not only performers who might be sponsored by the State Department but also musicians touring privately so that they might inform diplomatic posts about the quality and potential of the performers. ANTA regularly sent updated lists of performers approved by the panels to the State Department.25 The advisory panels’ recommendations were then reviewed by an interagency committee representing the State Department, the United States Information Agency (USIA), the Defense Department, the Central Intelligence Agency, the Library of Congress, the Smithsonian Institution, the National Gallery of Art, and the Commission on Fine Arts.26 In addition, the State Department solicited advice from a separate Advisory Committee on the Arts (ACA), consisting of up to ten members highly placed in a variety of artistic fields and background-checked by the FBI.27 The ACA advised the State Department on its overall arts program, whereas the advisory panels evaluated specific performers. The interagency committee identified the populations most urgently to be cultivated and considered how to approach them. In addition, as we have already seen, embassy personnel in U.S. diplomatic posts worldwide informed the State Department about what music they believed would meet programming needs in the countries where they were serving.28 On the basis of all this advice, State Department personnel in Washington decided what music to send where within a tight budget.29 Some individual composers, lecturers, and conductors also traveled under the State Department’s separate American Specialists program, and Fulbright awards provided a further means of moving American music beyond U.S. borders.30 The evaluation of the program likewise involved many stakeholders. Congress appropriated the money for cultural presentations as an emergency measure in 1954, followed by a permanent appropriation in 1956. The State Department was required to produce annual reports for Congress, and its personnel and those of the USIA were routinely invited to testify before congressional budget panels to explain the program’s value and effectiveness. American and foreign publics followed the tours in the press, on the radio, and sometimes in the new medium of television. They, too, communicated their wishes and complaints to the State Department


directly or through its diplomatic posts abroad. From the founding of the State Department’s Division of Cultural Relations in 1939, its programs were designed not to fund the arts outright but to coordinate the activities of private individuals and institutions.31 Thus, thousands of people, all of them with agendas, shaped the content of the tours. The State Department’s decisions were never unilateral but reflected a dynamic array of artistic and political interests. Cultural diplomacy was always an uncomfortable mix of information propaganda (intending to shape the thoughts and opinions of the world’s citizens, as seen in figure 1) and a gentler, high-minded vision of mutuality and respect, regarded as separate from politics. It was easiest to justify cultural presentations to the budget hawks in Congress by explaining that these presentations changed foreign publics’ opinions about the United States, enabling other kinds of information to penetrate in areas that had previously resisted U.S. messages. President John F. Kennedy articulated the high stakes of this enterprise in a 1961 speech: It is clearer than ever that we face a relentless struggle in every corner of the globe that goes far beyond the clash of armies or even nuclear armaments. We dare not fail to see the insidious nature of this new and deeper struggle. We dare not fail to grasp the new concept, the new tools, the new sense of urgency we will need to combat it. And we dare not fail to realize that this struggle is taking place every day without fanfare in thousands of villages and markets day and night and in classrooms all over the globe.32

Accordingly, music and other attractions were among the assets that should be deployed to bring the world around to America’s point of view. Yet many American officials were reluctant to let culture be so openly “used” in this way. As early as 1939 Ben Cherrington, the first leader of the State Department’s new Division of Cultural Relations, explained that cultural exchanges would not build strong ties unless they reflected mutual relationships, “sharing some interest or activity which has rich meaning for each of us.”33 Charles Frankel, who served two years as assistant secretary of state for educational and cultural affairs, believed that the problems cultural diplomacy could address were similar to other problems in international affairs but were not a matter of exerting power over others. Rather, cultural diplomacy could rectify “imbalances of intellectual power,” remove obstacles to communication, control “cultural aggression,” and create “institutions and enterprises in which there is an international stake, so that the edge is taken off international hostilities and the reasons for keeping peace are multiplied.”34 In this way the practice of cultural diplomacy


was meant to improve relations by placating the participants. This kind of relationship would only be weakened by the obnoxious intrusion of information propaganda. Music had special power to open doors, but paradoxically, the only way to maintain that power was to resist using music for political purposes. These two philosophies—music as information propaganda and music as nonpolitical human contact—remained in conflict throughout the existence of the Cultural Presentations program. The combination of music’s broad appeal and its seeming political neutrality made music a very special form of government propaganda. In the early years the State Department was inclined to keep its sponsorship of musical events low-key for fear of making people abroad feel that they were being targeted by an information campaign.35 As Acting Secretary of State Herbert Hoover Jr. put it in 1956, “In modern, sensitive Asia, the best propaganda is the best-hidden propaganda.”36 Posters advertising the concerts often omitted the State Department’s name, and the sponsorship was rarely trumpeted in the press. Sometimes, however, it was necessary to tout government sponsorship to demonstrate that the United States was interested not only in armaments but also in art. When the Boston Symphony Orchestra visited the USSR, much was made of its official sponsorship and mission—yet the greatness of art music was nevertheless held to rise above politics. Walter Walmsley, chargé d’affaires at the American embassy in Moscow, identified the peculiarity of using music as diplomacy: “it would be fatuous to suggest that great music interpreted by magnificent musicians has any role in the solution of the problems which separate the United States and USSR.”37 Yet when the same orchestra went to Czechoslovakia, the U.S. ambassador reported that “ovations, without ever getting out of bounds, tended [to] assume proportions of manifestations in expression of things more than musical.” The ambassador cited audiences’ praise for the music’s excellence, their delight at “feeling themselves again in the main stream of European civilization,” and their astonishment that such an event was permitted. Crowds gathered wherever the musicians went, hoping for a memento or some kind of contact with the musicians.38 Over time, officials in Washington recognized this attractive power. Rather than dissociating the State Department from the American musicians’ tours, they put the State Department’s name on the posters and issued press releases explaining that the U.S. government valued music.39 The Cultural Presentations program also reflected a tension between the short-term aim of competing with Soviet propaganda and the long-term vision of cultural understanding. A 1962 report explained that the rivalry with the USSR had driven the program in its early years but that “com-


petitive displays of cultural accomplishment tend to be wasteful and inappropriate.”40 Nevertheless, the many stakeholders in the program were far from unanimous about this policy shift. Embassy and consular staff continued to report the activities of Soviet and Chinese performers within the areas they served, as if to facilitate the planning of artistic countermeasures. Cultural diplomacy, the province of the State Department, was supposed to be separate from propaganda, which fell to the USIA. The State Department handled diplomacy and the movement of people: it funded and planned the Cultural Presentations program, the Specialists program, and other exchanges. The USIA managed the movement of cultural objects such as books, films, musical scores, and audio recordings. In the field, though, both cultural diplomacy and propaganda were enacted and supervised by the same people, the USIA’s public affairs officers and cultural affairs officers who worked in U.S. diplomatic posts.41 Some commentators have adopted wholesale the peaceable explanation of cultural diplomacy. In 2003 Milton Cummings explained cultural diplomacy as the “exchange of ideas, information, art and other aspects of culture among nations and their peoples in order to foster mutual understanding.”42 Yet, as Ambassador Laurence Pope has reminded us, “cultural diplomacy was not about the search for international understanding, nor was it about putting oneself into the shoes of another. Rather, it was about the exercise of state power.”43 Still, one may allow that political and apolitical aspects of music coexisted in a productive tension throughout all these activities. Music’s special power is that it brings into play many kinds of human behavior, most of which are thought to be separate from politics or governance. Musical performance tends to be warmly rewarding for participants as they marvel at unusual talent, gather in public places for festive occasions, or welcome guests from afar. Musical diplomacy calls on these conventions not to conceal the political sponsorship of the enterprise but to engage people, building relationships that encompass both political and artistic experiences. Distinguishing which is the primary objective and which the by-product is entirely a matter of perspective.

AMATEUR DIPLOMATS Diplomacy has typically been regarded as a matter of state-to-state negotiations, although it is now widely understood that persons not given the authority of formal ambassadorship frequently play important roles in shaping international relations.44 The musicians who toured for the State Department were not trained diplomats. Some received in-person briefing


or printed information from the State Department before their tours. Most were also told about local conditions by embassy personnel when they arrived at each destination. Yet except perhaps for a few high-profile musicians, the briefings were not extensive, and in many cases the “cultural ambassadors” received no significant training before they went abroad. Many musicians report that the State Department did not restrict their behavior. As one performer put it, “We were not asked to be anything other than what we would be in Springfield, Illinois.”45 Because the musicians were frequently preoccupied with the need to perform well, any political briefing they did receive probably did not influence their behavior. When the University of Michigan Jazz Band was preparing for its Latin American tour of 1965, the State Department sent the musicians booklets of background information, pamphlets with titles such as “Democracy vs. Dictators,” “Why We Treat Different Communists Differently,” and “U.S. Policy toward Cuba.”46 Nevertheless, the pamphlets were distributed right before the students’ winter break for a tour beginning in early January. Several band members report that they never read the materials. Musicians typically focused not on politics but on matters of performance and performing conditions. One band member protested having to sit through briefings, saying, “What do we care about this stuff? We’re going to play.”47 Committed to excellent music-making, most were not interested in learning the finer points of diplomacy, let alone hearing about the varieties of Communist front groups they might encounter or being admonished condescendingly to mind their manners.48 Given their lack of concern with the political aspects of their mission, musicians made unlikely diplomats. Yet their enactment of diplomacy served purposes that official diplomacy could not. Their performance extended well beyond their musical activities. Their interactions with hosts, fans, and fellow musicians left impressions of what Americans were like. That the musicians were sometimes unaware of the importance of this role only strengthened the perception that they were not offering propaganda but merely entertainment or art. Their frankness in conversation and their curiosity about music of other places presented Americans as sometimes naive but engaged interlocutors. Their superb musical skills bore witness to the excellence of the American educational system, and their generosity in sharing their expertise was evidence of American goodwill.49 The obviously positive working relations of musicians in ethnically integrated ensembles served as a potent demonstration counteracting widespread perceptions of America’s racial bigotry. Thus, the musicians were performing not only music but also a highly visible role as Americans abroad.50


Amateur and lesser-known professional musicians were particularly effective in their interactions with foreign publics. The most famous professional musicians tended to play in large cities, and they were in great demand at diplomatic functions for elite society members and diplomats in the host countries. Celebrities were typically watched over closely for security reasons, which limited their personal interaction with general audiences. By contrast, amateur and collegiate groups and a few of the smaller professional ensembles performed in more remote places, where the presence of Americans was a greater novelty and the opportunities for interaction were extensive. Many amateur groups toured Europe every year under private auspices; therefore, State Department officials typically declined to fund tours to Western Europe. Instead, amateurs were typically sent to the developing world.51 In shaping a musical impression of America, there were risks in allowing amateurs to represent the United States, for many were not inured to the hardships of touring abroad, and they were sometimes compared unfavorably with professional groups. At the same time, their dual status as envoys and tourists allowed them unusual access to the public.52 Except in the East Bloc and the Soviet Union, the less-famous musicians were allowed to break into small groups and wander into cafés or shopping venues. They often participated in impromptu musical events and parties. Even offstage, they were performing an observable role as American citizens. Their diplomatic performance was a special resource, for it created memorable human connections as well as vivid musical impressions. A State Department official explained in 1962 that “our particular aim these days is wherever feasible to put a new ‘accent on youth.’ For we believe that our young people often are particularly effective in demonstrating abroad the virtues and depth of our democracy.”53 Indeed, U.S. officials found that sending student musicians was the best way to gain access to students in other countries. For example, the University of Michigan Jazz Band’s 1965 visit to La Paz, Bolivia, was the U.S. embassy’s first successful attempt to organize a cultural event on the campus of the Universidad mayor de San Andrés in La Paz. To make arrangements for the band’s performance at the university, CAO Michael Boerner enlisted the cooperation of a small group of influential student leaders. Little could be accomplished on the campus without these leaders’ consent.54 The student leaders valued the jazz band’s presence because so many students enjoyed jazz, and bringing good music to campus reflected well on the leaders. From Boerner’s point of view the tour was a way to make constructive contact with these influential students. In this case the relationship was fruitful. After the Michigan band’s departure Boerner continued to


cultivate relationships with the student leaders, and he eventually arranged for a group of them to travel to the United States, despite the difficulty of obtaining visas for political radicals. That trip, in turn, made a deep impression on the Bolivian students; they were enthusiastic witnesses to an election in New York, and Boerner believes they felt more friendly to the United States after their return to Bolivia. According to Boerner, the jazz band’s tour started a conversation with politically important individuals who otherwise would have had nothing to do with U.S. citizens, least of all embassy personnel. The appeal of jazz was vital to the success of this project, for the cooperation of the student leaders was won only because bringing good music to campus allowed the leaders to demonstrate their effectiveness in improving student life.55 In organizing concerts and informal visits to college campuses by American students, State Department officials cultivated institutional connections and opportunities for informal contact.56 On tours of Indian universities, for example, members of the collegiate Westminster Choir discussed with Indian students problems of local and international politics, standards of living, and educational methods. Students on both sides appreciated the conversation: one American student noted that “we were made to feel at home.”57 Because they were not trained diplomats, visiting musicians were able to adopt a variety of roles, acting variously as guests, peers, or tourists, as well as performers and ambassadors.

CHAPTER OUTLINE The chapters that follow introduce the various kinds of musical performances sent abroad by the U.S. government and the characteristic achievements of each. From the beginning of the program, officials frequently chose classical music—that is, music composed in the European tradition that was intended as a form of art rather than entertainment. (Hence the alternate term art music.) The members of the ACA and ANTA’s Music Advisory Panel were drawn from America’s elite, among them arts philanthropists, museum presidents, composers, and university professors. These people had a sizable investment in the “highest” arts, regarding music as a means of representing an educated, “cultured” society.58 The State Department explained to one of its diplomatic posts in 1957 that “the most important purpose of the President’s Program is to demonstrate that American artists are in the very forefront of the world’s artistic achievement.” Stressing the originality and excellence of American performers was one way of demonstrating American greatness.59 In chapter 1 I explain


that the decision to present classical music and its offshoot traditions was made on political as well as aesthetic grounds. Program officials used classical music as evidence against Soviet claims and European stereotypes that the United States, a land of business, lacked culture. Classical music appeared to be the music that Europeans and citizens of former European colonies would respect most; it therefore seemed the best music to use to win respect for America. This supposition led to expensive, high-profile European tours by U.S. orchestras—the New York Philharmonic in 1955, the Boston Symphony Orchestra the next year—as well as Metropolitan Opera soloists.60 By reaching opinion-makers with impressive concerts of indisputable quality, State Department officials hoped to break down prejudices about America, allowing U.S. positions in all matters to be taken more seriously. We see in chapter 2 that classical music could also serve as development aid, helping countries around the world to participate in a classical music culture that was believed to have common value for all. When the conductor William Strickland worked with orchestras throughout Asia and Europe, he fostered a sense of striving toward “world-class” performance, inspiring performers and audiences alike to envision their countries as peers of the United States and Europe. These efforts were predicated on many unspoken assumptions about the “culture” in “cultural presentations.” First, culture was supposed to be simultaneously national and universal: national in that a single example of art could be understood as representing some characteristic of the United States as a whole; universal in the sense that people abroad should be able to interpret the music, like it, and evaluate it much as the senders would. When the Music Advisory Panel chose the “highest-quality” music to represent America, the panel believed that people elsewhere in the world would agree that the music was excellent. As the anthropologist Anna Tsing has noted, universals are local knowledge, existing in the minds of particular people—yet the act of calling on a cultural universal identifies an element that can be valued in more than one place or that might even retain its value as it moves. Tsing calls universals “mobile and mobilizing”—they not only travel from place to place but also inspire people to participate in the practices they represent.61 Second, the project’s planners seemed to agree that culture is portable— that a particular performance retains its identity even if it is transported thousands of miles away to a radically different linguistic and social environment. Third, they took for granted that a clean distinction could be drawn between givers and receivers. In figure 1 the flow is clearly unidirectional: from the United States to others, not vice versa. These assumptions


made even faraway people and places seem close and accessible. The fact that musical diplomacy was usually carried out through in-person visits and face-to-face concerts brought to the project a sense of immediacy and authenticity, reinforcing the idea that moving music across borders was simple and effective. Yet in many cases the seeming simplicity of musical diplomacy was an illusion. Whether or not people acknowledged it, mediating music—moving it across space and time—changed its meanings. The visible, immediate contact of musical performance happened amid a welter of other kinds of contact, through print and audiovisual media, governmental relations, local politics—all of which shaped the outcomes of the face-toface encounters that took place at American concerts abroad.62 In the early years of U.S. cultural presentations, feedback from the field radically changed some of the program’s premises. The rapid decolonization of states formerly ruled by Europeans and elites called attention to the power of the masses: the State Department no longer regarded elite audiences as the only people worth reaching. At the same time, the embassies sent word that classical music simply could not attract the socially and economically heterogeneous audiences the department had begun to seek. In hopes of connecting with these audiences, officials added jazz, variety shows, and popular music to the classical music they had preferred. Such programming, which began in 1956, remained controversial among some of the program’s advisers, but it provided a means of competing with the Soviet variety shows and Chinese acrobatic displays that were proving popular in Southeast Asia and Latin America. Jazz, the best-known case of cultural diplomacy, was a music with popular elements that also encouraged thoughtful connoisseurship. As we will see in chapter 3, it was well situated to reach both novice and expert audiences. The programming of jazz highlighted some of the same problems of elite (avant-garde) vs. popular (Dixieland, swing) styles that the United States faced with regard to classical music. While the most famous artists were sometimes kept at a distance from fans, for less-famous musicians the State Department typically arranged jam sessions where jazz musicians could perform together with musicians from the host countries. The sense of “playing together” helped cultivate a feeling of community among the small but growing subcultures of committed jazz fans abroad. Jazz also gave the State Department a means of shaping perceptions of America’s racial problems by programming black, white, and integrated ensembles according to political need. Because the civil rights movement within the United States was drawing attention abroad, the issue of race was nearly omnipresent throughout the planning and execution of the


tours. A typical feature of cultural diplomacy is its indirectness. It is difficult to measure any changes in attitude or increases in prestige due specifically to musical performances. Yet calling on African American musicians as cultural diplomats was a more direct strategy. Because race was omnipresent in critiques of the United States in the foreign press, sending African Americans abroad offered a rare opportunity for the State Department to present observable evidence about the achievements of its black citizens. The use of African Americans as ambassadors elicited a great deal of comment at home in the United States. Chapter 4 presents two highly visible African American musical ambassadors, Louis Armstrong and Marian Anderson, and explores how the media and American and foreign publics responded to their work abroad. These musicians, more than any others, spurred U.S. citizens to write to Congress, newspapers, the State Department, and television networks to express conflicted opinions about how America, its artistic life, and its race relations should be presented abroad. Chapter 5 reveals that despite the constitutionally guaranteed separation of church and state, the State Department’s music program deftly presented America’s largely Protestant religious identity abroad. The Westminster College choir performed in Protestant churches across Asia and proclaimed an openly religious identity. Even secular choirs and solo singers included religious music on their programs. African American spirituals were especially important, for they engaged a wide variety of audiences and implicitly addressed both America’s religious identity and its racial problems. Like jazz, religious music supported subcultures abroad, this time through church institutions. Choral singing was a way to involve large groups of people in music-making. Furthermore, religious music depicted the United States as a nation not only of business but also of respectable spiritual traditions, and it flew in the face of Soviet atheism. Although jazz tours were the most visible, the tours of popular music best masked their function as propaganda. Chapter 6 evaluates tours that included American popular music, including rock ’n’ roll, folk, and blues. Popular music groups were easier to transport than large ensembles, and they attracted the young people the State Department was increasingly interested in reaching. Still, popular music also challenged the premises of the Cultural Presentations program. Rock and blues, for example, were valued in the United States for their subversive power, as well as their capacity to energize audiences. Although as a matter of policy U.S. officials discouraged dancing at U.S.-sponsored events lest the crowds become too unruly, they were happy to take advantage of the strong attraction rock held for


young people abroad. Folk music was likewise associated with the antiwar movement in the United States. These various genres of popular music made very effective propaganda abroad, but as the 1960s wore on, musicians’ association with the U.S. government sometimes proved a liability for them at home. Chapter 7 examines the exchanges between the United States and the Soviet Union, which were the most famous cultural presentations— watched for their symbolic and political import as well as their musical significance. These tours were often described after the fact as having undermined Soviet society and thereby hastening the end of the Cold War. Such triumphalist views are scarcely borne out by the evidence the State Department collected. Still, the department negotiated avidly to keep its exchange programs in place even through geopolitical crises that reinforced the two nations’ antagonism. Indeed, highly visible cultural exchanges allowed Soviet citizens to meet Americans at a time when few Soviets could leave their country. These tours also familiarized the traveling Americans with the Soviet state’s restrictions on privacy, commerce, and expression in a way that made the Soviet situation seem familiar as well as strange. By keeping lines of communication open and publics in contact, U.S.-Soviet cultural exchanges laid the groundwork for the expansion of relations in the 1970s. James Der Derian defines diplomacy as “a mediation between estranged individuals, groups or entities,” where “mediation” can mean either a connecting link or an intervention.63 To some extent this definition helps to unite the peaceable with the political definitions of musical diplomacy. But the word mediation also invokes the communications media, and these media play important roles in every chapter of this book. The final chapter examines the ways in which the practice of cultural diplomacy relates to all these ideas of mediation. To shore up alliances during the Cold War, nationstates strengthened cultural diplomacy, a mode of interaction in which it is important not only to make an impression, but to be seen making that impression, and have the activity amplified by the media for others to observe and interpret. The music’s appeal showcased a positive aspect of international affairs, and the growing availability of radio and television increased opportunities for citizens to feel involved in diplomacy. People’s feelings of involvement as musicians, audience members, and citizens altered their behavior, affecting how they watched their own governments and how they chose to imagine their own lives. Musical diplomacy allowed individuals to see themselves as participants within global musical or political scenes and to want their nations to be represented within a global order.


This globalized perspective helped define what it meant to be a citizen in the Cold War era. When we consider musical diplomacy from all these angles, the question of whether music succeeded in serving U.S. interests remains important. Yet I aim for a broader perspective: I seek to understand the effects of cultural diplomacy, whether intended or not, whether aligned with U.S. interests or not. The outcomes of cultural diplomacy were not limited to those envisioned by the State Department. Rather, they encompassed a variety of effects, both musical and political. Certainly, the Cultural Presentations program brought American music to people who had never heard it. The program also succeeded in cultivating new audiences and opening new markets for U.S. cultural products. Many in the Foreign Service believed that it also strengthened America’s reputation as a cultured nation. Yet perhaps the most significant results derived from music’s peculiarity as an art form. As the music critic Christopher Small has described it, music creates “relationships among the performers, between the performers and the listeners, among the listeners and anyone who may be present, and even between those who are present and those who are not. It is in those relationships . . . that the meaning of a musical performance lies.”64 Indeed, musical diplomacy fostered complex relationships between the United States, as a mythologized sender of music, and listeners who liked or disliked its music; between embassy staff and citizens in the countries where they worked; and between State Department staff in Washington and the people they hoped to reach through music. Recipients experienced a variety of feelings about the United States—trust and admiration, anxiety and inferiority. Both face-to-face relationships and those that existed only in the participants’ imaginations built affective bonds among people. The premise of this book is that these human connections constitute the essence of “soft power.” A study of this size and scope cannot do justice to the countless stories of all the participants in U.S. musical diplomacy. In the end it must remain evocative rather than definitive, showing some of the effects of cultural diplomacy, leaving others untouched. I especially hope that others will take this reception history further into the field with detailed archival and oral history studies. There is no ideal way to grasp the totality of music’s diplomatic function, for each tour engaged musicians, audiences, impresarios, and diplomats in a different way. Music’s ability to cross borders depended on that engagement and a host of other factors particular to local opinions and the political environment of the moment: sometimes music made the necessary connection between people; sometimes it did not. Zelma George,


who toured worldwide to sing and lecture about African American spirituals, exclaimed that “music is not an international language. . . . That’s the big lie. I wish it were true, believe me.”65 One could not rely on music alone to break down barriers of mutual distrust. Yet music’s capacity at once to serve and transcend political needs proved a powerful tool for America’s Cold War diplomacy.


Classical Music and the Mediation of Prestige

From the early days of the U.S. government’s Cultural Presentations program, many of the musicians who were sent abroad played classical music— an American offshoot of a European tradition. The emphasis on classical music was not intended to be exclusive: State Department officials and the ACA recognized the danger of focusing on any one kind of music.1 Still, ANTA’s Music Advisory Panel comprised members chosen for their eminence in American art music circles, including Virgil Thomson, composer and critic; Howard Hanson, composer and director of the Eastman School of Music; William Schuman, composer and director of the Juilliard School; Milton Katims, violist and orchestral conductor; and Alfred Frankenstein, music critic. The panelists typically tried to be fair in evaluating projects, but on the basis of their personal preferences they steered musicians away from popular music. In 1955, for instance, the panel agreed that “show tunes and folk music should be discouraged, as there are no standards by which to judge ‘light music’ except ‘charm,’ and charm is hard to judge, and is not international in its acceptance.”2 The prominence of classical music in the program was also a strategic choice. Assistant Secretary of State for Public Affairs Andrew H. Berding told the ACA in 1958 that the pressure of Soviet propaganda demanded a response that favored elite culture. As Berding explained it, the Soviets claimed “that only a nation that is a cultured nation is a mature nation; only a nation that is a mature nation can make the decisions that are now called for in the world of today.” Presenting the “highest” forms of the arts could help the United States: “we have to show through our actions that the United States is a highly-cultured nation with real achievements in the arts, education, literature, etc. and make that manifest to other peoples.”3 23

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The usefulness of art music as a means for American diplomacy was not guaranteed, however. First, this musical tradition was not American in origin but European. Many of the most famous American performers were born in Europe (Rudolf Serkin, Isaac Stern, Eugene Ormandy), and many American composers were born in Europe or trained in Europe by European teachers (Kurt Weill, Aaron Copland). Robert Schnitzer, who coordinated U.S. cultural presentations through ANTA, called Leonard Bernstein “the answer to our prayers as an American born and trained conductor.”4 It was difficult for the United States to offer art music without drawing accusations that the music was not truly American.5 Furthermore, European classical music was not universally liked or even universally familiar. Not surprisingly, this music was known mainly to elite, mostly European-educated, minorities, their numbers constituting a small fraction of the people who might be reached through other means. Although American art music had occasionally impressed listeners elsewhere in the world, relatively little of it was known outside America’s borders. Nevertheless, classical music played a vital role in establishing the power relationships that made the Cultural Presentations program effective. The program’s staff consciously chose elite members of society and opinion leaders as target audiences for musical diplomacy.6 According to Glenn Wolfe and Roy Larsen, who led a review of the Cultural Presentations program from 1961 to 1962, “audiences of this kind, wherever they can be gathered together, offer benefits in fulfilling the purpose of the program far greater than their size would indicate.”7 Despite the limited appeal of art music, it could attract members of this educated segment of the world’s population. Even the newest, most difficult music was useful in this regard. Evaluations by the posts and the State Department reveal that—just as in Europe and the United States—performances of avant-garde art music were extremely important to a small number of influential people.8 Crucially, the European tradition of classical music was imbued with social prestige—and its prestige was more widely recognized than the numbers of listeners would suggest. Comparatively few listeners worldwide were intimately familiar with classical music, but many more knew of its existence, and they associated it with Europe and high social class. Thus, the sending of classical music amounted to a gesture: it was not only the music that mattered but also the knowledge of its significance. One could make even more refined judgments among types of art music, distinguishing between the newest music in the most “advanced” avant-garde styles and more widely accepted styles. Nicolas Slonimsky, a Music Panel member who had traveled to the Soviet Union to evaluate possibilities for cultural

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programming, remarked in 1970 that “countries are offended when less advanced composers, such as Barber and Copland, are offered to them.”9 Classical music and its avant-garde offshoot were part of a symbolic system in which the association with European elite culture was important to the value of the music. The very act of providing music that required listening expertise was meant to indicate a social judgment about its recipients. This music was evidence that the United States deemed these listeners worthy of a sophisticated cultural experience and estimated that they were equipped to enjoy it. In some instances the compliment was taken in exactly those symbolic terms. When the Merce Cunningham Dance Company visited Latin America in August and September 1968 with a program of avant-garde music and dance, audience members expressed opinions ranging from “Marvelous!” to “Terrible!”10 In Caracas, Venezuela, some walked out on the performances. Nonetheless, the English-language Daily Journal, published in Caracas, reported that the Cunningham group was satisfied. According to this article, the dancers thought that “the Venezuelan audiences understood them better than all the others, were more sophisticated in their reactions and were more sympathetic to experimental and modern techniques—than the audiences in the great capitals of Mexico City, Rio and Buenos Aires.” The article’s author understood the compliment as elevating Caracas within the order of cities, but his words also reflect a humble willingness to take the Cunningham dancers’ opinion as definitive: “We are proud that the Caracas audiences struck them as their best.”11 By making a claim that Venezuelan audiences understood music in the most difficult and up-to-date styles, the music critic asserted Venezuela’s place in a hierarchy of respect. In the postcolonial world, many people had contact with European culture through education, the press, colonial institutions, or other means. For them, classical music had special prestige, its latest incarnation as avantgarde “new music” especially so.12 If Venezuelans understood this music, and the American performers acknowledged their understanding, then Venezuelans could consider themselves participants in this prestige music: they mattered in the world this music represented. Christopher Small has noted that classical music “can often function as a vehicle for the social aspirations of upwardly mobile people—‘This is who I am,’ which can easily slip over into ‘This is who I want to be,’ and even, ‘This is who I want to be seen as being.’ ”13 It is apparent in this Venezuelan case that this aspiration could be mobilized not only on an individual scale but also on an international scale: wanting one’s city and one’s country to be taken seriously as part of a global music scene.

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In this way classical music could offer a special sense of belonging to an elite musical community. International communication about cultural presentations typically included either expressions of joy over the implied compliment of receiving American musical performances or expressions of regret—even anger—if a country found itself neglected musically. Because news of American, Soviet, and Chinese cultural presentations was frequently printed in newspapers and discussed over the radio, citizens of potential host countries were well aware if they were being passed over.14 The desire to make populations feel “included” was especially pressing in Eastern Europe, where the aim of U.S. information programs was to keep citizens informed and “to let them know they are not forgotten.”15 When the Polish press reported that the Boston Symphony Orchestra had appeared in Moscow and Prague but omitted Warsaw, the U.S. ambassador to Poland requested an appearance by the Cleveland Orchestra to remedy hurt feelings.16 Emotions and beliefs about belonging were not merely ancillary to the program of offering music abroad. They were an essential part of the project. Here we might borrow a term from anthropology, considering musicians’ tours under the Cultural Presentations program as a form of “gift economy.” The circulation of gifts delineates social relationships, including power relations. The recipient of a gift can incur particular obligations or a lowering of social status, and even gifts that appear to be free can be given in self-interest. A “gift” in this sense is far from altruistic: the giver expects reciprocity, and the recipient’s obligation can be weighty and lasting. The ephemeral nature of a musical performance makes it an unusual form of gift for consideration in these terms. As Annette Weiner has pointed out, however, some possessions can be given away and yet kept at the same time: these gifts “are imbued with the intrinsic and ineffable identities of their owners.”17 The vast geographical distances between givers and recipients and the fact that they were not personally acquainted also differentiate this situation from the typical gift economy, yet the gift of classical music defined social and power relationships among nations much as a gift might link neighbors. These relationships were not unilateral. The receivers had significant power to determine the value of the gift and even to make demands on the United States as giver.18 A closer look at the relationships between givers and receivers will help us see more clearly how classical music carried prestige. The social value of any kind of music is not a given, static quantity; rather, it is assigned by the people who use that music and subject to change as their ideas about the music develop. We see in the situations described below that even as host countries demanded that the State Department send them prestigious

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music, the public’s opinion about that very music had to be actively cultivated through many media if the music was to be well received. Musical sounds did not travel unencumbered to new places. They were always accompanied by explanations, associations, and histories. Although these stories were usually treated as introductory or accompanying material distinct from “the music,” they played an essential part in bringing the music across to others—that is, in mediating it. I use the term mediated in an expanded sense that includes not only the transmission of music via recording or broadcast technologies but also the ways in which writing, social interaction, and other forms of intervention influence listeners’ attitudes toward what they hear. If, for example, a listener thinks well of a performance but reads in the newspaper the next morning that the local critic found the performance lacking, the news may color the listener’s memory of the performance, reshaping the listener’s experience in retrospect. A concert by musicians from the United States was usually presented as a straightforward gift, an opportunity for unmediated, face-to-face contact. Nevertheless, assertions of quality, explanations of historical value, compliments to the hosts as listeners, and countless other verbal qualifications surrounded the music and shaped perceptions of its value. In selecting music to send, State Department officials carefully weighed the quality of the music and its prestige, but listeners abroad determined these factors more conclusively, and their assessments were conveyed back to the State Department as reports of success or failure that then influenced the next round of choices.

QUALITY AND VALUE Nowhere was the assessment of music’s quality more stringent than in Japan. Japanese critics—quite a few of them European expatriates but some native-born—were fiercely skeptical of American performers. Japanese audiences demanded not only elite Western classical music but also impeccable performances by the most famous musicians America could offer. At one point competing music festivals in Osaka and Tokyo each sought to bring a top American symphony orchestra to Japan. The U.S. embassy sent a terse telegram to the secretary of state detailing the scrutiny with which American orchestras were judged: Japanese regard Philadelphia only slightly below Boston but with New York definitely one of three great American orchestras. Possibility Boston visit widely known, and anything other than Philadelphia would be pronounced anti-climax. If Boston fails [to] come, Osaka festival

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management will be most unhappy. Without consulting them, embassy predicts they would happily settle for Philadelphia. Rather [than] Cleveland or Chicago, however, predict festival would go back to Belgian orchestra they have on string. Japanese do not consider Cleveland or Chicago as top orchestras. New Orleans definitely not acceptable.19

Sending anything less than the best—that is, the best as perceived by the discerning Japanese audience—would compromise the effectiveness of the Cultural Presentations program. When the Little Orchestra Society, an accomplished chamber ensemble that revived neglected classical works, came to Japan from New York, Japanese critics who had never heard of the ensemble were unimpressed. The embassy reported, “Our experience with the Little Orchestra Society this past spring confirms our views that reputation is at least as important as quality. The Little Orchestra tour was unsuccessful simply because the sophisticated Tokyo critics were not prepared to accept the Little Orchestra as one of the world’s major symphony orchestras. I was not surprised.”20 The Japanese press called the Cold War competition between the Soviet Union and the United States a “cultural battle,” with the Americans falling behind the Soviets in the number and quality of attractions presented.21 The Soviet Union routinely sent its most famous artists to Japan, and the Japanese public could compare the quality of American dancers with the Bolshoi Ballet, American actors with the Moscow Art Theatre, as well as with the most renowned European performers.22 Under these conditions it was not difficult for Japanese concert organizers to place the embassy and the State Department under duress: if the wrong attraction was sent, the State Department would lose the respect of the elite Japanese concertgoers it was courting. Classical music was not the only kind of music that could be regarded as “top” quality—a jazz performance by a famous artist such as Louis Armstrong or Dizzy Gillespie could also qualify—but the positive association between classical music and high social status wielded special power. This association was not sufficient to rescue a little-known group, as in the case of the Little Orchestra Society, but considerations of genre remained a factor in foreign publics’ assessment of the music they received. Even in places where Western music was not widely preferred, audiences took careful note of the quality and prestige of the music they were offered. In Ethiopia, as in Japan, competition from Soviet and Chinese cultural presentations made it seem urgent that the United States send first-rate artists. The embassy in Addis Ababa firmly rejected the proposed visit of a collegiate theater ensemble, citing the inevitable comparisons with Soviet artists.23 The prestige tours of the New York Philharmonic and the Boston

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Symphony Orchestra to Europe and the USSR in 1955 and 1956 had received worldwide press: people in the developing world asked for comparable treatment.24 The American embassy in Lima, Peru, received complaints “that the top U.S. performers are sent to Europe and other areas and the lesser known ones to Latin America.”25 The embassy in Baghdad reported similar comments from the public.26 Because embassy staff served as mediators of information to and from the State Department, they were privy to complaints and requests from locals, and they developed a sensitivity to feelings of neglect among the populations where they served. Many of the staff also had a personal interest in hearing good music. As a result of all these factors, the State Department routinely received lobbying messages from its embassies all over the world, asking for more “top groups.” For some people, particularly in countries that did not regularly receive foreign performers, a gift of music from the United States was a significant affirmation. After Iraq received concerts by Metropolitan Opera star Eleanor Steber, the dean of a college said that “Baghdad now is on the musical map of the world, thanks to the Americans,” and the embassy received “many calls from local citizenry expressing their deep appreciation.”27 Likewise, the American consul in Lahore counted “the boost to Lahore’s pride due to its inclusion” as a significant outcome of the Minneapolis Symphony’s performance there.28 This combination of quality, prestige, and flattery was not merely about good feelings: it allowed musical diplomacy to function effectively by ensuring that the music would be seen as a positive intervention rather than propaganda. The PAO at the U.S. embassy in Rio de Janeiro, Aldo D’Alessandro, explained that “the average Port-Alegran is more keenly aware of political implications of ‘President’s Program’ performances than of their pure artistic value. This results in a partly flattered, partly suspicious attitude which, however, at the end has always been overcome by an overwhelming appreciation of quality. If that quality were lacking, however, the feeling of suspicion about political activity would predominate.”29 The perception of “quality” was not only a judgment about the appeal of the performance. As D’Alessandro implied, it was also a judgment about the perceived importance and significance of the artists on the world scene, itself a fluid and subjective category. It was only worthwhile for critics and audiences abroad to accept music sent by the United States if they would receive both excellent music and the signal that they were being taken seriously as listeners. In the absence of those elements the feeling of being subject to propaganda made the concerts unattractive. When “nonprestige” groups came, no matter how excellent, audiences and critics were sometimes harsh in their comments and published reviews.

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This happened frequently enough that embassy staff at some posts learned to anticipate criticism. The American embassy in Argentina expressed reservations about the National Symphony Orchestra, slated for a 1959 tour, because it was not known among Latin Americans as a top ensemble. The State Department responded to the embassy by staunchly defending the quality of the orchestra and of its selection process, standing by the Music Advisory Panel’s judgment that the orchestra “is absolutely top quality.”30 When cellist Richard Kay, pianist Seymour Bernstein, and violist Kenneth Gordon toured Japan as the American Trio in 1955, students made pointed and critical comments to the musicians after a concert: “I don’t think that the Trio played all movements of the piece as written.” “I heard some unnatural sounds” (referring to a missed note). “I imagine you were surprised to see so many students here today. In America the young people are not nearly as interested in classical music as in Japan, are they?” Indeed, part of the musicians’ task, like the State Department’s, was to answer such charges against the United States. By the embassy’s delighted report, “Bernstein, Gordon, and Kay in perfect harmony, but with solo breaks, performed a 10-minute USIS sonata, reciting statistics, recounting personal experiences, demonstrating quietly but surely that America is culturally-minded on a mass basis, with American youth sharing largely in the general devotion to the fine arts. The questioners were not prepared for such an eloquent, factual statement; and even the ‘baiters’ in the room were obviously impressed.”31 Critics often took pleasure in putting the United States in its place, frequently asserting the stereotype that “the United States is a purely materialistic country lacking in both spiritual and intellectual development, without a culture of its own and without interest in the cultural achievements of other nations.”32 Sometimes they used the stereotype indirectly by comparing American musical interpretations unfavorably with those of other artists. Japanese and European critics often commended American performers for their excellent ensemble technique and stunning precision.33 By contrast, Europeans were generally praised for their delicacy of interpretation, which was regarded as an intellectual or spiritual rather than a technical achievement. Criticism of this kind was only secondarily about the performance: it was foremost an expression of concern about how peoples should relate to the United States and its offerings, cultural and otherwise.

AVANT-GARDE ART MUSIC Although the early years of the Cultural Presentations program showcased high culture, avant-garde music was absent at first, in part because of con-

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gressional opposition.34 One official noted that “Congress hates to think that we are sending Cubist art to the Hottentots.”35 Even the professional musicians on the Music Advisory Panel doubted the propaganda value of the most difficult music. When in 1955 the panel considered a proposal by John Cage, David Tudor, and the Merce Cunningham Dance Company, the composer William Schuman called them “too esoteric,” saying that “it would be a gamble to send them.”36 Cunningham would wait until the 1960s for approval to tour under government auspices.37 Likewise, the pianist Paul Jacobs, a passionate advocate for new art music, was rejected in 1960 because “his very limited repertory would appeal to a limited audience”: the panel simply did not envision an opportunity to use him.38 With urgent propaganda needs to meet and limited funding available, it is remarkable that officials found a niche for avant-garde music in government-funded music programs. The major impetus for using avant-garde music as propaganda was the need to improve the cultural reputation of the United States in Europe. Attempts to address this issue with more traditional art music during the 1950s had won over a portion of the European public but had profoundly alienated some intellectuals there.39 In 1966 the American composer Gunther Schuller wrote to the U.S. Mission in Berlin that “official international exchange programs have tended to emphasize to the point of exclusivity the same dozen older and—by advancing standards—more conservative composers, who were the mainstay of American composition in the thirties and early forties, but who no longer represent current activity. Every time we present one of these composers to the exclusion of more recent trends, we damage our cultural image.”40 State Department officials took such criticisms seriously, for they were well aware that European intellectuals valued avant-garde music. In 1967, when the composer Paul Creston wanted to lecture in Europe on American music under the auspices of the American Specialists program, the Music Advisory Panel rejected him as “very conservative” and not representative of current American trends.41 Some Foreign Service officers actively sought out avant-garde musicians in order to attract audiences of young intellectuals: the U.S. embassy in Vienna, for one, tried to secure visits from Schuller and Earle Brown during this period.42 These efforts aimed to compete with European music according to one of its most noticeable scales of musical value. The other factor favoring American avant-garde music as propaganda was its embodiment of desirably American features. In 1966 the University of Illinois Contemporary Chamber Players, a student group, offered “a

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Happening of assorted electronics, instrumental sounds, and vocal eruptions” in London after participating in the Darmstadt Summer Courses for New Music and the Warsaw Autumn Festival. A review from the London press emphasized the music’s novelty and insouciance as positive American traits: “If hard pressed to search for the divergencies between the British and the American way of life there is always the University of Illinois to fall back on. The cheerful disregard for academic decorum shown by the Players is as yet unrivaled in music departments over here.”43 Even though the indecorousness of avant-garde music could also be construed as vulgarity, the flouting of conventions implied political or social freedom and could serve as a selling point for American experimental music.44 In Eastern Europe, where avant-garde music was long the subject of diatribes and occasional state-ordered suppression, U.S. officials could use this music to challenge socialist musical standards and to connect with listeners, particularly young people, who wanted alternatives to socialist realism. In the course of the 1960s, more avant-garde music and jazz was permitted in Eastern Europe. As a result of previous suppression, these styles had acquired an appealing association with freedom that remained potent even after the music had begun to become officially acceptable again.45 Including this music in cultural presentations connected the United States with ideas about freedom. As long as scores and recordings of new music remained difficult to obtain, USIA officials and traveling musicians provided them to conductors and composers in Eastern Europe, thereby encouraging the study, composition, and performance of music in unsanctioned styles. American musicians who visited Eastern Europe typically found that some audience members were actively seeking modernist music, even of early vintage. When the La Salle Quartet traveled to Yugoslavia and Poland in 1962, Yugoslav musicians asked them to discuss techniques for performing the music of Austrian composers Alban Berg (d. 1935) and Anton Webern (d. 1945).46 Likewise, William Sydeman, an American composer of atonal music, visited Eastern Europe on an American Specialist grant, bringing with him scores and recordings of modern American music. According to Sydeman, “the more avant-garde the music the better they liked it.” Like Schuller, Sydeman criticized the State Department’s musical conservatism: “I can guarantee that East European audiences (and I am equally sure West as well) are more than prepared for the work of our younger ‘experimental’ composers and would welcome it. They have heard the Barber and Copland Sonatas and the Gershwin Rhapsody and should not be led to believe that this is the only compositional activity occurring in

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America.”47 As composers, of course, Sydeman and Schuller were far from disinterested. Their advocacy and that of composers on the Music Advisory Panel encouraged the State Department in its support of newly composed music. By the late 1960s, American avant-garde performers not only had access to Eastern European stages but could even achieve acclaim in the local press. The Alwin Nikolais Dance Theatre performed in Budapest in June 1969. The American embassy reported that the audience was “apparently stunned by the initial piece with its electronic music, abstract rear-projection and emphasis on the linear” but “warmed up” and “showed its amusement at the light-hearted antics of Tower, in which the dancers suddenly address the audience with parts of meaningless conversations, spoken simultaneously.” An enthusiastic Hungarian newspaper review proclaimed: “Nikolais’s human, artistic and ethical viewpoint is attractive. . . . This is not art for art’s sake, nor is it for the sake of sensation, but reflects a true sense of responsibility and strength in art.”48 The Hungarian critic was perceptive about the performance: although Nikolais’s choreography was billed as “abstract,” it frequently included easily accessible metaphors of freedom and constraint that were highly appealing in Eastern Europe. Some of the dancers, dressed in striped robes, moved like automata, while others moved freely. Another piece performed on the tour, Tensile Involvement, featured a soloist who began free, then became entangled in long cloth bands (figure 3).49 It seems likely that the reviewer was helping the cause for his own reasons, redeeming the avant-garde by placing it within an acceptable framework of socialist critical concepts. Whatever the critic’s motives, American officials regarded such praise as an indicator of progress in the cultural Cold War. In some cases it appears that U.S. officials considered the provocative quality of avant-garde music a positive feature, much as other advocates did. The Dorian Quintet included Morton Subotnick’s Misfortunes of the Immortals, along with works of Mozart and Darius Milhaud, on its Asian tour. This work challenged the very nature of the classical music concert: glaring klieg lights, strangely disconnected film excerpts, and harsh electronic sounds constantly interrupted the music played by the live performers. The reception of Subotnick’s music was mixed, with the post in Ceylon calling it “counterproductive” and New Delhi reporting that even lovers of Western music were “bothered and bewildered.” The quintet’s bassoonist, Jane Taylor, recalled that audiences responded to the piece just as they had in the United States—some loved it, many hated it, and everyone thought it was “weird.”50 In the State Department’s estimation the Subotnick could

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Figure 3. Alwin Nikolais Dance Theatre performing “Tensile Involvement.”

RG 306-PS-E-76–290, National Archives. All reasonable efforts were made to locate the photographer.

not be called “an artistic success,” but it was important “because it stimulated debate about the future of the arts.”51 One might question whether such debate was significant, given the dramatic economic and social problems faced by many of the recipient nations. Still, U.S. officials’ comments imply that they considered the kind of dialogue fostered by avant-garde music a useful step toward democratization.52 The inclusion of the most difficult art music on State Department– funded programs was a high-risk enterprise, not only for the department and the musicians but also for the local impresarios who cosponsored events. After the Contemporary Chamber Ensemble appeared in Taiwan, “the impresario remarked that although he lost money, he was glad to have been the one to introduce this type of music to Taiwan.”53 Prestige was his reward. The belief that avant-garde music was “advanced”—almost in the sense of scientific progress—could be deployed for a variety of purposes.

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Not only did it console impresarios for money-losing performances, but it also highlighted the contrast between America’s embrace of modernism and the Soviet emphasis on conservative styles. An enthusiastic officer at the post in Mexico reported jubilantly that the Cunningham Dance Company had shamed the Soviets with a standing-room-only workshop on modern dance: “In comparison, the ‘Stars of the Bolshoi Ballet,’ who, tutuclad, ‘pretty,’ and swaying to the remembered melodies of Tchaikovsky, were drawing hordes of middle-brows to the cavernous Auditorio Nacional, seemed to be the expression of a dull, conformist and very ‘square’ 19th century society.”54 This distinction could also help elite audiences in the host countries feel separate from (and more skilled than) other, untrained listeners. When foreign listeners rejected these performances, of course, there was a significant cost both to American prestige and to the local organizers. After a poorly received performance of John Eaton’s electronic music in Arequipa, Peru, the American ambassador reported to the State Department that he heard negative comments from a Lima impresario: “it will take some time for the Eaton performance to be lived down.”55

THE QUANDARY OF “TWO AUDIENCES” In Southeast Asia, Latin America, and much of Africa the legacy of colonialism meant that vastly different cultural and educational experiences separated the elite social strata from everyone else. CAOs representing the United States at diplomatic posts indicated to the State Department that there were “two types of audiences” and that it was “imperative to cater to both.” The post in Manila described an “upper class society set—sophisticated, well-educated people thoroughly familiar with the American scene, appreciative of the best” and “in the provinces . . . more naive, uncritical audiences who are pleased by almost any attraction.” An officer in Argentina described an almost identical situation.56 The problem, then, was finding music that might address multiple intended audiences, for it was difficult to pinpoint the social implications of any musical style or its attractiveness to audiences according to the simple opposition of mass and elite. The appeal of a Copland ballet or a modern jazz combo, to name just two examples, was neither definitively “elite” nor “mass,” and the unpredictable tastes of audiences, varying in each locale, would determine how the music was received. As decolonization accelerated, U.S. officials never reached consensus about whether their target for cultural propaganda was a mass or an elite audience.57 Even if they could imagine their audiences,

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they had little control over who showed up at the concert halls to hear the music they sent. Embassy staff in the field and State Department staff in Washington routinely used the regrettable shorthand of “sophisticated”/“unsophisticated” to refer to groups of people as more or less conversant with the norms of Western arts. However unfortunate the term, it described a real problem for U.S. musical presentations. From the 1950s onward State Department officials had to acknowledge cultural diversity as a matter of course. They did not have enough funding to send many different attractions around the world—yet the high-art presentations that were welcomed by elite audiences were usually avoided by other listeners, and elite listeners would have nothing to do with variety shows or other mass entertainments.58 In an effort to appeal to diverse populations, the Cultural Presentations staff simultaneously explored three solutions. First, they changed the music, sending more popular entertainment, such as marionette shows and folksingers. Second, they chose musicians who would educate audiences, as well as entertain them. Third, they used other media to convince audiences of the music’s value. Solution 1: Change the Music In their review of the Cultural Presentations program, conducted from 1961 to 1962, Roy Larsen and Glenn Wolfe noted that cultural diplomacy would be an important means of wooing the newly decolonized nations. At this time the State Department was receiving many requests from its diplomatic posts for “attractions with primarily entertainment, rather than cultural, values.”59 The posts wanted to compete with Soviet efforts in this direction: while the numerous Soviet variety shows sent to Latin America, Africa, and Southeast Asia typically included no stellar artists, they had “enough spice and variety to carry the show along at a rapid pace” and offered great mass appeal.60 The department did send a few variety shows abroad in hopes of directly competing with the Soviet entertainments. In 1962–63 the comedian Joey Adams took a vaudeville-style revue to Asia, and the popular jazzman Cozy Cole took a mixture of comedy and light jazz to Africa. These shows enjoyed mixed successes. Cole’s revue was “disconcerting” to those who were expecting serious jazz, for it featured commercial hits: “One O’Clock Jump,” “Night Train,” and “Misty.”61 The reception of Cole’s concerts suggests that the Americans who staffed the posts made unwarranted assumptions about the low cultural expectations of local audiences. The post in Casablanca believed that Cole’s variety show was “well conceived

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for a Moroccan or African audience (which may well like the balloons better than the music)”—yet contrary to the PAO’s expectations, it was French expatriates, not ethnic Moroccans, “who lost all dignity in their mad scramble for balloons.”62 The post wrongly expected that a simple variety show would appeal to the common denominator of local tastes: Cole’s show was a hit in Marrakech, but it flopped in Casablanca. In making these predictions, post officials may have erred out of prejudice. Many U.S. diplomatic posts in Africa were staffed by white Americans raised in the South; it seems likely that some Americans arrived with unwarranted biases about race and artistic preferences.63 Larsen and Wolfe, who reviewed the program, knew that “some in the newer nations may be offended by the nature of attractions sent them, since a growing number of intellectual leaders, as well as expatriates, are sophisticated people who would appreciate top quality presentations, and ‘who are being led to believe in some cases that the U.S. has no such presentations.’ ”64 Popular entertainment such as Cole’s was as risky as avantgarde music, for it could alienate intellectuals and insult anyone who knew that the United States was sending more prestigious music elsewhere. It also contradicted the prevailing conception of American culture as striving for higher achievements. James Magdanz, a member of the Cultural Presentations staff, told the Music Advisory Panel in 1958 that “there were further problems if the Program ventured into pure entertainment channels, since then the purposes of the Program, to demonstrate Culture ‘with a capital C,’ are not served.”65 Entertainment music was difficult to justify to Congress or to the American public. Joey Adams’s tour drew scathing criticism in U.S. newspapers. One critic complained, “I don’t think we are going to win the cold war—or a hot war—by proving that we are superior in blowing up balloons or eating cigars or tap dancing.”66 This article generated outraged letters from the American public to their representatives in Congress; if jazz was difficult for the public to accept as cultural diplomacy, vaudeville seemed entirely without merit. If entertainment was not acceptable, then, the best strategy appeared to be a mixed program featuring prestigious classical music alongside other genres. According to a State Department report to Congress, the North Texas State University Choir was selected to tour Europe in part because of its mixed programs, which included sacred and classical music, American folk songs and Negro spirituals, and excerpts from American musical comedies. The report specified that “the earlier [classical] numbers in the program served to demonstrate to professional music critics and knowledgeable musicians the technical and artistic competence of the choir, the high

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quality of the voices, and the precision and discipline of the choir’s singing”—thus conveying the necessary prestige—whereas the other numbers entertained. Likewise, the University of Maryland Singers specialized in Renaissance madrigals, but when they were sent to the Near East, North Africa, and Europe, they presented a broad program including Renaissance music, accessible American selections of Billings, Barber, Schuman, and Copland, and a set of “Negro and white spirituals.”67 The State Department reported that the ancient music gained the respect of critics but that audiences enjoyed the spirituals the most. Mixed programs appeared to be a more workable strategy than the variety show, and this solution was widely adopted.68 Even avant-garde music remained an important part of the mixed-program strategy. On a trip to Latin America the La Salle Quartet’s programs included music for children and works selected to please “completely sophisticated concert-goers able to appreciate the most advanced compositions.” The State Department’s report to Congress noted that “the most modern works did, admittedly, leave some listeners puzzled and others even unhappy” but that “audience consensus and critical opinion reflected great admiration and respect.”69 The Claremont Quartet’s programs in Africa and Latin America typically included some Beethoven, Haydn, or Brahms but also some contemporary European music and some new American music. The quartet sometimes lightened the programs still further by playing single movements rather than whole multimovement works.70 This kind of programming showcased many ideas at once: America had a thriving performance scene, with well-trained instrumentalists on a par with Europe’s; America had a deep respect for tradition and “the classics”; America’s composers also participated in the most “advanced” musical trends. As we saw in the case of Merce Cunningham in Venezuela, the presence of art music on U.S.-sponsored concert programs could be an impetus for audience members to assess their own competence, demonstrating a feeling of musical insecurity. When the Claremont Quartet gave a concert and a seminar in Asyut (now in Egypt), a student asked them, “How do you appraise our audiences in the United Arab Republic?”—the implied question being, “Are we good enough listeners?”71 Failure to fill concert halls for concerts including classical music reflected poorly on the Americans who chose the music, but it could also be taken as a sign that the audience showed insufficient understanding or appreciation of high art. For instance, a critic in Melbourne, Australia, chided the public in his review of the New York Chamber Soloists’ mixed program. He cited the presence of only 250 people at the concert as a “display of apathy” and stood in judgment over

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his city: “we disgraced ourselves.”72 The prestige conferred by classical music was not a straightforward gift. Even a mixed program, designed to please everyone, offered the opportunity for listeners to judge their own musical preferences harshly according to what they imagined a refined listener elsewhere might think. Solution 2: Education Many officers at U.S. diplomatic posts throughout much of the world demonstrated a persistent belief that classical music was inappropriate for the populations where they served. Members of the Claremont Quartet tried to persuade a Foreign Service officer in Peru that “totally unsophisticated audiences can enjoy, appreciate and benefit from excellently performed concerts of chamber music”—but the officer told the State Department, “We are doubtful.”73 Arthur Schlesinger Jr., who was special assistant to President Kennedy, remarked disparagingly: “Naturally, you don’t send a chamber music quartet to Uganda.”74 Nevertheless, the people who planned cultural presentations did not always assume that art music could reach only a tiny fraction of the audience in the developing world. From time to time during Music Advisory Panel deliberations, the question was raised whether art music could be made accessible to more people. At a 1963 panel meeting, Mark Schubart, former dean of the Juilliard School, challenged the idea that only popular music should be sent to Africa. The minutes record this exchange between Schubart and Glenn Wolfe, director of the Cultural Presentations program: Mr. Schubart commented that when we talk about sending attractions to Russia or the Orient, we are not instructed to appeal to the lowest tastes; why are we in a different position when sending attractions to Africa? Mr. Wolfe replied because in Africa you have an extremely limited number of educated people; there is an 8% literacy rate. . . . Mr. Schubart said that when you want to do something about the literacy rate, you don’t send comic books. Are we to give the Africans attractions commensurate with their literacy, or win them over to the enjoyment of something better?75

Africa’s elite had by the 1960s produced indigenous composers of classical music, yet a significant portion of the classical music audience in postcolonial societies would still consist of European expatriates, who were not one of the State Department’s targeted groups.76 Although the Music Advisory Panel, committed to classical music, could urge the State Department to send “something better,” the experts in intelligence and diplomacy would

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ultimately determine what music would travel. On a tight budget, and wishing to reach as many people as possible with each investment, officials remained reluctant to believe that classical music could be effective diplomacy in the Global South. Still, equally mindful of the need to please and the risk of giving offense, the Cultural Presentations staff did plan programs that made classical music available to people who had previously had little experience with it. During 1963 and 1964 both the Dorian Woodwind Quintet and the Claremont String Quartet made long tours in Africa. They brought mixed programs and offered educational lecture-demonstrations alongside their traditional concerts. In developing their programs, the Dorian Quintet took advice from experts on African affairs in the United States and studied recordings of music from various African countries. The quintet’s lecture-demonstration programs in the Congo, Cameroon, Sierra Leone, Morocco, Mauritania, and Liberia included introduction of the musicians, performance of single movements highlighting the sounds of all five instruments, and a demonstration illustrating basic ideas about chamber music (melody and accompaniment, rhythm, and mood). The quintet then played a variety of works, making reference to the ideas from their demonstration. At the end of the concert the musicians took questions from the audience and allowed them to examine the instruments. For their formal concerts the Dorian Quintet commissioned a work from the Nigerian composer Solomon Ilori, then a student at Columbia University. Although the newspaper Etoile du Congo reported that the work’s “Negro origin” helped the audience to understand it better, most listeners were not impressed with Ilori’s music, and it was soon dropped from the program. Instead, audiences were captivated by music of Joseph Haydn and Jacques Ibert.77 After the assassination of President John F. Kennedy the quintet’s tour became still more interactive. The group cancelled most of its public events to show respect, and members spent their time at informal events with students. Perhaps because its estimations of African audiences remained uncertain, the State Department was unusually hesitant to announce the Dorian Quintet’s success: “It was not anticipated that the response would be the same as from areas with a tradition in Western music. The response was less demonstrative and was not expressed in [printed] critical reviews and comments . . . but in other respects the response was gratifying.”78 Still, it is likely that the group was judged effective overall, for the State Department sent them to the Near East and Asia in 1970. Beginning in January 1964, the Claremont Quartet offered concerts, lecture-demonstrations, and workshops throughout northern and eastern

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Africa, including the United Arab Republic, Sudan, Somalia, Kenya, and Uganda. (South Africa and Tanganyika were cancelled. Tanganyika suffered a violent revolt at the time of the tour, and the South African government refused to allow the quartet to perform because they would not play for segregated audiences.) With more than a little condescension, the State Department reported that the quartet was “especially fitted” for an instructional tour in Africa because its concerts in the United States had emphasized university audiences and children’s programs.79 That the performances were of high artistic quality was equally important to the group’s success. In Cairo and Alexandria, audiences who were knowledgeable about Western music praised the quartet, whose members believed that their concerts pleased their audiences.80 One Cairo newspaper lauded the modern American works by Paul Creston, Alan Hovhaness, Quincy Porter, and Meyer Kupferman, calling the Creston work “a real revelation.”81 Some African musical authorities were as surprised as the State Department by the Claremont Quartet’s ability to connect with audiences new to classical music. A State Department report quoted the director of the East Africa Conservatoire of Music in Kenya: “The Quartet has revolutionized musical education in Africa by showing us it is possible to interest Africans with no musical education at all in the most sophisticated kind of western music, chamber music. It seems it only takes a willingness to go out and meet them half-way.”82 The musicians reported that white colonists had expected only white people to attend the chamber music concerts, but black Africans turned out for their concerts in large numbers.83 According to Marc Gottlieb, the quartet’s first violinist, the quartet presented all its music, both classical and contemporary, with the expectation that it would be both novel and enjoyable to audiences: “if they haven’t heard it before, they would have no reason not to like it. To them, Mel Powell would be the same as Mozart.”84 As a result of the experiment that the Dorian and Claremont ensembles represented, the cultural attaché of the American embassy in Nairobi concluded that sending only popular artists to Africa would be a mistake: “The low cost, highly mobile, demonstration arts workshop, be it in chamber music, painting, dance, drama, however difficult or sophisticated the genre, can interest and inspire people all over the world who are eager to learn, if only the artists can be found who are just as eager to communicate their art.”85 Nevertheless, efforts at direct education of audiences through workshops of this kind remained a sideline in the Cultural Presentations program. Rarely was a tour marked as primarily educational in this way. Charles Frankel, who served as assistant secretary of state for educational

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and cultural affairs in the mid-1960s, observed that the politics of a rapidly decolonizing world made such programs increasingly unpalatable. He found that under postcolonial conditions, cultural relations “cannot rest on the presumption that our nation or any nation has a mission to educate the world.”86 State Department officials had chosen to send chamber music to Africa because “it would prove to them that we consider them our cultural equals,” but Frankel feared that the framing of tours as an educational venture might undercut that message.87 In practice the Dorian and Claremont groups’ educational method was very like the work they did in the United States, less speaking down to audiences than sharing unfamiliar music with them in a friendly fashion—but even this low-key approach required extreme tact. The project of educating audiences would continue in less overt ways. Solution 3: The Mediation of Prestige In addition to the strategies of mixed programming and education, the State Department cooperated with the USIA in using other media to cultivate audience interest in the concerts they were sending out. The U.S. consulate in Chiang Mai, Thailand, reported that even though the public was very receptive to visiting musicians, Thai listeners needed “careful education.” In this case the education was provided not through live appearances and workshops but through radio programs and “sound trucks saturating the towns with background information and samples of music” to ensure adequate familiarity with the music and thus a successful concert.88 Where Western music was not well liked, the arrival of a great American musical personality was often met with mild curiosity or indifference. Yet in cosmopolitan areas and places that had American cultural centers, music fans or critics could easily access foreign publications, sometimes using information found there to evaluate musicians by Western standards. A U.S. embassy official in Rio de Janeiro explained that in prestige-conscious Rio, critics based their opinions in part on information gleaned from the American musical press. If a musical group was well-regarded by U.S. critics, the Brazilian press would also accord the group favorable attention.89 In cases where the music was unfamiliar to local concert reviewers, newspaper coverage for a given concert often relied heavily on the texts of official press releases from the USIA, a relatively direct means of disseminating information about American music to publics abroad. This relationship between music and other media meant that it was possible to create a reputation to precede an artist’s appearance. Indeed, this procedure was the norm. George Hellyer, counselor of the U.S. embassy in Tokyo, explained

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that “often name artists in Japan do not coincide with U.S. opinion. Names are usually built through motion pictures, records, and books. It is very difficult to build a name in Japan unless adequate materials and time are available.”90 By cultivating artists’ fame far in advance, and carefully judging which artists to send, the State Department could best assure the visiting musicians’ success. It is a curious irony that even though embassy staff perceived an acute demand for American music on the part of foreign publics, they had to work very hard to get people to attend performances. This was true even of the most famous attractions. Howard Elting Jr., counselor of the American embassy in Vietnam, explained that the embassy was catering to the tastes of “educated Vietnamese” in planning cultural presentations, yet the educational preparation undertaken by the embassy was dazzling in its scope. To publicize the concerts of the Jack Teagarden Sextet, the Golden Gate Quartet, and the Little Orchestra Society, the three cultural presentations that would visit Vietnam in 1959, USIS published one hundred thousand copies of a booklet in Vietnamese about these three concerts. Embassy personnel held record-listening sessions and gave twelve public lectures about American music and these performers, some of which were reprinted in newspapers. The Voice of America aired advertisements, recordings of the three groups were given prominent placement on Radio Vietnam, and footage of the groups was included in weekly newsreels in movie theaters. After the performers actually arrived, two of the three concerts were broadcast nationally. To avoid selling many tickets to foreigners resident in Vietnam, all publicity was conducted in Vietnamese until the final week. Elting reported that the tremendous publicity effort was itself noteworthy in the public’s eyes: “A number of Vietnamese commented after the concerts that the wonderful thing about the visit of the Little Orchestra is that it enabled the Vietnamese to learn something about American organization and planning. ‘That,’ exclaimed a Vietnamese newsman, ‘is a lesson we Vietnamese have to learn.’ A curious commentary, this, in that no such thought ever crossed our minds in planning the concerts.”91 U.S. cultural presentations thus provided not only high-quality performances but also an important glimpse into American strategies of mediation. The process of educating Vietnamese audiences appears to have been effective. Likely as a result of the pervasive publicity, ticket sales for the American presentations in Vietnam were better in 1959 than ever before, even though the acts that preceded these—Richard Tucker, Marian Anderson, William Warfield, and Eleanor Steber—were also first-rate. Of the three groups that came to Vietnam that year, the Little Orchestra

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Society—the same group that failed to impress the Japanese—made the biggest impression. In Elting’s assessment the quality of the performance, the sense of a gift bestowed, and the financial prowess required to move an orchestra all played a role in shaping the audience’s response. He believed that most audience members were ill equipped to appreciate the music but that “the great majority were very much impressed by the spectacular scope of the entire effort.”92 Whether listening to classical music necessarily requires “understanding” (that is, mediation through formal education) remains a contested question among music scholars. In the 1950s and 1960s, State Department personnel generally believed that people had to have some familiarity with art music in order to like it.93 The Cultural Presentations staff fully recognized that such education was unavailable in most of the world. Perhaps this is why they were unwilling to rely on the music’s appeal alone. Instead, they let the impressive expense of moving a large orchestra stand as “a dramatic compliment to the country which is visited and demonstrate our genuine interest in their people.”94 Where the music might not have mattered to every listener, the gesture—the sense of a gift received—filled in a variety of meanings, leaving some listeners satisfied by the compliment. The musicians, by contrast, relied not on “understanding” but on enjoyment: whether the music was familiar or not, they invited listeners to share it in hopes that they might like it.

CLASSICAL MUSIC AND SOCIAL POWER Concerts of classical music were not expected to transmit ideas in the manner of information propaganda, yet they did inspire meaningful thinking in participants. These performances and the negotiations about them built complex social relationships. A key part of this practice was the art of judging the social relationship between giver and recipient, both on a personal level and as a metonym for international relations. Requests for music communicated to the State Department by its embassies reveal how people assessed their own power in relation to the Cold War conflict: were they bypassed, or were they in the same league with their neighbors? Did the United States consider them cultured, or not? The presence and nature of musical presentations was taken as a barometer of what Peter van Ham has called “social power”: citizens of nation-states could and did judge the importance of their states relative to the United States and their neighbors by what music was sent.95 Joseph Nye has identified the sheer attractiveness of America’s cultural products—its music, its movies—as a major source of soft power without

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exploring fully how the attraction works.96 Although Van Ham describes nonmusical forms of social power as arising out of multilateral communication, he seems, like Nye, to perceive music’s appeal as a form of consumerism that colonizes the global imagination—a unilateral imposition of cultural products.97 In some respects we can see the desire of many audiences for the “highest” forms of music played by the “top” groups as a kind of avarice, wanting to acquire a high-status possession and to feel oneself marked by that status. Many listeners, though, seem to have genuinely wanted to hear this music, whether out of curiosity or deeply felt interest. Diplomatic posts received positive comments and letters of gratitude after the concerts. Furthermore, the pleasure and the intrinsic musical value were not separable from the prestige of the music and the implied compliment of attention from a superpower. Just as the State Department puzzled over its audiences, we cannot easily disentangle the particular motives that led people to enjoy concerts. In the play of attention and prestige that swirled around the music, power did not rest with the United States alone. Foreign publics made a variety of demands on the State Department through communication with its embassies and consular posts. The desire for this music was carefully cultivated through information propaganda, yet listeners abroad also requested and used music to suit their own purposes. We see in posts’ anxious missives to Washington that the program was highly responsive to— even subject to—the tastes and aspirations of the publics it sought to reach. For cultural diplomacy to work, officials needed to know their audiences and try hard to please them. This collaborative element is not negated by the fact that the United States was simultaneously cultivating demand for this music. Rather, the top-down and bottom-up aspects of this process remained in productive tension with each other. In a critique of Nye’s analysis Edward Lock explains that “the possibility of attraction rests upon the existence of social norms defining what it means to be attractive”—and these norms are not fixed but are negotiated among the parties.98 In its bid for prestige the Cultural Presentations staff invoked a European hierarchy of musical value to assert American competence in cultural matters and tried to transmit that hierarchy abroad so that American music could be judged worthy. Audiences the world over who received American cultural presentations accepted the European norm to widely varying extents. Many regarded the acceptance of the norm as the price of participation in a prestigious worldwide elite, yet the freedom with which music critics abroad censured Western performers suggests that citizens of host countries were not merely passive recipients. The norms that

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the Cultural Presentations staff sought to introduce were not adopted uncritically. They were contested and adjusted at each concert, at each preconcert talk, in each newspaper review or educational event. Any consideration of cultural diplomacy must take this “pushback” into account and acknowledge the extent to which norms were partially adopted, refused outright, or applied in ways the senders had not foreseen—as in Japan, where the norms were turned against the very American performers who sought to introduce them. Van Ham defines social power as “the capacity to establish the norms and rules around which other actors’ actions converge.” Yet in choosing classical music as a vehicle for diplomacy, the State Department was applying norms first established elsewhere—and thereby risking censure according to those norms.99 In the Cultural Presentations program, classical music proved a valuable tool, allowing U.S. officials to deploy preexisting norms and cultivate new ones, presenting an image of America as both musically innovative and devoted to the most exalted traditions. The State Department’s extensive use of classical music encouraged people elsewhere in the world to see this music as a cultural universal, even as its value had to be negotiated anew in each place. When State Department officials sent classical music abroad, they counted on the transferability of classical music’s prestige, and it appears they were largely correct. Listeners abroad did not evaluate the offering of American music exactly as U.S. listeners would. Still, many were willing to accept the premise that music could be judged on a scale of value according to which some is “higher” or “better,” and givers and receivers alike felt it necessary to come to agreement about which was the “higher.” If they agreed, the gift of music could be enjoyed as a genuine compliment to the receiver, even as it also enhanced the prestige of the giver as possessing worthwhile culture. The belief that people the world over were hearing and liking the same music focused attention on values that were held in common, and this practice strengthened the imagined connections among individuals in different places. As we will see in the next chapter, American diplomatic practice went still further. By training orchestras abroad and providing conductors for them, the U.S. government turned inclusion into active participation.


Classical Music as Development Aid

The State Department’s musical activities abroad included not only singers and instrumental performers but also conductors, composers, and teachers who traveled under the department’s American Specialists program. Specialists were typically scientists sent to advise on agricultural or industrial projects: the program was a form of development aid in which technical knowledge was conveyed to professionals in other countries. Specialists in music would typically teach classes, lead concerts, or give lectures about American music. Prominent composers such as Aaron Copland, Henry Cowell, and Virgil Thomson were sent abroad to present their music at festivals or special performances. Dancer and movie star Gene Kelly gave public presentations in West Africa about American dance styles. From the 1950s to the 1970s the State Department sponsored about a dozen orchestral conductors to work with foreign orchestras under Specialist grants and offered facilitative assistance to many more. Sending music under the American Specialists program highlights other possibilities for the arts than we have seen thus far. Rather than showing off American skills in performance, specialists could serve as teachers or collaborators, helping the host country’s inhabitants cultivate their own artistic potential. As we will see, this kind of relationship had to be handled with care so that it would not seem like condescension. Yet for peoples who wanted technical knowledge, receiving it could be gratifying. Although we do not usually think of development aid as “propaganda,” experts’ visits did allow for the effective dissemination of ideas. Perhaps most important, they also supported musicians in the host countries who already aspired to international standards of performance. By discovering the aims of people in the host countries and helping them work toward those aims, the United States could build warm relationships while fostering local pride.1 47


The decision to send orchestral conductors abroad under the American Specialists program tacitly acknowledged a peculiar strength that was routinely highlighted in Japanese and European criticisms of American music. Critics in these places tended to praise the outstanding technical proficiency of American orchestras while disparaging their interpretive or spiritual qualities. Sharing America’s uniquely polished manner of musical performance turned this criticism into an asset. The musical work done under the American Specialists program overlapped to an extent with the performance tours carried out under the Cultural Presentations program, for master classes and technical advice for performing musicians in the host countries were usually part of those tours as well. Yet a visiting conductor had more to do than simply lead an orchestra in concert. He was supposed to embed himself in the musical community, learn about and participate in the music of the host country, teach conducting classes, help with organization and fundraising for local music groups, and make arrangements for concerts and radio broadcasts, while also generating interest in American music.2 In more than a decade of work for the State Department in Europe and Asia, the conductor William Strickland did all this and more. In addition to State Department funding, he arranged foundation grants and matching funds from the host countries to support a rich itinerary of musical activity in Austria, the Philippines, Vietnam, Korea, Japan, Iceland, Norway, Poland, and Finland. Strickland made many more tours than most American musicians. He also stayed for extended periods in each place and built relationships of unusual intensity. His example shows us what the State Department was striving for in sending musicians as specialists and what they achieved in the field. A warm, gracious, and energetic man, Strickland was praised almost everywhere he went for establishing two-way musical partnerships. His correspondence, collected at the Library of Congress, contains many letters from musicians in the host countries thanking him for his help in building fledgling orchestras into viable performing organizations. Still, scholars have criticized aid provided for Western-style development, for the aid always came with strings attached, and it was typically predicated on views of foreign peoples as “underdeveloped.” As we will see, for Strickland to begin his work in a postcolonial state such as the Philippines meant entering an already established network of diplomatic relations, some of them built on the nation’s colonial past. Strickland launched his career in the United States as an organist and choir director, but as soon as he was established, his path took an international turn. After a stint as a choral conductor in the U.S. Army during the


Second World War, Strickland first made a name for himself as founder and first music director of the Nashville Symphony Orchestra (1946–51). He then left for Vienna, funded by a Fulbright award from the State Department (1953–55). In addition to advancing his career by performing for European audiences, Strickland promoted American music through his guest conducting appearances with the Vienna Philharmonic, the Vienna Symphony Orchestra, the Tonkünstler Orchestra, and the Akademie-Kammerorchester and -Kammerchor. For the Vienna Symphony, known for its performances of modern music, he conducted two programs of exclusively American music in the spring of 1955. He also led two benefit concerts for war orphans that included a mix of traditional European classics and accessible American contemporary works. With the Vienna Symphony he made recordings of violin concerti by Alban Berg, Arnold Schoenberg, and Béla Bartók, as well as works of Gian Carlo Menotti and Aaron Copland. Vienna’s music critics did not always like the American music, but they admired Strickland for bringing them something new. After hearing Walter Piston’s Toccata, Copland’s Statements, Menotti’s Apocalypse, and the Berg Violin Concerto, an Austrian critic called it “an instructive, a courageous program” that “incites much discussion.”3 Later in 1955, unable to extend his Fulbright award for another year, Strickland returned to New York, where he became the music director of the New York Oratorio Society. As a means of building a career, his time in Vienna had been well spent: he had cultivated a reputation among European critics and brought home a sheaf of positive reviews he could cite as evidence of his ability. Eager to explore possibilities in Asia, Strickland began corresponding with orchestra managers in Japan, working on arrangements to guest-conduct a series of concerts in Osaka and Tokyo.4 As of 1956 the executives at the Asahi Broadcasting Corporation had never heard of him, yet they were willing to engage him for twelve concerts on the strength of his identity as an American conductor and his European reviews.5 These concerts were originally planned for 1957 but did not come to fruition because the salary offered was too low. Strickland continued to negotiate and arranged to come to Japan early in 1958. Meanwhile, Strickland was contacted by Harold Howland in the State Department’s Specialists Division to see whether he would be interested in serving as a specialist in Japan, the Philippines, and Taiwan, working around his continuing commitments in New York.6 Strickland spent January to May 1958 in Asia. His expenses and salary in Tokyo were partly funded by the orchestras’ sponsors, but his visits to Manila and Seoul were funded by a Specialist grant, as was his international travel. The aim of this initial trip


was to make contact and begin his work as guest conductor with a variety of orchestras. In February he led his first concert and broadcast with the Manila Symphony Orchestra, in March two concerts with the Seoul Philharmonic, for which he learned a work by the Korean composer Sungtae Kim. This relatively brief initial trip laid the groundwork for more extensive visits later—but the Korean press already framed Strickland’s presence as a sign of friendship between South Korea and the United States.7 While on the State Department grant, Strickland earned a salary of about $675 a month, plus reimbursement of travel expenses and a per diem of twelve dollars to sixteen dollars.8 As Christina Klein has pointed out, after the Second World War America’s preoccupation with Asia increased in parallel with American economic interests in the region. Klein argues that a wave of fictional and factual presentations on Asian topics in the U.S. media helped Americans to understand their nation as a global power.9 Strickland’s fascination with Asia resonates with this pattern: he saw real opportunities for music to expand into new markets, even as he valued the partnerships and collaborations for music’s own sake. Strickland was particularly excited about the possibility of recording American music abroad. Recordings would help foreign orchestras, performers, and composers become known in the United States and let American music be heard in other places. In addition, distributing recordings would allow for more than two-way contact (not only between Japan and the United States, for example, but also between Japan and the Philippines).10 Strickland early conceived the idea of making long-playing records with Filipino musicians on one side and Japanese musicians on the other, so as to increase inter-Asian musical awareness. He never achieved this specific goal, but he did play and distribute his Asian recordings in countries other than their points of origin. In his later Scandinavian tours Strickland would refine his use of media, making records with American works conducted by a Finn on one side, and himself conducting Finnish works on the other, to ensure broad interest and represent two-way cultural exchange. On the strength of his successes in Asia early in 1958, Strickland was immediately invited back to the Philippines and Japan. He received a threemonth Specialist grant to return to Manila from October to December 1958. He also spent a week in Saigon in January 1959; according to the embassy there, he was “to determine whether the Saigon Symphony Orchestra and other local musical groups had reached a stage of development where they could take good advantage of the services of an American musical specialist.”11 He then returned to Tokyo for three months (January– March 1959). In April he vacationed in Hong Kong and conducted initial


talks with musicians in Bangkok. He then went to Saigon from April to August 1959, again on a Specialist grant, for three months’ intensive work to establish the orchestra there. In August he returned to Tokyo, where he would spend the 1959–60 season. Early in Strickland’s Asian sojourn, it became clear to Foreign Service officers that he was well equipped for diplomacy. The PAO at the U.S. embassy in Saigon wrote to his colleague in the Tokyo embassy that Strickland was not only a “very sound musician” but also personable. “He believes in our work, is not a prima donna, and has done a lot for us not without some sacrifice.” The officer in Saigon also praised Strickland’s discretion, encouraging the embassy in Tokyo to be frank with Strickland about local problems.12 Strickland devoted tremendous energy to his diplomatic work, the nature of which differed from place to place and from week to week. Reflecting on his many years in cultural diplomacy, Strickland described his experiences in each place: “There is always the slow, and sometimes discouraging start—then the beginning of involvement—and finally the ending—a flood of activity one can hardly cope with!”13 Yet each site of engagement offered him novel experiences and opportunities shaped as much by local conditions as by his assigned diplomatic role.

JAPAN Compared to the chilly response American performing artists sometimes received in Japan, Strickland found a surprisingly warm reception among Japanese orchestra members and his colleagues on the podium. In Tokyo he most often played the role of guest conductor, as he had in Europe. There was no need to cultivate orchestral music in urban Japan. As Strickland reminded his American correspondents numerous times, Tokyo already had five working symphony orchestras, all sponsored by media outlets. Strickland did assist in the restructuring of the ABC Symphony Orchestra (the orchestra of the Asahi Broadcasting Company) into the new Imperial Philharmonic, of which he conducted the debut concert in January 1960.14 In provincial cities, by contrast, Strickland found that his skill as a teacher was enthusiastically welcomed. These orchestras were neither wellfunded nor polished, and they ardently solicited Strickland’s attention. On his second trip the conductor of the Kyushu University Orchestra invited him to rehearse Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony and Haydn’s “Farewell” Symphony with the group for three days.15 Even in Tokyo, he conducted two pops concerts using student orchestras for the “Music for Youth” organization in 1960 and led a program of European classics with the


orchestra of the Musashino Academy, a music conservatory. Provincial and educational groups alike welcomed help in raising their performance standards, which elevated their reputations within Japan. Strickland found Japan the perfect field in which to cultivate his recording projects. In particular, it offered a significant financial advantage: foreign orchestras were cheaper to hire for recordings than were musicians in the United States. After exploring the possibilities on his initial visits to Japan, he wrote to Douglas Moore, who managed Columbia University’s Alice Ditson Fund for New Music: “an opportunity exists which perhaps will not come again. The financial terms are favorable in the extreme—$1500 will pay all recording expenses, including rehearsals, hall rentals, tapes, and editing fees for a total of one hour of recorded music. The orchestra is of the highest quality and the recording equipment likewise.”16 Most of Strickland’s numerous recordings were made possible by the Ditson Fund, the American Composers’ Alliance, and other foundations such as the National Federation of Music Clubs and the National Council of Women of the United States. These recordings were released on CRI (Composers’ Recordings Inc.), a nonprofit label specializing in recent American music.17 In addition to funding from American foundations and occasional State Department support, Strickland often cultivated matching funds from the orchestra’s sponsors or from the government of the host country. His recordings were typically paid for by adding many small grants together until the need was met. The recording projects dovetailed with—and to some extent drove—the performance and broadcast possibilities. With Juilliard-trained Japanese conductor Akeo Watanabe, Strickland conceived a series of weekly primetime radio broadcasts of American music, with commentary by Watanabe. From January to March 1959 they broadcast a variety of American works, conducted in alternation by Watanabe or Strickland.18 At the same time, these performances by the Japan Philharmonic were all recorded for release on CRI, maximizing their effects through repetition and worldwide distribution. Strickland was increasingly able to hand out his own records of American music so that musicians could consider performing this music themselves.19 The involvement of a Japanese conductor and orchestra helped to ensure that the American works would stay in the repertory after Strickland left. Having bothered to learn and rehearse the music, they would likely perform it again in a subsequent season. Strickland used this strategy throughout his journeys. Strickland’s repertory in Japan depended on which orchestra he was conducting and the receptivity of that orchestra’s typical audience to recent or


American music. The Japan Philharmonic and the Imperial Philharmonic tended to offer newer music than the others, but Strickland also worked with provincial orchestras that had never played any American music. Overall, he conducted a mix of classic and contemporary European works and American music, including the Scherzo and March from Serge Prokofieff’s Love for Three Oranges, Robert Ward’s Symphony no. 2, Felix Mendelssohn’s Italian Symphony, Julia Perry’s Short Piece, Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov’s Capriccio espagnol, Beethoven’s Third Piano Concerto, and the Japanese premiere of Berg’s Violin Concerto. The American music was not always well received, even by critics who liked Strickland. Writing in 1959 about a performance of Samuel Barber’s Overture to “The School for Scandal,” Hirokazu Suzano reported that Strickland’s lively and modern performance “certainly helped to make Barber’s considerably banal overture sound enjoyable to some extent.”20 Robert Ward’s “Jubilation” overture was likewise belittled as “speaking a bit exaggeratedly” in a manner “fully expressing American optimism.”21 After his second stint in Japan Strickland explained in a forceful letter to the director of the USIA that musical luminaries from the Soviet Union were making a significant impression. He believed that Japanese intellectuals increasingly favored the USSR over the United States, and he asked for more U.S. investment in the Japanese cultural scene.22 Having observed the workings of Japanese musical circles closely for six months, Strickland was genuinely concerned. He was also keeping an eye on his own future possibilities, for any further U.S. funding for his projects would benefit Japanese musicians and Strickland himself. In this and subsequent letters Strickland called attention to Japanese candidates for grants to visit the United States, mentioning in particular Akeo Watanabe and Masashi Ueda, the latter of whom had conducted extensively in the Soviet Union. Strickland also offered informal support: when Watanabe, a Juilliard School graduate who was conductor of the Japan Philharmonic, visited New York in April 1960, he had lunch with Strickland’s agent, Thea Dispeker, who put him in touch with concert promoters and record company executives.23 Indeed, in 1964 Watanabe and the Japan Philharmonic traveled to Washington, DC, funded in part by the Japan-America Society. They performed for Secretary of State Dean Rusk and the public at Washington’s prestigious Constitution Hall. Strickland’s connections surely paved the way for this trip. During his time in Japan Strickland became aware of Japanese composers and their music. He constantly made lists of names to know and compositions to learn. In 1961 he conducted a commercial recording of Yasushi Akutagawa’s Ellora Symphony and Ikuma Dan’s Second Symphony with


the Imperial Philharmonic. (The recording was released on Toshiba Records, not CRI, because at that time CRI would record only American composers.) Watanabe himself produced a significant body of recordings of American music for CRI, including music of Copland, Halsey Stevens, Vivian Fine, Carl Ruggles, and Henry Cowell. Strickland always spoke positively in the United States about Japanese composers, but he made more substantive investments in familiarizing Japanese musicians with American music and publicizing Watanabe and Japanese orchestras abroad.24 This function of making Japanese orchestras known to the world through recordings was a key element of Strickland’s diplomatic role in Japan. Although Japan’s music critics tended to criticize harshly the quality of Japanese orchestras, Strickland believed that Tokyo’s ensembles were on the cusp of being world-class: he told them so repeatedly. The Japan Philharmonic invited Strickland to speak at a “Beer Party” commemorating the third anniversary of the orchestra’s establishment in autumn 1959. At the party Strickland again called the orchestra members’ attention to their world reputation: “You should all feel very proud of the recordings you made this past winter. We have had literally nothing but the highest praise from everybody in New York for the way you all played. I congratulate you most heartily and trust that you will make many more even finer recordings.”25 The Japan Philharmonic’s press releases, too, proclaimed the orchestra’s new standing: the “Japan Philharmonic has successfully elevated the standard of Japanese orchestras, and it will never cease striving to approach the highest standard of the world.”26 The idea of gaining a place on the world stage was tremendously exciting for Japanese musicians and critics. Marcel Grilli, an American-trained, Tokyo-based critic who habitually referred to “lackluster” performances by Japanese orchestras, praised Watanabe’s and Strickland’s recording project for CRI as “an event of utmost importance.”27 When Strickland conducted the premiere concert of the new Imperial Philharmonic, another foreign critic noted that the program was “daring” because it “invited comparison with the best of orchestras presently to be heard or on records.”28 As we saw in chapter 1, Western classical music was a useful vehicle for creating prestige, in part because it was recognized nearly worldwide. One Japanese commentator explained that “European music is a specific one with its own history and traditions, yet we may justly say that it has an international character in the same manner sciences and technology do.”29 Strickland’s interventions helped ensure that the Japanese would be recognized as successful participants in the international scene. Strickland saw this work in part as development assistance. In an application for further funding from the Asia Foundation that followed his first


season in Japan, the Philippines, and Korea, he explained that he was hoping to offer a realization that there are American composers of stature, but most important of all a newly found strength and realization of their own native talents and activities which they have not dared to hope could run in competition with the west—be it Europe or America. The total aim of this project then is in time to see Japanese composers, Filipino composers being recorded by their own orchestras and conducted by their own conductors. And their recordings being released not only in their own countries but in the USA where we sorely need information on the musical development of Asia.30

Strickland understood that he needed to be careful about appearing to impose a Western viewpoint on Asian music.31 He believed that Americans and Europeans, in ignorance, regarded Asian people as exotic or primitive when in fact they were musical colleagues doing interesting work. He treated musicians as peers rather than condescending to them. He regarded the work of Japanese orchestral composers who were combining European traditions with their own two-thousand-year-old musical tradition as comparable to the work of American composers who were forging a tradition separate from Europe’s while engaging deeply with its traditions.32 Yet Strickland also believed that aid from abroad, in the form of recording contracts and visits from specialists, was the best way to achieve the recognition, and in some cases the training, that would bring Asian musicians into the spotlight. Strickland was proceeding from a basic philosophy, grounded in EuroAmerican bourgeois custom, that music is important and that “good” music is good for everyone: “I believe the basic need of man is to be fed both spiritually and materially.”33 Strickland noticed a hunger for Western music that was closely tied to the issue of prestige. As he put it, “The Orient, at least the Orient I know—Japan, the Philippines, Korea, South Vietnam— wants recognition musically—on Western terms. . . . If they want it surely we are foolish not to attempt to give it to them.” Furthermore, Strickland understood the problem in terms of Cold War competition: “someone is going to move in” to give them access to Western music “if we don’t.”34 Unlike development aid in fields such as agriculture, music would not remedy food shortages or meet other basic needs—and unlike economic modernization, it would not offer much ideological protection against Soviet or Chinese incursions. Instead, it would offer a gratifying sense of capability and participation, and a way for nations to mark their standing and level of cultural achievement among the modern nations of the world.35


In thinking about his work in Asia, Strickland used the positive associations of music and the reciprocity of the project’s design to assert a kind of altruistic innocence. As Mary Louise Pratt has explained, though, a narrative of reciprocity often hides the desire to dominate.36 Although Strickland’s writings are strikingly devoid of racialized thinking, the sense that other nations were developing toward a state of civilization defined by Europe had been a core principle of modernization theory since the nineteenth century, based in part on assumptions of racial superiority. It is ironic that the United States would take a leading role in helping societies to strive for recognition using the European tradition of classical music, when the United States itself had so much trouble garnering prestige for its classical music among Europeans and even among its own people.37 Yet this irony may also have been a virtue, for in places where European norms were already established and valued, Strickland’s help may have seemed more like disinterested support for local goals than a chauvinistic imposition of unwanted help from outside.

THE PHILIPPINES In the Philippines Strickland focused largely on educational and organizational projects, for the Manila Symphony was less firmly established than Japanese orchestras. Founded in 1926, the orchestra had a lively history into the 1940s. The instruments, music library, and many players survived the Japanese occupation but faced an uncertain postwar existence. The orchestra lacked a hall; orchestra members and patrons had died or been displaced by the war; and the state imposed a 30 percent tax on concert receipts. Only through the efforts of a few prominent sponsors and the willingness of the orchestra’s European conductor to work free of charge was it revived in 1951.38 Through the 1950s there were notable successes—including the presentation of a Tagalog-language version of Bizet’s Carmen in 1956—but the financial situation remained tenuous, with most of the orchestra’s players working as volunteers. From the time of his arrival in February 1958, Strickland helped Mrs. Trinidad Legarda, longtime president of the Manila Symphony Society, organize fund-raising for the orchestra along American lines.39 Mrs. Legarda successfully solicited contributions from nine U.S. companies doing business in the Philippines to put the orchestra on what Strickland called “a professional basis,” with musicians being paid for their labor. Strickland’s rehearsals, performances, and organizational work for the Manila Symphony dominated his time in the Philippines. Yet there was a


whirlwind of other activity, too, with multiple teaching, conducting, and social engagements every day. Strickland talked with Filipino composers, the Manila Symphony Board, conductors, and heads of university music departments in other parts of the Philippines. He auditioned musicians and coached soloists and orchestra members. He led meetings and workshops for band and choral directors, gave lectures on American music, held many interviews with the press, and lunched with important donors and political leaders. Strickland continued to program as much American music as possible, along with music by Filipino composers. These works and the classic European music were selected with an eye toward managing the level of difficulty so that the orchestra would play well. In developing programs for the Manila Symphony, Strickland attended closely to the wishes and preferences of local musicians. When Filipino composer Rodolfo Cornejo urged Strickland to give a solo role to a newly graduated twenty-two-year-old pianist from Bacolod, Sony Lacson, Strickland took the risk. He was rewarded with great publicity: the concert won him friends throughout the Philippines and tied musical activities in Manila more closely with the outlying regions.40 During both his Philippine stays, Strickland worked extensively in the provinces, with visits to Davao, Cebu, Dumaguete, Barugio, and Bacolod. He conducted rehearsals of numerous college choirs, orchestras, and glee clubs and talked to faculty and music students. He told an audience in Bacolod that he was enormously impressed by their careful planning of his visit and a memorable concert there, praising the “enormous reservoir of talent” found in the Philippines.41 After Strickland’s first visit Legarda immediately invited him back for a second, longer stay. He worked with the orchestra from October to December 1958 and then conducted a gala concert for the rededication of Manila’s Roman Catholic Cathedral. The cathedral had been badly damaged during World War II and subsequently rebuilt. Legarda aimed to make the rededication a truly outstanding occasion: “A massive choral work under your able guidance will be most impressive and opportune.”42 As no local funds were available to pay Strickland, however, Legarda urged him to apply for a grant to cover the rededication concert. Strickland succeeded in getting State Department funding for a three-month return trip, but the grant did not cover December. He donated his time after the end of the grant to remain in Manila for the cathedral dedication concert, which had become a personal mission for him. Between his two Manila stints, Strickland went back to New York, working closely with the Metropolitan Opera Guild to raise funds for a complete set of woodwind instruments for the Manila Symphony Orchestra. The


Figure 4. Strickland conducts excerpts from Verdi’s Requiem at the

rededication of the Cathedral-Basilica of the Immaculate Conception in Manila, 3 December 1958. William Remsen Strickland Collection, Music Division, Library of Congress.

Guild was organizing a Verdi festival in New York that season, so Strickland advised Legarda to program the Verdi Requiem for the cathedral rededication, linking the performances in the United States and Manila to encourage the gift. The Guild did provide the instruments. The U.S. ambassador presented them to the orchestra in October 1958, in time for the gala performance of excerpts from the Requiem (figure 4).43 Perhaps the most conspicuous element of Strickland’s work in Manila was the emphasis on “discipline”: the need to regulate the behavior of the orchestral musicians to achieve the best result. As the American embassy in Manila described it, Strickland felt that one of his principal points of effectiveness . . . was in having held a strict line, particularly with the Manila Symphony Orchestra and the Philippine Choral Society in organizational and musical discipline. Demands of the highest order were made of both organizations and while this was done with as light a touch as possible,


no excuses were accepted from orchestral or chorus members nor from board members in an effort to show that good performance of music depends upon these disciplines. Over the three months’ period he believed that a good impression had been made along this line.44

The view that Philippine music needed disciplinary development was not held by Westerners alone. A critic for the English-language Daily Mirror cited the “sleeping potential” of Filipino musicians and praised Strickland for his efforts to develop music in the Philippines.45 At the end of Strickland’s first visit the critic for the Manila Times wrote that the orchestra would reflect well on the Philippines—“if it learns to interpret music the way it is so done in civilized centers.”46 At first the emphasis on discipline was not warmly received by everyone. In a sharply worded essay entitled “Man with a Messianic Complex,” published at the end of Strickland’s first visit to Manila in March 1958, critic Rosalinda Orosa of the Manila Chronicle expressed skepticism about the relationships created by Strickland’s visit. Calling him “suave and polished,” citing his “prudence and extreme tact,” Orosa nonetheless believed that Strickland’s presence and his message conveyed “the unmistakable impression . . . that for all their musicality as a people, the Filipino musicians are, on the whole, lacking in musicianship.” According to Orosa, Strickland said in an interview that he had heard many musicians who played the notes correctly but lacked a complete grasp of the style. Strickland’s view of Filipino musicians seemed patronizing to Orosa, and she depicted him as wielding an iron fist with the orchestra. At the same time, however, she acknowledged that his expertise was born of extensive experience and success in world centers such as Vienna and New York. Citing an article from the Nashville Times-Herald (likely provided in a press kit from the embassy), Orosa explained to her Filipino readers that Strickland had also had to work hard to train the Nashville Symphony, but the results of that musical discipline were “vigorous, spirited and competent”—and thus worthwhile.47 Orosa concluded, doubtfully, that Strickland’s performance would be “interesting to watch.” Orosa’s outlook reflects the pervasive legacy of Spanish and U.S. colonial activity in the Philippines, where foreign assistance was considered necessary to achieve economic and political development. During the U.S. occupation (1898–1941), American forces succeeded in convincing many Filipino elites to support U.S. rule, claiming that under U.S. tutelage Filipinos could eventually (in some unspecified future time) achieve independence and parity with other nations. In his thinking about “discipline,” Strickland was replicating a strategy of tutelage and imposition, the teaching of “order and


self-control,” that had been practiced by Americans in the Philippines since the end of the nineteenth century.48 Indeed, that elites in Manila were begging for support in building symphony orchestras was itself a legacy of colonialism. Trinidad Legarda was married to the grandson of Benito Legarda, one of the educated members of Philippine society who was most active in cooperating with U.S. colonial rule. As president of the Manila Symphony Society from 1933 to 1958, Trinidad Legarda spearheaded fund-raising for it, adopting the language of cultural “uplift” from colonial times.49 Manila was as conscious as Tokyo of its place on the world stage, for orchestral music in the European tradition was one way to mark the inclusion of the Philippines among cultured nations. Orosa was not the only Philippine journalist who watched the Western press. Other Filipino critics noted that Strickland was praising the Philippines in the Western media, and they took pride in his praise. Although the recordings Strickland made in Manila of Liwanag Cruz conducting the Philippine Choral Society were not released because they did not meet CRI’s quality standards, a Filipino critic expressed satisfaction that the recording would be taken to the United States and played for American musicians.50 That the good opinion of Westerners was valued highly by Manila’s elites suggests that the colonial ideology of “uplift” remained important to them. As Julian Go has noted, though, even under colonial rule colonized people retain the power to accept or alter the categories of imposed cultural practices.51 Despite the colonial overtones of Strickland’s project, the musicians themselves appear to have understood and approved of his agenda, for by all accounts they wanted only more opportunities to work with him. Kathy Sternberg, who was both a member of the ambassador’s staff and a concert soprano well-connected with Filipino musicians, wrote to Strickland after his first stint in Manila that “everybody spoke most highly of the concert and, even more important, the musicians themselves were delighted with the experience and are looking forward to your return.”52 Around the same time, Grace San Agustin wrote to Strickland, “You sure gained plenty of admiring fans during your short stay!”53 It is telling that Strickland was invited back to the Philippines for an extended period: Filipino musicians valued what he was giving them. That Strickland was willing to invest in them was acknowledged as a compliment. Rosario L. Valdés, Legarda’s successor as president of the Manila Symphony Society, wrote to thank him after his second visit for his exceptional performance and his “willingness to spend long hours of hard work in rehearsal to achieve those results. We are pleased that you found our organization sufficiently proficient to merit this effort.”54


To some extent the emphasis on discipline was obscured after the fact by the beauty of the music during the performance itself and by a profound sense of pride. In November 1958 Rosalinda Orosa—the skeptical critic who had called Strickland patronizing a few months earlier—described the “American conductor and Filipino pianist displaying the most harmonious relationships imaginable, with each respecting the other’s sovereignty as artist, each giving and taking in equal degree.”55 According to another critic, Morli Dharam, the orchestra’s performance under Strickland was greeted with surprised enthusiasm: “All at once this orchestra that bears our city’s name was producing musical sounds of such tonal clarity, precision, and beauty that it was all we could do to remain seated and contain our excitement. The rest of the audience felt it too and manifested their joyous discovery in round after round of hearty approval.”56 At the end of Strickland’s stay, Dharam called the orchestra “a sensitively disciplined instrument”— implying that the task of altering their behavior and performance to meet world norms had been achieved, with excellent results.57 Strickland was aware of the colonial implications of his enterprise, and he took pains to answer this criticism in terms of the desires of the populace: Without exception in every country I have visited, the story is the same—these people want symphony orchestras—want them badly and are willing to give much of themselves to see this happen—No one is imposing anything. If anything the native culture imposes itself on the western orchestra and for myself one of the future interesting aspects of music is the development arising out of this clash of East and West (Japan’s rising school of composition is best evidence of this). Increasing communication is making a “world music” where national inflections are evident. . . . This development and recognition is coming to Asia and it is my project to help hasten this development.58

Of course, the avid pursuit of symphonic music came not from populations as a whole but from a tiny upper crust. Nonetheless, Strickland believed he was meeting a need. During the occupation, tutelary colonialism was backed by military force, but after the end of U.S. rule, development assistance could be presented in the guise of a gift, albeit one laden with reminders of the colonial past. Strickland’s friendly enthusiasm and his passionate commitment to music-making appear to have mitigated the colonial implications of his project. Strickland came across as a spirited collaborator, dedicated to the shared goal of improving the musical effectiveness of the Manila Symphony.59 William Morris, CAO at the U.S. embassy in Manila, told


Strickland that his warm personal relations with Filipinos made the embassy’s work easier.60 That Strickland was able to avoid giving the impression of colonialism is surprising, for at this historical moment of decolonization it was very difficult to harness the desire of elites for development without instigating an anticolonial backlash. By 1957, educated Filipinos were not unanimously convinced that U.S. and Philippine interests were aligned. With anti-American feeling on the rise, Strickland cultivated Filipino national pride by demonstrating American support for Filipino cultural goals.61 In this regard musical diplomacy was a subtler tool than military or economic development projects. Strickland saw himself as a facilitator who moved orchestras toward independence, helping them to form ties with philanthropists and bringing in Western capital. Historians have demonstrated that U.S. colonialism as practiced in the Philippines fostered institutional racism. By contrast, Strickland’s letters and his public statements throughout his Asian tours made little reference to race, the sole exception being his amused response to a newspaper review from Seoul, South Korea, that referred to his “towering height.”62 Strickland’s correspondence with his many interlocutors abroad was unfailingly respectful, warm, and collegial. He never forgot to send regards to the family and friends of his correspondents, and he constantly took advice from colleagues in the host country. Critics praised his results, which, as promised, brought the orchestra closer to full participation in an international musical community. To ensure continued growth, Strickland laid plans for a Filipino-American chamber music series to take place after his departure in spring 1959. He made certain that scores of American compositions would be available to the Filipino students who would perform, and the U.S. embassy guaranteed half the total budget for the three concerts.63 This plan ensured that Filipino musicians would become familiar with embassy resources for obtaining scores and recordings, and it also represented a first effort at organizing concerts of American music in Strickland’s absence. Yet it is difficult to find evidence that American music took hold in the Philippines, and it seems that Strickland’s help was not enough to set the orchestra on a solid footing. Years after Strickland’s departure, Herbert Zipper, the regular conductor of the Manila Symphony Orchestra, wrote to Strickland that he had received a Rockefeller Foundation grant to bring instrumental teachers to Manila, continuing for two years. These teachers would offer instruction on a full scholarship basis to students and professionals of all institutions.64 Despite Strickland’s earnest efforts, in the absence of sufficient local funding the orchestra had to rely on infusions of


help from abroad, and the orchestra’s stated goals still include finding a way to provide “stable and competitive financial remuneration for its artists,” many of whom are students.65 Today the Manila Symphony Orchestra features the talents of Filipino composers and conductors, and it supports a thriving music education program—yet it is still striving for professional standing on a par with major European or American orchestras and offers only a short concert season. According to the diplomatic historian Nick Cullather, U.S. development projects in the Philippines typically failed because all parties set their priorities elsewhere: the Americans on security and preservation of military bases, the Filipinos on economic independence.66 Although Strickland hoped he had put into place a sustainable development structure, the orchestra would never be a top priority for the Filipino government or foreign investment.

VIETNAM Strickland first went to Vietnam for an exploratory eleven-day visit early in his second Asian tour (January 1959).67 The critic for Le journal d’Extrême-Orient called his visit an “experiment . . . to lay the foundation for a national ensemble of high standing.” Saigon, said the critic, has felt inferior as “the only capital in the world which doesn’t have an orchestra of its own—a sorry and unenviable distinction.”68 As Strickland was aware, the issues of postcolonial ambition and identity were as present in Saigon as they were in Manila, the main difference being that the Manila orchestra had been in existence for some thirty years, whereas Saigon was attempting to establish a new ensemble. Strickland knew that it would be difficult to found a professional orchestra in Saigon. He told the Vietnamese press that it was hard for musicians to devote time to musical training when they had to worry about meeting their other daily living needs.69 Strickland’s activity in Saigon was similar to that in Manila: luncheons and dinners with diplomats and leaders in the musical community, meetings with all the orchestra’s stakeholders, teaching conducting, and leading a variety of musical groups. One group with which he developed a particularly close relationship was the Ho`ˆ n Nư o´ ̛ c Chorus, a male choral group. The wife of the group’s conductor told the press that “the members of the chorus felt that [Strickland’s visit] had been one of the most exciting and valuable experiences of their entire musical career.”70 The few Vietnamese musicians who had access to Western musical training were highly motivated to cultivate Western music: for students, especially, Western music offered the possibility of a connection to the West or even the chance to


study abroad.71 By the time Strickland left Saigon after his second stay in summer 1959, the musicians of the new Saigon Symphony Orchestra were being paid for rehearsals and performances, and for its continuing support Strickland had established a Symphony Society among the embassy wives and Vietnamese ladies’ associations.72 This effort was much aided by the presence in Saigon of Trinidad Legarda, who had given up the presidency of the Manila Symphony Society to become the Philippine ambassador to Vietnam. Legarda urged the U.S. embassy in Saigon to invite Strickland to Vietnam, and she advised Strickland on persuasive grant-writing strategies that would help bring him back for a longer stay. She also donated her own money to the Vietnamese Musicians’ Association.73 At her urging the Asia Foundation paid airfare for four Manila musicians to come to Saigon, and she paid for their room and board. These musicians would instruct the Vietnamese musicians on their instruments to relieve shortages. At the time, for example, no one in Saigon could play the bassoon.74 Other aid poured in, largely as a result of Strickland’s and Legarda’s fund-raising efforts. The Asia Foundation donated a piano. An American women’s group donated music stands.75 Conductors from the United States and other countries were lined up to keep the orchestra going after Strickland’s departure and to train Vietnamese conductors. Since only a tiny minority of the Vietnamese public was familiar with European classical music, and the orchestra was not yet skilled, Strickland had to plan the new orchestra’s programs carefully. The open-air debut concert, which was well-attended but not sold out (figure 5), included pleasing works that were relatively easy to play: a Handel Concerto grosso, Robert Ward’s Night Music, Mary Howe’s Stars, and Bach’s Fifth Brandenburg Concerto.76 People highly placed in Vietnam’s musical scene evaluated the concert as “wonderful.” Strickland hoped to cultivate a virtuous cycle: once the musicians received acclaim for their first efforts, the public’s excitement and pride would increase, and the orchestra would gain a foothold. Indeed, as a demonstration of national pride, Vietnamese president Ngo Dinh Diem invited Strickland and the new orchestra to play a special concert at the Presidential Palace (for which the State Department extended Strickland’s grant). According to Strickland, the president exclaimed, “Now we can say the Vietnamese are musical too—and we can take our place in the community of world music.”77 Of course, this fragile effort was weakened by the Vietnam War. In 1967 John D. Montgomery, one of Strickland’s diplomatic contacts who had also played in the orchestra, reported to Strickland that Saigon was not yet


Figure 5. The audience at the open-air premiere concert of the Saigon Symphony Orchestra, 8 July 1959. William Remsen Strickland Collection, Music Division, Library of Congress.

much altered by the war and that the orchestra was surviving as part of the Saigon Conservatory, though with an almost complete turnover of players.78 Today there is still an orchestra in the conservatory, as well as a municipal orchestra. The Ho Chi Minh City Ballet Symphony Orchestra, as it is now known, relies heavily on imported artists from Russia, Korea, and central Europe.79 Strickland stayed in contact with the conductor of the Ho`ˆ n Nư o´ ̛ c Chorus, Hai Linh, who left Vietnam to study music education at Ohio University, then returned to become a nationally acclaimed teacher.80 Strickland expressed great fondness for the people he worked with in Vietnam, and they thanked him copiously for his efforts. Strickland’s work in Vietnam appears to have cultivated an aspiration toward classical music that was difficult to sustain. It also seems as though these warm relationships were one of few lasting legacies of Strickland’s visit there.


ICELAND After a break from travel in 1961 and early 1962, Strickland made a preliminary tour of Scandinavia in the spring of 1962, funded by a fellowship from the American-Scandinavian Foundation. He made recordings of American music in Oslo. In Copenhagen, Helsinki, Stockholm, and Göteborg he was a guest in conducting seminars, visited orchestral rehearsals, and made contact with musicians, all of which was organized through the foundation’s chapters. Strickland then took up a post as guest conductor of the Iceland Symphony Orchestra for the 1962–63 concert season, again funded by a Specialist grant from the State Department. Musicians anticipated Strickland’s visit eagerly: especially enticing was the possibility of making recordings. Lawrence Carlson, the CAO at the American embassy in Reykjavík, wrote cynically to Strickland just before his arrival: “Believe me this thing is building up beautifully. The recording gambit has them all talking and drewling [sic].”81 The Iceland Symphony Orchestra, founded in 1950, was by 1961 affiliated with Icelandic State Radio. Its future remained uncertain because of unreliable funding. Strickland recalled that on his arrival the orchestra “was torn with dissension, undisciplined both musically and in its organization, absences were frequent and tardiness general. These were the problems to be faced before any real music could be made.”82 Vastly overestimating the orchestra’s capacities, Strickland had committed before his arrival to a highly ambitious program of music for the season, including Carl Nielsen’s Fifth Symphony, Debussy’s Three Nocturnes, Copland’s El salón México, and a number of works by contemporary Icelandic composers Jon Leifs, Páll Isólffson, and Magnús Blöndal Jóhansson, as well as Finnish composer Yrjö Kilpinen. With Icelandic government support Strickland had also arranged to commission Henry Cowell’s Symphony no. 16 (“Icelandic”) for the orchestra, and he requested and received a Specialist grant that brought Cowell to Iceland in conjunction with the performance of the symphony.83 Concert reviews from this season indicate that the orchestra had serious problems with intonation and playing together, which reviewers typically excused by suggesting that early in the season the players might not have had enough rehearsal or that it was hard for the musicians to hear each other onstage.84 It appears that Strickland improved the playing of the orchestra over the course of the year. Strickland noted that after the imposition of discipline, morale rose: “They have learned how to work, and as a result, they ‘play.’ ”85 The music director of Icelandic State Radio, Árni Kristjánsson, wrote to Strickland that “we all found it amazing what you got out of the orchestra.”86 When Strickland traveled briefly for engagements elsewhere, leaving a substitute conductor, Carlson reported that several orchestra members


wanted Strickland to return.87 Ultimately, however, Strickland was unable to remedy the group’s serious administrative problems, calling Iceland “the most difficult assignment I have had among the 27 orchestras with which I have worked.”88 Carlson viewed the situation as “a conflict between Strickland as a professional who knows what is required and an orchestra and management who are amateurs, not particularly interested (except for a few) in becoming a truly professional symphony orchestra.”89 Despite these conflicts, Strickland was offered a continuation of his post as guest conductor for the 1962–63 season, with support from Icelandic State Radio and the State Department. Strickland refused, in part because he believed that under its present conditions the orchestra would never become self-sufficient. The Iceland Symphony Orchestra depended in these years on a steady stream of foreign conductors who came as guests for a few months or a whole season. Strickland believed that the orchestra would perform better if it had a long-term conductor, as well as the development infrastructure that would help the orchestra to hire musicians permanently. He recognized its dependence on visitors and foreign aid but noted in frustration that “eventually the Icelanders have to pay for it!”90 Yet the Icelanders did not have to pay. Their strategic geographical position and contested loyalty in the struggle between the United States and the USSR made it possible for them to request and receive continuing help in this regard. As Glenn Wolfe, director of Cultural Presentations, reported, “When western conductors are not available, Scandinavian orchestras turn to the Communist Bloc countries to find suitable conductors. Recently the Icelandic Symphony Orchestra requested the services of the American conductor Igor Buketoff. Our Embassy in Reykjavik has strongly supported this request and pointed out that unless the American conductor will be made available, the Icelandic Symphony Orchestra plans to engage a conductor from a Communist Bloc country.”91 As long as Iceland was able to operate its orchestra under subsidies from foreign countries, there was no incentive to do otherwise. The program book for the 1963–64 season, for example, shows that the orchestra was led by a variety of conductors, many of them foreign: the Irish conductor Proinnsías Ó Duinn, who served as principal conductor that year; Páll P. Pálsson, the orchestra’s trumpet player; Icelandic music scholar Róbert Abraham Ottósson; American composer and conductor Gunther Schuller; Norwegian conductor Olav Kielland; and American conductor Igor Buketoff.92 Buketoff would assume the full-time directorship of the orchestra from 1964 to 1966, paid by the U.S. government. The orchestras in Manila and Saigon were more dependent than Iceland on foreign aid for the establishment of their


programs, yet they were far less likely to receive aid on an ongoing basis. They were strategically important but not as critical as Iceland, which hosted a U.S. military base. In this case the U.S. government’s political mission overrode Strickland’s musical mission. This example reminds us that European classical music was not cultivated evenly throughout Europe. The art of orchestral playing was strongest in urban centers and areas with a long history of moneyed or noble patronage. European towns lacking those resources typically began their participation in classical music later and in more limited ways; for some people on Europe’s periphery, classical music remained inaccessible. Strickland envisioned a model of development that strengthened participation in the tradition of classical music, encouraging feelings of pride through achievement and independence. At the same time, however, the Cold War pressures under which Iceland labored meant that this vision was not in the Icelanders’ interests. Therefore, neither was it in the State Department’s. For the department’s purposes, having Strickland and Buketoff lead the orchestra kept it out of Eastern European hands, which itself was considered an accomplishment.93 Strickland’s vision of independence for the Iceland Symphony Orchestra would go unfulfilled.

SCANDINAVIA After Strickland’s long stay in Iceland he maintained cordial relations there and returned briefly as guest conductor. He also arranged further American Specialist grants for projects in Sweden, Norway, Denmark, and Finland. Strickland found that from Scandinavia he could easily travel for paid performances as a guest conductor in central European capitals such as Vienna, and he built an impressive network of connections within Scandinavia that kept him shuttling among these countries. From autumn 1963 on, funded by Specialist grants, he was based in Finland, the Scandinavian country where his connections ran deepest. Strickland’s Scandinavian work resembled to a great extent the pattern he had established in Japan. In the urban centers, primarily Helsinki, Oslo, and Göteborg, he focused on his guest-conducting and recording projects, with particular emphasis on the music of American composer Charles Ives. Everywhere Strickland went, he brought works of Ives to share, perform, and record. Ives met a conceptual, as well as musical, need: his music was different enough from European traditions of composition to be unmistakably American, yet it participated in the high-prestige category of “new” (avant-garde) music by virtue of its novel sounds.94 It is noteworthy that


Strickland’s advocacy of Ives was successful even in provincial cities. After Strickland worked closely with Urpo Pesonen, the director of the orchestra in Lahti, Finland, a conservative local paper reported that Ives’s “Fourth of July,” directed by Pesonen, was “like a bomb: here was a work which had both bite and bark to it.”95 This provincial performance resulted in two large newspaper articles in Helsinki praising the music of Ives. “There is no doubt about it,” Strickland wrote. “Ives ‘works’ overseas.”96 Strickland also performed and recorded contemporary music by Scandinavian composers. He successfully requested that CRI alter its former policy of only recording U.S. composers to accommodate this beneficial form of two-way cultural exchange.97 The composers running CRI had recognized what Strickland had known for some time: international projects sometimes allowed effective cost-sharing if the State Department or the government of another nation was willing to subsidize a project. Thus, Strickland cultivated officials of foreign governments and the ambassadors of various nations to the United States, seeking grants of a few thousand dollars at a time, to produce records containing American music and the music of that nation.98 Strickland was forthright about the financial reasons for recording outside the United States: he told a Norwegian interviewer that musicians’ wages were higher in America than in Europe. Still, he also wanted his choice to record in Norway to seem like a compliment: he noted that the musicians of the Norwegian Philharmonic had the “rare ability to adapt themselves and to grasp unfamiliar music” and that he was “extremely satisfied” with the quality of their music-making.99 Strickland also commissioned an organ work from Erkki Salmenhaara for publication in the series he edited for the H. W. Gray music publishing company, thereby deepening their acquaintance, demonstrating his respect for Finnish music, and offering Salmenhaara access to the American sheet-music market. Strickland had noted that it was difficult to get anything done in Iceland. He found Finland more difficult still. In trying to organize an Ives performance with the chorus and orchestra of the Sibelius Academy, fund-raising was a smaller problem than the inferiority Finns felt with respect to central Europe. Strickland found the musicians “terribly insecure,” citing their “fear of the foreigner, fear of standards, fear that they might be shown up—and in this case, I think, fear that they wouldn’t be ‘good enough’ to make good recordings, that the recording equipment and engineering would not be adequate, etc.”100 Projects were frequently postponed or cancelled; Strickland worked patiently to reinstate them. Finland’s provincial ensembles presented even more acute needs. Strickland believed that his work with orchestras outside the capital had “special value.”


In Oulu, for example, he made many new contacts and lent “a shower of scores, recordings and lists of American pieces” from the USIS library to the conductor and the first cellist.101 Strickland also noticed a strategic concern: “In many cases the [provincial] conductors had been to Russia and/or Czechoslovakia, Hungary, Yugoslavia to conduct by what would seem to be governmental invitation. While this may be a natural link from former Russian rule, the fact remains that musicians in Finland are generously cultivated by Moscow.”102 In response Strickland suggested ways for Paavo Rautio, conductor of the orchestra in Oulu, to fund an educational exchange visit to the United States. This plan would at once offer Rautio professional development and combat possible Soviet influence on him. Rautio praised Strickland’s efforts in a letter: “Your spurring words have given us new belief in our work.”103 The reviews of Strickland’s performances in Oulu were warm and appreciative. Even the Communist paper acknowledged Strickland as “an old friend of our country and our music” and suggested that the orchestra had a new maturity after his visit.104 Another Oulu newspaper noted with pride that Strickland took “obvious pleasure at the musical feeling in Oulu.”105 It appears that in the Scandinavian provincial cities, as in Manila and Saigon, Strickland was attempting to introduce new ideas of discipline to previously amateur orchestras in an effort to raise their quality. A Helsinki paper wrote of Strickland’s time in Pori that “if those days were hard on the conductor, they were even more so on the orchestra whose members, mostly, had a normal workday behind them when the rehearsals started.”106 The Communist paper in Pori reported that “only after hard rehearsing and exacting requirements did the performances of our orchestra rise to a feat of artistic skill like a high level symphony orchestra.”107 In Pori, violist Matti Korhonen expressed the great appreciation of the members of the orchestra for Strickland as an excellent teacher who brought good music. “The work at the rehearsals has been hard,” he said, “but much has been learned.”108 As in Manila, these musicians appear to have been grateful: they had never been on Europe’s musical map before, and now they were performing music in a manner that was gaining recognition from afar. The Pori and Oulu ensembles were not recorded, for their quality would likely have been insufficient by CRI’s standards. Nonetheless, the care the American conductor took in improving their work bolstered their self-esteem.

POLAND Strickland made his first visit to Poland in April 1964, while he was still based in Helsinki. He called Poland “a tremendous experience,” and it


proved to be a place where he could realize many of his ambitions.109 As in Japan, the established Polish orchestras needed little help in learning to perform European orchestral music and offered great possibilities for recording. Strickland continued his practice of “ ‘getting out’ into the country,” which he believed was “as vital an activity as being in the capital.” After his first brief exploratory trip, he immediately began to plan an extended visit with State Department support. He made an eighteen-city tour of Poland from February to June 1965, and for the rest of the 1960s he made one or two return trips almost every year. Since the late 1940s, Polish access to information about Western European and American music had been curtailed. The Iron Curtain was not utterly impenetrable—Polish composers and performers were aware of the names of American composers—but it was difficult for them to obtain printed or recorded music. In 1962 the American composer Elliott Carter had visited Warsaw and distributed some scores.110 Strickland continued that work: he had funding from the State Department for educational materials, and he gave out scores and books about music. For instance, he gave copies of Henry and Sidney Cowell’s book about Ives to the composer Witold Lutosławski; to Jan Weber, the music secretary of Polish radio; and to music critics Jerzy Waldorff and Józef Kan´ski.111 The political import of performing American music in Poland was significant, and many musicians felt some trepidation about cooperating with Strickland. In Cze¸stochowa, a city of about 176,000 people, orchestra conductor Czesław Orsztynowicz was a Communist Party member. Orsztynowicz told Strickland that he “could not play American music without permission,” but at the end of Strickland’s visit he still asked for scores.112 Strickland met a musician in Wrocław who shied away at the mention of American music: “he told of being summoned to the police a year or so before when he had ‘helped’ an American string quartet appear in Wrocław and that the same happened upon his receiving a copy of Life magazine through the mails. He said he was interested in Barber, Sessions, Ives, and others, but would I ‘be careful.’ ”113 Although the grant from Columbia University’s Ditson Fund that paid for some of the recordings specified that the American works must be broadcast in Poland, Strickland had great difficulty negotiating for them to be played over the radio. Furthermore, in Poznan´ Strickland was told that he was to receive an award from the local Wienia Society, with a newspaper review, to be presented at a private apartment. When he arrived to receive the award, it had been cancelled—Strickland heard that the Wienia Society had been told to drop the idea.114 Strickland found these problems vexing,


yet he appreciated being able to stay in the country long enough to resolve the most significant of them favorably. During his six-year association with Polish musicians, Strickland was involved in the production of some thirty-one recordings of American music, all or most of them for CRI.115 Polish musical organizations were eager partners in this venture. Strickland recalled a conversation with Teodor Brachman´ski, who worked in the music section of the state agency in charge of music imports and exports, Ars Polona: “I mentioned the magic word ‘recordings’ and Brachmanski jumped. I met him at his office the next a.m. and we ‘made a deal’ for recordings of American music. A few days later Brachmanski was transferred to other duties but our deal remained intact.”116 Ars Polona avidly cultivated the relationship with Strickland: it appears to have been a high-priority business arrangement for the agency, probably because it brought hard currency, amounting to about US$7,000 for the first series of recordings. In 1967 an Ars Polona official wrote to Strickland asking whether he might help find other American organizations that might pay to record in Poland.117 As elsewhere, the prestige factor played a significant role as well. Stanisław Lutkiewicz, the director of the Music Department of Ars Polona, wrote to the U.S. embassy: “The fact that the recordings gained favorable opinions in the interested music circles of the USA gave us great satisfaction.”118 When in late 1969 Ars Polona raised the price of recording by 10 percent, Strickland threatened to turn elsewhere, but he knew that, considering the low price and high quality of Polish recordings, Poland remained a profitable connection. Strickland’s work with conductors in Poland, as well as his strategic commissioning of recordings of American music, did much to strengthen the presence of American music in Poland—especially that of Ives. The business transaction of hiring Polish conductors to lead recorded performances of American music meant that these works would be known by Polish performers and possibly enter the repertory. Although the adventurous conductor Andrzej Markowski had already performed two movements of Ives’s Tone Roads before Strickland’s arrival, most Polish conductors had never had the opportunity to study Ives’s scores. In 1962 Elliott Carter observed that Ives was hardly-known in Poland. As of 1965, though, Strickland reported that the Kraków Trio, a chamber ensemble, was performing Ives.119 Witold Rowicki, the music director of the Warsaw Philharmonic, had promised to play “as much Ives as I can,” and the pianist Andrzej Stefan´ski was planning public performances of Roger Sessions’s Second Sonata and the Ives First and Second Sonatas. Using recordings furnished and selected at


the embassy, Adolph Malinowski gave lectures on American music in seven Polish cities, and Antoni Karuzas gave a list of Ives’s works to students at the conservatory. It certainly appears that Strickland motivated Poland’s musicians to know and embrace Ives’s music. Witold Krzemien´ski, the conductor of the Poznan´ Philharmonic, initially rejected Ives’s “Fourth of July” as “too difficult”—but Strickland reported in mid-1965 that “once certain peculiarly Ivesian problems were explained to him, his interest seemed to revive.”120 Krzemien´ski conducted that work at the Warsaw Autumn International Festival of Contemporary Music in September of that year. Jan Krenz, who worked closely with Strickland and recorded many American works at his direction, conducted Ives’s Robert Browning Overture—one of Strickland’s favorite works—at the festival in 1966. Ives continued to be featured at the festival with intense interest in the early 1970s.121 He later became a model for the “Young Musicians for a Young City” movement (Młodzi Muzycy Młodemu Miastu, or MMMM), a composers’ group and music festival that met in the southern Polish town of Stalowa Wola from 1975 to 1980.122 The organizer of the festival, Krzysztof Droba, obtained a broad array of scores and parts for Ives’s songs and chamber works from the American consulate in Kraków, and these works became a central presence at the Stalowa Wola festival.123 It seems likely that U.S. government support for Ives’s music helped to facilitate an enduring passion for Ives in Poland, even after Strickland could no longer visit regularly. After his four-month stay in 1965, Strickland returned to Poland many times for guest-conducting work, as well as recordings and broadcasts. In September and November 1965 he led concerts before packed houses in Katowice and Kraków; the first was not funded by the State Department, but the embassy provided the parts for the Ives and Copland works performed that night. Strickland considered these visits proof that he had built long-lasting and valuable connections.124 He also continued to send the State Department lists of teachers and performers he considered excellent candidates for grants to come to the United States. Yet the political climate appears to have gotten the better of Strickland. At the end of 1970 Ars Polona stopped answering his letters, for the agency was undergoing reorganization. Early in 1971 Strickland received word that further recording engagements were impossible in Poland: his work there was over.125 Still, the time he spent recording with Polish musicians and his advocacy for Ives brought perhaps the most tangible results of his travels for the State Department.


CLASSICAL MUSIC AS DEVELOPMENT AID Critics of Cold War development aid have noted that despite the best intentions of the programs’ planners, in many cases the effects of assistance were short-lived or nonexistent.126 Most development aid aimed to transform industrial or agricultural practices on a large scale, even across a whole country. By contrast, sending conductors as specialists satisfied the aspirations of elite citizens in the host countries, but these visits were not expected to produce comprehensive social change. The benefits to performing ensembles were tangible, but these benefits would be felt immediately only by musicians, concertgoers, and readers of press reports who might feel some national pride. We have seen in the case of Rosalinda Orosa’s writings for the Philippine press that musical development work of this kind had an effect on opinion leaders such as journalists. Again, the extent to which this change in attitude was absorbed by the populace remains difficult to discern. Of all Strickland’s projects, the aim of developing orchestras parallels most closely other forms of technological assistance, with similar pitfalls. The provision of technical aid has often proven unsustainable, sometimes encouraging dependence on help from abroad.127 In the long term most of the orchestras Strickland worked with needed continuing support from abroad to thrive. They valued the expertise he provided, and he did his best to set them on a firm footing in fund-raising, but orchestral music is expensive and difficult to sustain without a large listener base and government support. Even though the continued dependence of many orchestras on foreign aid undermined to an extent the sense of achievement that Strickland desired to cultivate, the promotion of European classical music as an aspirational universal accomplished real cultural work. If the classical music used in the State Department’s cultural presentations generally offered audiences a sense of inclusion in an esteemed tradition, Strickland’s support secured for this project the participation of fledgling orchestras, bringing them into a prestigious musical enterprise with internationally recognized value. Classical music in this case served not only as a rewarding musical experience but also as a visible sign that the United States took seriously the aspirations of people all over the world. Strickland’s work was personal. His first impressions were made in live performances, by making contact with individual musicians and working with the dozens of musicians who made up an orchestra or a choir. The opportunities for musical growth he offered orchestral musicians and conducting students were a rare opportunity, the sort that musicians tend to recall fondly throughout their careers. The care Strickland took to recommend musicians for leader grants and other opportunities surely


increased interest in travel to the United States. If Strickland’s knowledge was passed on through these musicians to subsequent generations of their students, or if he shaped the practices of conductors in the countries where he worked, the effects of his work on musical practice and musical pride could be substantial indeed. Strickland also made contacts among the broader communities of supporters and audience members associated with each ensemble. The making of recordings strengthened local relationships in the place where the recording was made but also allowed further geographical reach when the recordings were distributed through USIS libraries. Each of these widening circles of engagement touched many people. Strickland’s efforts to make musicians in different countries aware of each other contributed to a sparse but real global network of composers and musicians. It is especially noteworthy that although Strickland recorded mostly American music, his work with capable musicians in Japan, Scandinavia, and Poland brought acclaim to these musicians outside their home countries as well. Given the European associations of the classical music tradition, and the mixed programs Strickland conducted in his concerts, it is clear that American music was not always at the center of the network Strickland was building—which may have helped his activities seem more altruistic, less imperial. At the same time, Strickland served American music by championing it in the world’s concert halls, and his recorded output preserves a fascinating historical record of midcentury American art music, much of which is now forgotten. It seems that the State Department considered these to be substantial achievements, for it continued to send conductors abroad.128 If Strickland did not succeed in setting many orchestras on the road to fiscal and musical independence in the manner of development aid, he did win respect for the United States through personal relationships, and he cultivated a sense of shared musical enterprise that fostered collegiality across borders. This sense of participation was not a mere adjunct to “real” politics. Rather, it made relationships palatable that might otherwise have been unappealing. In a 1961 speech Undersecretary of State Chester Bowles acknowledged that hard power alone could not support America’s diplomatic efforts: “Military power, diplomatic power, and economic growth are all absolutely, totally vital to what we are talking about doing, but unless something happens to people in the process that is constructive and creative and affirmative, you are not going to have a world in which we will want to live or perhaps even can live on any long-term basis.”129 Efforts such as Strickland’s made visible the sense of relationship, of mutual participation in a common end, that Bowles sought. As Karen


Johnson-Cartee and Gary Copeland explain it, “Propaganda is a resonance strategy, the discovery of culturally shared beliefs and the deliberate reinforcement and ultimately aggrandizement of those beliefs.”130 On the surface, as Strickland went about his business, leading concerts, teaching conductors, making recordings, his work hardly looked like diplomacy at all. Yet if this work successfully conveyed the idea that cooperation with the United States could enhance the national pride and accomplishments of other nations, if it helped people believe that the United States wanted for them just what they wanted for themselves, it was a significant tool for enhancing America’s image abroad.


Jazz in the Cultural Presentations Program

When people today think about American musical diplomacy, Louis Armstrong, Dizzy Gillespie, Benny Goodman, and Dave Brubeck are the musicians who come to mind. The metaphorical associations between jazz and freedom, or even between jazz and democracy, have become the stuff of legend. The very strength of these associations can make them seem a permanent feature of the music, obscuring the conflict and care that went into forming the iconic status of jazz. Nevertheless, State Department officials’ decisions about how to use jazz abroad helped shape that status. Jazz was not used in diplomacy because it was already meaningful for foreign publics. Rather, the state’s mobilization of jazz changed what the music meant to foreign and American publics in the postwar period. When the State Department began regularly using music as a tool for cultural diplomacy in 1954, race relations were a paramount international issue for the United States. Coinciding with anticolonial movements in Africa and Asia, the struggles of African Americans to end segregation, establish the freedom to vote, and ensure educational opportunity drew the world’s attention. Soviet print and radio propaganda carried news of every American abuse all over the globe. In return American propagandists used every means at their disposal to rescue America’s prestige by circulating more positive visions of what it meant to be black in America.1 In the early years of cultural presentations State Department staff sought to change perceptions by sending African American performers of classical music abroad. Demonstrating that African Americans could play refined European music was meant to combat the impression that African Americans had no access to education—a key concern as the world watched America’s violent school desegregation. Many diplomatic posts demanded African American performers, and this wish was fulfilled whenever 77

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possible. A State Department official noted that Africa was practically “saturated” with performances by the operatic bass-baritone William Warfield and the classical pianist Philippa Schuyler.2 By contrast, jazz—music that today is widely accepted as a major African American contribution to American culture—entered the program slowly. Criticisms from abroad that American music was simply derivative of Europe’s suggested that art music alone would not reform America’s image. The widespread foreign success of Gershwin’s Porgy and Bess, an operatic mixture of popular and art-music styles, called attention to the possibility that America could best be represented through musical forms that developed within its borders.3 The Music Advisory Panel that recommended musicians for tours consisted overwhelmingly of experts in classical music who were not necessarily qualified to judge the suitability of jazz musicians. (A separate panel for judging jazz and folk music began meeting in 1964.) Furthermore, the program-wide decision to feature only the “highest” arts meant that officials remained uncertain about how and whether to include jazz. The guide to Cultural Presentations that was delivered to diplomatic posts in 1959 explained that “entertaining or pleasing mass audiences” might be a “desirable by-product” of cultural diplomacy, but it was not a main purpose of the program. The guide specified that jazz performances “are legitimate cultural manifestations” but insisted that “a distinction must be made between jazz as an art form and popular dance bands, which are not used by the Program.”4 In practice, that distinction was sometimes difficult for the music panelists and other officials to draw, but it marked official recognition that jazz could be understood in multiple ways. Jazz had roots in popular dance music, yet it also encouraged a form of specialized connoisseurship among its listeners.5 These various modes of listening would be important in the State Department’s strategy for jazz. The first jazz presentation to be sent abroad through the Cultural Presentations program was Dizzy Gillespie’s band in 1956. After collecting intelligence data on his reception, President Eisenhower’s Operations Coordinating Board, an interagency planning committee, reported, “This type of presentation is one of the best possible for the effect desired; not only is this type of music popular throughout the world, but it also attracts the attention of serious music students and lovers of fine music who appreciate the fact that this is a distinctly American form of expression which has influenced profoundly the entire art of music.”6 This recognition opened the door to the further use of jazz in musical diplomacy.

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LEGITIMIZING JAZZ Jazz had many obstacles to overcome before it could succeed abroad. It had become known in Europe early in its history, and it had long circulated on 78 rpm records, but the world’s opinion of jazz was not uniformly positive. Edmund Kellogg, the chargé d’affaires in the U.S. embassy in Phnom Penh, noted that while jazz might be “a universal language of goodwill” where Western music was familiar, in Cambodia it was “indistinguishable . . . from itinerant night-club dance combos.”7 A staff member at the U.S. embassy in Athens explained that it would not be worthwhile to “demonstrate our supremacy in jazz,” since Greeks tended to disparage it on racist grounds and by comparison to European art music.8 The American embassy in Tokyo explained that the “Japanese do not consider jazz a major art form.” It lacked the prestige of the European classics.9 Moreover, the first State Department–sponsored tours of jazz musicians in the 1950s produced an angry response at home. Citizens sent objections to the State Department and to their representatives in Congress, both because of the cost and because they believed that jazz was not worthwhile music. Widespread news coverage of the Gillespie tour focused on his high salary (quoted in U.S. News and World Report as $2,100 per week), inflaming debate about whether sending jazz abroad could possibly be worth the expense.10 The State Department received numerous communications from Congress questioning the program’s validity. Officials had never intended to explain musical diplomacy to the American public, but if jazz was going to be a component of the program, the music would have to be justified at home, as well as abroad. The State Department’s strategy for presenting jazz abroad was conceived by Marshall Stearns, an advocate of jazz and founder of the Institute of Jazz Studies, and shaped by John S. Wilson, a well-known jazz critic for the New York Times. Both Stearns and Wilson had worked to make jazz more widely known within the United States through public lectures, and both served on the department’s Music Advisory Panels. Together with department officials, Stearns and Wilson developed a strategy that framed jazz as a form of art music, legitimizing it as a distinctively American music with a distinguished history. Stearns, a professor of English at Hunter College, taught courses on jazz at several institutions and wrote widely on the history of jazz.11 From 1954 to 1970 Wilson presented a series of radio programs in New York that crafted historical narratives about jazz, offering a sense of pedigree for modern jazz as well as conveying appreciation for historical styles.12 He offered some of the same material to audiences

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abroad on Voice of America radio in the 1970s. Emphasizing that jazz had distinct phases of development and its own canon of great composers differentiated it from ephemeral, popular music, framing it as classical music’s equal.13 Wilson had relatively conservative tastes, judging the modern jazz of the mid-1960s “routine” and “tiresome.” His predilections may have encouraged State Department officials to choose the tried-and-true over the novel or experimental.14 When ANTA was planning the Gillespie tour, the first of its kind, Stearns was asked to accompany the tour as lecturer. Robert Schnitzer, the general manager of ANTA, cautioned Stearns that “every precaution must be taken to assure that America’s popular music is presented in such a way as to achieve the best results for our national prestige.” Stearns was asked not only to lecture but also “to keep an eye on Dizzy’s programs in order to see that he maintains the standards that have been set for them.”15 Evidently Schnitzer harbored some concern that the band would alter its programs while traveling. Given that jazz programs were typically subject to change, this was a likely scenario. At Stearns’s suggestion the band put together a “history of jazz” set lasting about half of the program, which they played throughout their tour. The historical program included “African rhythms,” as well as spirituals, blues, New Orleans–style jazz (“When the Saints Go Marchin’ In”), and a selection of classic numbers by Louis Armstrong, Jimmie Lunceford, Benny Goodman, Roy Eldridge, Count Basie, and Duke Ellington.16 Down Beat magazine characterized the program as “unusual” for jazz musicians, who tended to be identified with a characteristic style rather than dabbling in all of them.17 Yet presentations of jazz in historical styles persisted in State Department–sponsored performances throughout the 1960s, as well as in materials given to U.S. Information Centers abroad. When Earl “Fatha” Hines toured the Soviet Union in 1966, he brought a program that was “designed to reflect the variety of American jazz forms in the past thirty years.”18 More surprising, Randy Weston, who was known for playing a contemporary style of jazz, consented to adopt a history of jazz format for one of two programs he offered in alternation on his tour. Weston’s history began “with early native rhythms and calypso, continuing through blues, ragtime, and swing, and leading up to jazz of the sixties and Weston’s own works.”19 When Dave Brubeck gave a jazz seminar in Bombay (now Mumbai), the program resembled the interactive classical performances of the Dorian Quintet. Brubeck “explained the evolution of progressive jazz from the original Dixieland music,” and each musician demonstrated the qualities of his instrument. The group then took requests and discussed their technique of improvising on standard tunes. They also

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answered questions from the audience.20 This emphasis on history and technique underscored the seriousness of jazz as an art form. Apart from Weston, whose more novel repertoire was carefully managed, the choice of musicians to send likewise highlighted the historical lineage of jazz. Hines, Ellington, Jack Teagarden, Cozy Cole, and Red Nichols were elder statesmen in the jazz world, still capable of excellent work, but predominantly associated with older rather than current styles. Cole noted in 1962 that he was still playing much as he had in 1935.21 These historical programs addressed the problem of legitimacy, but they presented a new problem: many jazz musicians and devoted fans despised older styles. The performers who were most respected by the jazz cognoscenti in the 1950s and 1960s were modernist innovators, seeking new sounds and disparaging earlier ways. Dixieland, a core element of the historical programs, was considered trivial, formulaic, and commercial— exactly what “real” artists eschewed. Swing, too, seemed commercial, although the famously skillful arrangements of Lunceford and Ellington mitigated this concern to an extent.22 A musician such as Weston would not likely have chosen to perform in older styles of his own accord. But, as Stearns told the State Department in 1963, “although under the pressure of competition in the United States they play their most advanced style, [most musicians] can also play earlier styles—if it is insisted that they do so.” Stearns believed that the historical justification was so important to the music’s success abroad that it should be required.23 The extent to which professional musicians objected to the State Department’s request that they play in older styles is difficult to assess. Hines had been making a living playing Dixieland before his tour. Although a critic speculated that such a fate would have “embittered a lesser artist,” we have no evidence that Hines thought this music was beneath him.24 Weston demonstrated a more ambivalent response. Georgia Griggs, who accompanied Weston’s 1966 tour as manager, reported in Down Beat that the State Department took a “patronizing” and “colonialist” attitude toward the band: having hired a band that played contemporary jazz, the department then ordered them to play Dixieland. It is not clear, however, whether Weston agreed with Griggs. He had been working in schools with Stearns since the 1950s, developing and performing historical jazz programs, and Stearns had been instrumental in arranging for Weston to tour. Weston explained proudly in a 1973 interview that the historical programs “showed the whole heritage of this music, which is really what Africa contributed to the Americas.”25 In Weston’s autobiography he makes no mention of conflicts over repertoire, complaining only about the State Department’s

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requirement that the band wear suits and ties.26 After the tour the Music Advisory Panel’s jazz subcommittee discussed reports of problems with the Weston tour. They felt that Weston had succeeded with audiences but that he might have won more friends had he been willing to adopt familiar repertory rather than highlighting his own compositions.27 U.S. officials noticed similar musical preferences among the college jazz bands who toured: the young musicians were devoted to recent styles, and some chafed at the idea of playing Dixieland.28 Even in Jack Teagarden’s band, which toured with a program of Dixieland in 1958, one band member reportedly had begun to prefer modern jazz, and his tendency to regard his bandmates as “dinosaurs” caused some dissension.29 Stearns believed that the historical programs helped people who did not care for jazz to understand it as a legitimate art form. After his tour with Gillespie he wrote of his experiences in Ankara and Athens: “The leaders of opinion in these countries, having heard the cheaper and more commercial kinds of jazz, felt that the music was shallow and ephemeral. A brief lecturerecital, stressing the vital folk roots of jazz, changed their minds effectively.”30 Indeed, the CAO in Ankara had tried to arrange a lecture at the State Conservatory, but it was not permitted because “the students of music were already too much interested in jazz.” Only after Gillespie’s first concert did the director of the conservatory change his mind and allow the lecture to proceed. The students reportedly gave a five-minute ovation at the close of the talk.31 Subsequent concerts and exhibits of jazz drew significant crowds (figure 6). Yet for initiated fans who wanted to hear Gillespie’s band perform as it would in the United States, the historical program was a disappointment. The consul general in Bangladesh reported to the State Department that even among uninitiated audiences who might need the background, the history program was not as well liked as the part of the program that featured Gillespie’s own music.32 By the late 1960s the historical programs were no longer an asset. A Finnish reviewer wrote of the University of Illinois Jazz Band that “when they here first blew avant-gardism [sic] and put on funny hats and played Dixieland, aired rock ’n’ roll rhythms for a change, made a little fun at the expense of the old Ellington sound, and then again came back to straight Basie or a more decorative Lunceford beat, the whole made a very motley impression and the band did not seem to have any profile of its own.”33 Some European critics found that the ability to play in many styles indicated technical achievement without spiritual depth—the same charge that was leveled at some American classical musicians.34 With this mixed feedback it is curious that the State Department continued to use the historical programs throughout the 1960s.

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Figure 6. Visitors at the Bergama Kermes art festival wait to enter the “Jazz

U.S.A.” exhibit, created by U.S. embassy staff in Ankara, Turkey, 1964. The exhibit drew twenty-five thousand visitors. USIS Ankara FM-114 to DOS, 22 June 1964, folder Turkey 1/3, Entry A1–1039, RG 306, National Archives.

Still, the revival of historical styles was a real success in some places. When Jack Teagarden played in Japan, a wave of favorable press coverage in newspapers and music magazines continued for months after he left. The embassy reported that Teagarden’s performances in Tokyo, Osaka, Nagoya, and Hiroshima “stimulated a Dixieland revival which spread throughout the night clubs and coffee houses of Japan.” Toshiba rushed a new recording into production to capitalize on Teagarden’s new popularity.35 Teagarden’s Dixieland jazz flopped in the Philippines, however: the post reported that “interpreting Philippine enthusiasm in popular music as including interest in Dixieland jazz” had been a mistake. The post suggested that swing or rock ’n’ roll could have worked, although Benny Goodman’s swing band had also lost money on its privately sponsored visit to the Philippines a few years before.36 The acknowledgment of jazz’s folk roots did appeal to some European sensibilities: one Yugoslav critic located the origins of jazz in the “city folklore of American Negroes,” connecting jazz with long-standing European practices of transforming folk music into art music and at the same time linking it to socialist ideals of “the folk” as the source of valuable culture.37 In

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response to the historical narrative presented by Gillespie, one Turkish newspaper critic explained to his readers that jazz had evolved “from the drum tunes of the African jungles.” To him the narrative implied increasing sophistication, the evolution of black people from rural to urban living and from simple folk music to complex jazz.38 As Scott DeVeaux has pointed out, American critics’ emphasis on the historical evolution of jazz implicitly claimed to track the social progress of African Americans: “the progress of the black man’s music from rural folk music to the international concert hall, a social acceptance far in advance of what could be expected in other spheres, was often taken as an encouraging sign that [full citizenship for African Americans] was possible, perhaps inevitable.”39 This narrative, enacted abroad for both new and experienced listeners, precisely matched the State Department’s typical claim that although racism had been a problem in the past, the nation was working to solve it, and conditions were improving continually.40 Thus, the historical programs did more than explain the genre and conventions of jazz. They told a hopeful story of progress that emphasized African American achievement and supported the idea that the civil rights struggle was nearly complete. This triumphal story persists in today’s writing about jazz. As Laurence Bergreen tells it: “Though still suspect in its homeland, the voice of an oppressed minority, jazz became the Sound of America for the rest of the world, the music of freedom, celebration, and happiness, a symbol for a nation of vastly different ethnic groups, blending into the most wonderful noise ever heard. This was the trajectory of jazz, the music first heard in the brothels, funeral processions, and honkytonks of New Orleans.”41

JAZZ, DEMOCRACY, AND FREEDOM This metaphorical interpretation of the history of jazz as the history of racial progress was accompanied by a reading of jazz as “democratic” art. The understanding of jazz as a process analogous to democracy existed long before the State Department began sponsoring jazz musicians’ tours. As early as 1923, J. A. Rogers had called jazz a social “leveller” that “makes for democracy” by virtue of its disregard for formality.42 Nonetheless, the reading of jazz as embodying democracy first gained prominence in public discourse in the 1950s, when Americans were seeking to differentiate themselves in all possible ways from the undemocratic politics of the Soviet Union, and when African Americans’ exclusion from democratic processes was a pressing concern. At the outset of the Cold War, music was routinely interpreted in overtly political ways within the Soviet Union and the East Bloc. There, govern-

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ments demanded that art portray the worker-led socialist democracy they claimed to be building. Many thinkers in the West therefore wanted nothing to do with the assertion that art might directly depict society. Joe Barry, the New York Times Paris bureau chief, wrote home to Charles Palmer about a jazz feature planned for the Sunday section: “I know you want good quotes from names that jazz is an art form. But you won’t get anything about it being ‘Democratic’ whatever that means in music. I suggest such a demonstration be dropped—otherwise you play into the hands of the Russian critics who think such terms can be applied to literature, art and god knows what else. If by ‘democratic’ you mean ‘popular,’ okay. Otherwise no.”43 Still, the idea of jazz as democratic gained currency in postwar Germany, where jazz had been forbidden under National Socialism.44 Another memo sent to Palmer quoted Olaf Hudtwalcker, the president of the Hot Club of Frankfurt: “a jam session is a miniature democracy. Every instrument is on its own without any prescribed music it has to follow. The only binding element is toleration and consideration for the other players. And every instrument is equal.”45 As a description of what goes on in a jazz performance, Hudtwalcker’s statement is superficial at best. Not every instrument is equal in a typical jazz ensemble: the rhythm section usually remains subordinate to the melodic instruments, and the most renowned soloists are usually featured at greater length than others. The idea of improvisation is also misrepresented, for a jazz performance does not simply emerge unplanned from the minds of the musicians. Usually an arrangement has been worked out in advance, chord changes agreed on, the order of solos predetermined. Often the entire performance, including solos, has been mapped out in detail ahead of time.46 Hudtwalcker’s idealized vision of jazz as the spontaneously lived antidote to totalitarian politics derives from its suppression in the 1930s and 1940s and his desire as an ardent fan to propagate it. This vision also reflected a youthful alternative to the orderly hierarchy of classical orchestral music, and it was likely supported by jazz’s presence on the radio and on records during the U.S. occupation of Germany that followed the war. Expressions such as these certainly resonated with Stearns and others who were seeking to win respect for jazz in the United States. Stearns was happy to explain in a radio lecture that “a jazz band exemplifies an ideal solution of the increasing conflict between the individual and the group in modern society” and that jazz therefore embodied the democratic process in action.47 Because Stearns accompanied Gillespie’s band as a lecturer, he had ample opportunity to propagate these ideas abroad. The ideas then

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came back to America through newspaper accounts of the tours and State Department reports. As early as 1951, Stearns took every opportunity to talk to the press in the United States about the merits of jazz as propaganda: “It’s democratic in its origin. It’s democratic in its performance. No wonder the Russians are nervous about it.”48 Over the course of the 1950s other jazz musicians and critics embraced the idea that jazz represented democracy, echoing Stearns’s words in print and in interviews. Dave and Iola Brubeck published an article stating that jazz embodies “in its very form the democratic idea of unity through diversity” and “free expression of the individual.”49 The African American press used similar language: George E. Pitts cited the “freedom of individual expression” in the Pittsburgh Courier, noting, “Jazz is a product of a free soul, and any freedom as such does not go well in the Soviet Union, with such tight controls on everything.”50 By the late 1960s this explanation had been widely adopted among musicians and critics alike. On a 1969 tour to Africa saxophonist Oliver Nelson responded to baiting questions from a representative of Tass, the Soviet press agency, by asserting that “jazz is a highly creative and individualistic art form, and is therefore most representative of the American democratic system.”51 That black and white musicians often played together in the touring bands allowed this idea of “democratic” jazz to embody a particularly egalitarian form of ethnic inclusiveness. Like the historical narrative, the story of jazz as a representation of democracy was important in shaping the message of jazz abroad—but that story papered over the fact that democracy had not yet been made real for many African Americans in their everyday lives.52 Equating jazz with democracy nonetheless affirmed the centrality of African American contributions to American culture and offered a tangible demonstration of African American progress. These statements harmonized well with U.S. propaganda goals.

JAZZ AS CULTURE, JAZZ AS SUBCULTURE Jazz made for successful diplomacy, but it did not conquer audiences worldwide (as the story is usually told). Musically, jazz abroad is a story of strikingly mixed successes. It is seldom reported but frequently documented in the sources that jazz failed to reach audiences. Even renowned musicians playing well sometimes faced audiences indifferent to the kind of music they were playing. Glenn Wolfe reported after Louis Armstrong’s appearances in Africa that Armstrong was well received because Africans understood Armstrong as distant kin, honoring the relationship between Africans

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and African Americans and between African music and jazz. Despite this connection, however, Wolfe believed the music had failed to truly reach the public: “they came by the thousands to see him, but then they walked away. His music did not mean anything to them.”53 Although Armstrong was carried into Leopoldville on a throne and celebrated with enthusiasm by a crowd of some ten thousand, the response to his playing there was muted.54 The U.S. embassy at Leopoldville cabled back to the State Department in typically telegraphic language: “Louis appearance highly successful from standpoint over-all psychological impact on this troubled city; however reaction Congolese mass both here and Brazzaville indicates they don’t particularly understand or cotton to Armstrong brand music. For this reason plan indoor performance his return November 24, with selected audience of devoted cats.”55 When the Jack Teagarden Sextet performed in Kabul, the trumpeter Max Kaminsky reported a similar problem: “The rapport between the audience and us when they heard us play that afternoon was equally nil. They had no idea at all of what we were playing.”56 As Kaminsky tells it, this incident was a typical experience. Dizzy Gillespie noted that his first program in Dacca (now Dhaka, Bangladesh) was poorly received: “Nobody ever heard of Louis Armstrong—so I knew I was in trouble.” Stearns noted that the few listeners who came to hear Gillespie in Dacca “were entertained and applauded but they didn’t dig it at all.”57 Likewise, in Quito, Ecuador, Gillespie’s performances were poorly attended, resulting in large financial losses for the impresario who cosponsored the concerts. The post reported that Gillespie was unknown and that officials had been unable to find any recordings of his music in Quito.58 Although jazz was rooted in a popular musical practice, and many of its standard works based on popular tunes, it was by no means a popular music on a worldwide scale. The role of musicians—and of State Department planners—was made difficult by the fact that in any single locality there was likely a large population who had never been exposed to jazz alongside a small community of dedicated fans. The existence of these expert fans was likely due to another U.S. propaganda effort: the broadcasting of American music on Voice of America radio, especially Willis Conover’s “Music USA.”59 Even in isolated places, avid collectors also remained in touch with the musical world through the circulation of recordings. When the University of Michigan Jazz Band toured Latin America in 1965, the band members encountered one or two extremely knowledgeable jazz fans at almost every concert who were eager to talk about the details of modern jazz. As Lanny Austin described it:

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You’d think you’re playing to an audience of [musical] dullards, but there’d be one guy who was this monster musician. . . . You’d want to cut the concert short, then later realize someone really astute was in the audience. People would approach the band during and after concerts— there would be Q and A after concerts, questions about instruments, what is that instrument, what is different between that and the others, all the questions you could have, then all of a sudden somebody says, “I notice you played all minor blues—don’t you do any major blues?” A question that shows there is someone out there who knows.60

Thus, the problem of multiple audiences that vexed classical music planning also applied to jazz. Performers attempted at once to introduce jazz to people who were unfamiliar with it and present the best jazz to connoisseurs. The post in Moscow noted that “people who attend jazz concerts in the Soviet Union range from the uninitiated, struggling to understand what is going on, to the very ‘hep,’ who inquire why we don’t send Charlie Mingus or John Coltrane rather than old timers like Earl Hines. To satisfy a wide spectrum of listeners with one jazz attraction every four years is no easy task.”61 Aside from the historical programs, which both legitimized jazz and taught basic concepts to the uninitiated, diplomatic posts strongly preferred mixed programs that included material known to most listeners as well as newer music. Hines was praised by the post in Moscow as “clever enough to sense the preferences and comprehension-level of audiences in each city,” for he “continually altered the pace and content of the show to meet local conditions.”62 Foreign Service officials appreciated this flexibility as long as they perceived that it was working in the posts’ interests. By contrast, they expressed frustration with musicians such as Randy Weston, whose choices appeared to be driven more by personal taste and musical aspirations than by the desire to please a broad audience. Sometimes musicians saw the opportunity to engage the nonspecialist audience on its own terms but rejected it. When the Wilbur De Paris jazz orchestra played in Leopoldville, De Paris refused to “engage in the type of antics that some audiences desired”—nor would he play encores that audiences demanded. When audiences in Sudan requested rock ’n’ roll, De Paris declined to play it, calling it “bobby sox stuff.”63 De Paris drew crowds, and many enjoyed the music (figure 7), but post officials fretted that he could do more by accommodating audiences’ expectations of popular music. Dizzy Gillespie accommodated by including a rock ’n’ roll number, “School Days,” but the band treated it as a joke—a hokey novelty act inserted in response to audience demand, not a serious part of the concert.64 The

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Figure 7. Wilbur De Paris and his New Orleans Jazz Band play at the Lido in Accra, Ghana, 1958. RG 59-G-95–206, National Archives.

Turkish critic Ilhan Mimarog˘lu noticed the performers’ lack of respect for their introductory program: “Dizzy Gillespie and his cohorts had, as it seemed, realized the futility of the idea, and (adroitly should I say), they had turned most of the numbers included in the historical section into a display of comicry.”65 For the specialist this sort of accommodation to listener tastes was insulting: Mimarog˘lu wrote that the attempt to sell jazz in this way weakened the music’s “intrinsic values.” Although some audience members might have enjoyed the music despite the over-the-top showmanship, it was not what Gillespie’s fans wanted. When experts heard programs sprinkled with crowd-pleasers, they were not impressed: a Brazilian critic chastised the Millikin University Jazz Band for its “frustrating attempt to please everybody.”66 Despite their relatively small numbers, the expert fans were a key constituency for jazz performances abroad. These fans preferred to hear the latest music, and the State Department did send modern jazz where it seemed such music could succeed: Herbie Mann, Charles Lloyd, Paul Winter, and Charles Mingus toured on the department’s behalf, and most of the university jazz bands that traveled included contemporary jazz in their concerts. Whenever they could, expert audience members engaged deeply with the American musicians: they asked to hear particular pieces of

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music, stayed after concerts to talk with the players, and invited band members to their homes to discuss recordings.67 The amount of informal contact varied. Audiences were typically granted better access to musicians from college bands than to famous musicians, because the famous players tended to draw enormous crowds that were hard to control. Although many fans could obtain music via radio and long-playing records, they craved live performance and stories about the current jazz scene in the United States. Officials at diplomatic posts recognized the importance of the fans’ intense relationship with the United States and cultivated it not only through performances but also by making jazz films and recordings available in USIS libraries throughout the world. Traveling American musicians were shocked to realize that their colleagues in other countries had poor instruments and little access to necessary supplies. This recognition provided another important avenue of engagement. Jimmy Powell, a clarinetist with the Gillespie band, met a clarinetist in Abadan, Iran, who had used the same frayed reed for a year. “I laid a couple of new reeds on him,” Powell recalled, “and he almost cried.”68 By the late 1960s, State Department officials routinely instructed musicians to prepare for their tours by bringing along not only recordings and memorabilia but also items specific to their trade, as when a collegiate trombonist brought the recipe for his special homemade slide grease and samples to offer fellow trombonists he met in the Middle East.69 The improvisatory, open nature of jazz also allowed opportunities for connection among musicians. When the University of Illinois Jazz Band visited Finland, the post scheduled jam sessions “at a place and time habitually used by students for entertainment. . . . Finnish musicians were recruited to participate in the jam sessions, to the delight of audiences and performers alike.”70 A newspaper in Hyderabad, India, reported that about half of Duke Ellington’s orchestra engaged in an impromptu jam session that was attended by some two hundred university students and local musicians; they played well-known standards such as “Misty” and “The Nearness of You” to allow greater participation.71 Local musicians were even invited onto the stage to play with the band during formal concerts. When Ray Nance could not continue on the tour, Patrick Blake, leader of the band at New Delhi’s Ambassador Hotel, was invited to take his place in Ellington’s orchestra for the remaining Indian engagements. The guitarist Carlton Kitto was invited to sit in for their performances in Madras.72 In the public’s eyes the participation of local musicians was one of the most compelling aspects of these performances. In April 1958 Dave Brubeck’s ensemble visited Bombay. The CAO threw a party at his home to

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which forty-five local musicians were invited. They brought their instruments and, as the party went on, they offered Brubeck and his colleagues a demonstration. Then “both the Brubeck ensemble and the Indian classical performers turned toward improvised playing which soon took on the proportions of a jazz session.”73 Six months later, the Jack Teagarden Sextet played in Bombay. Brubeck had raved to Teagarden about the excellent tabla player, Shashi Bellari, so Teagarden invited Bellari to rehearse and perform with the band. The concert at Brabourne cricket stadium is preserved on a recording made for Voice of America. The Teagarden Sextet began with its standard Dixieland numbers. The audience was appreciative but coolly so. A few voices shouted out from the crowd, apparently making requests that were inaudible to the musicians. But when Bellari joined the group for an extended version of “When the Saints Go Marching In,” the crowd applauded wildly. When Bellari traded solos with drummer Ronnie Greb, it was Bellari’s virtuosity that drew cheers from the crowd. As the performance went on, the interplay among the musicians became more elaborate, the piercing tone of the Indian drums nearly always audible. At the end of the number the crowd gave a long roar of approval. This number was clearly the point at which the audience was won over.74 The act of playing together had obvious symbolic importance: it indicated respect for local musical expertise, offering both performers and audiences a mutual experience of cultural exchange. It also allowed a sense of participation that simply observing a performance might not—and this kind of engagement was tremendously moving for audiences. Occasions for playing together occurred in some form on most of the State Department’s jazz tours. The engagement with audiences was important to musicians’ sense of purpose, as well. When American jazz musicians traveled abroad, especially to Africa, many of them carried vivid ideas about who they should play for. Having been subjected to pervasive racial and class discrimination in the United States, many hoped they would play primarily for ordinary citizens, not intellectuals or elite society parties. Some members of Duke Ellington’s orchestra imagined that they would find a kind of kinship with oppressed people. According to Thomas W. Simons Jr., who accompanied the Ellington tour, the musicians “believed that the lower classes, even if unimportant politically, were more worthy of exposure to good Western music than the prestige audiences for whom they played.”75 The State Department’s policy of subvention rather than outright sponsorship meant that usually some fee was charged for tickets, to cover as much of the cost of the concerts as possible—thus, the abjectly poor in any place would not be able to attend concerts unless the entry fee was waived or free tickets distributed by the

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post. It was customary to invite well-known local political and musical personalities to diplomatic receptions and dinners, but ordinary listeners would typically not be included in these events, and the musicians noticed their exclusion. This custom led to occasional conflict between musicians and diplomatic posts. In one anecdote that exists in several conflicting accounts, Dizzy Gillespie insisted that a group of people (named variously as “urchins” or “shabby laborers”) be admitted to a garden party at the Turkish-American Association. This incident made headlines both abroad and in the United States: it was understood as a demonstration of egalitarian thinking and disregard for class distinctions.76 Max Kaminsky, the trumpet player in the Teagarden Sextet, recalled his disappointment at not reaching mass audiences: Though it was obvious and understandable that the more out of touch with Western culture the people were, the less meaningful our music would be to them—just as theirs often pulled a blank with us—still I was bothered and uneasy whenever I felt we weren’t playing enough for the common people. It was great, of course, when we played in the big, cosmopolitan cities where there were many jazz fans, and it was a tremendous thrill to have them clap the house down and follow us around as if we were celebrities, but it seemed to me that it was just as much our job to play for the common people, too, however little they seemed to get out of it. I couldn’t get it through my thick head that the poor people in the East were not as hep as poor people in the West, and that perhaps in playing for the students and the elite and the culturally sophisticated our “message” was getting through where it would do the most good.77

Yet even at home in the United States, jazz did not reach all mass audiences on a broad scale. Although swing was popular on television and radio, many kinds of jazz remained subcultural music, cultivated by small circles of musicians and fans.78 That the musicians expected a mass audience abroad when they didn’t have one at home testifies to the power of imagined connection. Identifying themselves as cultural outsiders, the musicians imagined that the poorest indigenous people would be most receptive to their music. Even though jazz did not always attract mass audiences, State Department programs did help cultivate new audiences for it, both because they drew attention to it and because they allowed listeners an opportunity to become familiar with it over several successive visits. Posts were always delighted when they could bring in audiences other than the already existing circles of jazz aficionados. The Wilbur De Paris band drew a predominantly non-European crowd in Morocco: the post reported that “as the

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existing and organized community of young people interested in jazz consists almost exclusively of ‘Europeans,’ it is fair to state that several thousand non-initiates were successfully reached and held by the band.”79 That the concert was reviewed by a Moroccan not known to the Casablanca jazz community was also considered a sign of progress: jazz making its way outside the subculture to reach a wider audience. Sometimes a single attraction would build an audience over the course of a week in a particular place. Although Dizzy Gillespie’s first concert in Dacca was not a great success, by the time he left Dacca, “the students here had adopted modern American jazz wholeheartedly. Tremendous applause, whistling, clapping, and all the other earmarks of a dedicated jazz audience were so much in evidence that Gillespie’s final performance ran nearly an hour overtime.”80 Gillespie had failed to draw audiences in Quito, yet when the University of Michigan Jazz Band went to Quito nine years later, it was welcomed by a sophisticated, “hip” audience.81 Brubeck likewise helped prepare an audience for Teagarden’s and Ellington’s Indian performances.82 Interest increased with each tour that passed through, and some cities were visited by a jazz attraction every year or two from the late 1950s through the 1960s. The repeated presentation of jazz appears to have cultivated a broader following for the music over time, though it never became a ubiquitous taste.

JAZZ MUSICIANS AND THE U.S. GOVERNMENT Some scholars have expressed the opinion that sending African American musicians abroad was a naive act on the part of the State Department because the musicians successfully subverted the intended message. Harilaos Stecopoulos writes that “the U.S. inadvertently offered black propagandists extraordinary opportunities to stage their own counterpropaganda activities.”83 Penny Von Eschen also uses the word inadvertent and notes that policy makers “never dreamed that the musicians would bring their own agendas. Nor did they anticipate that artists and audiences would interact.”84 Yet we have seen that the department purposefully set up situations in which musicians would engage with audiences and fellow musicians, and officials were well aware that African Americans would be asked political questions on their tours. By the time jazz musicians began touring, the department had already sent several African American classical musicians on tour. These musicians were asked about race and responded as they saw fit.85 There was no reason to believe that jazz musicians would do otherwise. Did the musicians subvert the State Department’s agenda for the tours? The evidence does not bear out this hypothesis. Jazz musicians certainly

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criticized the United States during their tours, and they were given many opportunities to do so. The foreign press routinely asked African Americans about their treatment at home, and often enough the musicians would speak frankly about America’s problems. Such criticism was possible even onstage. When Charles Mingus traveled to Portugal to represent the United States at a 1975 jazz festival, he “dedicated a song to ‘Rockefeller at Attica,’ lamented the Watergate Affair, and chanted critical, sometimes profane commentary of former President Nixon.” According to an eyewitness account, though, this performance had no derogatory effect: “Those who understood English and heard his words above the sounds of the percussion were stunned by the fact that a U.S. musician whose attendance at the Festival was made possible through U.S. government support would feel free to criticize his country’s political leaders.”86 Mingus’s words were understood by the audience and by the State Department alike as a practical demonstration of free speech. American musicians sometimes enacted democratic ideals in a showy manner that they may have intended as subversive. Gillespie’s insistence on inviting poor people into a reception was one such example. The post in Dacca reported that “Gillespie, himself, was well liked by the local population. He was completely natural and spontaneous and even stunned the citizenry on one occasion by arriving at USIS in a bicycle rickshaw which he was energetically pedaling himself, while the rickshaw wallah reclined in the passenger’s seat.”87 Playful displays that overturned the local social order could easily be understood as an enactment of liberation, presenting a vivid picture of American democratic ideals that reinforced the U.S. government’s emphasis on upward class mobility and egalitarianism.88 Given the rhetoric of freedom that was emphasized in U.S. propaganda and tied closely to the idea of jazz itself, it was very difficult to subvert the State Department’s wishes with defiant words or actions of any kind. Only genuine rudeness or criminal behavior would be truly subversive. Although musicians did occasionally offend their hosts by skipping diplomatic receptions or refusing to give encores, these instances were comparatively few, and they were occasioned less by subversive intent than by exhaustion or frustration with poor performance conditions. In some respects the mere presence of the American jazz musicians was enough to present a strong positive message. When African American classical musicians were offered, critics could and did say they were a rare few. Classical musicians seemed to represent the cream of culture that would be available only to those with access to an elite education—a sticking point for propaganda while activists at home struggled to desegregate schools and universities. By contrast, a jazz band, black or integrated, carried overtones

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of popular music, which was assumed to be more widely available. The musicians were obviously affluent, well-dressed, and well-equipped, and they gave the impression that such prosperity was accessible to a broad spectrum of African Americans.89 When the Wilbur De Paris jazz band visited Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, the post reported that an Ethiopian bodyguard talked with a member of the band and learned that the musician owned his own automobile and had just purchased a house. The officer later told an embassy staff member that “while he had read of American Negroes having such material possessions, he had doubted that this was true. He told the staff member that he had now revised his opinion of the status of Negroes in the United States. He said he would not have believed these facts had not the American Negro told him himself.”90 Whether the music succeeded or failed to reach audiences in any particular place, the appearance of African Americans on behalf of the U.S. government gave the impression that things were improving for black Americans. That the musicians embraced both the historical narrative of stylistic progress in jazz and the idea that jazz represented democracy furthered this impression. Likewise, the existence of racially integrated ensembles meant a great deal as evidence of cooperation between musicians of different races. Gillespie said in interviews that he was looking forward to countering negative stories about race in America through the example of his mixed-race band.91 Touring the USSR, Benny Goodman constantly fielded questions about the African American performers in the band: he claimed he “really didn’t have anything particular to say, other than that we’ve had colored musicians in the band for twenty-five years.”92 Earl Hines’s integrated band followed Goodman’s four years later, and the Soviet public expressed great curiosity about the relationships among performers in the band. The propaganda value of allowing hundreds of thousands of people abroad to witness firsthand the achievements of African Americans and their white colleagues’ respect for their work was worth a great deal. Against this visible presence, any critical comments about race could be seen as adding a touch of realism to an otherwise rosy picture. Contrary to Von Eschen’s and Stecopoulos’s claims, many African American jazz musicians worked hard to show the United States in a positive light. The University of Illinois Jazz Band offers a powerful example. The band included four African Americans, all of whom were interested in African studies. The State Department noted that three wore Afros. The post reported that “these four persons exerted a magnetic attraction upon African students studying in the USSR. Whether they were students from Kali studying at the Agro-chemical Institute at Krasnodar, or Somali and

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Ghanaian students at Leningrad State University, African students were constantly in the company of the black Americans. On numerous occasions they engaged in all-night conversation about the conditions faced by African students studying in the USSR, race relations in the United States and other subjects of mutual interest.”93 The good relations and “natural manner” among the black and white band members appeared to impress the African students. Indeed, the Americans found themselves thrust into an ambassadorial role. At a postconcert dinner in Leningrad’s Hotel Yevropeyskaya, for example, a Somali student, who spoke impeccable British English, walked up to a table where four black and six white bandsmen were eating. He began in a loud voice to berate the blacks for “pretending” that they could sit and eat as equals with white Americans when the whole world knew that this was not so. The student continued berating the bandsmen about white “imperialism” for about five minutes while one of the whites mistakenly tried to reason with him. At this point one of the black Americans got up from the table quietly and, putting his arm around the Somali, invited him to the bar for a drink and a quiet discussion of race problems in the U.S. Several other African students spoke approvingly of the Americans’ conduct on the next and subsequent days.94

The post reported that this and other conversations made a great difference in both Soviet and African opinions about America’s racial conflicts. That African American musicians chose to contribute to the cause of U.S. propaganda does not necessarily mean that their participation weakened the cause of civil rights. On the contrary, the musicians presented a personal perspective on America’s conflict. By presenting themselves as caring and intelligent interlocutors, they countered stereotypes about African Americans and won allies abroad for the civil rights cause. Likewise, as we will see in the next chapter, the State Department’s advocacy helped jazz gain greater prestige at home. The musicians likely understood their support for the department’s agenda as a trade-off: U.S. government support was very good press for jazz.95 Stecopoulos claims that the United States “cleverly hijacked a black cultural expression of struggle for its own cold war ideological purposes without acknowledging the value of that culture at home.”96 Yet the State Department routinely defended jazz at home. Every member of Congress and every citizen who wrote letters vilifying jazz to the State Department received a letter in return that explained the value of jazz for America’s foreign relations. To placate a U.S. congressman who received complaints about jazz from constituents, Robert C. Hill, assistant secretary of state for legislative affairs, wrote

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Figure 8. Dizzy Gillespie poses as a snake charmer, Dacca, Pakistan, 1957.

Gillespie’s wife, Lorraine, holds a snake. Behind them is trombonist/composer Melba Liston. Courtesy of Mrs. Ilse Poindexter and the Institute of Jazz Studies, Rutgers University.

that jazz was important in “exemplifying in a musical form the exuberant, pioneering spirit of this country, which has, in music as in other ways, been an inspiration to many foreign peoples.”97 To Senator John Marshall Butler, Hill wrote that “the particular contribution by jazz, and by the Gillespie group specifically, is that of a musical form uniquely American in origin, evoking a special response from new and otherwise unresponsive groups. To the young people in almost every country jazz represents freedom, vitality and a new kind of expression.”98 Whether or not hostile recipients believed these statements, they represented official government support for the music. In a 1957 poll conducted by Down Beat magazine, Gillespie’s tour was rated as the best thing that had happened to jazz that year.99 Reception of tours in U.S. newspapers was generally far more positive than constituents’ letters to Congress would suggest. The carefully staged photographs that showed jazz musicians in exotic settings—Teagarden with his trombone on an elephant, Gillespie charming a snake with his trumpet (figure 8)—made appealing copy. Furthermore, the story of

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American music doing well abroad was flattering even to Americans who did not especially like jazz. Variety, Esquire, the New York Times, and the major African American newspapers regularly covered the tours, usually presenting them as a great opportunity for the musicians and a diplomatic job well done. The tours of jazz musicians typically received more media coverage than any but the symphony orchestra tours. Jazz became the music Americans knew was being sent abroad on their behalf.100 Jazz musicians acknowledged that the tours were good press for their music. Jazz artists and their allies had been campaigning for an understanding of jazz as a genuine American art form since the Harlem Renaissance. If the American public had failed to appreciate jazz in large numbers, they thought, perhaps the government’s support might help.101 In 1967, noting a declining market for jazz in the United States, Down Beat called for the U.S. government to do something about the situation, perhaps offering more government support for jazz at home as well as abroad.102 Dan Morgenstern noted that there was no danger that “jazz would be clasped in too stifling an embrace by ‘the establishment’ ”—jazz needed more government sponsorship, not less.103 Beginning in 1964, the State Department began sending Music Advisory Panel representatives to collegiate jazz festivals, seeking young jazz bands to send on tour. Some players knew they were being scouted, and they vied for the opportunity to tour. Because jazz was not taken seriously by most university faculties of music, many collegiate bands were still struggling to attain recognition and funding from their home institutions. Often the bands were not even allowed to use their universities’ names or rehearse on campus. The government’s approval of the music meant a great deal to these students.104 Far from oppressive, the government’s support energized musicians as they looked for ways to promote their music. At the time of his tour Gillespie believed that U.S. government support would raise the music’s profile. In an article in Esquire magazine he drew a distinction between jazz’s typically warm reception abroad and public ignorance at home. He explicitly asked that jazz be taught to every American schoolchild: “Let them be told that jazz is, in effect, free speech in music, that it’s America’s music.” Noting the decline of jazz on radio, television, and in jukeboxes, Gillespie welcomed the state’s patronage as a means of ensuring the survival of jazz. Citing Congressman Frank Thompson’s interest in creating a National Jazz Collection, he asked the magazine’s readers to write letters supporting that project. Most important, Gillespie also described how jazz served American interests. Anti-American student demonstrators in Athens had stoned the offices of the United States Information Service just

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before the band’s arrival. By contrast, Gillespie noted with pride, “they loved us so much that when we finished playing they tossed their jackets into the air and carried me on their shoulders through the streets of the city.”105 Far from subversive, Gillespie appears to have been proud that the power of jazz could be turned to the advantage of his country.106 A frequently cited quotation regarding Gillespie’s attitude toward the government implies that he skipped his State Department briefing before the tour. In a 1979 memoir Gillespie explains that he told his wife: “I’ve got three hundred years of briefing. I know what they’ve done to us, and I’m not gonna make any excuses. If they ask me any questions, I’m gonna answer them as honestly as I can.”107 No evidence from the time of the tour has surfaced corroborating his attendance or nonattendance at the briefing. When he retold his story in the 1970s, Gillespie may have felt a need to distance himself from his cooperation with the government. As the historian Ben Keppel has explained, the African American intellectuals who fought for integration in the 1950s were dismissed in the 1970s as people “who served in white society rather than fighting for black needs.”108 From the point of view of the late 1960s and after, cooperation with powerful white people was often regarded as a moral failing, not a success. Even as early as 1961, W. E. B. DuBois had called black Americans’ cooperation with the State Department “selling their souls to the devil.”109 Gillespie’s memoir responds to this kind of critique by emphasizing that his work helped fight prejudice at home: “One of the reasons we’d been sent around the world was to offset reports of racial prejudice in the United States, so I figured now we had a chance to give the doctor some medicine and fight against racial prejudice and end all those reports.”110 In these statements Gillespie aligned himself more closely with later, more confrontational, thinkers. Whereas in the 1950s musicians who were formed by the struggle for integration were happy to assist the State Department, such cooperation was regarded with suspicion by the 1970s, and it has been downplayed in recent histories of jazz tours. Those who would understand Gillespie and other jazz musicians as having opposed the State Department appear to project a later political agenda back onto earlier events. The musicians’ newfound cynicism about the U.S. government’s appropriation of jazz as “America’s Classical Music” grew out of having observed how the higher status conferred by government approbation affected perceptions of jazz. Randy Weston, for example, “worried that the latest tendency to call jazz ‘American music’ played down black contributions and indirectly contributed to the marginalization of black musicians.”111 As Barbara Kirshenblatt-Gimblett has explained, the framing of performance

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as national heritage often disenfranchises creators: the proprietary rights to a style or manner of performance can be appropriated as “national,” downplaying the role of the community or region in which that style originated.112 This is where Stecopoulos’s claim of “hijacking” has some validity. Still, the state’s appropriation of jazz was not a theft without acknowledgment but rather a theft through the act of acknowledgment. Once jazz became entangled with the interests of the state, it was not easily disentangled. Some critics have celebrated the development of an official narrative of jazz in institutions such as Jazz at Lincoln Center, while others have bemoaned the exclusivity of that narrative. Wynton Marsalis, the director of Jazz at Lincoln Center, sees the center’s jazz education programs as the realization of earlier musicians’ dream of full inclusion in the American cultural scene. A recent writer, Kabir Sehgal, praises what he dubs “jazzocracy” as the blending of jazz and democracy, fully embracing the narrative set out by the State Department even as he also acknowledges it as “myth.” By contrast, some critics believe that the embrace of jazz as official music has both restricted the history of jazz to a standard story and set limits on present-day creativity.113 William Maxwell derides “jazzocracy” as the combination of jazz and bureaucracy—an institutionalization of jazz that culminated in the 1987 congressional resolution declaring jazz “a rare and valuable national treasure,” in Jazz at Lincoln Center, and in Ken Burns’s miniseries Jazz (2000).114 Maxwell argues that “jazzocrats” love too well the heroic story of jazz as America’s music and that they suppress the modernist protest embodied in jazz to display a superficially happy ending for all. The State Department’s eagerness to frame jazz for use in its diplomacy program and the willingness of jazz musicians to serve internationally as symbols of African American success facilitated this institutionalization of jazz and even set the terms for its inclusion in the American canon. Whether or not jazz musicians intended to subvert the government they served, their actions very effectively supported the image that the State Department wanted to project. In return, the inclusion of jazz in a government-funded program fulfilled long-held aspirations of African American musicians to be acknowledged as a valued part of American culture.115 That jazz was recognized as a powerful means of reaching audiences abroad both supported U.S. propaganda goals and strengthened the image of jazz at home.


African American Ambassadors Abroad and at Home

As we saw in the case of jazz, African American musicians related to the State Department in complicated ways. They welcomed the chance to appear in the limelight and represent their country. Still, in their role as ambassadors they were also put in the awkward position of answering countless inquiries about American race relations. Louis Armstrong and Marian Anderson, eminent African American artists in the fields of jazz and classical music, respectively, had both toured abroad under private arrangements before the Second World War. In the 1950s both of them became highly conspicuous musical ambassadors for the United States. Their performances and their remarks about political matters, framed by dramatic civil rights controversies, drew enormous attention abroad and significant comment at home. Armstrong’s and Anderson’s international activities were presented to the American public through intensive media coverage. A key figure in this process was Edward R. Murrow, the host of a television news program on CBS entitled See It Now. Before the mid-1950s Murrow had covered overtly controversial topics such as McCarthyism and the relationship between cigarettes and cancer, but by 1955 he was having difficulty convincing sponsors to invest in his show. Increasingly, Murrow and his producer, Fred Friendly, turned instead to human interest stories, what Friendly called “affectionate portraits” of high-profile personalities.1 Both Armstrong (1955) and Anderson (1957) were profiled on See It Now.2 The segment on Armstrong was soon expanded into a feature film entitled Satchmo the Great, which was released in September 1957. Murrow’s attention to these African American artists was unusual. Positive images of African Americans were rare on television at this time, and that African Americans spoke for themselves in these films was rarer still.3 101


Murrow’s programs increased the American public’s awareness that musicians were speaking on their behalf and invited citizens to consider more closely who should represent them and how. These tours and their reflections in the media thus represented communication in many directions at once. The foreign performances themselves—some privately sponsored, some funded by the State Department—involved musicians, audiences, and diplomats, as well as foreign media. The many press conferences and interviews that took place throughout Armstrong’s and Anderson’s tours allowed them to articulate their own perspectives about music and politics before a large public audience. Murrow’s and Friendly’s depiction of the traveling musicians was also carefully staged and edited, adding another layer of messages. (In 1961 Murrow would be appointed director of the USIA, in part on the strength of his skill in addressing the public.) As Americans became aware of these musicians’ activities abroad, they responded to Murrow and to the State Department with flurries of opinionated letter writing. This circulation of ideas not only illuminates the activities of the musicians themselves; it also reveals how the role of “musical ambassador” took shape and how Americans viewed themselves as participants in world politics.

“AMBASSADOR SATCH” Although Armstrong appeared extensively in Europe in the 1930s, these earlier tours were viewed as part of the music business, not as political events. His public persona as an ambassador developed later in his career, in part for marketing purposes. As Penny Von Eschen and Terry Teachout have described it, the catalyst was a provocative article in the New York Times. The article’s author, political reporter Felix Belair, asserted that “America’s secret weapon is a blue note in a minor key. Right now its most effective ambassador is Louis (Satchmo) Armstrong.”4 A month after the article appeared, Armstrong gave an interview to U.S. News and World Report in Paris. The questions laid a heavy emphasis on the political effectiveness of jazz (“Louis, do you think that hot jazz will end the ‘cold war’?”). Armstrong did not disappoint, making enthusiastic comments on how seriously Europeans approached jazz, the pleasure of playing for heads of state, and the large crowds jazz was attracting abroad.5 In the two years preceding these events, the record producer George Avakian, at Columbia Records, had begun to rerelease classic jazz recordings on Columbia’s new Microgroove long-playing records. Avakian, actively cultivating a commercial market for jazz, saw an opportunity in these endorsements of


Armstrong as a diplomat.6 He quickly released a record entitled Ambassador Satch, which purported to be live audio from Armstrong’s 1955 European tour. This recording included some genuine concert audio, but some tracks were studio recordings overdubbed with audience applause to simulate a live performance.7 The enthusiasm of Armstrong’s foreign audiences was now evidence of his diplomatic effectiveness, and this trick of editing guaranteed that listeners would perceive it. Murrow began filming his 1955 profile of Armstrong before Belair’s article appeared. He must have become aware of the article while making the film, for in his Paris interview he introduced Armstrong as an “ambassador,” and in the film’s narration he quoted Belair’s “blue note” phrase. Armstrong was ready with comments on this topic: “That’s one thing about good jazz. . . . When they pick up those instruments, we all speak the same language.” Murrow asked Armstrong, “You going to Russia?”—to which Armstrong replied with characteristic wordplay, “I’m rushin’ there just as fast as they can send me. After all, my public is the same all over the world.” Armstrong related a story about his experience in Berlin in 1953, recalling that many Russians came through the Iron Curtain to hear him play at the Hot Club. With evident delight he explained twice that the Russians called him “our Louie.”8 Murrow’s film promoted Armstrong’s ambassadorship with extensive footage of large European audiences listening closely, smiling, clapping, and cheering wildly. If any of Belair’s readers had doubted his word that Europeans were crazy for Armstrong’s jazz, Murrow’s film offered incontrovertible proof. Subsequent interviews throughout the 1950s echoed the questions about ambassadorship and offered Armstrong opportunities to retell the Berlin story, which would become the stuff of legend in jazz circles.9 The See It Now episode offered a sense of interpersonal immediacy. It featured close-ups of audience members as well as performers, and Murrow allowed a good deal of time for the artists to speak in their own words— strategies he would use again in his coverage of Marian Anderson. The episode about Armstrong included an interview in which Murrow, typecast as the hopelessly square white outsider, earnestly asked, “What’s a cat?” and “What is the meaning of gutbucket?” Calling Murrow “Daddy,” Armstrong answered his questions with singing and laughter, roving from one idea to the next in a way that was likely hard for viewers to understand. (One critic called Armstrong’s presentation “vivid yet almost inarticulate.”)10 Despite Murrow’s wooden questions and the extreme contrast in manner between the two men, their laughing together and their casual proximity within the camera’s frame offered a companionable feeling


Figure 9. Edward R. Murrow and Louis Armstrong in See It Now, “Two

American Originals,” 1955. Courtesy of CBS News Archives.

(figure 9). It seems likely that this feeling extended to the home audience. In a 1956 study, psychologists Donald Horton and Richard Wohl noted that television allowed people to meet in a “seeming face-to-face relationship,” “as if they were in the circle of one’s peers.”11 The virtue of the interview was not its verbal content alone but also its affording the audience the illusion of a personal conversation with Armstrong. It seems likely that Murrow intended this style of presentation to open the eyes of white Americans to Armstrong’s charisma and, more broadly, to allow the home audience to meet African Americans through the medium of television. Murrow had long been committed to the cause of equal opportunity for African Americans. As president of the National Student Federation of America in the early 1930s, Murrow led a successful campaign to desegregate the organization.12 He had produced several episodes of See It Now that focused on civil rights, notably “A Study of Two Cities,” which described the effects of unequal access to schools on African American families in the South.13 In general, Murrow intended See It Now “to provide people with raw material upon which intelligent opinion can be


formed.”14 Yet his approach to controversial subjects was also highly personal, conducted through interviews and featuring close-up shots of individual citizens affected by the controversy over school integration. This strategy not only provoked viewers to consider the evidence; it also stirred their empathy, specifically prompting a compassionate interpretation of that evidence.15 To obtain new footage for the subsequent feature film, Satchmo the Great, Murrow sponsored Armstrong’s 1956 trip to the Gold Coast, then in the process of decolonization. (It would soon become Ghana.) Although Armstrong had traveled widely, he had never been to Africa because he could not turn a profit there. Murrow surely saw the dramatic potential in returning him to “the land of his ancestors” and filming the result.16 Local organizational support for Armstrong’s performances was provided not by the American embassy but by the British colonial Department of Information Services and, to a lesser extent, by the nascent Arts Council of Ghana. The film gives the distinct impression that the excited crowds and musical salutes by highlife bands and tribal musicians were spontaneous manifestations—yet most of them were prearranged by the staff of the Department of Information Services, the Arts Council, and, to a lesser extent, Murrow’s crew.17 Murrow’s narration elides the question of sponsorship, saying only that Armstrong “went back at the invitation of the Prime Minister.” Although the Arts Council of Ghana had worked hard to persuade chiefs and their retinues to travel to meet Armstrong, Murrow says only that “the chiefs came out from their villages to entertain the local boy who made good.”18 This phrasing further reinforced the idea of the tour as an act of ambassadorship—even a “homecoming” to a place where Armstrong had never been—rather than a commercial venture. Robert Raymond, who worked for the Department of Information Services, attested that his office tried to allow the citizens of the Gold Coast opportunity to give a hospitable welcome to Armstrong despite the controlling and intrusive activity of the film crew (figure 10). Information Services staff promised to deliver throngs of cheering fans for the film, and they went to extreme lengths to assemble an audience. One official attempted to have Armstrong’s visit declared a national holiday so that audiences could attend a daytime concert for filming. As a result of these efforts Satchmo the Great includes astonishing and moving footage of a vast crowd of dancing people. Understandably, the director chose not to show that the crowd charged the stage and were beaten back by police with clubs. Nor does the film reveal Armstrong’s shock and disgust.19 Satchmo the Great glossed


Figure 10. The filming of Louis Armstrong’s concert in Accra, Gold Coast

(later Ghana), 1956. Courtesy of the Louis Armstrong House Museum.

over both the violence and the constructed nature of the scene, allowing its viewers to see only the warmly cordial interactions between Armstrong’s band and the people who welcomed them. For the end of the film Murrow also arranged to have Leonard Bernstein conduct a performance of “St. Louis Blues” with the Stadium Symphony Orchestra of New York, featuring Armstrong as soloist. This event was likewise carefully staged. Originally billed as a jazz concert, with the orchestra added as an extra for the film, the combination of classical music and jazz was meant to bring musicians and listeners together, with the charismatic personalities of Bernstein, Armstrong, and Brubeck cementing the performance’s appeal and pedigree. The filming made heavy demands on the audience: the sequence was shot not during the concert but afterward, and the audience was asked to remain late into the night.20 It is evident that the film succeeded with some viewers. A reviewer for the Chicago Defender recalled that the collaborative performance of “St. Louis Blues” with legendary composer W. C. Handy in the audience was “deeply moving.” The film is peculiar in its leaps from one performance scene to another, but it is effective in its portrayal of Armstrong as both a compelling musician and a charming personality. In a conversation about the film Armstrong himself told a radio interviewer, “You gonna enjoy that.”21


LITTLE ROCK AND ARMSTRONG’S AMBASSADORSHIP Murrow’s films went beyond mere news reporting to virtually creating the news. The carefully crafted representations of Armstrong as ambassador were so successful that many commentators came to believe that his international tours were sponsored by the State Department, although most of them were not.22 Armstrong readily adopted the terms of his publicity as part of his public persona. “Call me ambassador of music,” he announced at a reception for a retiring ambassador in Washington, DC.23 As Daniel Stein has pointed out, Armstrong relished colorful and sometimes contradictory ways of presenting himself.24 His arrival at the status of ambassador added a flourish to the narrative of his rise from an impoverished childhood. It also offered provocative ironies. An ambassador who could not enter public spaces as an equal in his own country, a diplomat who frequently denied any knowledge of politics—these paradoxes only added to the attractions and expressive possibilities of the role. Indeed, they drew Armstrong into a controversy that damaged his new reputation. In September of 1957, nine African American students tried to attend the formerly all-white Little Rock Central High School. Arkansas governor Orval Faubus ordered the National Guard to block the students from entering the school. After the students and their supporters endured weeks of abuse at the hands of an unruly mob, President Eisenhower took control over the National Guard and ordered them to protect the students.25 The shocked nation witnessed the violence in newspapers and on television; many in the North had not experienced conditions in the segregated South in this visceral way before the media brought these images into their homes.26 Performing artists and State Department music programs immediately became part of the national conversation about Little Rock. Before Eisenhower intervened, Armstrong responded to the outrageous attacks on the children in Little Rock by saying that he would refuse to tour the Soviet Union on behalf of the State Department: “the way they are treating my people in the South, the government can go to hell.”27 Armstrong’s remarks were widely distributed in both mainstream and black newspapers, and they generated enough attention that reporters solicited comment from other performers.28 Eartha Kitt responded, “Armstrong is absolutely right. We shouldn’t go to Russia preaching things we are not.” Lena Horne said, “I, too, would decline to appear in Russia if I were asked by the Government, because I would fear embarrassing questions by the press, especially the Soviet press.”29 Sammy Davis Jr. told the press he agreed with Armstrong,


though “not with his choice of words.” Nat “King” Cole, who was having difficulty finding a sponsor for his own television program and could not afford to offend, expressed disappointment but declined to criticize the government.30 The extensive coverage of Armstrong’s remarks about Little Rock and his renunciation of the Soviet tour brought negative attention to the government’s use of musicians. Throughout September and October the State Department received many letters from citizens and from members of Congress who did not want Armstrong to be their ambassador.31 Some people refused the necessity of such representation altogether: “the American taxpayers and decent citizens don’t give a hoot what any country think [sic] of our way of life.”32 Some explicitly rejected Armstrong on racist grounds, suggesting that an African American jazz musician would be an inappropriate representative for America as a whole. Others said that Armstrong’s disrespectful criticism of the government disqualified him: a man “who publicly scoffed at his President and slurred him in uncouth language” seemed unfit for the honor of a state-sponsored tour, and his words might even encourage foreign nations to look down on the United States.33 Some letter-writers brought several of these motivations together. A letter to Alabama senator Lister Hill combined contempt for jazz with concern about Armstrong’s impropriety: “Sir, not because I think his music is drivel, which it is, but I certainly can’t see how a man who says ‘the government can go to hell!’ can be any sort of an effective spokesman for it.”34 Although Armstrong’s performances in concerts and films drew broad audiences, much of the public still thought of him as a mere grinning entertainer.35 The State Department’s file on Armstrong for 1957 contains not a single defense of his ambassadorship from the American public. As the State Department pointed out in countless replies to its critics, Armstrong had not yet been formally invited to make the tour that he had so dramatically refused. In fact, the Lacy-Zarubin cultural exchange treaty with the Soviet Union was not signed until 1958. Before that time it was very difficult to arrange for official exchange visits because of restrictions on travel between the two countries. In addition, Soviet leaders frowned on American jazz, and they were unlikely to permit Armstrong to enter the country (chapter 7).36 Through the intervention of Marshall Stearns, Armstrong’s manager, Joe Glaser, had been approached about the possibility of a tour. Indeed, the Music Advisory Panel had approved Armstrong for performances in the Near East in November 1955, but the proposal had been tabled because his fees were so high.37 It appears, then, that the controversy concerned a hypothetical tour rather than a specific, planned


event. With encouragement from reporters, though, Armstrong and Glaser speculated freely about the possibility of a government-sponsored tour. They had no reason for discretion: the idea of sending jazz to the Soviet Union was good publicity for Armstrong, dramatic and compelling.38 Armstrong would travel only once under State Department sponsorship, spending four months in Africa during 1960 and 1961. Of course, his international impact as an “unofficial ambassador” both before and after this official tour was tremendous. The State Department acknowledged his importance by following his activities with great interest and offering unofficial logistical assistance even while he toured for profit under his own management. Armstrong never did make it to the Soviet Union, but the idea of doing so was a persistent part of his self-concept. In one of his scrapbooks from 1961, he kept an article from an Arkansas newspaper. As the article reported it, Glaser had handed Armstrong a telegram and announced that “it’s about 99 per cent sure for Russia,” perhaps for the fall of that year. The clipping is labeled, in Armstrong’s own hand, “Little Rock ARK USA!!!”—suggesting that for Armstrong the idea of a Soviet tour remained tied to his most conspicuous moment of political protest.39

MARIAN ANDERSON RESPONDS TO LITTLE ROCK When Armstrong’s words about the government going to hell were first published soon after the beginning of the Little Rock crisis in September, Marian Anderson was already en route to Asia for a State Department– sponsored tour. Reporters in Hawaii asked her to comment on Little Rock, but her words were opaque: “One has feelings . . . but now is not the time for me to say something.”40 Anderson was dogged by questions about Little Rock and Armstrong’s response throughout her Asian tour. At one point the director of Catholic Relief Services in Vietnam cancelled Anderson’s previously arranged visit to a refugee camp outside of Saigon on the grounds that the visit seemed like a left-wing “political deal” that “had to do with Little Rock.”41 Anderson was asked again and again about racial politics in the United States, and the diplomats were overjoyed by her responses. The American mission in Taipei sent word back to the State Department that Anderson “impressed the local reporters with her polite and cordial attitude, while at the same time passing off in a most friendly way all questions about Little Rock and Louis Armstrong.”42 Armstrong had been quoted in the American and foreign press as saying that he would no longer play in Arkansas because Faubus “might hear a couple of notes—


and he don’t deserve that.”43 Recalling those words, an Asian journalist asked Anderson whether she would perform for Faubus: reporter. Miss Anderson, would you like to sing to Governor Faubus in Little Rock? anderson. If it could help at all, I should be very delighted to. If Governor Faubus would be in the frame of mind to accept it for what it is, for what he could get from it, I would be very delighted to do it.44 Anderson’s comments were quoted extensively in the Asian press, but because the U.S. press was understandably preoccupied with events in Little Rock, her tour received almost no attention at home while it was happening. Americans first became aware of her viewpoint in late December, after her return, when Murrow’s coverage of her tour on See It Now aired in prime time. Murrow and Friendly had arranged for a CBS film crew to follow Anderson through Asia, documenting her interactions with royalty, Asian interviewers, schoolchildren, refugees, music lovers, and American soldiers. The American public responded with extraordinary warmth. Viewers addressed hundreds of letters praising the show to Murrow, CBS, Anderson, and the sponsor, the International Telephone and Telegraph Company. The letters describe Americans’ thinking about the Cold War, race relations, and the practice of musical diplomacy. This is the only State Department–sponsored tour for which we have such extensive information about its reception in the United States, so it allows us an uncommon look at how Americans viewed their country’s musical diplomacy. In “The Lady from Philadelphia” Murrow included some discussion of race relations, a topic addressed on television news but not in prime time programming and not at all in the official propaganda films of this era.45 Coverage of America’s racial problems in “The Lady from Philadelphia” seems curiously indirect and understated by today’s standards, or even by the standards of the 1960s. In one pivotal scene in the film Anderson placed racial injustice firmly in the past tense, as a story with a happy ending.46 In a carefully arranged response to a Thai child’s question—“Miss Marian Anderson, what is your favorite song?”—Anderson cited the lyrics of the spiritual “Trampin’,” telling a classroom of schoolchildren that the spirituals came from a time “when Negroes were sad,” and that the words meant “walking along slowly and very hard because you have on your shoulders many unpleasant things.”47 She then went on to explain African American history and the history of the spiritual in a most forgiving way: And so the song means “when you go to the other land, everything will be beautiful.” . . . Abraham Lincoln, one of the presidents of whom you


have learned much, made for the Negroes in America a freedom, we say “emancipation”—you know the word freedom, hm? And after this freedom, for which they were most grateful, their songs began to be more gay. Why? Because they began to feel that they—your word [gestures to chalkboard]—“belong.” It was Abraham Lincoln with his proclamation (they know the word proclamation?) The word “proclamation” means a paper that is written to say “now we will do the thing in a new way.” And this new way was of great benefit to the Negroes in the United States.48

This message mirrored perfectly the USIA’s portrayals of race in written propaganda materials sent abroad. A 1956 pamphlet claimed that “the Story of the American Negro since his emancipation in 1863 has been one of constant progress towards full enjoyment of the rights and privileges of free men.”49 As a matter of policy the USIA refrained from criticizing southern racism, in part out of fear that southern Democrats in Congress would discontinue the agency’s funding. One element of that restraint was the decision not to address racism in the compelling medium of film.50 Because the Anderson broadcast was privately funded, Murrow could and did mention the existence of racial discrimination; yet the upbeat tenor of the story Anderson told allowed white viewers in the United States to feel satisfied that they were being portrayed in a positive light. Although the USIA had already made a documentary film about Anderson in 1955, Murrow’s film was picked up by the USIA for international distribution.51 At another important moment in the film, Anderson testified to the triumph of religious faith over racial injustice. An Indian interviewer, Tara Ali Baig, asked Anderson about the episode in 1939 when the Daughters of the American Revolution refused to allow Anderson to sing in Constitution Hall. Anderson declined to dwell on this famous instance of her personal suffering from racial prejudice. But later, when Baig asked about the importance of religious faith, Anderson discussed the prejudice she endured, all the while emphasizing that faith allowed her to transcend such difficulty: anderson. It gives you a peace of mind, it gives you an understanding of your fellow men, even though in some instances they behave so poorly. . . . And therefore when things happen along the way which might pull one up rather sharply through disappointment, you think on your faith, and you go back, so to speak, to the well to be replenished. baig. Does it sum it up to say, “to see it through to the end?” anderson. Yes, and you know, there is a Negro spiritual called [sings] “I open my mouth to the Lord and I never will turn back, I will go, I shall


go, to see what the end will be.” And it sums up so much of what so many people need to feel who don’t find all of these wonderful things around them. I will go and I shall go to see what the end will be. Why? Because I believe in what I will find at the end.52 Although Anderson’s words about disappointment and bad behavior might seem elliptical, in the context of Baig’s previous question about the DAR they came across as expressing a firm intent to rise above petty injustices, to be both better and more forgiving than her persecutors. That she sang this intent through a spiritual, as well as speaking it, underscored her credibility both as an authentic member of the oppressed African American community and as a person of faith who was assured of eventual triumph over that oppression.

AMERICA RESPONDS TO MARIAN ANDERSON Anderson’s striking onscreen presence and her remarkable voice seized the attention of Americans who saw the episode. But her account of faith in the face of difficulty was just as gripping and spoke directly to the dilemmas of the day. Many American viewers realized right away that “The Lady from Philadelphia” concerned more than foreign relations; the program compelled them to consider how they might relate to this elegant black woman who was speaking for them. The fan mail sent to CBS about the program reveals a variety of searching responses to this mixture of foreign and domestic concerns. The idea that Anderson herself had passed through suffering to transcendent redemption led dozens of letter-writers to call her a “saint,” or “Christ-like,” a notion cued by Murrow’s narration. Some heard the show as a call to reform their own lives, recognizing their own racism more clearly through Anderson’s testimony. One viewer wrote, “If I have ever harbored any prejudice within me, Marian Anderson showed how ignoble and stupid such feelings are.”53 Another described her situation this way: “We are also a family, and of a group . . . who are very much on the fence about desegregation for many reasons, the main one being that, as our knowledge of the colored is confined to our experience with servants alone, we feel the race to be ‘childlike,’ ‘primitive’ and unfit for responsibility as yet—Miss Anderson, as an example of what can be achieved by a leader of her (or any other) race makes us resolve to think twice before making such easy judgements.”54 Many church and community study groups, particularly those run by women, requested copies of the script. The Women’s


Missionary Societies of several Protestant denominations had chosen the theme of “race prejudice” as a study topic that year; and the Methodist Information Service encouraged members of the church to write to CBS about the show.55 Anderson’s ethical message was an important part of her appeal. Although Anderson’s usual concert repertoire on her foreign and U.S. tours consisted mainly of European art songs and operatic excerpts, the televised version of the tour gave pride of place to sacred music, thus reinforcing the religious imagery that dominated the spoken parts of the documentary.56 Anderson’s rendering of Schubert’s “Ave Maria” drew comment from many who watched the program. The script called especially prominent attention to the value of concert spirituals, both as art and as religious testimony. Footage of Anderson singing “Go Down, Moses” in a Christian church in Vietnam was both unexpected—presenting familiar Christian symbols in an unfamiliar language and setting—and revealing, showing solemn parishioners held in Anderson’s thrall. For some who saw the program, the spirituals were novel and compelling. Julia Morris wrote about Anderson to her local television station in St. Louis, Missouri: “She sang one song that I would like to find, but I do not know the title. It was something about Him holding the little babies in His hand. Would you please send me this information?”57 Anderson’s tendency to sing with her eyes closed and hands outstretched, as if in prayer, helped viewers identify with her as a person of faith.58 Although many stated their appreciation in Christian terms, this was by no means exclusively the case. Many with typically Jewish surnames praised the spiritual quality and universality of Anderson’s presentation. Viewers who supported the civil rights movement wanted to use the program to educate their neighbors and fellow citizens. Margery Ware of Bethesda, Maryland, wrote to Murrow that the program “must have had a great educational impact upon those viewers whose prejudice stems from being uninformed.”59 Most of the people who sent fan letters requested that the program be rebroadcast or distributed to schools. Emma McFarland of Rutherfordton, North Carolina, explained: “I think [repeating the program] would help to overcome the prejudice which exists in our own country, especially in the Southland. I don’t see how any one could see and hear Marian Anderson as she was on that program and not feel more kindly toward her race.”60 Many of these favorable letters originated in major northern metropolitan areas, but a good number came from the South as well. For writers who already supported civil rights, it was easy to sympathize with Anderson as an advocate for a cause they shared.


Although the show was not carried by CBS affiliates in Montgomery, Alabama, or Columbus, Georgia, it seems to have aired in most of the South—yet only a tiny minority of the extant letters expressed disapproval of the program. The writer of one thought that Anderson was criticizing the United States for being hard on Negroes; another said Anderson was unqualified as a northerner to speak about the Little Rock situation; another called the show NAACP propaganda; and another defended the DAR’s actions regarding Constitution Hall in 1939.61 Some who adored the program seemed to be praising Anderson in spite of their views about her race. One writer in Virginia suggested that including performers of several ethnicities in a “melting pot”–style program would be a more accurate way to represent America, implying that one black performer could not represent the white majority.62 On the whole, though, the response was overwhelmingly positive, praising the music as well as the politics. Dozens of viewers thanked Murrow for presenting his message “in good taste”—which seems to mean that compared to other coverage of America’s racial problems they had seen on television, viewers found this program attractive, polite, and decent. The idea of “taste” applied both to Murrow’s work and to Anderson’s. Anderson’s strategy of self-presentation reflects an approach common among African American women who worked for civil rights: their feminine, cultivated middle-class respectability was essential to their work for the cause.63 The 1956 code of the National Association of Radio and Television Broadcasters asserted that “it is the responsibility of television to bear constantly in mind that the audience is primarily a home audience, and consequently that television’s relationship to the viewers is that between guest and host.”64 The letters from Americans to CBS and Murrow indicate that viewers found Anderson a gracious and well-mannered guest. For viewers who self-identified in their letters as African American, the show was very meaningful. Mary Louise Hinton of Kansas City cited her “overwhelming pride” in Anderson, saying that “her answers to questions concerning our (Negroes) [sic] plight in the United States were perfect.”65 A fifteen-year-old girl in Mississippi found the program inspiring because “it made me know my brothers and I may be able to do great things—perhaps even to help people of other countries to be friends of ours.”66 Like the rest of the audience, black audience members responded to Anderson’s dignified, even “queenly,” self-presentation; but they were especially thrilled that these images were being broadcast for their fellow citizens. In addition to addressing these domestic concerns, the program offered a concrete and personal way of understanding diplomacy, describing


Figure 11. Marian Anderson and her accompanist, Franz Rupp, are greeted by South Korean president Syngman Rhee, 23 September 1957. Looking on: Sul Kuk-Whan of the sponsoring newspaper Seige Ilbo in Seoul; Lee Ki-poong, Speaker of the National Assembly; Marcus W. Scherbacher, cultural attaché, American embassy Seoul. RG 59-G-96–206, National Archives.

Anderson as an artist who won friends for America abroad (figure 11). Sputnik had been launched in October 1957, and dozens of letters referred to Anderson as the countermeasure to that development: “Marian Anderson in Asia was worth more than 200 Sputniks in space.”67 Many American viewers voiced the opinion that cultural diplomacy was far more appealing than other forms of negotiation with remarks such as “she accomplished more than all our petty politicians put together.”68 The program offered both respite from news coverage of unpleasant matters and a way to engage pleasurably with the world situation. “In these days of Little Rock and Sputnik,” wrote a viewer in Massachusetts, “it is indeed heartening to see Art speaking to the people of the world.”69 Some letter-writers praised cultural diplomacy as positive and effective propaganda: “an example of what Americans can and should do to sell Democracy and defeat our enemies who plot the destruction of our beloved country.”70


The religious element that was so important to the audience’s thinking about race at home also figured in their ideas about the world situation. For some this element was manifest as a desire for outreach that was grounded in Christian brotherhood: sending Anderson as a diplomat meant “sending love personified, not just ammunition, abroad to those whom we are concerned with today more than ever before.”71 Others saw in Anderson a “missionary” who might spread the Christian faith worldwide and bring peace in the process. One writer who saw the Cold War as a moral struggle against godless Communism hoped that such missionaries might “make countries forget small petty questions and develop big, broad, Christian plans.”72 Anderson’s own mother regarded her daughter’s work as a spiritual mission of this kind. She wrote to her daughter: “we thank Providence, that you were sent to Foreign Lands, that you may acquaint nations and peoples of Him, the giver of your Divine Voice through song.”73 Murrow’s narration mentioned the influence of Soviet propaganda, especially in India; and American viewers clearly recognized that their country’s continued racial discrimination was hurting its image abroad. As one viewer put it, “That picture did more to mend what Mr. Faubus ruined than all the words President Eisenhower could ever say to the Asians.”74 Carol Denison of Old Greenwich, Connecticut, hoped the State Department would distribute the film widely abroad to diplomats “trying to cope with the effects of TV shots of mobsters in Little Rock attacking from behind.”75 The historian Mary Dudziak has demonstrated the link between worldwide public opinion and desegregation in the United States. Policy makers and jurists felt enormous pressure to ensure justice at home because it was impossible to sell America’s message abroad while the country’s image was tarnished by obvious and cruel inequality.76 The response to the Anderson documentary indicates that this imperative was felt not only by the government leaders Dudziak describes but also by ordinary Americans who were waking up to their role as world citizens. The medium of television helped them become alert to this role, and 1957 was early enough in television’s history that viewers were selfconscious about the medium. Many had only recently purchased their television sets, and several remarked that “this program alone was worth the price of the set.”77 One prescient audience member remarked on television’s “tremendous ability to make visual and thus more personal peoples, conditions, and events that would otherwise not be felt by persons separated in space and time.”78 Along those lines many viewers described the thrill of looking directly at Asian people for the first time: a Sunday school teacher in Texas “enjoyed the interesting faces of those children in faraway


places,” and a Californian “felt they were my next door neighbors.”79 This new connection with and sympathy for people abroad worked together with the discourses about race relations and propaganda to make Americans more acutely conscious that their reputation among foreign peoples might matter. (As one viewer summarized the film: “Wonderful politics, a slap to Little Rock, and soothing to the Asian people, and we need to sooth [sic] them believe me.”)80 Of course, in the case of this particular film the same novelty and sympathy could apply equally well to white citizens who were not personally acquainted with African Americans: a viewer in Louisiana noted that “the race problem here would be greatly aided if Southerners could see and know more of such dignified, competent negro leaders as Marian Anderson and Ralph Bunche.”81 Murrow’s strategy was predicated on this principle: the strong words and character of Marian Anderson, brought into America’s living rooms, could change hearts and minds. Thus, Anderson’s religion, social class, and chosen musical styles combined with her compelling personal story and the dramatization of cultural diplomacy to make it possible for some part of the predominantly white television audience to embrace her as their representative. Many of the fan letters said so directly. As a viewer in Pittsburgh put it, “We ordinary folk who stay at home, doing our jobs, raising our families, and trying to keep informed, find great satisfaction in being represented around the world by the truly great such as Marian Anderson.” A viewer in Detroit exclaimed: “There is no doubt in our mind that Marian Anderson, with her humility simplicity and high faith aside of her miraculous artistry and voice like flowing gold—is the right and the best ambassador for [the] U.S.”82

AFRICAN AMERICAN AMBASSADORSHIP The contrast between these glowing terms and the vituperative language directed at the State Department denouncing Armstrong’s potential ambassadorship is noteworthy—all the more so since official reports indicate that Armstrong was thoughtful and careful about how he presented the United States. Although Armstrong’s strongly worded comments at home received widespread media attention, his words while actually on tours abroad, official or not, were usually as circumspect as Anderson’s. According to one source, Armstrong sought guidance from USIA staff in Buenos Aires about how to answer questions from the public in Argentina.83 The PAO at the American embassy in Montevideo, Uruguay, reported to the State Department that Armstrong’s answers to questions about race were “straightforward but moderate,” and the embassy in Caracas indicated that


his remarks concerning Little Rock were “particularly favorable,” displaying “surprising decorum.”84 A press report suggests that in Buenos Aires Armstrong did complain that “the government” was “run by Southerners”—but he also stated that blacks were now refusing to be pushed around.85 Frequently he claimed to have little knowledge of politics, deploying folksy sayings like “A note’s a note in any language” or “the reason I don’t bother with politics is the words is so big.”86 The descriptions that diplomatic posts sent home about Armstrong are congruent with diplomats’ reports about Anderson’s “non-committal replies and her careful explanations.”87 Of course, the American public had little way of knowing what its ambassadors were accomplishing: the State Department’s original agreement with ANTA had explicitly prohibited advocacy directed at Americans on behalf of the Cultural Presentations program. Only after revisions to the program in the early 1960s did U.S. officials routinely explain musical diplomacy to U.S. citizens.88 If Anderson had to tread a narrow path in gaining respect from the American public—modeling the highest kind of cultivated respectability— Armstrong’s path was narrower still. Many citizens and congressional representatives criticized him for his outspokenness about Little Rock. Jazz was still a hard sell to Americans whose musical views were shaped by race prejudice. By this time, too, many jazz critics had turned against Armstrong because his musical style was old-fashioned, his personal style too ingratiating. John S. Wilson, a critic who played an important role in the State Department’s selection of jazz ensembles, wrote about Armstrong: “It is somewhat disturbing to realize that the Armstrong group’s performances are being seen all over the world and are widely publicized as outstanding examples of the propaganda value of American jazz. There is no question of Mr. Armstrong’s merits as an entertainer. It is natural that audiences in all countries should be drawn to him. . . . But, except for occasional instances, it would be misleading if the antics of Mr. Armstrong and his colleagues were to be accepted as representative of well-played jazz.”89 No matter how often Armstrong was hailed in the press as an ambassador, his ambassadorship remained more difficult for Americans to accept than Anderson’s.90 As we saw in chapter 3, jazz musicians wanted to be included in the Cultural Presentations program, and jazz critics argued that jazz musicians should represent the United States. Nonetheless, writings on the role of African American jazz artists who toured for the State Department have tended to portray them as cultural outsiders who worked against the government as much as they did for it. Penny Von Eschen cites evidence that Armstrong expressed his ideas about race in moderate tones while he was


abroad, but she then attributes Armstrong’s decision to deflect questions about race to political pressure: it “may well have been the price he had to pay the government for continuing to work.”91 Yet even right after Armstrong’s heated remarks about Little Rock in the fall of 1957, U.S. government officials continued to provide him with logistical assistance throughout his privately funded tour of Latin America. When embassy officials inquired about whether they should continue to help Armstrong after his inflammatory comments, the State Department instructed them to “avoid official involvement but extend normal good offices in arrangements beneficial to American commercial enterprize [sic]. Mission should be able to explain its action as strictly service function not based on evaluation or judgment of the commercial enterprize.”92 While the department was keeping a certain distance from Armstrong, we have no evidence that officials attempted to silence him. On the contrary, they expedited his band’s visas to ensure his timely arrival throughout the tour.93 These are not the actions of a government intent on stifling its critic. Indeed, despite the American public’s qualms, the State Department recognized the effectiveness of jazz and Armstrong alike. Telegrams between Washington and diplomatic posts attest that officials saw his performances as a valuable way to get people abroad excited about American culture. As early as 1958, jazz critic Ralph Gleason also noticed that Armstrong’s criticism of the U.S. government was effective abroad as a shining example of free speech.94 In retelling Armstrong’s story, one might be tempted to dramatize him as a political hero by framing his ambassadorship as a subversive act—and it has become commonplace to refer to him as “the real ambassador,” suggesting that despite his cooperation with the government, he retained an aura of authenticity.95 Nonetheless, fidelity to the historical record requires acknowledging his moments of discretion alongside his protests. The challenge in describing Anderson’s role, in which her conciliatory words come to the fore, is nearly the opposite. Some historians have suggested that prominent black leaders such as Anderson who spoke mildly and cooperated with the U.S. government were compromised and could not be effective as spokespersons for civil rights.96 The media scholar Sasha Torres has noted that television portrayals of blacks that soothe white viewers, such as “The Lady from Philadelphia,” often reinforce the status quo rather than resist it.97 If Armstrong was too much a firebrand, Anderson may not have shaken her American audience enough. Terry Teachout claims that in Anderson’s case collaboration with cultural or political authorities might compromise her authenticity as a civil rights advocate. He then uses that claim to argue that Anderson should


have represented her own ethnicity in music rather than becoming a classically trained singer. Implying that blacks’ musical assimilation into the dominant culture may be detrimental to their art, he writes, “it is arguable that [Anderson’s] pursuit of dignity at all costs—a perfectly understandable response to the refusal of many whites to treat any black, however talented, with respect—may have limited her as an artist, just as it has limited other black artists of similar temperament, including the classical singers Leontyne Price and Jessye Norman and the actor Denzel Washington.”98 Television critic Herman Gray has likewise equated the adoption of an educated, polished style with the “containment” of authentic, critical blackness, as if blackness should be exemplified in only one coherent set of cultural practices.99 Both of these perspectives are tainted by the racist assumption that a musician’s style and politics should be determined by skin color. Certainly, Anderson did not challenge Americans’ views about social class or about the superiority of art music over other genres, and if her gentle criticism unsettled some viewers’ racial prejudices, it did not disturb most of those who wrote letters to CBS. Yet she moved the American TV audience profoundly—enough so that many stayed up late after the 11 p.m. close of the program to write their fan letters, poured out their hopes for their country after watching a mere TV show, and claimed her as their representative. Anderson’s case suggests that African American celebrities who had broad appeal played an important role in winning over their fellow Americans to the cause of civil rights. Armstrong, too, knew this role well: his wife, Lucille, reported that “he talked politics with me and he was aware that every word he said had impact.”100 The role of prominent black celebrities abroad, of course, was different from their role at home. On their tours these ambassadors were to demonstrate that African Americans were not held back by prejudice and that they were able to achieve great things.101 These celebrities served as the cornerstone of the USIA’s race propaganda strategy in the 1950s—a strategy that was transparent to foreign audiences. Just before Anderson’s tour took her to Manila, the Manila Chronicle disparaged the emphasis on “exceptional” African Americans such as Anderson: “The official glorification of a Marian Anderson or a Richard Wright hardly proves anything. Men and women of whatever race or color who have attained excellence in their chosen fields cannot be ignored even in so arid a region as the American South. What must be shown is what is being done to save the millions of colored Jacks and Janes from the score or so of Governor Faubuses.”102 Yet after Anderson’s visit the same newspaper praised her and proclaimed her effectiveness: “Bringing Miss Anderson and her voice to our


part of the world is making up for Orval Faubus. He is the barbarian and . . . a rustic disgrace, because the real America, as well as the rest of the good world, hails Marian Anderson.”103 Although the strategy for presenting African Americans abroad was transparent, it was not necessarily ineffective. The PAO who witnessed Armstrong’s appearances in Montevideo reported this: “The papers here had carried Armstrong’s statement [about the government going to hell] and then the later one commending Eisenhower for sending in federal troops. The people here seemed to believe that since Armstrong did come here and since he has indicated a willingness to go to Russia he now feels that the government is giving the Negroes a fair shake.”104 The very willingness of an African American musician to represent the U.S. government could be understood abroad as an implicit endorsement. Observers in foreign lands were cast as judges: they paid attention to what these musicians might be representing, and they evaluated carefully what the act of representation meant. In foreign lands the critical outspokenness of eminent African Americans was valuable both as a demonstration of freedom of speech and as an emblem of truthfulness. Citizens of other countries could rely on what was conveyed through the American press as a “true” account precisely because some of it was negative. Both Armstrong and Anderson also showed considerable restraint, attending carefully to the time and place of their remarks, moderating their comments when abroad, speaking out at home when they believed it was appropriate or necessary to do so. Toni Morrison has noted that when African Americans tell about their experiences, they typically draw a veil over the worst parts in order to avoid losing support by offending popular taste. In a similar vein African American ambassadors’ discretion in commenting about race came across abroad as a genuine expression of love for their native country.105 This role, carried out for weeks or months at a time, was extremely demanding. In a rare candid moment Anderson wrote to her manager, Sol Hurok: “I was told beforehand that this tour would be strenuous but I do not believe that anyone realized how strenuous. For, the world situation being what it is, there were things required of me as a Negro, as a representative of my people, that would not be required of someone else.”106 Despite the cost, these ambassadors embodied support of the U.S. government and the United States as a nation. The New York Times reported about Armstrong during his Latin American tour: “Asked about opportunities for Negroes in the States, Mr. Armstrong said, ‘I’ll say they’re greater there than in any place in the world and you can say that again. Times are changing.’ ”107 In Anderson’s interview in India she reaffirmed her


patriotism: “The fact that we were able to come over for the State Department, and are thrilled beyond words with the honor and the opportunity, gives us . . . an opportunity to speak for the only land that we know. . . . My land and my country and my allegiance is with America.” Yet within this same interview her national feeling remained inseparable from her insistence on civil rights: “As long as you keep a person down, some part of you has to be down there to hold him down—so it means you cannot soar as you might otherwise. Therefore, regardless of how small the Negro may be in whatever area, the whole of our nation is dependent on what is done for the little fellow, dependent sometimes on his very life.”108 The mix of rhetorical strategies Anderson and Armstrong used—their open criticism and their diplomatic restraint—supported American propaganda goals but also kept the subject of race close to the center of attention.109 These musicians understood the power of their public roles as ambassadors, and they judiciously used that power to advance the interests of the United States and African Americans alike. In the civil rights era, as people abroad tried to make sense of conflicting messages from the Soviet Union and the United States regarding race relations, what Armstrong and Anderson said, what they represented, and what they were seen to represent may have been as important as their musical appeal. Critical outspokenness and patriotic discretion were necessary, truthful, and appropriate aspects of the African American experience to present abroad, and these facets of Armstrong’s and Anderson’s performances were admired everywhere. It is at home, in the eyes of the American public, that the differences between the two musicians appeared most acute. By contrast to Armstrong’s most radical words, Anderson’s were almost too easy for Americans to accept. But despite the American public’s perceptions, both Armstrong and Anderson were “real ambassadors”—both for the United States abroad and for civil rights at home.


Presenting America’s Religious Heritage Abroad

As the historian Jonathan Herzog describes it, the Cold War inspired a “deliberate and managed use of societal resources to stimulate a religious revival in the late 1940s and 1950s.”1 Again and again American thinkers tied their country’s place in the world to its religious identity. Highly placed figures in the U.S. government frequently drew a sharp contrast between a Judeo-Christian America and the “godless Communism” of the Soviet Union. Within the United States, church attendance rose through the late 1940s and 1950s, and church membership was considered a defense against accusations of Communist affiliation. At the same time, some mainline Protestants felt a religious calling to aid the development of impoverished nations and to oppose war, setting them in opposition to their own government.2 Religion was an important part of the public dialogue about international intervention throughout this period. The religious distinction between Communism and capitalism was useful for U.S. propaganda abroad. When President Truman created the Psychological Strategy Board in 1951, religion was immediately identified as a key factor in helping others understand America. The director of the board, Gordon Gray, wrote that “the potentialities of religion as an instrument for combating Communism are universally tremendous. . . . Because of the immoral and un-Christian nature of Communism and its avowed opposition to and persecution of religions, most of the world’s principal religious organizations are already allied with the cause of the free nations. Our over-all objective in seeking the use of religion as a cold war instrumentality should be the furtherance of world spiritual health; for the Communist threat could not exist in a spiritually healthy world.”3 A few years later President Eisenhower noted that religion helped other peoples feel warmly toward the United States. Eisenhower understood that America 123

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could seem materialistic to other nations. He did not want the world to associate America with “the speed of our automobiles or the wonderful gadgets that we use in our homes.” Rather, Eisenhower aimed to communicate that “throughout its history, America’s greatness has been based upon a spiritual quality.”4 The Eisenhower administration made considerable use of religious ideas in its propaganda abroad. The CIA and the National Security Council recognized in 1954 that partnerships with religious organizations were a useful strategic tool for undermining Communism in the Soviet satellite states.5 A 1956 policy guide stated that “because religion is an important part of the life and culture of the people of the United States, concrete facts about this will help provide more complete understanding of this country among peoples abroad.”6 The constitutionally mandated separation of church and state meant that policy had to be developed carefully, and various agencies and even individual officials approached religious themes in different ways. A PAO in Pretoria, for example, wrote that the U.S. government was too timid. In his view the Bill of Rights limited not religion but only denominational favoritism, and he routinely made religion a part of his message to the people he served.7 In 1959 Ronald Bridges, the religious adviser of the USIA, explained that “religion and state are not separated”: “Religion is not to be overemphasized or treated as something separate and unique, but it is to be dealt with forthrightly in the context of American life.”8 As long as the U.S. government did not appear to be proselytizing for any one denominational group, religion could be presented as a characteristic element of American culture. Religion was not a dominant theme in the State Department’s music programs, yet sacred music was a persistent presence in U.S. concert programming abroad. Professional and collegiate choral groups frequently offered sacred music as part of their programs, and the department reported that these groups “helped achieve the objective of portraying the United States as a country of cultural and spiritual depth.”9 Church music represented an important component of European classical music, so this music could simultaneously serve multiple ends, drawing on the prestige of Europe while at the same time demonstrating Christian spiritual values. Embassy staff found that music could effectively convey “ideas about the religious life of the American people.”10 An additional advantage of using choral music as propaganda was that this music was considered uncontroversial by the Christian majority in the United States, and its inclusion therefore helped to maintain congressional support for the Cultural Presentations program.11 Most of the choral groups who traveled on behalf

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of the State Department offered at least some sacred music, often as part of mixed programs as described in chapter 1. The effectiveness of religious music differed by region and audience. In Asia, not only was the music unfamiliar, but religious content risked the appearance of proselytizing. U.S. diplomatic officials in Bangkok requested that the State Department respect the feelings of local Buddhists by minimizing the amount of Christian music presented.12 In Eastern Europe, where much religious expression was suppressed, the rare presentation of sacred music by State Department–sponsored performers was thrilling. Because of the tremendous capacity of religious music to move audiences, U.S. officials negotiated vigorously to get choral groups into Eastern Europe. The audience response appears to have merited that effort.13 When Robert Shaw took his chorale to the Soviet Union in 1962, the religious works on the program were received “ecstatically”; these included Schubert’s Mass in G and several Negro spirituals (“My God Is a Rock,” “Soon It Will Be Done,” “Sometimes I Feel Like a-Movin’ On,” and a boogie-woogie version of “Dry Bones,” which was encored). The New York Herald Tribune reported that “the religious beliefs of the Russian people may be no concern of ours. But music is a means of conveying our own inward feeling and devotion as a people.”14 In Belgrade, Yugoslavia, the Shaw chorale performed a set of six Negro spirituals as encores; an eyewitness compared the audience’s wildly enthusiastic response to “the scene of an old-fashioned revival.”15 Likewise, when the Westminster Choir performed in Zagreb, its religious choral works and spirituals struck a chord, evoking “considerable nostalgia among the strongly Catholic audience.”16 Sacred music of some kind was present on the programs of nearly every singer and choir that toured under the Cultural Presentations program. In some cases the programs merely contained a few spirituals as encores, but occasionally religious music formed a major portion of the program. In the remainder of this chapter I consider two aspects of religious music as it was presented abroad. First, and at the forefront of the State Department’s strategy, was the use of Negro spirituals, which were in high demand by audiences abroad, consistently requested by diplomats, and urged on performers by the planners of the tours. The presence of the spirituals supported the idea of the United States as both racially tolerant and undeniably Christian, reaching broad audiences through their popular style while conveying a sense of religious identity. Second, I examine the case of the Westminster Choir, a Christian collegiate group. Their tour demonstrates that U.S. musical diplomacy specifically addressed the needs of Christian groups abroad.

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THE NEGRO SPIRITUAL IN CULTURAL DIPLOMACY Throughout the duration of the Cultural Presentations program, diplomatic posts frequently asked the State Department to send them performers who could offer Negro spirituals. To a great extent this programming choice was driven by the disparity between the department’s desire to send classically trained performers and the posts’ need to cater to broad audiences, many of whom had little prior exposure to Western styles of singing.17 The spiritual was a happy medium: it could be performed in a variety of styles, from unaccompanied and folksy to arranged and harmonized in the manner of Western classical choral music. Concert choirs such as the Robert Shaw Chorale and the University of Maryland Singers offered sophisticated arrangements of spirituals. African American singing groups such as the Phoenix Singers, the Golden Gate Quartet, and the Deep River Boys often performed spirituals in popular style, interspersed with secular popular songs. Although some officials complained that these songs were not elegant enough to represent the United States properly, programs of this kind were well-liked by audiences (figure 12).18 In some cases the popular style of the performance was as important as the nature of the spiritual. In Rangoon, for example, the embassy noted that it was showmanship and “clowning” that put the Golden Gate Quartet’s concerts across, not the spirituals themselves.19 Spirituals also offered a broad range of emotions legible to almost all audiences. In the United States these songs inspired romanticized thinking about the suffering and “natural genius” of African Americans; abroad, their reception was tinged with similar exotic stereotypes.20 As a critic in Manila wrote, “The solemn ones touched [us] deeply as no other but their people can touch the hearer; the merry ones were as frolicksome [sic] as any four Americans full of the life and joy of their art can make them.”21 The words of spirituals were accessible and allowed for a kind of dramatic showmanship that might be considered inappropriate in the performance of European classics but rendered the spirituals especially attractive to audiences. Furthermore, the subject matter emphasized religious identity without putting forward an explicit denominational heritage. In its folksier incarnations the spiritual could be presented as historical folk music about the African American past. In more classicized renditions it spoke of the elevation of a people toward participation in a “cultivated” musical present, while still holding fast to tradition. In either style the spiritual offered foreign audiences a feeling of vicarious access to a particularly controversial aspect of American experience—the hopes and struggles of African Americans—as well as a compelling narrative about overcoming suffering.

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Figure 12. The Golden Gate Quartet performs at the Chin Woo Stadium in

Kuala Lumpur, Malaya, 1959. RG 59-G-96–206, National Archives.

The use of spirituals addressed the ever-present challenge of attracting audiences’ interest. Choral music in the European and American traditions is predominantly sacred, but the words are sometimes sung in languages unfamiliar to listeners, or the music may be too serious in style to captivate audiences for the duration of a concert. State Department officials had hoped that religious music would be especially useful in reaching Roman Catholic audiences in Latin America, but these listeners were hoping for entertainment, not church music. Audiences asked, “Why don’t they sing something else?”22 A department report noted in 1967 that the Hamline University Choir displayed excellent technique, fine discipline, and exceptional personal qualities, and some Latin American critics praised their “seriousness”—meaning their choice of European repertoire and their high standard of performance. Still, “the choir’s repertoire was considered by some commentators to be weighted too heavily in the direction of serious religious music, thus limiting the universality of their appeal.”23 The use of spirituals with a vernacular popular tone offered an attractive alternative.

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As we have seen in other instances, though, even a mixed program could not keep all audiences happy. A few audience groups expressed concern about the folk-music aspect of the spirituals. Some felt they were being condescended to with performances that emphasized showmanship instead of artistry: they were reluctant to accept programs too laden with popular music. In Nairobi, Kenya, the post reported “an almost insatiable interest in American negroes,” and eminent African American singers were warmly received.24 When the soprano Camilla Williams appeared in Nairobi, though, “the audience would have preferred her to have given a heavier program than she did—for instance, a bit of lieder substituted in that portion of the program which she devoted largely to Negro spirituals.” The Westminster Singers were also criticized there for their “folksy method of presentation.”25 In Hong Kong the Golden Gate Quartet presented spirituals in a popular style alongside American popular songs. Unfortunately, an article appearing before their concert advertised incorrectly that the quartet was known for “its simple, sincere interpretation of the spirituals,” and those audience members who were expecting authentic African American folk music were shocked and disappointed by the doo-wop-inflected style of the quartet.26 Music critics who sought to maintain their professional standing tended to praise the classical numbers while maintaining that mass publics appreciated the spirituals best—though more than a few critics were won over to appreciation of the spiritual.27 Constant pressure from diplomatic posts caused the State Department to demand changes in programming among its touring concert artists. Although artists submitted programs for approval to the Music Advisory Panel and finalized them as contracts were negotiated, the posts frequently requested alterations in the preapproved programs. The most common request was the substitution of spirituals or lighter songs in place of art songs. These program changes are especially noteworthy in the case of classically trained singers, who had been chosen for the Cultural Presentations program to demonstrate a high level of musical expertise. For musicians whose programs were prepared with utmost care in advance, midtour requests for spirituals could be an affront. Marian Anderson, who typically included one set of spirituals on her programs, was unable to change her predominantly classical program on short notice. Yet official reports suggest that many musicians accommodated the posts’ wishes. When asked to do so, the great classical baritone William Warfield (figure 13) willingly emphasized spirituals, eliminated difficult numbers, and added more popular or humorous songs. (He routinely performed “Ol’ Man River,” which he had famously sung in the movie Showboat, and he offered Aaron

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Figure 13. William Warfield sings at the Regal Cinema in Lahore, Pakistan,

1958. RG 59-G-96–206, National Archives.

Copland’s arrangement of “I Bought Me a Cat” as an encore that encouraged audience participation.)28 As a result of the posts’ requests, some musicians appeared abroad with substantially different repertory than they performed at home. The African American soprano Betty Allen, for example, was known in the United States for her performances of American contemporary music and Baroque oratorio. She was a specialist in the music of Virgil Thomson. Nevertheless, she performed spirituals on her tours at the department’s request with great success. Officials commended flexible artists who were good at “reading” an audience and changing programs to accommodate local tastes. One wonders whether U.S. officials recognized that changing an opera singer’s repertoire might cause offense. In particular, requesting that an African American singer perform spirituals was a form of racial essentialism, an assumption that someone’s skin color revealed his or her musical skills or preferences. The spiritual had long been a fraught topic. African American activist and singer Bayard Rustin wrote that to avoid racist behavior, one should “avoid asking Negroes to sing spirituals unless it is

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done interracially or unless the Negro considers them his specialty.”29 Racial bias shaped opinions about spirituals abroad, as well as at home: the State Department pressed spirituals on African American singers principally because foreign audiences expected to hear spirituals from them. A Latin American reviewer cited Allen’s “powerful and ancestral ability” to perform spirituals, even though she exclusively chose classicized concert spirituals, arranged by Hall Johnson and Roland Hayes.30 In Iceland one reviewer criticized the spirituals Allen offered as “a dubious novelty,” but another praised “her outstanding rendition of the Negro Spirituals which express so well the genius of her race.” Another Icelander reported that Allen sang “spirituals with the artistic feeling which is hardly to be found with any singers except those who are Negroes themselves.”31 The essentialism of foreign audiences suffused their thinking about the American singers to such a degree that any music associated with African American culture, even show tunes, was elided into the spiritual: in Manila a critic noted that Warfield’s concert reached its peak with “the classic Negro lament ‘Ol’ Man River.’ ”32 Likewise, some critics expected African Americans to perform only the music associated with their race, dismissing their other offerings. When the Howard University Choir performed in Argentina, a critic reported that “sometimes their interpretation of international repertory is a little distant from our expectations, but when they sing the songs of their race, they are transformed into true artists and are intensely linked with their audience.”33 The State Department also encouraged ensembles that were entirely or predominantly white to perform Negro spirituals. In San José, Costa Rica, audiences liked the Roger Wagner Chorale’s performance of Brazilian folk songs and the amusing pictorial madrigal known as the “Echo Song” (Orlande de Lassus, “O là o che bon eccho”), but according to the PAO the rest of their programs were too heavy: “A higher percentage of folksongs and negro spirituals might have been more advisable.”34 The University of Maryland Singers, an ethnically diverse but predominantly white ensemble, had begun as a madrigal choir, but their performances of spirituals were the best received music on their programs in Amman and Cairo.35 That singers of other ethnicities performed music that was easily recognized as African American was meant to persuade audiences that the music was respected in the United States. Performances of spirituals by white or predominantly white concert choirs were usually but not always well received. The polished precision typical of American concert spiritual performance surprised audiences who associated the spiritual with folk practice. The Robert Shaw Chorale’s

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renditions of spirituals, for instance, appealed to audiences—but as highly stylized performances coming from predominantly white groups of singers, they could also be criticized as inauthentic. The Turkish music critic Ilhan Mimarog˘ lu wrote after hearing Shaw’s chorale that the spirituals were merely “an imitation of the Negro spirit and were sung like college songs.”36 This was a stylistic problem affecting a variety of genres, not only spirituals. When the Harvard Glee Club performed Filipino songs in Manila, the songs themselves were transformed by the crisp diction and the precise tuning of the choir. The critic for the Manila Chronicle wrote with a mix of admiration and discomfort: “Despite their unimpeachable virtuosity—or perhaps because of it—the Harvard Glee Club transformed these Filipino songs into American ditties.”37 Spirituals had regularly been performed in this polished concert style since the Harlem Renaissance of the 1920s, but the transformation of what was perceived as folk music into a more formal manner of performance was not universally accepted as appropriate by audiences abroad. Spirituals also offered a participatory opportunity, a chance for singers to interact personally with their audiences. Warfield taught spirituals to Malayan boys during his visit to Ampang; the Deep River Boys sang them with Malagasy singers.38 When the Westminster Choir visited Belgrade, they sang spirituals at a party with the Branko Krsmanovic´ Choir. An embassy official there noted that “there can be no more concrete evidence than this of the penetration of American culture. The youth of this country may be a little confused about the kind of politics they want, but there is no doubt in anyone’s mind of the kind of music they enjoy.”39 Over time some audiences were exposed to multiple Cultural Presentations performances and developed a taste for the spiritual. In Belgrade the Robert Shaw Chorale was followed fourteen months later by the Westminster Choir. Both groups included spirituals on their programs. The embassy’s PAO cited increased interest as a result of these tours: citizens had begun to request records and scores of Negro spirituals from the embassy.40 In South Africa, where white listeners typically expressed disdain for the music of black people, spirituals were a great success when performed by the all-white Westminster Singers. The musical staff of the South African Broadcasting company even requested American help in building a library collection of recorded spirituals. The U.S. embassy in Pretoria was at that time engaged in reaching out to Dutch Reformed churches, and the religious message of the spirituals apparently superseded the racial history of the music, successfully attracting white, Christian audiences to African American music.41

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Spirituals and gospel music were presented to African audiences as a means of cultivating pan-African attitudes: these performances demonstrated U.S. government support for African American culture and provided access to music that was in high demand in the era of decolonization. Choral director Leonard De Paur was known in the United States for modernist music, having directed the Broadway revival of Four Saints in Three Acts.42 In 1966 De Paur toured Europe, the Middle East, and Africa with an ethnically mixed all-male chorus that performed “folk, spiritual, and African numbers.” Their tour included a stop at the World Festival of Negro Arts in Dakar, Senegal, and it was acclaimed as “one of the most successful tours of Africa ever undertaken by the Cultural Presentations Program.” The embassy in Cairo reported that “the audience was especially pleased with American folk music and the ‘Songs of New Nations’ sung by the Chorus.” The U.S. embassy in Cotonou, Dahomey (later Benin), was enthusiastic about the pan-African resonances of De Paur’s program choices: “The audience came alive after the Ashanti number and belonged to the Chorus for the rest of the show. This musical identification of America with Africa opened communication with the audience and made it receptive to the American musical messages imparted by the rest of the program.”43 Gospel singers Mahalia Jackson and Marion Williams also served as delegates to the First World Festival of Negro Arts, performing both sacred and secular music in a wide variety of venues. “Marion Williams is a great entertainer,” one post reported. “When she flashes a broad smile, stretches out her hands and begins to intone Alleluia or When the Saints Go Marching In, her audience instinctively reacts by singing along, clapping and stomping.” Williams’s performances in Africa included a “rousing” concert in a Methodist church in Lomé on Christmas Day. The Christian content of Williams’s music appears to have presented no difficulty for non-Christian audiences; rather, the engaging popular style of the music and the emphasis on African American achievement pleased audiences and won attention from the press throughout her tour.44 Thus, the spiritual (and its relative, gospel) presented both a Christian and an ecumenical vision of American culture. Performed by artists of various ethnicities, the spiritual appeared to be at once African American, American, and universal. The words of spirituals spoke to experiences of suffering and liberation that were experienced by many around the world, cultivating sympathy with the well-known story of African Americans’ quest for freedom. That the spiritual was so routinely included on the State Department’s music programs testifies to officials’ eagerness to present a Christian and interracial identity abroad in a musically accessible way—

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and to worldwide demand for the spiritual. In the minds of officials and listeners alike the spiritual’s inclusion was an act of representation: a critic in Fortaleza, Brazil, wrote of the Howard University Choir that “the Choir is eloquent proof of the efforts of the North American government to eliminate racial discrimination while recognizing the right and capacity of the Negro to represent to the whole world along with the white man.”45

THE WESTMINSTER CHOIR: SUPPORTING CHRISTIAN MUSIC ABROAD The use of religious music extended into other musical repertories, as well. Since a substantial part of the choral music literature consisted of Christian church music, any effort to send choral groups abroad implied the inclusion of some religious music. But this project went considerably further than the mere inclusion of religion: some choirs were used specifically for religious purposes. The Westminster Choir was one of the first collegiate groups to tour under the Cultural Presentations program (1956–57). Westminster Choir College’s Christian identity was relatively rare among the touring groups. The college, located in Princeton, New Jersey, had long trained choral singers and conductors with the specific purpose of improving the quality of church music in the United States. When the Music Advisory Panel approved the choir for its tour, the panel made no mention of its religious mission, calling it simply “a first-class group.”46 The choir toured with three concert programs: one devoted exclusively to American music, with an emphasis on folk music and Negro spirituals, the other two combining European classics with American music.47 Accounts of the choir’s performing skills differ. The conductor, John Finley Williamson, was sixty-nine years old when he began his State Department tour in 1956. He was well past his prime as a conductor, though his choir continued to be respected in the United States. (He would be forced to retire from the college in 1958, primarily because of the decline in his conducting ability.) Critics in the United States noted that all of the choir’s numbers—whether dating from the Renaissance or contemporary times, whether folk or classical—tended to be presented in a similar style.48 A critic in Sacramento remarked that Williamson put “too little stress on diction”; indeed, Williamson considered the audibility of the words far less important than conveying an emotional effect.49 As usual, Tokyo critics expressed some dissatisfaction. One found the choir’s technique “inferior to that of European groups.” Another found that the choir placed “too much

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emphasis on mechanical technique,” a typical flaw “in a country which has a short history and little tradition behind her.” The American Cultural Center in Fukuoka, Japan, reported that listeners enjoyed the performance but found the classical pieces “unpolished.” The American songs on the program elicited the best critical reaction.50 In spite of these critics, State Department officials noted that “the Choir is as great a success as anything this [Cultural Presentations] Program has assisted so far.”51 A Japanese audience in Yokohama demanded “four or five encores,” and a critic in Lucknow, India, reported that the audience was “enthralled” and “bewitched.”52 The choir also made an excellent personal impression. A diplomat in Singapore wrote that the students possessed a “wholesomeness not commonly associated with young Americans of today. There were repeated comments by Singaporeans on this fact and often the wonder that it was actually so.”53 In some respects Williamson and his wife, Rhea Williamson, were a risky choice for the State Department tour. Both held honorary doctorates, but embassy staff found the Williamsons uninformed about world affairs and ill-equipped to understand the situations they were walking into.54 The Williamsons appreciated the opportunity to learn about the world, but they also saw it through the perspective of their comfortable lives. (Rhea Williamson spent much time shopping for jewelry and furniture in Asia.)55 During his African tour of 1959 Williamson wrote to a State Department official: “We have made the discovery that simple, childlike people who live close to nature appreciate beauty as much as do highly cultured people of good taste.”56 Rhea Williamson appeared to have given some thought to the problem of racism as a result of her tours. In a 1961 interview she explained: “We get to thinking that the white race is superior; however, when one visits a country where only a percentage are white, one ceases to feel superior, only different.”57 Such remarks would, of course, run a high risk of offending the Williamsons’ hosts. The Williamsons’ attitude toward the people they encountered abroad was founded on a firm belief in the political and cultural superiority of the West. Rhea Williamson wrote in her diary in Laos: “There are many fine American people there, who are directing the natives to realize that life consists of more than a straw shack.” She wondered what would become of Malaya when it received its independence from the British that year: “Freedom is a glorious possession only when an individual or a nation knows what to do with it.”58 The Williamsons also viewed their audiences through a colonial lens: they judged the character of the people in each country by how they responded to what the Williamsons had to offer.

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When listeners praised the choir in India, Rhea Williamson praised them in return, noting in her diary that this audience was “going places fast.”59 In Japan, likewise, she noted that “This crowd is welcoming every number with thunderous applause. This is going to be a very great nation I’m sure, as the young people have so much eagerness.”60 One reason the Westminster Choir was selected to tour was that it was racially integrated.61 The 1956–57 touring choir included two African Americans, and its ethnic composition was an important selling point for the State Department, touted in the choir’s own publicity and frequently mentioned abroad.62 In this, as in many other cases, the department sought to emphasize American inclusiveness by presenting an interracial ensemble. The choir’s press book from 1957 emphasized that the college accepted students of “all races, creeds, and nationalities” and that the tour of the previous year “in no way altered the typical inter-racial, democratic and cosmopolitan nature of this group.”63 Williamson understood that it was important to convey the impression of racial harmony: he wrote that on tour “we must act like friendly Americans who love people regardless of race or color.”64 Although the message of racial equality was part of the choir’s purpose, this message was not entirely true to the normal operation of the choir. Williamson explained in a 1956 letter that “we accept Negroes [at the choir college], but they must be as good or better than whites.”65 Williamson’s correspondence from 1958 reveals that he never hesitated to arrange tours for the Westminster Choir in the southern United States, even though that meant that Afrika Hayes and Emma Smith, the choir’s two African American members in that year, would be unable to participate. The two students were not permitted to sing when the white members of the choir performed in places such as Birmingham, Alabama. By 1958, with civil rights protests well under way, more and more white musicians in integrated groups were refusing to perform in venues that would exclude their colleagues. Yet Williamson seems to have valued the promotion of the choir’s Christian message and his own choral methods over the feelings of two of his students. “We understand these local situations,” wrote Williamson as he arranged for the two girls to travel and be housed separately from the choir; at times he left them behind for several performances in a row so as not to offend southern sensibilities.66 That Williamson readily acceded to segregationist pressure was not just a mark of the times: it also belies the message Williamson conveyed abroad.67 We have no sources to indicate that this inconsistency was noticed during the Westminster Choir’s tour for the State Department.

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Westminster Choir College had for some time been accepting foreign students, whose tuition was paid by churches in their home countries. Once these students had graduated and returned home, they became an international network of church musicians. On the choir’s State Department tour the former students served as liaisons, welcoming the choir, providing social connections, and arranging local performances.68 Protestant organizations, especially the Presbyterian church, also provided a key site for the choir’s diplomacy. In Thailand the choir visited Presbyterian institutions and churches, as well as churches of other denominations and several Christian schools.69 Missionaries from a variety of Protestant denominations hosted them for meals and took them on tourist outings.70 On many Sundays they provided music for worship in Christian churches, sometimes breaking into four or five choirs so as to visit as many churches as possible.71 The particular churches they visited in Korea, Saemoonan Presbyterian Church and Young Nak Presbyterian Church, were those most strongly associated with Western music and anti-Communist politics.72 A typical tour stop for the choir would fulfill many obligations, both secular and sacred. In Tehran, for instance, the choir gave four formal concerts, two to paying audiences and two to invited audiences, including one at the University of Tehran. They also sang at three Iranian schools and provided worship music at the Sunday service of the Community (Christian) Church.73 Although Williamson recognized that the choir’s official mission as conceived by the State Department was distinct from a religious mission, he still considered the tour a form of evangelism: “Religion does not enter into it, although we are expected to live our religion.”74 While the choir was away, the pastor of the Williamsons’ Presbyterian church preached about their tour in similar terms: On this last Sunday of the year, while we worship God in our Princeton churches, the Westminster Choir is far away, bearing witness to our universal Savior in man’s most truly universal language—the language of music. Distributed in small groups through various churches in Singapore, members of the Choir are carrying God’s message of peace and reconciliation through His Son to fellow-Christians of all races and nationalities in one of the world’s most cosmopolitan cities. In the evening they may move on to Kuala Lumpur in Malaya or they may be giving another concert in Singapore—undoubtedly another triumph for their school, their country, and their faith.75

Williamson aimed to demonstrate conspicuously, beyond all doubt, exactly what he believed America and Christianity stood for. At a concert after the group’s return to the United States, he commented that foreign audiences

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all seemed to understand the choir’s message: “And what we were trying to say is that America is a Christian nation, made of people who love the home, who are not interested in jazz, who are not interested in nightclubs, they are interested in things of the home, the things of culture.”76 The Westminster Choir made a point of demonstrating Christian charity throughout its Asian tour; its relatively small donations of equipment and money appear to have cultivated goodwill. In Thailand, for example, the choir presented a new saxophone to the students at a school for the blind and sent $100 contributions to schools for orphans in Thailand and Korea. The U.S. ambassador in Bangkok praised the choir for showing, “far more effectively than words could tell, much of the true spirit of our American people.”77 Williamson also spoke of his evangelical mission to people he met on tour. As the choir left Dumaguete, the Philippines, Williamson offered these parting words to the people who saw him off: “All through the world we are bound by the love of one God, and we of this Choir have been privileged to spread abroad this love. We shall continue to hold you in our thoughts and prayers.”78 A radio commentator who heard Williamson’s message found it deeply moving. He responded to the choir’s message: “We remember their music, and thank God that He has made harmony which even the chaos in this world cannot drown.”79 For Rhea Williamson, ever-present and recording the tour in her diary, the evangelical aspect of the mission was always central. She repeatedly expressed surprise and delight to find that Christian hymns were known and sung abroad (sometimes even in English) and that the Christian religion was being practiced in a recognizable way: “Tonight we attended a midnight communion service at the Methodist church. . . . The church and out-of-door area were packed with hundreds of people—Chinese— Malayans—Indians, British and Americans. It was really thrilling to see table after table of all these different peoples kneeling together at communion.”80 The sense of mutual participation and commonly held values was a vital part of the choir’s activity, and its reliance on widely known sacred musical repertory connected its members with Christians abroad. After a tea given by the Oratorio Society of Hong Kong (directed by Theodore Huang, a Westminster alumnus), the two choirs sang Handel’s “Hallelujah Chorus” together.81 In Kobe, Japan, the choir talked and sang with the Glee Club of the Kwansei Gakuin University, a Christian university. The Glee Club serenaded the American students with “God Be with You ’til We Meet Again,” and the Westminster students responded in kind.82 Setting a high standard for subsequent tours of college students, the Westminster Choir demonstrated a remarkable ability to connect with

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students at Asian universities, especially Christian ones. In Calcutta more than a thousand men and women of college age attended the choir’s concerts.83 The choir attracted a crowd of twenty thousand at an outdoor concert at the University of the Ryukyus, Okinawa.84 In Karachi, Pakistan, the choir met with student groups from all the colleges and universities.85 In Madras, India, the students broke into small groups, each visiting a different college. Singing for and listening to student musicians, discussing educational systems, and answering questions about U.S. foreign policy, the choir found a friendly reception.86 Rhea Williamson recounted another moment of warm mutual interaction in Japan: “Just as we were finishing our dinner at Nikatsu Hotel at about 10:30 we heard singing. We stepped out on the mezzanine and below were members of the Choir of Tokyo, who had entertained us at our reception on the first day. They were teaching our choir members some of their songs. It was really worth all of our time here to see this joyous inter-mingling of these two choirs. . . . They remained for an hour or so. How wonderful!”87 The American Cultural Center in Kobe reported that the Westminster Choir was extremely effective: “This Director has seldom seen Japanese and Americans in such large numbers mix so easily and with so much warmth and feeling. Others said the same thing later, including members of the hotel staff.”88 After the choir’s tour a variety of organizations requested Williamson’s support in developing choral music in their own countries. A wealthy Indian banker planned a visit to the college in hopes of bringing a Westminster graduate back to India. In Karachi a radio broadcasting station requested further support from Westminster to develop Western choral singing in Pakistan.89 Part of Williamson’s mission when his choir toured the United States was to propagate his method of choral directing; his State Department tour allowed him to reach an international constituency who wanted Western choral music, fulfilling both his aim and theirs. Indeed, after their State Department tour the Williamsons were invited back to several Asian countries to give workshops for choral conductors and choirs. They made teaching tours of Japan (1957, 1958, and 1963); the Philippines and Hong Kong (1958 and 1960); Thailand (1958); Taiwan, Malaya, and Korea (1960); and Indonesia (1961). The choral workshops Williamson conducted in Asia were funded primarily by Christian organizations, in combination with government funds from some of the host countries.90 Although these teaching tours were not funded by the State Department, they were well-aligned with the department’s goals. Secretary of State John Foster Dulles identified Asia as particularly susceptible to Soviet influence, and he had long believed that religion was a means to

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engage and inspire people across international boundaries.91 In Japan and Thailand Christians made up less than 1 percent of the population, yet Christian groups were staunchly anti-Communist. Supporting them seemed an important way to build solidarity against Communism. In countries where Christians were a tiny minority, these churches greatly appreciated assistance from abroad. Japanese church musicians wrote numerous letters of gratitude to the Williamsons. These musicians were firmly allied with the Williamsons’ evangelical mission. For example, Dr. Nichio Kozaki, president of New Church Music Institute in Japan, said to the Williamsons at their farewell party in autumn 1957: “we feel very much that we need good music leaders in Japan who are not only talented in music but who have deep Christian spirit and who can make choir members good Christians instead of good singers.”92 Teruko Uraguchi wrote to Williamson after a choral workshop: “We must confess that many of us came to learn human choir techniques, but you have shown us the way of Christian living through music, aliveness, sensitiveness, unselfishness, and being obedient to God. . . . We will try to help our nation sing from its entire being praises unto God, for this will help blend all nations into one perfect and beautiful harmony of praise.”93 Yayonie Hirayama, a participant in the Japanese workshops, told the Williamsons: “You have succeeded in making us feel that the human race is one in God.”94 Williamson’s workshops on sacred music were not an imposition of American Christianity onto foreign peoples. Rather, they shored up an already existing minority, which was created by the missionaries of the past and strengthened in opposition to the Communist threats of the present. Christian repertoire was central to Williamson’s workshops and concerts on his teaching tours. In Hong Kong in 1958 he led a handpicked choir of local singers in choruses from Handel’s Messiah and works of J. S. Bach. In Taiwan he organized a performance of Mendelssohn’s Elijah.95 Wherever he went, Williamson’s church connections allowed him to reach large groups of people. During his stay in the Philippines in 1958, he made contact with some eleven thousand choral singers and conductors. Two years later, the Williamsons returned to the Philippines to teach. Rhea Williamson wrote to friends: “Rejoice with us that every week here in Manila more than a thousand people are growing in Christian service under Westminster influence!”96 In her eyes, both the choral repertory and the personal contacts helped propagate the faith. As she reported in 1961, “In Bangkok 6,500 persons heard the Messiah. I call this evangelism through music as most of the University audiences were Buddhists.”97 Even ostensibly secular concert performances had Christian resonances. Williamson’s 1960 performance of

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the Brahms Requiem with the Festival Choir of Manila began with a choral processional to the Protestant hymn “The Church’s One Foundation”— making the performance seem much more akin to a religious service than a concert.98 As did other American musicians, Williamson featured Negro spirituals in his workshops and concerts abroad. Here again, spirituals served as a valuable tool for engaging foreign singers with markedly American and Christian music. When Williamson served as teacher and guest conductor in Manila in 1960, he led the choir in renditions of “De Gospel Train,” “He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands,” “Ain’t Got Time to Die,” and “Ezekiel Saw the Wheel,” as well as sacred classical music and works arranged by the Filipino composer Antonio Molina.99 In Japan that year Williamson included a set of spirituals and a set of Russian sacred music. He explained to his former student Arthur Kamitsuka that the spirituals were “very definitely classical music, but at the same time it is Christian music.”100 Williamson’s agenda on these teaching tours was not only evangelical but also explicitly anti-Communist. The practical alliance between Christian churches and anti-Communist organizing closely reflected the strategy articulated by John Foster Dulles, and it was particularly evident in Korea and Japan.101 Many feared the Communist infiltration of labor unions in Japan: according to one report, more than four thousand choirs in Japan were directed by Communists and supported a socialist agenda.102 The Ro¯on movement, begun in Osaka in 1949, founded hundreds of choirs in factories and schools, intending to “protect Japanese music from American imperialist thought.” The Communist choral movement was aided by Akiko Seki’s Central Chorus, which won the 1955 Stalin Peace Prize for organizing workers’ choruses on a Soviet model.103 As early as 1954, Williamson received a request from a missionary in Osaka that he come to spend some time with labor unions. The aim of this work would be to present workers with a Christian, anti-Communist alternative to participation in Ro¯on. The missionary cited the Committee for Study of Social Problems of the United Church of Christ in Japan: “it is hoped that the Christian church, through evangelism, education and study, can render great service to the development of a sound labor movement based upon the Christian spirit instead of class struggle.”104 Williamson gladly subscribed to this program. After the initial Asian tour he remarked that Asia comprised “hundreds of choirs directed by Communists, all singing Communist music and working against things worth while [sic].”105 When the Westminster Choir visited Nagoya on its 1956–57 tour, its concert was attended by nine thousand members of Onkyo¯, the management-backed

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musical organization created to compete with the Communist-sponsored Ro¯on.106 Williamson’s presence supported Onkyo¯ and thereby the Christian resistance to Communism in Japan.107 When Williamson returned to Japan to lead workshops in 1957, 1958, and 1960, his work with choirs was explicitly defined as “combating communism among choral groups.”108 On these trips he typically gave seminars to train Christian choral conductors by day, and by evening he taught conducting and choral singing to groups of union workers.109 If Williamson’s own account can be believed, he taught a total of ninety-five hundred Japanese choral conductors during one month in 1957.110 In Chiengmai, Thailand, in 1958, more than seven hundred people attended Williamson’s classes.111 In summer 1958, to extend their reach, the Williamsons made a teaching film used in Japan to train choirs. Because the numbers of students in their courses were unwieldy, Williamson used Westminster graduates resident in Japan to teach as additional faculty: these included Tordis Petersen, Lily Hoshiga Kamitsuka, Naoka Okamura, Koichi Matsuda, and Tetsusaburo Nishimura.112 The case of Tordis Petersen is remarkable: although she began her work in Japan as a choral conductor, she soon left voice teaching to pursue “industrial evangelism,” with the aim of helping workers “gain a Christian rather than a communistic viewpoint.”113 Williamson’s support and that of his students for anti-Communist choirs commingled religion and politics to fulfill U.S. propaganda aims. Williamson’s efforts were not universally welcome. His technique was failing late in his career, and some Japanese critics noted that Japan did not need musical instruction from abroad. “Thinking it’s a good thing to have foreigners come and teach us is a very bad habit of the Japanese. Japan’s choral technique is known throughout the world. There’s no reason to call a 70 or 80 year old man to come teach us!”114 The critics’ disdain of the foreign musician may also have reflected concern about Christian influence from abroad. Yet because missionary groups and the U.S. government shared common interests in combating Communism and protecting Christianity, both would work to ensure a continued flow of ideas and music between the United States and Asia. Religious music did not present a coherent message to audiences abroad: it offered different meanings to different listeners. For Christian and nonChristian audiences alike, the Negro spiritual offered a story of racial uplift, a sense of spiritual depth, and a folksy accessibility. For all these reasons audiences worldwide celebrated the spiritual as America’s own religious music. For the general public the concerts of John Finley Williamson and the Westminster Choir provided entertainment and exposure to U.S. choral

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singing in a manner typical of U.S. cultural presentations. For Christians in Asia, however, Williamson’s concerts, workshops, and church appearances afforded special opportunities to develop their own capacity for religious choral music. Since Christian music-making also attracted members for anti-Communist organizations, Williamson’s coaching supported these groups both politically and musically. The audience for U.S. musical diplomacy was by no means predominantly Christian, yet religious music made an effective connection with the segment of the population who demanded it. The religious content of these cultural presentations and the connections forged with members of religious groups abroad proved to be a significant resource for furthering U.S. propaganda objectives.


The Double-Edged Diplomacy of Popular Music

Whether cultural presentations should enlighten, impress, preach, or entertain remained a key question throughout the Cultural Presentations program’s existence. As we saw in chapter 1, State Department officials and Music Advisory Panels alike demonstrated concern that entertainment music would not convey the necessary impression of cultural depth, and it might even offend some listeners in the host countries. In a hotly contested meeting in 1963, the newly reconstituted Advisory Committee on the Arts “saw no place in the Program for pure entertainment.”1 The committee, formed largely of highly placed people in the high-art world, underscored “the excellence and seriousness of the art forms to be chosen.” As far as the committee was concerned, intellectuals, opinion-makers, and students were still the most important target audiences for musical diplomacy. At the next meeting of the State Department’s Academic and Community Music Advisory Panel, William Revelli, director of bands at the University of Michigan, demanded to know what was meant by “pure entertainment.” Department officials explained that entertainment encompassed variety shows, popular artists, perhaps jazz and musical comedies, all of which had been sent for several years under the program.2 Music Advisory Panelist Peter Mennin, composer and president of the Juilliard School, agreed with the ACA’s assessment. If the United States sends popular music, he complained, “We will entertain, but what will we have done? Nothing.”3 Roy Larsen, vice president of Time, Inc., formally evaluated the Cultural Presentations program in the early 1960s—and he hedged the issue of popular music with care. In the preface to his report Larsen praised the ACA for having “taken every precaution to maintain the highest level of artistic quality in the program.” Yet he also obliquely acknowledged the value of 143


popular music, citing the ACA’s “alert awareness of trends in the growing edges of our culture and in the newer forms of cultural achievement emerging in our national life.”4 The report itself was more direct in recognizing that the point of cultural diplomacy was effective communication. As joint authors of the report, Larsen and Glenn Wolfe recommended continuing the program’s emphasis on reaching elites with high art, but they also acknowledged the growing importance of pleasing youth audiences. They described a conflict between ACA members’ desire to present only the best music and the posts’ demand for “attractions with primarily entertainment, rather than cultural, values.” The report concluded ambiguously that all performances should be first-rate, and that the music’s intrinsic qualities were paramount, but that this principle did not exclude attractions with mass popular appeal.5 Some eight years into the history of the Cultural Presentations program, the purpose and philosophy of the program with respect to popular music were far from clear. The success of jazz was an important factor in the expansion of the program to include more popular music. Yet even advocates for jazz could not all agree that other kinds of popular music should be permitted to represent the United States. The presence of jazz in the Cultural Presentations program bolstered claims that jazz was American art music, so some commentators preferred to separate jazz from popular music. In a 1968 meeting of the Music Advisory Panel’s subcommittee for folk music and jazz, the famous Voice of America radio host Willis Conover expressed the opinion that rock and popular music should be held to high artistic standards and treated selectively: “It should not be presented abroad just because it is happening. We do not send out weeds to show what is happening in a garden.”6 The subcommittee insisted that it was hewing to a high standard, “not approving any [groups] that were commercial or entertainment.” Yet, in practice, the line between art and entertainment was increasingly blurred as Cultural Presentations officials tried to reach broad audiences.7 Those who wanted to use popular music in diplomacy faced a further complication. As the 1960s wore on, a great deal of American popular music—including rock, blues, and folk—was linked to social and political protest, especially protest against the U.S. government. This development did not prevent the State Department from using this music as a tool for diplomacy, but it certainly affected the reception of U.S.-sponsored concerts. The association between popular music genres and protest influenced musicians’ feelings about participating in cultural diplomacy and shaped audiences’ expectations of them, both abroad and at home.


ROCK ’N’ ROLL IN THE CULTURAL PRESENTATIONS PROGRAM Despite the controversy over its inclusion, popular music was part of many Cultural Presentations tours. Some of these programs even included a modest portion of rock ’n’ roll. The Golden Gate Quartet, an African American singing group, toured extensively in the late 1950s with mixed programs. The post in Cairo reported in 1958 that the quartet’s serious numbers and spirituals failed to capture the student audience, but that popular songs and rock ’n’ roll numbers were very successful.8 When the quartet performed in Japan in 1959, most critics were pleased, but a few negative reviews cited its popular style as a deficiency. One critic wrote, “I could detect some unfavorable influences of rock ’n’ roll music. It is not so much to do with their choice of repertoire such as ‘Diana’ and ‘You Are My Destiny’ but with the rhythm, phrasing, and harmony of the way of their singing.”9 State Department officials knew they would have to tread carefully when sponsoring popular music to avoid negative publicity of this kind. Until the late 1960s, rock ’n’ roll was not highlighted as a component of U.S. musical diplomacy; rather, it was presented as a small portion of other kinds of concerts. In 1965, for instance, the University of Michigan Jazz Band performed a single Beatles number, “Hard Day’s Night,” on programs otherwise consisting largely of big band jazz. Rock musicians and their managers routinely contacted the State Department to request the opportunity to tour, but only in the late 1960s, when rock music had become undeniably popular abroad, did the department begin more actively promoting it.10 In 1969 the Millikin University Jazz Band toured the Near East and Portugal as the centerpiece of a multimedia exhibit devised by the USIA entitled “Today’s Music.” On their own initiative USIA officials furnished special lighting, including strobe lights, for the band’s performance. The accompanying exhibit included psychedelic posters and light-box transparencies. The USIA also provided films for showing in posts and on television, books to exhibit and lend, and recordings for demonstration in listening sessions and on the radio.11 To ensure the public’s interest and understanding, the USIA offered the embassies sample lectures and articles about the music.12 All of this careful preparation paid off: U.S. officials in Beirut found the exhibit so useful that they requested its return for a second run. The entertainment purpose of the exhibit was explicitly acknowledged: “this packaged program gives the post the means to attract that much larger audience which appreciates music as a diversion.”13 The U.S. embassy in


Tehran reported that the light show and the exhibit appeared to provide “an atmosphere of ‘with-it’ contemporaneity.”14 A critic in the Greek press agreed. For the rock numbers, he explained, “the young musicians were playing in an apotheosis of light effects. These are due to a film projected upon them, made of abstract shapes and colored spots originating from or diluting into hazes, or shapes changing with vertiginous speed, all forms and figures put together so as to move in a particularly rhythmic fashion. This was a new experience and one that we shall not forget quickly.”15 Like many jazz bands at the time, the Millikin band played in the tight, bright Stan Kenton style, with ensemble playing as a great strength and improvisational solos as a relative weakness.16 At the department’s request the group included two pull-out combos: one focusing on popular songs and one on rock and soul. The rock and soul combo played Steve Winwood’s “Mr. Fantasy” and Steve Miller’s “Junior Saw It Happen,” as well as some of its own arrangements. The pop combo played arrangements of Jimmy Van Heusen’s “Nancy (with the Laughing Face),” Burt Bacharach’s “The Look of Love,” and Johnny Mandel’s “The Shadow of Your Smile.”17 Although rock and pop music were only a small part of the band’s overall program, the USIA exhibit highlighted these items as novelties. Meanwhile, the players took themselves seriously as purveyors of jazz, and some had mixed feelings about the request that they perform popular music. According to a State Department observer, “one or two individual musicians complained that they were being forced to play music they did not like.” Jazz musicians typically avoided the kind of trappings that the USIA had provided, and the band resented the use of lights during performances because it “detracted from their music.”18 The State Department laid out strict ground rules for the rock performances. The combos were not permitted to perform at events where they would serve as background music: they had to be presented in a concert format.19 Furthermore, the director of the Cultural Presentations program, Thomas Huff, notified posts in a vehement memo that “the Band may not repeat not play for dancing under any circumstances whatsoever. This is a policy of the Department to which there are no repeat no exceptions.”20 It is intriguing that the effort to attract youth came with such severe restrictions on how the music was to be used. The ban on dancing was likely a matter of crowd control (backed by a police presence in Istanbul, for instance), as well as an attempt to protect the status of the music as American art. Despite these firmly stated rules, Alma Schueler, the director’s wife, recalled that people did sometimes dance in the aisles during the Millikin band’s concerts.21


Confusion arose among the posts about the nature of the band, in part because of the connection with the Today’s Music exhibit. The rock combo, drawn from the members of the jazz band, prepared a thirty-five-minute set that could be played as part of the jazz concert. The embassy staff in Greece misunderstood: they planned for the group to play a full rock concert and promoted the concert as such. In a telegram to Athens the State Department had indicated that the band’s two combos could play in two separate places at once, but this plan was impossible: some of the same people were members of both combos, and the band had brought only one set of drums. Because each combo had prepared only a short set of musical selections, neither could successfully present an entire concert on its own.22 As a result, the U.S. embassy in Athens had to cancel one of the concerts it had planned, leaving embassy officials looking disorganized and foolish.23 In Cyprus the conflict over the rock portion of the program became heated. The CAO, Barry Jacobs, refused to program the entire jazz band. Instead, he scheduled two full rock concerts.24 Escort officer Harry Hirsch, who was traveling with the band, noted that personal taste determined the CAO’s behavior: “it seemed to me and others that he only wanted to satisfy his own interests and those of his friends.” By contrast, the post reported that jazz held little interest for the people of Cyprus and that the emphasis on popular music was an attempt to maximize audience appeal.25 To meet its promised obligations in Cyprus, the band held extra rehearsals to prepare two one-hour rock programs, to be presented on successive nights. As a result of the extra effort, the lead singer lost his voice. According to Roger Schueler, the director of the Millikin group, Jacobs also “announced that anyone could dance during the performance,” even though Hirsch had reminded Jacobs that it was against State Department policy to do so. When Schueler told the rock combo to stop playing if people danced, Jacobs spread the word that Schueler was “against rock music.”26 As in the case of jazz performances, the jazz and rock offered by the Millikin University Jazz Band allowed for participation by local musicians, both at concerts and in informal settings. A Turkish drummer, Durul Gence, invited Al Smith, the drummer for the Millikin jazz band, to play with his ensemble. Gence admired the interplay between the percussionists in the American band and claims that it inspired his recording of “S¸eyh S¸amil.”27 Both the sense of participation and the relative novelty of the jazz, rock, and pop offerings appear to have made a deep impression on some audiences. In Ankara the conservatory faculty refused to attend the band’s performance because the music was beneath their stature, but the students were enthralled. The PAO at the U.S. embassy wrote: “We have started a minor


revolt in that conservatory students, upon hearing the band and learning the ages of its members, began complaining that the ancient European methods by which they are taught will never qualify them to play as well. They are right. Moss hangs over the entrance of Ankara Conservatory.”28 Schueler’s lecture-demonstration on jazz performance techniques at the Ankara conservatory also generated great interest among the students there, just as Marshall Stearns’s lecture had in 1956.29 The rock music was not a success everywhere. In Isfahan, Iran, the audience, consisting of about half of the students, appeared to be more at ease with big-band numbers than with the rock combo.30 In Nicosia, Cyprus, the embassy reported hearing comments from several audience members to the effect that “although I’m not sure I understand the [rock] music, I was amazed by the virtuosity and obvious professionalism of the boys.”31 The department’s final report on the tour noted that “Rock-and-roll, like modern jazz, takes some studying, and not quite everyone was in tune with the up-to-the-minute developments that the Millikin musicmakers demonstrated.”32 The Millikin group was a compromise. Some posts thought that their music was slightly out of date, lacking the relevance or appeal of a group specializing in rock. At the same time, the rock combo’s novelty also challenged some audiences. The band was praised by its congressman and its escort officer alike for being “neither rebellious nor untidy,” counteracting the prevailing impression of American youth as unruly hippies.33 Although they presented some rock music, they did not represent the countercultural image associated with the genre. In combination with the Today’s Music exhibit, the Millikin University Jazz Band’s performances succeeded in constructing an image of the United States that was musically new and appealing to youth but far from radical.

BLUES IN THE CULTURAL PRESENTATIONS PROGRAM Starting in 1967, Chicago blues artists Junior Wells and Buddy Guy traveled for the Cultural Presentations program: Wells to Africa from 1967 to 1968 and Asia in 1969, and Guy to Africa in 1969. Although Mennin and the Music Advisory Panel refused to select performers specifically for their entertainment value, these blues musicians were simultaneously virtuoso artists and entertainers. Blues was an African-derived genre of American music known for its soulful qualities, but it was also the foundation for most of American popular music and rock ’n’ roll. The heterogeneity of the genre meant that it would carry different meanings for different audiences.


Some listeners were excited by the pan-African solidarity implied by the return of the blues to Africa.34 For others the blues was an unfamiliar genre that took time to appreciate. In Manila, where audiences were accustomed to Western classical music, the blues did not win them over. There, an embassy official reported irritably that the Junior Wells band was “just a nightclub act” and that the promotion of jazz and popular music abroad seemed “superfluous.”35 Like jazz musicians who had toured before them, Wells and Guy frequently played together with local musicians in spontaneous situations and on occasions appeared in programs arranged by the embassies. In Taipei, Wells held a tutorial and workshop with fifty players from the local Harmonica Association. Guy held impromptu jam sessions with Zambian musicians in nightclubs throughout his stay there.36 In Tananarive, Madagascar, Guy’s band introduced the new Selmer Varitone, an electronic amplifier, to local musicians, and gave them pointers on blues rhythms and guitar techniques. “These cats have really got it!”—he announced at the end of the rehearsal.37 These were tried-and-true strategies for musical diplomacy. Yet from the blues tradition these musicians also brought with them a particular kind of performance that resonated with audiences: they worked very hard to entertain.38 They habitually left the stage to walk through the crowds of listeners, shaking hands or dancing with dozens or hundreds of audience members.39 Evidently Huff’s dictum about dancing was not in force for these concerts, because the musicians encouraged full audience participation, including dancing. The blues bands even taught the audience how to participate. The U.S. embassy in Laos hired a Lao emcee who explained to the audience how much Wells’s band liked applause, foot-tapping, and dancing in the aisles. The emcee encouraged the audience, which was almost entirely ethnically Lao, to become demonstrative: “The audiences loved it. Dance in the aisles they did, and they whooped and they hollered, they stood on tables and chairs and bicycles and each other’s shoulders to see better, and they screamed with delight when the musicians not anchored to amplifiers came down among them. They crowded for autographs, and they wanted the band to stay forever.”40 The change in Asian audiences’ typical behavior was noted by the press in some host countries: in Hong Kong the South China Morning Post explained that Wells’s band “whipped up an audience response that shattered the myth of the conservatism of Hong Kong audiences forever.”41 Audiences did not respond this way everywhere—in Vietnam they gave Wells decorous, silent attention—but in many places they responded to the musicians’ encouragement with demonstrative enthusiasm.42


Many audiences, unfamiliar with the blues, needed this encouragement. Apart from the sheer novelty of the music, Guy’s and Wells’s bands were sometimes erroneously publicized as “soul” groups, leading to false audience expectations about the kind of music they would hear. In Nairobi, for instance, listeners “were puzzled into silence” during the first blues number. As the post reported it, “Buddy pulled off the most incredible little lecture ever. Both talking and singing, with long soulful screams as punctuation, Buddy ‘laid his axe’ on them, letting them know what blues were about.” Observers felt that Guy’s lectures “at least partially converted” African listeners, although they tended to continue to prefer soul.43 For audiences that simply refused to respond to blues, he changed the program on the spot, sticking to driving numbers and those that would be recognizable to listeners, guaranteeing some kind of response.44 Guy was praised by diplomats for his sensitivity in reading audiences. As Guy himself put it, “We watch the boys and girls, trying different things. When we see we’ve gotten inside them, we turn it on a little harder, and then they’re right there joining up with us.”45 In many cases the musicians’ ability to adapt their programs and the flamboyantly entertaining nature of the act were enough to win over the audience by the end of a performance.46 The excitement of the programs and the encouragement of active audience participation meant that occasionally audiences did get out of control. Sometimes it was a matter of sheer enthusiasm: in Kinshasa the crush for autographs at intermission was reportedly so terrifying that security guards rushed the band into cars after the concert so that they could get out of the hall safely.47 At other times audience unruliness seemed to be linked to other kinds of social unrest. A concert following a big soccer game in Kenya descended into a mob scene, possibly more because of the sporting event than because of the music. The embassy’s chargé d’affaires reported: “Not seconds after the first number started, the front rows broke and started dancing in the tiny space in front of the stage. At the end of the number, the dancers had swelled their number and with fists raised were shouting ‘Black Power.’ It would have been very difficult to find one person in this mob who had the faintest glimmering of what he was saying. Buddy’s an American Black and American Blacks said things like ‘Black Power.’ The frenzy they were creating actually had little to do with race, and less to do with Buddy.”48 At first Guy tried to continue, asking the people to listen to the music, but it soon became apparent that even the police could not keep the crowd off the stage, and the show was closed down. As the chargé’s account is so openly disparaging of the crowd’s understanding, it is difficult to judge its accuracy, or to discern the crowd’s


motives. It does seem apparent, however, that the excitement intentionally cultivated by the blues performers had the potential to electrify audiences in precisely the way the department had feared when it issued its directive against dancing. Both Guy and Wells were praised for their genteel diplomatic interactions offstage. They and the members of their bands were patient during long interviews. They voluntarily visited and donated to charities for the disabled, and they offered themselves for conversations and photo sessions whenever that might ingratiate them with the publics in their host countries. They also proved to be careful commentators, much as Anderson and Armstrong had been before them. When a Tanzanian interviewer attempted to persuade Guy to claim that white musicians could not play jazz, Guy continued to insist that race had nothing to do with it: all people, regardless of race, could learn to read and write, and all could learn to play jazz.49 Guy’s remarks about civil rights made over the radio in Mauritius seemed to U.S. officials “on the whole constructive and useful”—and not at all incendiary.50 Wells was equally diplomatic during his Asian tour, both in his determination to gratify audiences and his refusal to criticize his home country. Indeed, the musicians’ attitude struck some as too good to be true: “one Indonesian student organizer thought the Wells group was too cooperative, too willing to please, too accommodating to be true to the musical styles of their race.”51 Long associated with complaint about the status quo, the blues implicitly embodied protest, and audiences expected some form of dissent from blues musicians. For those thoughtful audience members who were familiar with the sordid history of race discrimination in the United States, it was jarring to hear U.S. popular musicians speak so graciously of their lives and their country. Guy understood. In a Ugandan interview, he attempted to clarify the connection between African American music and sorrow, emphasizing that people who sing the blues are not necessarily unhappy. “If [while I am performing] I say ‘I am so sad and I want to die,’ I am singing the words of the composer. I don’t know whether the composers are expressing their inner self.”52 Guy’s and Wells’s reluctance to speak out on issues of racism and decolonization, along with their obvious cooperation with their government, made a few listeners noticeably uncomfortable. Most were too busy enjoying the music to care—a Madagascar newspaper described “near riots” of excitement at Guy’s concert there. Yet some members of a political group denounced Guy and the members of his band before their arrival as “vazaha mainty” (Uncle Toms) for catering to their government’s wishes. The post was pleased to report that even these listeners “were observed crying for


more” after the concert.53 Likewise, in Dar es Salaam, the music’s popularity appears to have eclipsed any qualms about the political affiliations of the band. After the concert teenagers swarmed the city looking for records and tapes, and the embassy reported that “even the resident Black Panthers have had to admit that Buddy Guy is great, no matter whose auspices he travels under.”54 The hopes of a few intellectuals that Guy’s and Wells’s performances would represent an assertion of black power seem different from the standard criticisms of American musical ensembles that routinely appeared in the Communist press. (In Hong Kong Wells’s band was referred to in a Communist newspaper as capitalist trash, the “illegitimate offspring of Negro music and ‘art’ of modern capitalist cities,” music made solely for the benefit of a leisure class.)55 When Indonesian and East African observers criticized American blues bands for failing to take a more aggressive political stand, their position was not motivated primarily by socialist derision against the United States. Rather, they hoped that the black musicians, already obviously empowered by significant wealth, education, and social status, would ally themselves more fully with the emerging movements of people of color throughout the world. Guy was sympathetic in principle. He later recalled that “I thought I knew poor before, but African poor was on a deeper level,” and he requested that a diplomat allow his driver to come inside to escape the heat.56 Although Guy saw and commented on the political implications of class and racial discrimination, he did not use his role in the activist manner that some audience members had envisioned. Thus, although blues concerts generated tremendous musical interest, the reputation of the genre also led some audience members to expect serious social protest from the musicians. Acutely aware of their diplomatic mission, the musicians did their best to please their audiences without becoming embroiled in regional politics.

FOLK MUSIC IN THE CULTURAL PRESENTATIONS PROGRAM Folk music played a small but significant role in the Cultural Presentations program. Touring in 1956, Tom Two Arrows (Thomas J. Dorsey; see cover photo) presented American Indian folk culture through visual art, song, dance, and participatory games. The U.S. embassy in Taipei reported that the participatory nature of his programs set up a “hilarious and friendly atmosphere”: audiences were encouraged to play the games and dance along with Dorsey. Conditioned by Hollywood movies, audiences were


allowed to revel in their stereotypes of American Indians. In Malaya, “Indian dress contests” were held, with the winner receiving autographed pictures of Tom Two Arrows or a porcupine quill mounted on an autographed certificate.57 Several U.S. officials noticed that Dorsey’s charming sincerity in representing the nation helpfully reinforced the idea that the United States respected members of ethnic minority groups. That Dorsey’s wife accompanied him also allowed witnesses to observe that mixed-race marriages were acceptable in America.58 Dorsey’s program was folkloric and aimed at authenticity, focusing in particular on the arts of the Iroquois people. In a similar vein the State Department sent Jimmy Driftwood in 1968 to represent Anglo-American folklore of the Ozark Mountains. Driftwood, a former schoolteacher, sang and discussed his instruments in a lecture-demonstration format.59 Some diplomatic posts were highly satisfied with Driftwood’s “homespun sincerity.”60 Others, however, found that their audiences were not interested in folklore as such. Rather, they were expecting something more along the lines of Bob Dylan or Joan Baez, conveying some folk sensibility in the stylized format of folk-rock. An embassy official in Manila reported that Driftwood was behind the times. As was the case for American youth, “for most Filipino youth the singing guitarist is a symbol of rebellion against the phoney.” By contrast, Driftwood seemed “corny, amateurish, disorganized, dull, unintelligible.” Likely out of ignorance rather than any wish to offend, Driftwood performed “Filipino Baby,” a racist song that would be remembered with distaste in Manila. The embassy concluded that although Driftwood was able to represent one aspect of American culture, his perspective was too limited, his outlook “too local to be shared.”61 He seemed a curiosity or a relic rather than an ambassador. Likewise, the post in Port of Spain, Trinidad, reported that another sponsored folkloric group, the Beers Family Trio, was “difficult to present and explain to the general public.” Specializing in Scottish and Irish traditional music, the trio did not come across well in large venues without amplification because the psaltery and their other traditional instruments were too quiet.62 Still, many posts reported that audiences showed enthusiasm and respect for the skill of the performers. Perhaps in this case the diplomats underestimated audiences’ esteem for folk music. The State Department did choose some performers who more explicitly represented the trend of performing folk music as a kind of popular song. The Phoenix Singers toured for the department throughout the 1960s. When they visited Egypt for the Cultural Presentations program in 1966, accompanied by two guitarists, they even outshone the Woody Herman


jazz band in a joint performance. Embassy staff in many places declared that they were one of the most effective attractions the State Department had sent.63 These three African American singers, all Juilliard-trained, were extremely versatile professional performers. Two had prior experience on foreign tours: Ned Wright, the group’s founder, had toured worldwide with Porgy and Bess from 1951 to 1956; and Ray Thompson had toured with the Jubilee Singers under department sponsorship.64 All three of the Phoenix Singers had also sung with Harry Belafonte, whose repertoire was broad by design, encompassing traditional songs from many places and popular songs representing a variety of peoples—“Day-O” side by side with “Scarlet Ribbons,” “Hava Nagila” with “Danny Boy.” Belafonte in turn had adopted this international program design from Paul Robeson, whose motivation for these programs was explicitly political: Robeson aimed to break boundaries of national genre and display the music of the world’s peoples as a model of peaceful socialist internationalism.65 Belafonte used the international folk program to agitate for civil rights and to help build a sense of sympathy with his audiences, singing the songs of others to demonstrate appreciation for their traditions.66 Whereas Belafonte’s personal politics were more moderate, Robeson had had his passport revoked by the State Department because of his long-professed socialist beliefs and his connections to the Soviet Union. Given the origins of this style of program, one might be surprised by its use in U.S. diplomacy. Yet there was no denying its popularity: by the end of the 1950s Belafonte was a media star. Belafonte himself was considered for a Cultural Presentations tour on at least one occasion, but because he was already touring internationally, he did not need the department’s sponsorship. Whether his history as a commentator on civil rights also played a role in the department’s decision not to invite him to tour is unknown.67 The Phoenix Singers built their reputation on the Hootenanny circuit in the early 1960s.68 They adopted some songs from Belafonte, such as “Cotton Fields,” “Waly Waly,” “Waltzing Matilda,” and “Lovely Choucoune,” and they sang some songs in the Caribbean style that Belafonte helped popularize in the United States. They also chose songs representing the experience of manual laborers, such as “The Man That Built the Bridges,” “Cotton Picking Song,” and a chain gang song, “Little Rosie.” They typically included some spirituals on each program (“Unclouded Day,” “Didn’t It Rain”), as well as sentimental popular tunes, such as “Goodnight Irene,” which were often presented as sing-alongs.69 This model of “folk” performance differed significantly from Jimmy Driftwood’s or Thomas Dorsey’s. Self-consciously international, it presented America as ethnically and musically diverse, open to


influences from outside its borders. That the Phoenix Singers were obviously trained professionals putting on a polished show allowed U.S. diplomats to rest easy about the question of quality. Though the music was identified as folk music, there was nothing of the amateur tradition in their performances. The U.S. embassy in Tegucigalpa explained that the Phoenix Singers “presented local audiences with living proof that the United States has a rich and varied folk music tradition together with the professional musicians capable of interpreting it.”70 Folksingers Bill Crofut and Steve Addiss, too, preferred the heterogeneous folk practice that became popular in the 1960s. Rather than focusing on the music of a single American folk tradition, they followed the model of Pete Seeger, who selected songs of many ethnic origins, creating a hodgepodge of styles that nonetheless conveyed unswerving support for leftist political causes and unionization. (Seeger, too, was inspired by Robeson.)71 That the chosen music was a popularization of folk style, rather than an adoption of traditional folk practice, disturbed some who studied folk song primarily to preserve it. Pete Seeger’s half-brother Mike Seeger, who was committed to performing the traditional music of the American South, was dismayed at the diversity of these programs, as they did not authentically represent any aspect of American folk culture. When Mike Seeger was asked to evaluate Crofut for a possible tour, he wrote that Crofut “does not in any way represent folk music and do not suggest that he be represented as such.”72 Despite the leftist implications of the popularized folk style, it offered some clear advantages for the State Department. The diplomats who witnessed Addiss and Crofut in Southeast Asia in 1965 reported that their programs featured a casual display of diversity in the sources of American music. Since most of the audiences were ethnically mixed, too, this seemed an effective means of conveying America’s desire for tolerance and mutual understanding.73 By 1966 the department was actively seeking performers of this kind. Officials had begun to visit collegiate jazz festivals to search for talented young jazz musicians to send abroad, but there was not yet a comparable means of finding folk artists. The Music Advisory Panel acknowledged that part of the problem was the countercultural agenda of the folk revival movement. University administrations that had grudgingly hosted jazz festivals would not necessarily want folk festivals, since, as panel member Louis Wersen put it, “folk-singers are usually protesting against one thing or another.”74 It is striking that the State Department did not shy away from using folksingers from this tradition. During 1960 and 1961 Crofut toured widely in Asia, sponsored by the Cultural Presentations program. He brought in Addiss as a singing partner


Figure 14. Steve Addiss and Bill Crofut perform in Vietnam, 1964. Courtesy of Susie Crofut.

during that tour, and from December 1964 to February 1965 Addiss and Crofut, with Crofut’s wife, Susie, and their infant daughter, toured Vietnam (figure 14), Laos, Malaysia, Thailand, Kenya, Somalia, and the Seychelles Islands. Tours to India and Europe came later. Their practice of diplomacy matched the vision of inclusive mutuality cultivated by their predecessors in the folk-revival movement. Young, enthusiastic, flexible, and energetic, they would “arrive at noon and play a song of that country, learned that day in that language, at a concert in the evening.”75 As they traveled, Addiss and Crofut sought out local musicians and learned from them a large repertory of songs, which they then used to enrich their subsequent programs. They had no illusions that their performances of just-learned music were of uniformly high quality. In Somalia they sang local music as a way of making amends for having taken photographs without permission. Crofut wrote: “They were pleased at our effort to sing one of their songs. I say effort because that’s what it was. Their music is very complex and difficult and we must have butchered it. Nevertheless, our effort symbolized an attempted apology for our error.”76 In India they ended their programs with the Hindu hymn, “Raghupati Raghava Raja Ram,” known as a favorite of Mahatma Gandhi. A local newspaper reported that the hymn was


“beautifully rendered on the banjo.”77 They asked translators, local officials, and local musicians to help them find and connect with audiences, and they asked the musicians to share the stage with them whenever possible. In Vietnam they found the citizenry “isolated, suspicious, and harassed from all sides.” They relied on Pham Duy, whom Crofut called the “Vietnamese Woody Guthrie,” to teach them repertory and help smooth over relations as they traveled and performed.78 Addiss and Crofut worked hard to understand the music they encountered abroad. During their first tour of Vietnam Addiss began a years-long study of the dan-tranh, a sixteen-string Vietnamese harp, and he later published scholarly articles about Vietnamese music. After their tour Addiss returned to Vietnam again and again, soon taking up doctoral work and eventually becoming a noted historian of Asian art. On their return from Asia in 1965, they helped their Vietnamese colleague, Pham Duy, put together an album of ethnographic recordings of Vietnamese performers entitled Music of Vietnam: Tribal Music of the Highland People, Traditional Music, Folksongs. Addiss wrote notes for the album sleeve. Issued in October of that year by Folkways, the collection attracted significant critical attention, not least because Vietnam had become a hot topic, and there was little Vietnamese music available in the United States. It sold well enough to be rereleased in 1966 and remains in circulation today.79 The friendship with Pham Duy was long-standing, too. In part out of a concern that Vietnamese traditions were being disrupted by war, Addiss returned to South Vietnam to tour with Pham Duy, performing music from all regions of the country. Pham Duy fled to the United States when Saigon fell, and he toured with Addiss and Crofut in the 1970s to support himself and his family.80 Addiss and Crofut remained faithful to Pete Seeger’s activist tradition. Throughout their tours they sang protest songs such as “Winnsboro Cotton Mill Blues,” civil rights songs, and Pham Duy’s “Rain on the Leaves,” a war protest song.81 Their performances, which tended to be informal, included conversations about each song’s meaning. Most embassy officials did not object to their frankness. Indeed, Addiss and Crofut believed that establishing a “certain level of honesty” was necessary to their work.82 In Southeast Asia, where Communists and anti-Communists were in constant conflict, they chose their words circumspectly, even as they sang songs that reflected a critical viewpoint. They explained to the American press that their goal was “giving Asians a different picture of Americans. We don’t want to get involved in any power struggles or to get their listeners involved in them.”83 Crofut told the New York Times that “we won’t talk politics. We


are not qualified. . . . All we know is what we read in the New York Times.”84 Yet in many places their mere presence was unavoidably political. In Kimilili, Kenya, they visited the Kamusinga School soon after a student strike. Crofut recalled that the British staff hoped that the visit would distract the students from their grievances. Instead, Addiss and Crofut sang “more than the normal amount of protest songs.” They compared student protest in Kenya to the civil rights struggle in the United States and led the audience in singing “We Shall Overcome.” From Crofut’s viewpoint it seemed as though the students experienced some catharsis in airing their concerns, and the performance “calmed the waters.”85 In Burma their host, U Kyin Oo, set up a performance for them in a Communist school. At first Crofut demurred, but U Kyin Oo handed him a pamphlet, saying, “Read this, and you will know why I want you to play there.” The pamphlet portrayed Americans as “monsters obsessed with sinful intent to conquer the world.” After visiting the school, Crofut realized that he, too, had been a “victim of propaganda.” The children were warm and welcoming, and it was easy to relate to them. He saw the program’s purpose as giving everyone a good time and a “nonpolitical view of America as seen through its music”—but he knew that his presence implicitly refuted the idea that Americans were monstrous and that this human connection was itself important political work.86 Addiss recalls that throughout the decolonizing world, he and Crofut met people who related to white people only within a dynamic of superiority and inferiority. Colonial governments, missionaries, and doctors from aid organizations carried more authority than did local people. Addiss and Crofut believed their work would be both more fun and more successful as an “even exchange.” They enjoyed learning from people they met, and that learning also built sympathetic and respectful relationships.87 Though Addiss and Crofut sang in many countries, their visit to Vietnam was consistently singled out in the press and in State Department reports. Published accounts emphasized the personal danger the singers faced— with gunfire and shelling a constant presence—as well as the picturesque modes of transportation necessary to reach their destinations (elephant, Jeep, water buffalo, dugout canoe).88 Soon after their return, when Addiss and Crofut were invited to play for President Johnson at the White House, the Washington Post mentioned only their work in Vietnam, not any of their other destinations.89 Throughout their travels within the United States the musicians told their fellow Americans about their experiences in villages, hospitals, and schools as a form of genuine engagement with the Vietnamese people—yet Crofut reported that their words were “invariably


interpreted in a way that led people to believe we were very pro-government.”90 Assistant Secretary of State for Educational and Cultural Affairs Charles Frankel wrote in a memoir that folksingers effectively brought the Cultural Presentations program to the attention of the American people and the president.91 Indeed, the publicity for Addiss and Crofut may well have been responsible for the State Department’s decision to send the Phoenix Singers to Vietnam two years later, in 1967.92 President Johnson’s approval did Addiss and Crofut no favors with the activist left in the United States. In a critique of the U.S. government’s handling of Vietnam the American adventurer-journalist Hilaire du Berrier criticized Crofut’s statement that “all we know is what we read in the New York Times” as promoting helpless neutralism and demonstrating a lack of commitment to U.S. victory. Instead, Berrier claimed, the singers should have been directly encouraging the Vietnamese to warn and assist U.S. military officers.93 On the other side of the political spectrum, in the folksong community, any association with the U.S. government was becoming suspect. The magazine Sing Out! took increasingly vehement positions against U.S. involvement in Vietnam during this period. Regular columnist Irwin Silber cited the “sense of despair and shame that I feel, as an American, at the actions of my government in Vietnam” and denounced Addiss and Crofut for playing there: Two friends of mine, with the best intentions in the world, are currently singing in South Vietnam under the auspices of the United States government and the Vietnamese military dictatorship. They believe that they are doing good and that, in essence, their work is “above politics.” But their folk songs of love and brotherhood are being echoed by the bombs dropped by our planes on North Vietnam. Steve, Bill—and the rest of us who can walk through this life untouched by such horrors— now, indeed, is the time for your tears. I hope, too, it is soon time for your anger!94

A reviewer of Crofut’s 1968 memoir pointed to the “curious moral aloofness” that Crofut displayed and noted that it was a characteristic of those who “learn folk songs as showbiz rather than protest.”95 In this reviewer’s eyes, the choice to take part in U.S. foreign policy in any way was damning and suggestive of unacceptable moral compromise. This line of criticism remained current for years within folk-song circles. The owner of a club where Addiss and Crofut were to sing in Greenwich Village advertised the performances with posters of their meeting with President Johnson. Crofut recalled that “for the first week the club was virtually empty”—presumably because the association with Johnson was off-putting to the folk-song


audience.96 Still, it is important to note that Addiss and Crofut’s tour in Vietnam had been planned and largely executed before U.S. involvement in Vietnam was fully known to the public and certainly before public opinion had coalesced into a clear and vocal antiwar movement. With respect to the Vietnam War, the criticism of Addiss and Crofut was a retrospective casting of blame.97 Because some of the American folk-music audience expected antiwar protest, though, Addiss and Crofut were vulnerable to criticism of this kind. At the same time, folk music was becoming mainstream, and much of the American public continued to appreciate their songs. When they played in the American heartland, their association with the government was an asset, not a liability.98 Crofut readily acknowledged in his memoir that his perspective on U.S. military involvement in Asia was changing over time. Though he had believed his time in Vietnam was well spent, he was not eager to go again. He also thought that the criticism of his actions by the folk-music revivalists was simplistic: the problems Vietnam faced were complex, and he liked the idea of staying engaged and quietly working toward long-term solutions.99 He believed that folk singers in the United States were capitalizing on public outcry about U.S. involvement in Vietnam, saying “the accepted things” that “folk audiences wanted to hear”—which supported sweeping generalizations about withdrawal from Vietnam but not the kinds of engagement he had found meaningful in his experiences there.100 Addiss, too, found that when Americans heard he’d been to Vietnam, they were more likely to tell him their own opinions than to ask him what he had learned there.101 For Crofut the experience of making music with others and the personal connections built were at the forefront of his experience. Only after his work was debated at home, and as U.S. involvement was deepening, did he reconsider his role, admitting that his view from the ground was only a partial one: “It may be that entertainers shepherded around Vietnam by high-ranking government officials cannot and should not try to assess such a complex political and military situation, and it may be that when you work yourself half to death and get shot at you have to believe in what you’re doing just as a mother whose son is killed in Vietnam has to believe in what he died for.”102 By 1968 Crofut was able to see it both ways: his musical diplomacy made genuine connections with individuals and increased their regard for America, but at the same time, it supported the American involvement in Vietnam that he recognized as troubling. He still respected the work he had seen on the part of American diplomats and military men, who were trying hard to convince the Vietnamese to support


the anti-Communist mission. In Crofut’s words, “I desperately wanted to believe that what America was doing would work. The convictions I held came from close association with people I trusted and respected, many of them high-ranking government officials.”103 Because he had seen successes on the ground, Crofut continued to call for more U.S. government investment in cultural efforts.104 A major theme of his 1968 memoir was that sending Americans to engage musically with people elsewhere “gave a new dimension to our foreign policy . . . based on the promise that our system of government has spiritual advantages which equal and hopefully surpass our military and material strength.”105 Crofut continued to tour on behalf of the State Department, sometimes with Addiss and sometimes alone, as well as continuing his performing career in the United States. In 1975 he toured to “hot spots” in Portugal and was scheduled to go to Spain. But in late September 1975, just before Crofut was scheduled to arrive in Spain, the regime of Spanish dictator Francisco Franco executed five Basques as terrorists after a summary court martial— that is, in rapid secret trials with no protection for the defendants against coercion or torture. These executions triggered widespread protests in Europe.106 The U.S. government was supporting the Spanish government in exchange for Spain’s allowing U.S. military airbases there, so it did nothing. Crofut, whose experiences after his tour in Vietnam surely shaped his decision, cancelled his Spanish appearances in protest.107 According to Susie Crofut, even with the political turmoil, it was hard for Crofut to turn his back on the tour. Crofut was not finished with the State Department: he would tour once more to Greece, Austria, Hungary, Romania, and Yugoslavia in 1978. A letter he wrote to Beverly Gerstein, a program planning officer in the Cultural Presentations division, described his continuing appreciation for the work of CAOs and PAOs in the field.108

BLOOD, SWEAT AND TEARS As we have seen, blues and popular folk singing encouraged audiences to expect a certain amount of political engagement from American popular music. Behind the Iron Curtain those expectations were much stronger. In 1970 the rock group Blood, Sweat and Tears (BS&T) traveled to Romania, Yugoslavia, and Poland.109 By contrast to the well-behaved Millikin students, the members of BS&T made unlikely ambassadors. To include them in its program, the State Department had to make political allowances. The lead singer, David Clayton-Thomas, was a Canadian citizen and outspoken against U.S. foreign policy. He wore a purple sweatshirt with a peace sign


on it to the State Department’s reception for the band. Clayton-Thomas told the press, “I’ve seen hatred and racism, and I’ll tell that no matter where I go.”110 Likewise, guitarist Steve Katz refused to attend the reception for political reasons. Katz emphasized to the press that his presence on the tour was not intended as an endorsement of anything the government did and that he was only going because he was part of the band.111 The band members’ openly derisive comments regarding the U.S. government were covered widely in the press, and they sparked protest.112 One citizen wrote to the wife of Assistant Secretary of State for Educational and Cultural Affairs John Richardson Jr.: “I think you and your husband should have your head examined for sending this anti American group over to Europe. They’re not even American citizens and they hate this country, and your patriotism is suspect.”113 Some thirty members of Congress received protest letters from constituents and forwarded these concerns to the State Department.114 Citing BS&T’s criticism of the United States, Iowa congressman William Scherle expressed outrage at the expenditure of Federal money to send dissidents to the Iron Curtain countries: “There is no excuse for this country’s subsidizing the travel and derisive drivel of an alien who was selected to represent the United States ostentatiously in three captive nations.”115 The department defended BS&T as it had many other ensembles, emphasizing the training and qualifications of the musicians: “Two of the band have Master’s Degrees in Music. Others have done graduate work in music at such schools as Juilliard and the Manhattan School of Music.”116 State Department spokesman John F. King was quoted as saying “we feel they have something of the spirit of America to communicate and we are glad they are participating in our program.”117 Richardson and his staff produced a draft statement for use in press conferences, marked “only if asked”: “I do not question the right of anyone to express his own views on public issues in this country, however much those views may differ from mine. We explain to performing artists under this program, however, that they will be seen in other countries as representatives of our culture and society, offstage as well as onstage, and that they should be guided accordingly.”118 Clearly, officials felt some pressure about the choice of BS&T as a cultural presentation. David Clayton-Thomas explained in a much later memoir that Steve Katz wanted to refuse the tour, as it would cost the band credibility with the “underground press.” Perhaps as an effort to reclaim that credibility, Clayton-Thomas later wrote that the State Department coerced the band into touring. As he told it, the department’s “bullshit plan” was that he had to do the tour in order to receive permanent resi-


dency; otherwise, as a Canadian citizen with a prison record, he would be deported.119 The State Department’s documents about the tour make no mention of such an agreement. The performances of BS&T in Eastern Europe exceeded the State Department’s every expectation of success, reaching tens of thousands of youth. A critic in Belgrade described the Yugoslav response to the band as “electric, without exception” and “explosive.”120 The U.S. embassy in Bucharest reported that at the end of each concert hundreds of young Romanians rushed the stage, shouting to demand encores and refusing to leave the premises. Militia with dogs were called in to clear the stadium after each concert.121 After the first Bucharest concert the Romanian government issued a set of requirements, including that the band members should move their bodies less onstage, play more jazz and less rock, and not take off any clothing. The band agreed in principle but presented their show unchanged the following night.122 The State Department thought that the band’s failure to adjust the show was a poor political move, but officials were also delighted by the intensity of the audience’s response.123 The last concert in Ploesti was cancelled for fear of further audience unrest.124 Despite the controversies, the embassy in Bucharest called BS&T “a wise and excellent choice”: the audience’s enthusiastic response more than vindicated the State Department’s selection of the ensemble.125 The band’s politics were well publicized abroad and became an important talking point. In an interview for the Yugoslavian youth magazine Susret, a critic asked Clayton-Thomas directly about the State Department’s sponsorship and the group’s politics. Clayton-Thomas said: “At this moment I do not hate the administration of the USA, I simply think that President Nixon is not courageous enough. . . . I am against him. I do not agree with the government of the U.S. . . . What else can I say? I do not think that America is bad, I don’t think the American government as such is bad. I simply believe that the people in power at this time are not the right ones.” He continued: “This is my right, as an American [sic], to say what I think.”126 Although Clayton-Thomas likely believed he was being outspoken in his protest, his words were a powerful demonstration of free speech. He reinforced the impression that America tolerated—even sponsored— diverse political opinions. Ira Wolfert, a writer for Reader’s Digest who witnessed the Romanian concerts firsthand, called the State Department to report that the band’s critical words were highly effective propaganda. “In a large sense, the boys of the band are the best kind of ambassadors because they are absolutely free.”127 Wolfert noted that the appearance of a band known for its oppositional politics was a political coup: “Here were the


American Establishment and its youthful opposition getting together to present a very bright aspect of the quality of present-day American life to peoples whose own media have been enjoying a field-day coloring it all horrible.”128 Posts around the world observed the great success of BS&T in Eastern Europe and requested similar programs. By the 1970s, funding for cultural presentations outside the East Bloc was waning, yet demand was as strong as ever. The need to reach youth remained a compelling worldwide agenda, and only a “hot, live, relevant presentation” would interest them. As the consul general in Istanbul reported, “A woodwind quintet cannot and did not make the kind of impact we need.”129 Yet BS&T would not tour for the State Department again. When BS&T returned from its tour, the band’s concert at Madison Square Garden was picketed by a radical leftist group, the Yippies, because of its association with the State Department. The protesters handed out flyers accusing BS&T of “Treason!!! for complicity in spreading lies, racism and imperialism” and threw a bag of manure onto the stage. The State Department found the Yippie flyer useful, for it positioned the department’s use of BS&T near the center of the political spectrum. As department staff member Mark Lewis noted, “the far left is criticizing Blood, Sweat and Tears, while the far right, in the form of approximately fifteen letters from U.S. citizens, is criticizing the Department.” State Department officials planned to incorporate part of the Yippie leaflet into replies to congressional inquiries in order to demonstrate that the use of the band was not pleasing to the left.130 Before its tour the band had strong antiestablishment credentials: not only had the individual members publicly criticized the government’s involvement in the Vietnam War, but the group had also performed at a Yippie youth event and at the 1970 Winter Festival for Peace.131 Whereas the Yippies’ grounds for protest were clearly political, it is more difficult to pin down the reasons for the decline in critical reputation that followed BS&T’s East European tour. The band had reached a pinnacle of popularity among critics and fans in 1970, beating out the Beatles’ Abbey Road for the Grammy Award for best album, but after the tour its appeal waned.132 Some critics claimed they had never liked the band’s sound because it was predictable, contrived, or too commercial.133 Others objected to the band’s appeal to “older, more sedate and straighter folks.”134 These judgments mix elements of political and musical criticism. One letter writer to the New York Times explicitly preferred the musical over the political but implied that both were relevant: “Of course, the group’s musical sellout is con-


nected to their growing establishmentarianism in the political field. . . . The reason B, S and T could not play at a rock festival today is not that their politics would be scorned, but that their music, or rather Muzak, would be laughed at.”135 The group’s cooperation with the State Department may have contributed to its declining popularity among young people in the United States, despite the fact that the department did not exert control over what the band played or what its members said. American popular music was intimately involved with the politics of race, the civil rights movement, and the peace movement—and these forms of involvement were known to international audiences, as well as to Americans. This knowledge kept musician-diplomats under scrutiny: some audiences had high expectations for what the musicians would represent, musically and politically. As the 1960s wore on, and dissatisfaction with the U.S. government intensified over continuing civil rights struggles and the Vietnam War, musicians sometimes found that the association with the State Department put them into a difficult position. Their role as spokespersons made them appear to represent the state’s policies, even though they had not been selected for their politics or trained as statesmen—and they could easily be portrayed in the media as believing things they did not. Ambassadorship could bring unwelcome attention from a segment of the American public that was both attached to popular music and unwilling to see this music serve the interests of the state. Yet the role also offered the musicians excellent media exposure and meaningful ways to engage with individuals and groups in the host countries. Some used the opportunity to enrich their repertoires, some to protest injustice or war, some to entertain and share their music. Through all these forms of engagement the tours sharpened the musicians’ identities, clarified their priorities, and strengthened—or troubled—their relationship with their publics.


Music, Media, and Cultural Relations between the United States and the Soviet Union

Musical exchanges between the United States and the Soviet Union were perhaps the most visible acts of cultural diplomacy of the era, capturing the imagination of audiences, musicians, and publics around the world. These exchanges took place in an environment of suspicion and skepticism. What Americans knew of the Soviets, and vice versa, was both limited and extreme, with demonizing portrayals proliferating on both sides. The Soviet state’s crackdowns on writers, composers, and other intellectuals were widely covered in the American press. Likewise, Soviet media made it known that the United States was a debauched, immoral society.1 Music was highly valued in both places: lacking verbal content, it appeared to stand apart from politics in a way that literature did not. Of course, it did not stand apart from politics. Rather, it provided a significant avenue for continuing diplomatic and personal contact between the peoples of the two superpowers. Both government-funded and privately sponsored musical exchanges were covered extensively in the print and broadcast media and soon thereafter in countless memoirs. These mediated contacts dramatized international relations concretely and meaningfully for the listening public.2 U.S.-Soviet cultural diplomacy programs have been interpreted in sharply contrasting ways. Many Western histories frame American cultural diplomacy as a form of infiltration in which Western culture undermined the Soviet Union, hastening the Cold War’s end.3 Some commentators even attribute the fall of Communism to the subversive influence of American culture, particularly rock music.4 In the Soviet Union and Eastern Europe, where some kinds of music were suppressed by the state, the appeal of the forbidden did affect musical choices.5 Yet in practice U.S. cultural diplomacy brought to the USSR only performers whom Soviet authorities chose to allow into the country and genres of music that were already accessible 166

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there in some form. Official U.S.-Soviet musical exchanges were neither covert nor illegal, and the Soviet musical scene was changing far more through Soviet agency than through any artistic exchanges (let alone infiltrations) from the West.6 In the conversations about cultural diplomacy that took place during the Cold War, the idea of infiltration served particular purposes—but it does not accurately describe the music or the politics of cultural diplomacy. A second prevalent explanation of U.S.-Soviet cultural diplomacy focuses on “mutual understanding” and peaceful purposes.7 This model, too, fails to describe the practice of musical diplomacy. Although in-person meetings were important, they were typically too fleeting and constrained to bring about anything like a deep understanding of the other’s perspective. And, as we will see, musicians’ tours provided opportunities for rancorous competition as well as peaceful exchange. Since neither the “infiltration” story nor the “understanding” story rings true, we must examine the evidence more closely to see how musical diplomacy was practiced and what it meant. In this chapter I argue that U.S.-Soviet musical diplomacy was an important symbolic ritual that enabled both superpowers to claim victories within a “safe” arena that would not lead to military escalation. At the same time, the practice of U.S.-Soviet exchange elicited a peculiar form of self-conscious participation. Widespread media coverage engaged state officials, journalists, and the public in various aspects of the enterprise, eliciting hope, excitement, and anxiety about contact with the enemy. The many forms of negotiation and communication that supported musical exchanges also made working relationships between the United States and the Soviet Union manageable and eventually routine, laying a foundation for détente. The people who made musical diplomacy were themselves changed by the experience, but they also altered U.S.Soviet relations and how those relations were perceived all over the world.

POSTWAR BEGINNINGS A major factor in Congress’s initial willingness to fund the Cultural Presentations program was a sudden expansion in Soviet cultural exports in the early 1950s. U.S. government officials worried that Soviet cultural initiatives would convince other peoples “that the USSR is devoting its efforts to the development of its cultural life while the Western world concentrates on building its military might.”8 As Soviet policy appeared to soften after Stalin’s death in 1953, the possibility that citizens of nonaligned or “free” countries might trust the Soviets’ peaceful intentions only seemed more real.9 Within the United States, citizens were on high alert

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amid fears that the twenty-five thousand members of the Communist Party U.S.A. were organized enough to infiltrate community organizations around the country.10 As U.S. newspapers described Soviet economic and technical alliances in the Middle East and Asian countries, it was easy for American citizens to imagine non-Soviet peoples as even more vulnerable to Soviet propaganda. After the United States began routinely sending musicians abroad, its diplomats used the idea that the Soviets were “ahead” to make a case for increasing American investments in cultural diplomacy.11 The PAO at the U.S. embassy in Cairo told the State Department that “the Soviet Bloc countries have been flooding Egypt during the recent months with an intensive and accelerated cultural offensive whose effectiveness cannot be denied.” The embassy requested, unsuccessfully, that the Minneapolis Symphony Orchestra visit Egypt during its planned tour to other countries in the region.12 A later telegram explained that the Bolshoi Ballet had staged five performances in Damascus, drawing thirteen hundred people each night, and asked the department to dispatch the San Francisco Ballet to counter the Soviet cultural presence.13 To prove that the United States should do more, the U.S. ambassador to Japan sent Washington a list of nearly a dozen musical attractions from the Soviet Union and its allies that were visiting Japan in 1959.14 Some public officials and concert organizers abroad used the Soviet threat to invite continued U.S. support. Hector Galvez, director of the National School of Music of Honduras, wrote gratefully to the U.S. embassy in Tegucigalpa after the joint 1958 appearance of the San Francisco Ballet and the Woody Herman Orchestra: “We want to thank you especially for the concert offered to the university students, a sector in which the pleasantness of art can create a better understanding between your great nation and the Honduran youth, a tie which is threatened at times by infiltration of foreign ideas.”15 The desire to compete with Soviet attractions became a major reason for expanding U.S. cultural diplomacy programs in the 1950s. During the first decade of the Cold War direct cultural exchange between the United States and the USSR remained sparse, difficult to organize, and in private hands. Because the Soviet state limited foreign influences, it was not easy to gain permission to enter the country.16 The few commercial tours that dared to enter the USSR faced the financial hardship of arranging bookings in a country where they could not be paid for their concerts in hard currency. A Ukrainian American entrepreneur and impresario, Sol Hurok (figure 15), who had been negotiating with Soviet authorities on and off since the 1920s, renewed his efforts to arrange tours of Soviet musicians to the

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Figure 15. Sol Hurok. RG 306-AIP-176–49, National Archives.

United States soon after the war’s end—but the Soviet government, in turmoil, delayed permission repeatedly.17 Attempts at arranging visits and performances were stymied not only by Soviet isolationism but also by American fears. When in 1949 the Soviet composer Dmitri Shostakovich was invited as part of a delegation to a peace conference in New York, Congressman Donald L. Jackson (R-CA) testified before Congress that “Mr. Shostakovich and his kind have the same right in this land of freedom as rattlesnakes in a Baptist church.”18 The McCarran Internal Security Act, passed in 1950, forbade Communists from entering the United States, and the McCarran-Walter Immigration and Nationality Act of 1952 required that all persons applying for visas had to be fingerprinted.19 Soviet officials forbade the fingerprinting of Soviet citizens; thus, the two nations were at a stalemate. Because the United States and the USSR had not agreed to allow commercial air travel connecting the two countries, transportation was also difficult and expensive. Privately funded exchanges increased in 1955 and 1956, with visits to the United States by Soviet instrumental soloists Emil Gilels, David Oistrakh,

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and Mstislav Rostropovich. These individuals were given official diplomatic status to circumvent the fingerprinting requirement.20 Hurok subsidized the visits of instrumental soloists Isaac Stern and Jan Peerce to the Soviet Union in 1956, but moving a large group into the region was harder.21 Presidential aide C. D. Jackson, who was also a trustee of the Boston Symphony Orchestra, expressed frustration that the U.S. government was slow to encourage large American ensembles to tour the Soviet Union. Officials feared that if a large U.S. ensemble traveled, the Soviets would then request a reciprocal visit, thereby instigating new negotiations about fingerprinting and visas.22 The Soviet government invited a touring production of Gershwin’s Porgy and Bess in 1956. The opera was presented commercially in most of Western Europe, but the State Department funded its travel in Yugoslavia, Egypt, Greece, Israel, Spain, and Latin America, and the Soviet state financed the Soviet portion of the tour. The show discomfited some on both sides with its complex messages about race, but it was broadly successful with audiences.23 The Boston Symphony Orchestra, also sponsored by the Soviet government, gladly added Moscow and Leningrad to its European tour that same year. The orchestra was paid half in rubles and half in dollars, and the musicians performed one concert at no charge in exchange for their airfare.24 The circulation of expensive and glamorous art music productions from the West would remain rare in the Soviet Union, and recorded performances were likewise difficult to obtain. By contrast, the imitation of American popular music and fashion was widespread in the USSR right after the war, and many recordings were in circulation. Soviet citizens knew and liked American jazz and popular music in the 1940s, but these kinds of music were carefully controlled.25 A crackdown on jazz began in 1946 and continued until the de-Stalinization campaigns (1955 to 1957), although jazz-derived light music of Soviet origin was permitted sporadically.26 After the populace demonstrated a great wave of interest in rock ’n’ roll in the mid-to-late 1950s, rock was criminalized. Bootleg recordings were produced on discarded X-ray films and distributed via illicit networks. Anyone handling these recordings received harsh penalties.27 Despite their government’s disapproval, though, fans continued to pick up shortwave broadcasts from the West. Thus, the West’s popular music was both more commonly heard and more stringently forbidden than was its art music.

THE LACY-ZARUBIN AGREEMENT A breakthrough in Soviet-American cultural relations came with the approval in 1958 of the Lacy-Zarubin agreement, in which Ambassador William Lacy

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and Ambassador Georgii Zarubin regularized the exchange of persons and media between their countries.28 The United States had pressed for this agreement for years. At the Geneva conference in 1955, the Eisenhower administration put forward detailed proposals that would ensure the “free flow” of information and ideas. Still, the idea of large-scale cultural exchange with an enemy state remained unsettling. Eisenhower’s interagency security committee, the Operations Coordinating Board (OCB), had convened a working group in 1956 to discuss the possibility of the Philadelphia Orchestra visiting Moscow and the Bolshoi Ballet coming to the United States, but the working group could not decide whether the visits should be “encouraged or even permitted.”29 U.S. negotiators expressed concern that if the fingerprinting requirement were repealed, the United States would need to prepare for a wave of Soviet applications to enter the country, amounting metaphorically to an “invasion.” Yet polling data suggested that a majority of American citizens supported the gradual resumption of exchanges with the East Bloc countries, and Ambassador Charles Bohlen, Lacy, and State Department staff agreed that a “cautious,” “unobtrusive” resumption of contact would be in U.S. interests.30 Lacy recalled that when the U.S. government suddenly revoked its fingerprinting requirement, the Soviets were caught off guard, reluctantly acceding to a plan that would allow a limited number of exchanges each year, to be mutually approved in advance by the two governments.31 The agreement required reciprocal exchange: an equal number of major ensembles from each country would tour each year (for example, matching the Bolshoi Ballet with the Philadelphia Orchestra). Of course, the relationship remained asymmetrical because of the vastly different aims and organizational models of the two states. State-run Soviet ensembles would be exchanged for privately funded U.S. groups, and tours in the United States were arranged by impresarios seeking profit, as opposed to the state concert agency Goskontsert in the Soviet Union. Frans Alting von Geusau notes that reciprocity was not so much a principle as a “selective instrument,” to be deployed when it suited the purposes of each negotiator.32 Each government agreed to consider relaxing its more onerous regulations, though many of these lingered for some time after the agreement was settled. Neither side was willing to give up more than the bare minimum that would allow the program to function. Travelers’ ability to take photographs and the question of direct flights between the United States and the USSR remained to be negotiated.33 In addition the agreement had to be renewed every two years. Since the negotiations were long and tense, this provision would keep U.S. and Soviet diplomats and concert agencies in nearly constant contact.34

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The news of the Lacy-Zarubin agreement was handled carefully by the State Department and reported differently in different areas of the world. Department officials realized that if America trumpeted the advantages of the agreement, the Soviets might lose face and withdraw, so they recommended “sober, objective, mutually advantageous” news coverage.35 Yet when Americans heard about the agreement, it did not seem advantageous enough: a deluge of letters and press coverage criticized the agreement. Joseph H. Dockow, a private citizen in Hicksville, New York, called it “a tremendous propaganda victory for them and a defeat for us.”36 Congressman Michael Feighan (D-OH) believed it would allow Soviet spies to enter the United States.37 Reverend A. W. Pritchard suggested that the Soviets might be capable of mass hypnosis, “using subtle powers in every hidden way that they can devise,” and that Americans exposed to Soviet ideas might be brainwashed.38 Millionaire filmmaker Eugene W. Castle, who had created numerous propaganda newsreels for the U.S. government during World War II, explained that the project of molding the minds of foreigners was “a completely un-American technique,” that it was ineffective and harmful, that it would entrust American propaganda to “the worst misfits and softies,” and that it would turn the USIA into a “transmission belt” for importing Soviet ideas.39 These ideas were mocked in the Soviet press: the Literaturnaia Gazeta (Literary Gazette) crowed that “not one of our newspapers would print such nonsense.”40 After the first wave of interest more moderate fears persisted. An American reader of the Saturday Review wrote that any rapprochement between the superpowers seemed unwise: “I am afraid that in the many international handshakes and fraternizing toasts one might tend to forget that behind the current political and economical struggle lies a deep philosophical clash between the Communist and non-Communist world.”41 The first Soviet ensemble to travel under the Lacy-Zarubin agreement, the Igor Moiseyev State Folk Dance Ensemble, was greeted with cheers and positive reviews in its first performance at the Metropolitan Opera House in New York (figure 16). The dancers appeared on The Ed Sullivan Show on 29 June 1958: Americans were riveted.42 A resident of Miami Beach, Florida, objected: “We americans [sic] are about fed up with allowing all those Russian Red dancers on Ed Sullivan Program.”43 Anne and Helen Bannon wrote to Secretary of State Dulles: “How can you be so naive and gullible as to think, or perhaps hope, that this troup [sic] is appearing in our great country as a gesture of genuine friendship when all past and present horrible performances of the Soviet Union indicate otherwise? . . . Do you want to wait until Americans right here in these United States suffer a like

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Figure 16. The Moiseyev Ensemble takes its final curtain call after its opening performance in New York, 1958. RG 59-G-95–203, National Archives.

fate before you cease to be fooled by so-called ‘cultural pacts’?”44 The OCB and the State Department had anticipated this kind of criticism. The Department assured its critics that the agreement aimed to lessen international tensions and enhance mutual understanding, that it was enacted for only two years, and that it was under the authority of the president and subject to the Constitution and laws of the United States.45 If the agreement looked too much like a rapprochement with godless Communism to the American people, the State Department was aware that it might look still worse to people in Eastern Europe, Latin America, and the Middle East. After the brutal 1956 invasion and reoccupation of Hungary by the Soviet Union, for the United States to resume any kind of formal relations with the USSR could imply an acceptance of the new status quo in Eastern Europe. As Castle explained it, “our government has officially notified the world that we have abandoned and disowned millions of people who, for more than a decade, have had great faith in us,” even “stabbed them in the back.”46 Ordinary Americans, too, understood this risk. A Florida citizen heard of the Lacy-Zarubin agreement on NBC’s flagship TV news show, The Huntley-Brinkley Report, and wrote to the State Department: “There are people in the East Berlin sector of Germany, and people in the satellite countries under Russian domination who could tell us something about Russian Inter Cultural Relationship.”47 The State Department instructed its

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diplomats to emphasize that the United States was trying to increase the flow of information and people across the Iron Curtain—that is, conveying free information to captive peoples, as well as information about the captive to the free world—for the mutual benefit of all.48 The concern about how the U.S.-Soviet exchanges would look to Eastern Europeans was well-placed. With the Moiseyev performances State Department officials had their first warning that the implications of these exchanges were hard to control. In early July 1958, Hungarians were grappling with the news that the popular leader of the 1956 revolution, Imre Nagy, had been secretly tried and executed by the repressive Sovietcontrolled regime that had quashed the revolution. Just at this time the Communist-controlled Hungarian press reported the success of Moiseyev’s ensemble in the United States. According to the American Legation in Budapest, the Hungarian press coverage made it seem as though all Americans welcomed the performances and admired the Soviet Union. Furthermore, the articles reminded Hungarians that although U.S. officials professed horror at the Nagy execution, they could not be relied on to come to Hungarians’ aid against the Soviet Union. The legation called these articles “a disheartening hint of American abandonment.”49 Although the United States was entering into cultural and educational exchanges with the Soviet Union, not all U.S. officials agreed that Middle Eastern or South American countries should do likewise. In 1959 the U.S. embassy in Quito attempted to persuade the government of Ecuador to deny visas to a group of Russians traveling to an Ecuadoran film festival. It was difficult for the Americans to justify even an informal query to the Ecuadorans, for the United States had recently participated in the spectacular trade fair at Moscow’s Sokolniki Park, and the Bolshoi Ballet was then enjoying a sensational tour in the United States.50 It hardly made sense for U.S. officials to prevent Ecuadorans from seeing Soviet performers who were permitted in their own country. A memo from the State Department claimed that the embassy’s effort to stop the Soviets’ visit was a misunderstanding of policy, not prompted from Washington.51 Perhaps the greater risk was that, as Latin Americans heard news of the Lacy-Zarubin agreement, they might reasonably interpret it as strengthening cultural ties within the Northern Hemisphere, leaving the Global South out of the conversation.52 Both before and after the Lacy-Zarubin agreement was signed, Soviet officials declared certain cities off limits to touring performers and scientific delegations, allegedly because of transportation difficulties. More likely, they wanted to keep Westerners from seeing poor living conditions, indus-

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trial secrets, or military bases. In response the State Department arbitrarily designated certain U.S. cities closed, with the intent of giving the Soviets incentive to lift their ban. For example, the distinguished cellist Mstislav Rostropovich would be allowed to play in Philadelphia only if U.S. artists could also access one out-of-bounds city.53 In 1961 Secretary of State Dean Rusk told negotiators that the Moiseyev dance ensemble would not be able to tour in the United States if the University of Michigan Symphony Band was denied performance dates east of the Ural Mountains. When the Soviets threatened to go to the press regarding American intransigence, Rusk allowed the U.S. embassy in Moscow to respond with a similar threat.54 Because the U.S. government was working with private entrepreneurs, not a state-run concert agency, conflicts often arose, with American promoters booking Soviet acts into cities, such as San Francisco or Detroit, that had been “closed” by the State Department. The ban on Soviet musicians’ travel to some cities was widely reported in the American press, and this publicity increased audience demand for the concerts. Fans objected most strenuously when a promoter was asked to cancel a booking made erroneously in a closed city.55 The American musical public disliked the feeling of being used as pawns on a Cold War chessboard, and some complained to the State Department about being prevented from enjoying performances by the Bolshoi Ballet and other famous Soviet ensembles.56 Alongside the high-profile government-run exchanges, privately funded tours continued, many of them arranged by Sol Hurok. From the signing of the Lacy-Zarubin agreement until the end of Hurok’s career, his entrepreneurship sometimes doubled as diplomacy, but just as often it complicated the State Department’s work. When in 1960 he negotiated directly with the Soviets to book two Soviet attractions for U.S. tours, he threw out of balance the one-to-one arrangement of exchanges by bringing the year’s total to four Soviet attractions, rather than the three the ambassadors had agreed on.57 In 1967, when Soviet officials insisted that no major Soviet attractions could visit the United States as long as the bombing in Vietnam continued, Hurok traveled to confer with Russian officials, hoping to salvage the strained program. Hurok had a major financial investment in the continuation of exchanges: he had booked the Bolshoi Opera for a three-week stand at New York’s Metropolitan Opera House and stood to lose about $300,000 plus expenses. (He eventually brought only a few individual performers from the Bolshoi, a far cry from the spectacular production he had originally planned.)58 U.S. government reports from the mid-1960s describe a consistent flow of Americans into the Soviet Union, many of them traveling to share a

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particular interest: equestrians, film specialists, radiologists, dancers, and musicians.59 The Soviet press warned that American tourists might engage in anti-Soviet behavior, yet the welcome granted to individuals was warm.60 The American composer Peggy Stuart Coolidge traveled to Moscow under private arrangements in 1965. There she met Aram Khachaturian, and at his recommendation her compositions were brought before the Union of Soviet Composers for possible performance. A concert of her music was performed in Moscow after her departure, and she was awarded the medal of the Soviet Union of Workers in Art.61 By the 1970s, U.S. citizens could and did travel to the USSR in significant numbers.62 By contrast, most Soviet citizens would not be permitted to visit the United States; in 1961, for example, only 228 of them made the trip, most of them traveling as representatives of their professions.63

COMPETITION When Roy Larsen and Glenn Wolfe evaluated the Cultural Presentations program in 1961 and 1962, they affirmed that assigning art the purpose of direct competition with the Russians and Chinese was “a denigration of all culture.”64 Yet in practice, artistic competition remained important throughout the 1960s. U.S. diplomats abroad and in Washington monitored closely what Soviets were performing where, and for what audiences, and they attempted to estimate both Soviet expenditures and the resulting prestige. U.S. officials fretted that the resources at their disposal could not match the Soviet Union’s conspicuously well-funded program. When Senator Frank Carlson (R-KS) requested that the State Department fund the Centennial Choir of Baker University for a tour, a department official responded that his budget had been flat for the past five years. In 1958 the President’s Fund had been able to sponsor only thirteen performing arts projects; during that time the USSR had sent 118 arts delegations to the “free world” (countries outside the Soviet sphere of influence), and another eighty-two came from the Soviet-occupied East Bloc.65 The competition raged not only in quantity but also quality. The provision in the Lacy-Zarubin agreement that the United States and the USSR trade ensembles of equivalent stature heightened the scrutiny. In October 1958, soon after the beginning of official exchanges, Frederick T. Merrill, director of the department’s East-West Contacts staff, explained to the ACA that a delegation of art-music composers was currently visiting the USSR— Ulysses Kay, Roger Sessions, Roy Harris, and Peter Mennin—but “you might be interested to know that the Russians felt that our delegation was

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not up to theirs. They had not heard of our composers.” In return the Soviets planned to send the composers they considered their best: Shostakovich, Aram Khachaturian, Konstantin Dankevich, and Tikhon Khrennikov, as well as musicologist Boris Yarostovsky, who was also an official in the Union of Soviet Composers.66 In 1963 the Clarion Concerts Chamber Orchestra, led by Newell Jenkins, was exchanged with the closely comparable Barshai Chamber Orchestra, conducted by Rudolf Barshai. Each ensemble was founded in 1955, and each specialized in both Baroque and contemporary music. A State Department report to Congress noted that the Clarion orchestra’s tour elicited “a lively preoccupation on the part of the critics and the musical public in comparing the two orchestras.” Sovetskaia Kultura (Soviet Culture) praised the ensemble’s “freshness and novelty,” the “rich quality of sound,” and the ensemble’s capacity to “form a single creative organism, welded together in the finest detail and shadings.”67 The cultural attaché of the U.S. embassy reported that two pieces of American music were composed especially for this tour: “announcements to this effect were greeted by spontaneous audience-wide audible catching of breath in surprise and delight.”68 These compliments were featured in the department’s report to Congress and quoted in the American press. A Chicago Tribune headline trumpeted, “Moscow Hails U.S. Orchestra.” It was important not only that the American orchestra do well in Moscow but also that it be seen to do well—that its triumph be acknowledged by the Soviet hosts and observed by the U.S. public.69 When the Latvian conductor Arvids Jansons praised Jenkins, the New York Times identified him as a “Soviet” conductor who conceded the Americans’ excellence. (Perhaps the Times missed the nuance that a musician from the Soviet-occupied Baltics might have his own reasons for praising a foreign ensemble that could compete with the Soviets.)70 Unusual in this instance is that the members of the two orchestras met: the Barshai ensemble was in the audience when the Clarion performed in Moscow. Afterward, the musicians “traded ideas, experiences and compliments” at a party.71 This meeting elicited multiple levels of musical and social performance. When a U.S. reporter asked (perhaps skeptically) how much the Soviet public cared about Barshai’s relatively obscure music, the Soviet conductor smilingly named several other chamber orchestras and explained that his own group had played in ninety cities across the USSR—a ready answer implying a stunningly high level of musical literacy.72 In an article after the Clarion orchestra’s homecoming, Jenkins made warmly positive remarks about Soviet hospitality and Goskontsert, the Soviet agency that administered the logistics of the tour. Jenkins framed the visit

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as a joint effort for peace, quoting the maxim of George Hamilton that “the arts are the only tangible proofs we have that mankind is not made for destruction.”73 Yet Jenkins’s assessment of his trip for the U.S. press was also full of invidious comparisons. He explained that in the Soviet Union, audio recordings and printed music were not widely available and that American musicians were “ahead” in adopting new trends of early music performance.74 Soviet musicians lamented their inability to hear Western ensembles, except those few that traveled to the Soviet Union. For example, Jenkins was surprised that Anton Sharoev, conductor of a chamber orchestra in Kiev, had not heard of I Musici, the London Baroque Ensemble, or the Orchestre Jean-Marie Leclair. Jenkins’s comments were not merely a travelogue; rather, he emphasized that American musicians were far better off than their Soviet counterparts.75 Jenkins’s statements about the discontent of Soviet musicians were well-founded: Barshai himself was unhappy enough to emigrate in 1977.76 These comparative remarks surely gratified American readers politically as well as musically. Having been to the USSR under official auspices also enhanced the reputation of the Clarion Concerts Chamber Orchestra upon its return. The Barshai orchestra had presented the score and parts of Rimsky-Korsakov’s “Khorovod” to Jenkins during his Moscow visit. At the Clarion orchestra’s season-opening concert at New York’s Town Hall a few months after its homecoming, Jenkins conducted “Khorovod” and performed music the group had taken to the Soviet Union. He thereby reminded everyone of the orchestra’s prestigious trip and returned the compliment to the Soviets by playing a Soviet work in the United States.77 Such compliments were sometimes even reciprocated. The Boston Symphony Orchestra left Walter Piston’s Sixth Symphony as a gift for orchestras in Moscow and Leningrad, and the USSR State Television and Radio Symphony Orchestra recorded the work in 1961.78 Competition between the superpowers was particularly acute in the field of dance. Because the Soviet ballet had a long tradition and a worldwide reputation, U.S. officials knew that any dance they sent anywhere would be measured against the Soviet standard. The Soviet Union sent the Bolshoi Ballet to the United States in 1959, then the Kirov Ballet in 1961. The United States reciprocated with the American Ballet Theatre in 1960, the New York City Ballet in 1962, and the Robert Joffrey Ballet in 1963.79 As of May 1960, the State Department and Hurok considered cancelling the American Ballet Theatre’s appearances, fearing the group would not meet Soviet standards.80 The rivalry was not only felt in the two superpowers but

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also watched closely from other vantage points. A Swedish reviewer who saw the American Ballet Theatre before its Soviet visit remarked ominously that the group’s choreography might be unwelcome in the home of classic ballet: “Certainly this group can dance. Only, everything depends on what it dances. To cross the border to the East does not seem to be advisable— there, other qualifications for the dance are required.”81 The Americans certainly felt the weight of the Russian tradition. Some American dancers held the Soviet Union in awe and regarded a visit to the Mariinsky and Bolshoi Theaters as a pilgrimage.82 Many people in the dance world shared the preconception that U.S. ballet companies could not compete, and Soviet reviewers condescended to the dancers accordingly, sometimes damning them with faint praise. During the Joffrey Ballet’s 1963 tour, Soviet reviewers praised the troupe’s “energy, youthful temperament, enthusiasm” and “artistic closeness” yet still managed to convey the conclusion that the performances were not equal to Russian ballet. A writer in Sovetskaia Kultura explained that the ensemble was “not yet schooled in the observance of the strict rules of the classical dance and therefore it is very difficult to imagine the Joffrey Ballet in the performance of a classical ballet like Swan Lake.”83 Another reviewer concluded derisively that the Joffrey Ballet’s art resulted from “all which is negative which the American Way of Life brings to art.”84 Still, some Americans were willing to challenge the supremacy of the USSR, assuming the role of the modernizing upstart that challenges the old master. In 1962 an interviewer for Radio Moscow greeted the American choreographer George Balanchine, himself a product of the Russian Imperial Ballet School, with the words “ ‘Welcome to Moscow, home of classic ballet!’ Balanchine is said to have replied, ‘I beg your pardon. . . . Russia is the home of romantic ballet. The home of classic ballet is now America.’ ”85 Likewise, after the Bolshoi Ballet’s performances in the United States, a critic for the Chicago Tribune pilloried them for their conservatism.86 (This strategy worked both ways: Igor Moiseyev called New York’s Metropolitan Opera old-fashioned, too, after he visited in 1958.)87 Some U.S. citizens who saw Soviet performers were eager to put them down. In a letter to the editor of the New York Times, an American who had traveled to Moscow described technically perfect but dull performances at the Bolshoi Opera, and one occasion at the Bolshoi Ballet where a ballerina fell twice but was still rewarded with lavish applause.88 Still, the use of cultural exchange as an opportunity for jingoistic ritual praise had its downside. Charles Frankel, who would lead the Cultural Presentations program during the Johnson administration, claimed that the emphasis on competition

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was hurting U.S. interests: “It encourages people everywhere to believe that we take our cues only from what the Russians do, that we are, indeed, only the other side of the same coin and represent nothing but a negative anticommunism.”89 Frankel hoped that the arts of the United States could stand for something positive, on their own merits, apart from any ill-intentioned comparisons.

MEDIA As the foregoing discussion implies, the media played a key role in these competitive ventures. Thanks to the detailed and extensive news coverage of each artistic event on both sides, the participants included not only those who witnessed the events directly but also those who heard broadcasts of the concerts, read reviews, saw discussion of the events on television, or heard rumors of them from neighbors. The success or failure of each performance offered an opportunity for officials and the public to assess the achievements of musical propaganda and for officials to make adjustments in tactics. The most celebrated tours, such as that of Leonard Bernstein and the New York Philharmonic to the USSR in 1959, offered particularly rich opportunities for mediated exchange of ideas, with coverage on television in both countries, as well as in the press.90 The public’s interest in these tours encouraged the media to dramatize them, conveying opinions and provocative salvos that drew further official and unofficial response. Individual American musicians or musical groups were often praised in the U.S. press for overt provocations against the Soviet regime. For example, Bernstein included on his concert programs works by Igor Stravinsky that were rarely or never heard in the Soviet Union. Bernstein even commented publicly on the music’s suppression, thereby making explicit the Western world’s disapproval of Soviet censorship.91 In another bold move Bernstein wrote to Boris Pasternak, the author of Doctor Zhivago, who was then out of favor with Soviet authorities. Bernstein invited Pasternak to the Philharmonic’s Moscow concert. Media coverage amplified the effectiveness of the gesture. Pasternak did not attend the single concert that was filmed for broadcast in the United States, but footage of his friendly encounter with Bernstein was later edited into the program, ensuring that the American audience would credit Bernstein with bringing Pasternak out of seclusion.92 Even today, American critics revel in provocation as a key feature of Americans’ presence in the Soviet Union: an account published in 2009 noted with enthusiasm that “Bernstein bearded the Soviet cultural officialdom” by bringing Pasternak into public again.93 Meanwhile,

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Pasternak’s presence at the concert and his meeting with Bernstein were ignored in much of the Soviet press.94 As Bernstein planned the television coverage of his Moscow performances, he was careful to characterize the mission as “friendship thru art.” Throughout his Soviet tour he expressed respect for Soviet composers and their music, and he emphasized commonalities between Soviet and American styles of composition.95 His reception was not entirely friendly: the Soviet press denounced Bernstein for lecturing audiences about the music and giving encores too freely.96 But the Soviet composer Aram Khachaturian also published a positive review, praising Bernstein as an “outstanding” musician and stating that cultural cooperation could “melt the ice of the ‘cold war.’”97 The Washington Post in turn cited Khachaturian’s review as evidence that the sharp words about the encores were merely ideological bluster. The extremely varied responses to Bernstein’s performances likely reflected genuine differences of opinion to some extent. This pattern of mixed reception, harsh criticism alongside delightful compliments, also typified U.S. responses to Soviet tours. Conducting these conversations in the realm of culture rather than politics permitted the voicing of hostility and contention in a safe space that would not result in military action. At the same time, participants on both sides claimed the moral high ground of peaceful motives by talking about “mutual understanding,” “melting the ice,” and the merits of the enemy’s music. On the Soviet side the state filtered Western news reports about the exchanges. In remarks to the National Press Club in Washington, DC, in October 1959, Bernstein praised Soviet composers, who despite being “hamstrung” by the state remained “demonstrative, enthusiastic, talented, warm,” and “loving.” But most of his off-the-cuff remarks disparaged the Soviet system. He criticized Soviet musical bureaucracy as conservative, stemming from “the Czarist tradition,” and called socialist realist paintings “practically identical . . . like a row of sitting ducks,” compared to the “complete world” of art produced by American artists. Asked by a reporter if the Soviet Union was “ahead” of the United States in the field of music, Bernstein replied, “I think any nation that is free to do what it wishes about music or about anything is automatically ahead.”98 Translated excerpts of Bernstein’s remarks were transmitted back to the USSR by Voice of America on 18 October 1959. According to the deputy director of the USIA, Abbott Washburn, the Soviet authorities were then following a practice of selective interference with U.S. broadcasts, choosing to switch on the jamming equipment when sensitive topics were discussed but letting other topics come through. Washburn wrote with amusement to Bernstein that

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the Soviets had allowed Bernstein’s positive comments to be heard but jammed his negative remarks, in an overt attempt to shape the nuances of the story.99 There is reason to doubt Washburn’s account: jamming particular phrases of a newscast would require precise timing and advance knowledge of the script. It is possible that the story was heard once by officials, and then when it was repeated, the jamming was adjusted at that point. If Washburn’s story can be believed, that Soviet authorities allowed any part of the broadcast to be heard testifies to the importance they placed on positive affirmation from abroad. In a world where “everyone is watching everyone else,” praise from the enemy showed citizens the success of their own government.100 Even as the supposedly jammed broadcast suppressed the news of Bernstein’s negative comments at the Press Club, Soviet newspapers acknowledged those comments by refuting them. According to an embassy staff member, the West German newspaper Die Welt had published Bernstein’s remarks. A Soviet critic responded, calling attention to the discourtesy of speaking positively about Soviet composers while visiting but negatively afterward. The critic also pointed out that Bernstein performed Shostakovich, Prokofieff, and Khachaturian frequently, so his claim that they were outmoded could not be true.101 Incidents of this kind could also affect impressions and relations outside the superpower states. When the New York Philharmonic played in Italy at the Venice Biennale, soon after its Soviet appearances, Bernstein publicly criticized the Soviet Union. His comments were made in the context of a concert program including Shostakovich’s Fifth Symphony that was broadcast on Eurovision. According to the PAO at the U.S. embassy in Rome, “many persons in the audience interpreted Mr. Bernstein’s remarks as propaganda and several persons afterwards expressed regret that he had mixed music with politics.”102 By condemning the management of Soviet musical life, though, Bernstein fulfilled the expectations of his Western audience. Indeed, one might say that as he traveled and presented his thoughts to interlocutors, audiences, officials, and reporters, he was dramatizing various aspects of the U.S.-Soviet relationship (friendship, respect, critique, disdain, one-upmanship) for various constituencies. These cultural exchanges served as a relatively nonthreatening—but not low-stakes—way for officials and the public on both sides to envision the “enemy” and even practice connection with him. Through exchanges people tested the limits of peaceable coexistence, probed the differences between the two systems, and marked those differences for the world to see. Incessant comparisons about who was “ahead” let music serve as a proxy for the arms race while also allowing the compe-

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tition to seem like a gesture of “friendship thru art,” thanks in part to the gracious customs of the concert hall. Yet the whole enterprise—the representation and rerepresentation of events, the arguments over what happened at a concert and what it meant, the framing of information to shed the best light on one’s own country—did to an extent take on a contrived aspect. When Alexander Medvedev, writing in Sovetskaia Kultura, complained that Bernstein’s performance “looked as if it was a show called ‘Leonard Bernstein Is Lifting the Iron Curtain,’ ” he may have objected to Bernstein’s ego in particular. But Medvedev’s comment also defines a staged, even stagey, quality—a distinctive characteristic of these highly mediated exchanges.103 As U.S.-Soviet cultural relations developed over time, extensive international media coverage even shaped local decisions about what music to play. Ambassador Llewellyn Thompson observed that the Soviets were walking a careful line as they chose which particular writers or styles would fall into or out of favor. In Thompson’s view the Soviet Communist Party leadership was sensitive to foreign reactions and was trying to cultivate a “liberal image that can be exploited abroad.” Thompson wrote in 1967 that the party was resisting a full-scale cultural crackdown precisely because such a crackdown would undermine the image of a reasonable, restrained government in the eyes of the West.104 Here again, the point is not that the Soviets felt pressure to conform to an international norm but that the Americans knew the Soviets felt that pressure and that the Soviets knew the Americans knew. The situation was governed to a large extent by media possibilities and public opinion, not just by the wishes of the respective powers and publics. The ever-increasing visibility of cultural affairs constrained the actions of both countries, but Soviet officials likely felt the constraint more acutely.

INFILTRATION: JAZZ The atmosphere of international tension and the widely known Soviet suppression of particular musical styles made it easy for people in the West to think of Soviet musicians as “the victims of shipwreck on a desert island, cut off for decades from civilization.”105 Viewed from the West, the Iron Curtain could seem impenetrable, “hermetically sealed.”106 Yet the ban on rock and jazz was never as coherent or comprehensive as it looked from abroad. Unofficial music clubs and private parties made it impossible for the state to exert complete control over musical life. The musical preoccupations of state officials waxed and waned, and enforcement was inconsistent. The restrictions

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were real, to be sure, but it was possible for some people to gain access to forbidden music through foreign connections or illegal copies.107 The idea of infiltration shaped Americans’ ideas about their musical diplomacy in the Soviet Union. Getting music, art, and literature into the forbidden zone became a goal in its own right, as a symbol of political support and solidarity and a way to challenge Soviet strictures.108 To the U.S. public and to American musicians the idea of Soviet suppression of a particular musical style or genre seemed nonsensical and heightened the feeling that the West must break down those barriers by providing what was suppressed. Throughout the Cold War era, musical freedom served as a metonym for political and social freedoms. Shortly before the collapse of the Communist states in the late 1980s, five Czech citizens were convicted for participation in a jazz club. In response an American critic presciently exclaimed that the suppression of culture was “unnatural and cannot last.”109 The idea of infiltration may have played an outsized role in Soviet internal propaganda, as well. Kristin Roth-Ey has pointed out that the KGB inflated estimates of oppositional activity, such as listening to foreign radio, because this idea could be used to mobilize patriotic and orthodox sentiments. Given that the United States was tracking the Russian news, the KGB’s inflated numbers also provided false feedback that led American officials to overestimate the effects of their actions on the Soviet musical and political scenes.110 U.S. officials made continuing efforts to place the most notoriously forbidden music (avant-garde art music, rock, and jazz) on the programs of American performers who would travel to East Bloc countries.111 Some who heard American music in the USSR believed they were witnessing an act that could literally undermine the Soviet government. Truman Capote, for example, called the eroticism and religious overtones of Porgy and Bess “a test tube brimming with the kind of bacteria to which the present Russian regime is most allergic.”112 The mixed-program strategy that had been effective in the developing world proved useful here, too. Flexibly constituted ensembles that primarily played concert music could also contain a pull-out jazz or rock combo. Jazz and other controversial music was thus frequently performed by ensembles specializing in more acceptable genres. At a reception during his Soviet tour, Bernstein performed a jazz improvisation with a percussionist and bassist from the Philharmonic.113 The University of Michigan Chamber Choir, which visited the USSR in 1971, brought mixed programs, including traditional European choral literature, Negro spirituals, and excerpts from Porgy and Bess—as well as more challenging items, Leslie Bassett’s electronic work Collect and Charles

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Ives’s “Psalm 90.” The Bassett work “met with Soviet resistance,” but after persistent negotiations between U.S. officials and Goskontsert, it remained on the program.114 It is difficult to know whether this practice was regarded by U.S. officials as “smuggling” the music in. That audience members asked specifically for repertoire items that were hard to obtain certainly increased the Americans’ belief that providing this music was vital.115 U.S. intelligence officials took any indication that forbidden music might once again become permissible as a marker of political progress. U.S. ambassador Llewellyn Thompson took Khrushchev’s attendance at a Benny Goodman concert in 1962 as evidence that the government was yielding to pressure from the populace, particularly youth, and that perhaps public opinion was becoming a factor in the governance of the country.116 By 1966 Thompson could report that positive news articles on Soviet jazz were appearing, and jazz festivals were taking place in Tallinn and Leningrad, as well as in Moscow. Performances of twelve-tone music and American classical music were on the rise, and compositions were being created in styles that would have been unheard of a few years before. Thompson viewed all this as “steady progress,” despite his observation that intellectuals were experiencing other kinds of unwelcome pressure.117 Today, we might observe that Thompson and others placed too much credence in music as a marker of progress. Soviet officials knew that the presence of “dangerous” music would be interpreted optimistically, drawing attention away from other abuses. The effectiveness of rock and jazz in U.S. diplomacy did not stem from their being a musical model of freedom or individuality, as was often claimed; rather, they looked particularly effective because, tautologically, U.S. officials had grown accustomed to seeing the music’s acceptance as a measure of success.118 The U.S. embassy in Moscow routinely reported to Washington on the vicissitudes of Soviet musical judgment as if they corresponded to other political matters. In any case musical infiltration was easier said than done. Any direct attempt at subversion had to be weighed against the possibility of backlash. In 1958 someone in the State Department floated a proposal that the United States send jazz records to the Soviet Union. Ambassador Thompson responded that he had serious doubts about such a project. First, all packages were inspected, so the result would be “to provide Soviet post office censors with best jazz collection in Soviet Union.” Second, articles would appear in the press accusing the United States of “flooding [the] country with jazz” in an effort to “corrupt Soviet youth.” Under this level of surveillance it was hardly worth the attempt to move large amounts of music into the hands of jazz aficionados.119 Likewise, as State Department officials

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planned Benny Goodman’s tour of 1962, they considered including a phonograph record of the band as an insert in Amerika, the department’s magazine for Soviet distribution. The embassy once again advised against it. Such a move would jeopardize the circulation of the magazine and give Soviet officials an opportunity to denounce America’s propaganda tactics. Further, the flimsy plastic on which such a disc insert could be pressed would give the Soviets an opportunity to criticize the quality of U.S.produced recordings.120 The importance of jazz as an implement of propaganda was evident to Felix Belair, a political journalist who in 1955 dubbed jazz a “secret sonic weapon.” Belair reported with considerable hyperbole that “men actually have risked their lives to smuggle recordings of it behind the Iron Curtain and by methods that the profit motive cannot explain.”121 Branding jazz as a weapon generated excitement, then and since, yet reference to music as a “weapon” or “arsenal” is more common in today’s writings than it was at the time. Although music was sometimes called a “weapon” during the Second World War, that usage was rare in the language of State Department officials during the Cold War.122 A significant exception was Heath Bowman’s assertion that “trumpets and ice skates already have proved they are among the most effective weapons of the cold war”—a statement made to drum up congressional support for an increase in the Cultural Presentations budget.123 Similar calls for the government to deploy jazz came from other sources. Jazz fans campaigned for the music’s use in propaganda to the East. Californian jazz critic Ralph Gleason suggested that the State Department should include jazz, “our own, best international language,” as a featured element at the Moscow fair in Sokolniki Park in 1958. Gleason understood that it would be a challenge to secure the Soviet government’s consent— but “if the Russians offer any objection, this matter should be so important to our State Department that it should fight for the right to present jazz.” He urged his readers to write letters to Secretary of State John Foster Dulles to request the inclusion of jazz.124 Some of Gleason’s readers did write: they received a response saying that jazz was “prominent among the possibilities currently being considered.”125 Ambassador William Lacy, who had negotiated the Lacy-Zarubin agreement, had proposed sending American jazz to the USSR during his talks with his Soviet counterpart. He noted in 1958 that “although the Soviets had said jazz was unacceptable, he had not given up on the subject.”126 Soviet entertainment bands employed a variety of homegrown and imported jazz practices. U.S. officials knew that jazz had a “firm foothold” in the Soviet Union.127 Even the American public had some access to infor-

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mation about Soviet jazz, which received fairly regular coverage in Down Beat magazine.128 When jazz critic Leonard Feather went to the Soviet Union to observe Goodman’s tour in 1962, he found that Soviet musicians played chord changes “all wrong” in the American jazz standards they knew, but they were capable players and personally invested in jazz performance. By the early 1960s, any regular reader of Down Beat would have known of highly sophisticated Soviet jazz artists who played a good deal of original music.129 Feather understood that liking the music did not necessarily imply an embrace of American political values: “Every friend made for jazz in any country is, of course, another link in a chain of worldwide amity. This is not to imply that the Soviet admiration for U.S. jazz connotes any desire to emulate another way of life or to discard their own political and social values; it is rather that the differences become unimportant, and the desire to effect closer ties with their idols 5,000 miles away becomes the dominant emotion.” Feather made sure that Americans knew that jazz was permitted, even as he acknowledged its cachet: “The fruit is no longer forbidden, but the memory of the long veto still makes it taste sweeter.”130 Yet the idea that the Soviets banned all jazz persisted. When Earl “Fatha” Hines and his band played a concert in Novorossiisk in 1964, tickets sold out in two days. The capacity audience of fifteen hundred persons, 90 percent of them estimated to be under thirty years of age, was characterized in the embassy’s report as “surprisingly knowledgeable about jazz music”— even though the embassy’s surprise was unwarranted.131 Despite the evidence, both the American public and U.S. officials continued to believe well into the 1960s what was true in 1948—that jazz was senselessly (and fruitlessly) forbidden in the Soviet Union.

“INFILTRATORS” FIND A WARM WELCOME The first American jazz musicians to play in the Soviet Union after 1948 certainly conceived of their project in terms of infiltration. Willie Ruff and Dwike Mitchell traveled not under official auspices but covertly, as members of the Yale Russian Chorus that toured the Soviet Union in 1959.132 Ruff recalled years later that the idea of bringing jazz into a place where it was forbidden had great appeal: “We had gone, I suppose, mostly because it was there. We wanted the experience of visiting a foreign country that had been sealed tight to American modernism.”133 Ruff and Mitchell planned meticulously. They became members of the choir, and Ruff studied Russian and prepared a lecture on the history of jazz. When Mitchell and Ruff walked into the Moscow State Conservatory and offered to give a lecture-demonstration

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about jazz, their offer was happily accepted. They were invited back to the conservatory for a more formal concert the following week and subsequently played for the Leningrad jazz club as well, drawing an audience of four hundred there on short notice.134 In conversation with everyday Russians, Ruff was surprised by Soviets’ statements: “they were absolutely unaware that it was their government that refused to permit Louis [Armstrong] to play. Many of them didn’t believe it. They knew of no objection to jazz, only that there was a lack of it.”135 Ruff expressed his amazement that the duo was allowed to play for Lev Vlassenko, who was professor of piano at the conservatory, asking “how such a performance could be ventured when Soviet authorities had turned thumbs down on jazz.” Vlassenko replied, “But the authorities just do not like bad jazz.”136 It is telling that Ruff’s new acquaintances in the Soviet jazz community were aware of the terms in which jazz was discussed in the American press. When Ruff asked them what Americans could do to support jazz in Russia, the Soviet musicians requested that Americans stop making jazz so political; stop referring to it as a “supersonic secret weapon”; and stop trying to send in recordings through programs such as “Jazz Lift USA.” Ruff reported that a musician told him, “If you call jazz a weapon, of course, our government will look at it with a suspicious eye.”137 These interlocutors, mostly musicians, were justly offended by the idea that their country had to be infiltrated to stimulate musical progress. When the New York Times heralded Ruff’s and Mitchell’s Soviet debut as “a major breakthrough in a field where the State Department and the Soviet Ministry of Culture have long been hopelessly deadlocked,” it was hard for American readers to see that Soviet policy did not restrict jazz per se, but rather its performance by Americans on Soviet soil. The exhilaration of having breached the enemy stronghold took precedence over such subtleties.138 The first official tour of the USSR by an American group known for jazz was that of Benny Goodman’s ensemble in 1962. American jazz fans had long thought Goodman’s conservative swing style out of date, and the choice of a white bandleader for this milestone tour was troubling to them.139 Senator Jacob Javits (R-NY) contacted the State Department after hearing from constituent and record producer Bernard Stollman, who called Goodman’s selection “a colossal breach of the rules of taste and ethics.” Assistant Secretary of State for Congressional Relations Frederick G. Dutton acknowledged that Goodman was not the most representative choice but responded that “the Goodman group was the only exponent of the jazz medium which the Soviet Union would accept after many years of patient negotiation” and that the Goodman ensemble included several African

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American performers.140 Dutton also explained the State Department’s hope that this tour would clear the way for other bandleaders, including Duke Ellington.141 By contrast, a reporter for Jet magazine interviewed the first secretary of the Soviet embassy, who attributed the choice entirely to the State Department: “we accepted what you sent us.” Frank Siscoe, the department’s director of Soviet and East European Exchanges, spoke frankly with Jet about the selection of Goodman: “We realize he is regarded as a pale imitation of true American jazz but we have to get our foot in the door first.”142 One wonders whether Soviet officials thought it safer to bring in a white-led, conservative band so that Soviet propaganda about U.S. race relations would not be contradicted by the presence of a large number of African Americans. U.S. officials likely chose Goodman’s conservative style as an attempt to reach broad audiences, fearing that the Soviet public might not appreciate modern jazz.143 Down Beat magazine defended the State Department’s choice, saying that this compromise was far better than to have no jazz in the Cultural Presentations program and calling Goodman’s Soviet tour a “major break-through” for jazz.144 Soviet audiences showed enthusiasm for Goodman by clamoring for tickets and demanding encores.145 Soviet jazz musician Yuri Vikharieff commented that he and his fellow fans were disappointed: they had assumed the first American jazzman to enter the country would be an African American, perhaps Duke Ellington or Count Basie. Vikharieff explained that he wanted to counter the prevailing Soviet idea of jazz as light dance music by showing jazz as art. He worried that Goodman would not achieve this purpose.146 The members of the band, who had more direct contact with audiences than did Goodman, explained that they were “bombarded by the local modern jazz enthusiasts with criticism of the Goodman style, as being too old fashioned.” On occasions when the band faced lukewarm audiences, the musicians blamed Goodman for not allowing more modern music on the program. Soviet officials commented that Soviet audiences were not used to programs consisting only of instrumental music, and they said Goodman should have brought singers and dancers or other variety artists to hold the audience’s attention. Goodman himself believed that the audiences were purposely filled with people indifferent to jazz in order to prevent real fans from having access to the Americans.147 This example demonstrates that the U.S. government was caught between the constraints imposed by Soviet negotiators and the demands of Soviet jazz fans: a problem we have already seen wherever the State Department tried to please expert fans while also winning new ones. A devoted group of experts wanted to hear the modern jazz that was not typically allowed in

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their own clubs. Voice of America radio programs gave them enough access to recent innovations in jazz to know about, and want to hear, the modern styles played in the United States. What their government would accept was not what the fans wanted. When Goodman’s band offered a “history of jazz” program, a reviewer in Tbilisi was not impressed. The reviewer found the program naive and condescending, consisting of “not very cleverly put together excerpts of works performed by various orchestras.” “It was clear to many,” he continued, “that the evolutionary journey of jazz was much more interesting and, naturally, complicated than was depicted by our guests.”148 There was a risk that the State Department would go to the expense and the public-relations fuss of “infiltrating” only to find that they had disappointed some fans. Still, the overall impression was of increasing freedom: “You Americans couldn’t hold down the Negro,” said one young Soviet commentator, “and we Soviets couldn’t suppress their music.”149 What Soviet jazz fans did get from Goodman’s visit was the opportunity to meet American musicians, who talked and played with their counterparts. On the Goodman band’s first night in Leningrad, the manager of the hotel dining room asked them to jam, and a Soviet alto saxophonist and pianist joined in.150 In Sochi, a resort town on the Black Sea, “an articulate group of jazz fans and musicians amazed the Americans with their expert knowledge of jazz in general and, specifically, of the careers of the Americans themselves. . . . As one musician said: ‘These cats know more about us than we do!’ ” Band members visited the apartment of a jazz enthusiast to listen to his tapes of Voice of America jazz broadcasts, and a fan asked detailed questions about the “new jazz artists” ratings published in Down Beat.151 The plan to “infiltrate” appears to have become instead friendly engagement in a common interest.

MANAGING THE PERMISSIBLE The idea of infiltration did not always describe what was happening, but it did reflect the curious push-pull of U.S.-Soviet cultural diplomacy. Getting music “into” the Soviet Union was a vital element of negotiations for the United States—and keeping some of that music out, or limiting its effectiveness, remained important for Soviet officials. Throughout the 1960s, Soviet officials rejected many American modern dance and jazz proposals, but they also accepted some programs that would contain these elements and then sought to minimize the potential harm in other ways.152 Amanda Aucoin has characterized the Soviet reception of exchanges from the West as “ideological disinfection”; indeed, there are many signs

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that the influence of cultural diplomats was carefully managed.153 When the Earl Hines jazz band came in 1966, members were informed midtour that they could not perform in the major cities of Leningrad, Moscow, and Alma-Ata as originally scheduled: these were replaced with smaller cities. Although the cancellations were not officially explained, Ambassador Foy Kohler inferred that the cancellations resulted from the band’s stunning successes: ten thousand people came to each of four concerts in the Kiev Sports Palace and an average of between three and four thousand to each of the Tbilisi concerts. (Despite the cancellations, Hines did visit the Moscow Youth Café, heard a Soviet jazz sextet, and sat in on a jam session that lasted well beyond the official closing time of 11 p.m.)154 Almost all American ensembles reported extreme logistical difficulties with luggage and accommodations, which in many cases hampered their ability to perform effectively. More often than not, suitcases and instruments arrived late or not at all, forcing the musicians to rely on whatever could be borrowed on the spot. The Boston Symphony Orchestra Chamber Players played the first three cities on their 1967 Soviet tour with no music, no suits, and borrowed instruments. Their contract specified that single rooms were to be provided for the musicians. In L’vov the escort officer and tour manager haggled with the hotel for five hours and threatened to book tickets to leave the city before the rooms were eventually provided. The musicians reported a “sleepless night on straw-filled mattresses.”155 In addition Goskontsert did not plan the group’s travel properly, and the Goskontsert tour manager then blamed the players for concert cancellations that resulted from their inability to arrive on time. Ambassador Thompson reported to Washington that “Goskontsert had planned travel by ship from Odessa to Yalta on a day on which there is not (and never has been) a scheduled sailing, and that the train trip from Baku to Tbilisi was planned for a day on which there is not (and never has been) a train.” He strongly suspected that the faulty travel arrangements, along with Goskontsert’s practice of booking the group into poorly equipped concert halls, was “an attempt to play down the group’s presence.”156 John Garvey, who directed the University of Illinois Jazz Band on its 1969 Soviet tour, noticed the large presence of military men in the band’s audiences; this seemed a sign that audiences were filled with people the government believed were reliable. The University of Illinois Jazz Band was billed as an “estrada” orchestra (a “stage” or “variety” ensemble)—that they were an American jazz band was not always known to audiences ahead of time. In each place they visited, the first night’s concertgoers had no special connection to jazz. On subsequent nights, however, word had circulated that the

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group was an American jazz band, and halls filled to capacity. What the band was permitted to do, and how it was allowed to engage with locals, varied widely from place to place: sometimes the group could hand out brochures about its performance during intermission, sometimes only before the concert outside the theater. Because Goskontsert reserved the right to handle publicity, there was little the musicians could do about the arbitrary imposition of rules.157 The band found that backstage doors were locked or guarded, preventing fans from coming to meet them.158 The Duquesne University Tamburitzans toured the Soviet Union in 1969 with mixed programs that even included rock ’n’ roll. This case, too, suggests that Soviet officials thought it was not always prudent to forbid the importation of foreign music. The Tamburitzans were a university folk music and dance ensemble, specializing exclusively in the music of Eastern and Southeastern Europe, particularly Bulgaria. When they toured Latin America for the State Department in 1968, they were asked to add some American-themed numbers to their programs. When they were invited to tour the USSR in 1969, the State Department asked them to build an entire program of American music, a complete change in repertoire for them. At first reluctant, they engaged choreographers and arranged a program of American music and dance selections from 1776 to 1969, leaving their Slavic numbers to be used as encores. The first half of the program presented subcultural groups: a Wild West set with square dances; New England contra dance; Spanish, Native American, Hawaiian, and Eskimo dances; and Negro spirituals. The second half proceeded chronologically through trends in American popular music: a barbershop quartet, the polka, the Charleston, Broadway numbers, and rock and disco. The decision to arrange the dances chronologically placed rock ’n’ roll (an Elvis impersonation) and a discotheque number, based on Stevie Wonder’s “Uptight (Everything’s Alright),” in the finale. “Including rock was our idea,” said the director, Walter Kolar. “It was a big part of our culture, so of course we were going to show that,” added Patricia French, who was Duquesne’s director of special activities and accompanied the group on the tour.159 “It was not our intent to smuggle rock in[to] the USSR,” recalls David Kolar, a member of the ensemble. As specialists in Bulgarian music, David Kolar recalls, the Tamburitzans typically stayed away from “touchy aspects” of the music that had the capacity to offend, such as nationalistic songs.160 By the late 1960s the United States had begun allowing Soviet officials to audition the ensembles it offered to send under the Lacy-Zarubin agreement. In the 1968 negotiations to renew the agreement, the Soviet Union had refused jazz and insisted on approving each musical number that would

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be sent.161 American officials objected to the idea that Soviets would judge their selections in such detail, but they assented in order to keep the program alive.162 Thus, in spring 1969 Vladimir Golovin, deputy director of Goskontsert, traveled to Pittsburgh to meet with the director of the Tamburitzans and review the specific songs and dances planned for their Soviet tour that summer.163 Golovin disliked the discotheque number. After some negotiation it was decided that the Tamburitzans could leave it in the program but not conclude with it; rather, it would close the first half, and the Charleston would be moved to the end of the evening.164 (Golovin would later that year evaluate the University of Illinois Jazz Band, expressing concern about some members’ Afro hairstyles and the possibility that the vocalists would “wriggle in a provocative or otherwise unacceptable way.”)165 Still, when the Tamburitzans opened in Moscow, the audience demanded an encore after the discotheque number, much to the displeasure of Goskontsert. According to David Kolar, the Tamburitzans performed the discotheque number in the same spirit as the Americana, that of presenting what America had to offer.166 The next day, Golovin chastised escort officer Mary Patzer and Foreign Service officer Yale Richmond: there was to be no more screaming “like a monkey,” no encores “which were not a straight repeat of what went before,” “no wild dancing,” and “no clapping in a way to encourage the audience to participate.” Golovin then apologized for being harsh and added that he hoped the Americans would understand the situation. Richmond commented that “much wilder rock was accepted if it came from Eastern Europe.”167 After U.S. ambassador Jacob Beam confirmed the need for compromise, director Walter Kolar “did tell them to tone it down, but they didn’t completely”—“they just watched certain things.”168 The ambassador thought that the decision to close with the Charleston instead of the rock number was good for everyone: apart from that first Moscow audience, many people seemed constrained and unsure how to react to the rock music and dancing, and the Charleston provided a better outlet for audience enthusiasm.169 Curiously, the Tamburitzans’ “secret weapon” was not rock or jazz at all; rather, it was their ability to perform well in genres known to their Soviet and Eastern European audiences. In Bucharest David Kolar performed a famous virtuoso violin number that the audience recognized immediately: it “brought the house down.”170 As an encore, they routinely performed the popular song “Bud’te zdorovy” (Be healthy)—which was greeted with excited whistling and stamping of feet.171 In Tbilisi they borrowed costumes and performed an athletic traditional dance, the lezginka, to enthusiastic applause.172 The Tamburitzans had long been fans of the Osipov

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State Russian Folk Orchestra; they had heard recordings and even copied their arrangements. The Tamburitzans asked to meet the Osipov ensemble and were permitted to attend a rehearsal. David Kolar recalls that “they had no idea who we were, or why [we were there].” When the Osipov ensemble took a break during rehearsal, the American students picked up their instruments and played Russian music for their counterparts. This moment of engagement with fellow musicians was one of very few occasions on this tour when the American musicians were allowed any personal contact with Soviet citizens.173 Most of the time, especially in the larger cities, they were hurried onto their tour buses or seated in private dining rooms in restaurants to prevent conversation with bystanders.174 The demonstration of a shared musical repertoire allowed the Tamburitzans to connect with fellow musicians and audiences—and this connection was likely more significant than the presence of rock or disco on their program.

EXPERIENCING U.S.-SOVIET DIPLOMACY U.S.-Soviet exchanges opened many possibilities for contact and mutual problem-solving—including embarrassing instances that arose when citizens did not behave as instructed. Musicians were given long lists of what to do and what not to do. An American traveling to the USSR was asked to bring no drugs; no money except what was given in the per diem; no blue jeans; and no religious reading matter except for personal use. They were not to photograph anything that might be considered sensitive.175 These warnings had to be issued because “every well-read tourist” knew to bring jeans and Beatles albums to the Soviet Union.176 Despite the warnings, of course, musicians would behave impulsively, sometimes requiring their governments to act on their behalf. An American student member of the Eastman Philharmonia was arrested in Leningrad in 1962 for illegal sale of clothing and other articles. He was released after writing a confession and a statement listing favorable impressions of life in the Soviet Union. The student and a few others apparently had political rather than pecuniary motives: they were seeking contacts through their black-market connections.177 Likewise, Gennadii Petrovich L’vov, accordionist for the Beriozka State Academic Folk Dance Ensemble, was caught shoplifting at Macy’s in New York in 1959. The Russian embassy protested and charged the United States with creating a “provocation” against the Soviet Union. The State Department refused to defend L’vov (on grounds that he had actually stolen the items), but Macy’s decided to drop the charges, presumably to avoid an international incident.178

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The American musicians who traveled to the Soviet Union had heard and read a great deal about the USSR, but to experience it personally was different. Even under these extremely politicized conditions, U.S. artists persisted in believing their role was not, in the main, political. For the students there was an element of naiveté: Rudy Grasha, who performed with the Tamburitzans, said that “at 18 or 19 years old, it feels like a game—you don’t worry what you say.”179 As performers, the American visitors were not necessarily in a position to spend much time thinking about the political situation. To maintain their health and equipment so as to perform well under a grueling travel schedule consumed a good deal of their attention. Suki Schorer, a dancer with the New York City Ballet, reported emphatically that “we weren’t political. . . . Our agenda was just to present dance.”180 Yet at the same time, the performers’ experiences on tour allowed them firsthand knowledge of the Soviet Union that was both political and transformative. Some of the traveling Americans were fearful about entering “enemy territory.” Interviews conducted by Clare Croft reveal the anxiety of dancers from the New York City Ballet who performed in the Soviet Union at the height of the Cuban Missile Crisis in October 1962. On one hand, the fact that tours were not cancelled seemed like a sign that war was not imminent; on the other hand, access to news was minimal, so fears multiplied. Dancer Kay Mazzo recalled that “the rumors going around the company were ‘Don’t worry. They have a way of us all escaping from here. We’ll get out. We know we’ll be able to get out,’ which was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard of. Here we were in Moscow; that wasn’t going to happen.”181 Lincoln Kirstein, who was managing the tour, went so far as to present embassy officials with a potential escape plan. The American CAO said simply: “You don’t have plans. You leave when we tell you to leave.”182 The visiting Americans understood that part of their diplomatic mission was to make personal contact with Soviet citizens, and they were frustrated and fascinated by the complexity of this task. The Boston Symphony Orchestra Chamber Players reported in 1967 that “we were visited at our hotels individually and collectively by numerous players in every city.”183 The players “spent many hours giving lessons to budding Soviet musicians backstage and/or in their hotel rooms.” One member of the ensemble, Gino Cioffi, reportedly gave all his free time to students, “often coaching them until ten or eleven at night and distributing hundreds of clarinet reeds.”184 By contrast, the Chamber Players’ bassoonist, Matthiew Ruggiero, recalls that Soviet citizens were willing to have brief public discussions with him, but they were reluctant to visit with him in his hotel room because they

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were afraid to be seen there.185 It is thus difficult to ascertain the depth of engagement that was possible; undoubtedly, it depended on local circumstances at the time of each visit. For almost two months in 1964, the early music group New York Pro Musica Antiqua toured Yugoslavia and the Soviet Union; the escort officer estimated that “members of the group made ‘soul to soul’ contacts with about 20 Soviet citizens, mostly by Noah Greenberg in a few long talkfests. Significant contacts on a medium-depth basis, involving friendly conversations of 30 minutes or more, numbered perhaps 300.”186 In these cases it was interested fellow musicians, not the citizenry at large, who most eagerly sought the company of the Americans. On the 1969 University of Illinois Jazz Band tour, a Soviet boy was chased away from the Americans, likely by members of the Komsomol, the official Communist youth organization: “several young Soviets were chatting with band members in the lobby of the hotel. It was observed by other band members looking on that a young Soviet on the edge of the group was pulled away by a couple of vigilante types and taken to a room off the lobby. Some time later this boy emerged and walked quickly out of the hotel, showing no sign he recognized the Americans he had been talking to on the street and backstage.”187 Nonetheless, the U.S. ambassador observed that attempts to discourage contact were frequently unsuccessful. Although the authorities intervened to prevent two of the band’s four planned jam sessions with Soviet musicians, two took place, one in Leningrad and one in Moscow.188 The Oberlin College Choir toured in 1964, a relatively open moment. The American students were told that they were the first group permitted to participate in arranged meetings with Soviet students.189 They valued these interactions, but even more important were the informal moments of contact. Ten years after the tour, Donna Beik Wulff recalled the “sidewalk seminars,” spontaneous gatherings that formed around the Americans: “it was the Russians who were the avid questioners, eager to learn about us, about our country, about our educational system and our way of life. They already knew far more about America than we knew of the Soviet Union, yet they invariably pressed us for more. Lacking their intense curiosity, we all too easily fell into the role of V.I.P.’s at a press conference, dispensing information as best we could in response to the endless stream of eager questions.”190 Not that all the conversation was comfortable: an Oberlin student also recalled “listening to the Young Pioneers tell us they loved us and our people, and then having them show us pictures of the devastation produced by our American bombers.” Another remembered the “brief but flaming love

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Figure 17. At the Leningrad Conservatory, Sheila Allen (foreground) and the

rest of the Oberlin College Choir chatted and sang informally with Soviet students, 1964. Courtesy of the Oberlin College Archives.

affair I had with Sascha in Kiev.”191 State Department officials took every opportunity to document the Oberlin students’ interactions. As Tim Scholl has noticed, the photos taken during the tour highlight this conversational aspect rather than the performances (figure 17), and the photos were a featured item in the Cultural Presentations program’s report to Congress that year.192 The photos strongly suggest that the State Department had “gotten in” messengers who had successfully made meaningful personal contacts. Despite the hindrances, some Soviet students approached the American singers eagerly. Lee Irwin, a member of the Oberlin College Choir, recalls meeting a student who carried books in Hebrew. The student declined to discuss the books but appeared simply to want the Americans to recognize him as Jewish. Another choir member, Barbara Muller, had brought her guitar and a collection of printed sheet music, including copies of Sing Out! Magazine and John and Alan Lomax’s Folk Song: USA. Russian students eagerly borrowed these items to copy them. The students returned the items along with a large bouquet of flowers and a collection of Russian and Romanian folk music, which Muller treasured. Barbara Dee Silva, another choir member, corresponded with Soviet students for several years after the tour.193

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Under these circumstances cultural exchange cultivated a more human view. This is not to say that many participants became friends—most would not stay in touch—but they could engage one another through personal conversations and the participatory medium of musical performance. Such a humanizing effect was not a given at the outset of Soviet-American exchange. A participant in a 1959 exchange of journalists explained that he had traveled to the Soviet Union because “the most important thing an American can do is wake up his country to a knowledge of the enemy.”194 Eugene Castle believed that meaningful exchange would be impossible with the “robot scholars and subversive agents of a godless police state like Russia.”195 Yet once cultural exchange became more commonplace, friendly contacts were possible. The Duquesne Tamburitzans were in Tbilisi in July 1969 when the United States’ spacecraft Apollo 11 landed on the moon. Walter Kolar and Patricia French recall that the day after the news arrived, they couldn’t go anywhere without hearing congratulations from people who recognized them as visiting Americans. They even found champagne on their table at breakfast. The tone was not jealous but warmly admiring—a remarkable gesture at a time of competitive national ambitions. These encounters left the visitors with fond memories.196 Whether such interactions were permitted varied by time, place, and circumstance. One recalls that at other moments the Duquesne students were hustled onto their buses without opportunity for conversation. These examples reveal that cultural exchange visits were not only a form of competitive media theater but also a means of experiencing the “enemy” in other ways. Some accounts suggest that exposure to Americans’ behavior did matter to their Russian counterparts. One Soviet musician suggested that how the Americans held themselves and moved was illuminating: “these people were free. They were relaxed and when they entered for the concert, they did not do it in formation. They entered when they felt like it, tuned, talked amongst themselves. We could not do this, we could not talk. We had to sit still.”197 Soviet visitors to the United States were awed by the vast array of consumer goods available, as well as the liberties taken by ordinary citizens.198 The U.S. government negotiated at length to keep cultural diplomacy programs in place, even when Soviet officials made onerous demands, in part because contact offered highly beneficial comparisons that were difficult to refute. It was useful to the United States that the Soviets observed the Americans’ ease and affluence and that the Americans noticed the surveillance, drabness, and constraints of Soviet life. These concepts were further reinforced by the State Department’s briefings, which urged the musicians to expect these conditions and bear them graciously.

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Most Americans who visited the Soviet Union found that their movements were restricted more than they had ever imagined possible. Shelley Gruskin, who toured the Soviet Union with the New York Pro Musica Antiqua in 1964, laughingly reported that “we did feel almost like spies behind enemy lines.”199 They knew from their State Department briefings that their guides and translators were reporting on their behavior and that they should expect their hotel rooms to be “bugged” with hidden microphones.200 Many musicians recall enjoying variants of the very same joke. They would greet the lamps in hotel rooms or the flowers on restaurant tables out loud, assuming the presence of a microphone in them: “Are you listening, bug?” or “Didja hear that, bug?”201 (British tourists were in on the joke, as well.)202 One might understand the prevalence of this joke as simply making light of an uncomfortable situation—but it was also a form of folklore, in which each subsequent generation of tourists performs the same lines before their fellow Americans and a presumed audience of watching Soviets. Tim Edensor, who studies tourism, has identified two contrasting kinds of tourist performance that are relevant for our purposes: one is the performance of a disciplined ritual, consisting of the expected and appropriate actions, the carrying out of customary duties with little room for improvisation, as when one follows precisely the directions in the tour book. Another is the improvised performance, in which the travelers rely on some given guidelines, but they choose within those limits where to go and how to behave.203 As a form of travel experience, U.S.-Soviet musical diplomacy has elements of each of these. It was a guarded performance, constrained by government rules and supervision, assigned duties, and the musicians’ prior ideas about their role. But as we saw in the cases of Leonard Bernstein or the Oberlin students’ interactions with citizens, participants also could react individually to what they were witnessing. In the case of the bug jokes these reactions felt spontaneous even though they were part of a ritual in which many travelers reacted in similar ways to the experience of surveillance. Over many tours, the spontaneity of “sidewalk seminars” and impromptu interactions combined with the accumulation of repeated experiences to change how American visitors and their Soviet hosts perceived one another. The visitors of the 1960s were able to cast off the exaggerated imaginings of the early Cold War enemy in favor of a more resigned approach to political difference. The humor with which the Americans sometimes approached Soviet politics is telling. Leonard Garment, a clarinetist and Nixon appointee who traveled to the Soviet Union with Willis Conover in 1969, recalled the

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visit of the U.S. delegation to the Café Pechora, Moscow’s main jazz club: “The K.G.B. agent assigned to cover Russian jazz types—and known, congenially, to all of them—swung along with the music, occasionally jotting a confidential note on his little spy pad. (‘Korsky out of tune,’ I imagined him scribbling. ‘Also, too many choruses on “Stella by Starlight.” Firing squad.’”)204 The jokes about the hidden microphones have a similar quality. These jokes were more than just whistling in the dark: they also acknowledged that the Americans’ view of the Soviets was a caricature, albeit one based in real differences between the two countries. Americans did not think Soviet repression was a joking matter; rather, the strained relationship between the two nations had settled into something familiar, stable enough to be joked about.

NORMALIZING RELATIONS In the early years of U.S.-Soviet exchange, concerts by musicians from the faraway country known only as an enemy seemed a great novelty. A 1965 article in High Fidelity magazine recalled the excitement occasioned by Emil Gilels’s first U.S. tour: “Ten years ago this month, when Emil Gilels made his American debut with the Philadelphia Orchestra playing Tchaikovsky’s First Piano Concerto, the audience could not have displayed more curiosity about the exotic soloist had his place at the keyboard been occupied by a mermaid.”205 Over time, though, the exchanges became routine. The High Fidelity essay waxed rhapsodic about the effects of musical exchange between 1955 and 1965: an “aura of friendship and goodwill” and the “emergence of a nonpolitical entente.” Sending musicians back and forth had become an accustomed pattern. There was still some competition for supremacy, but the tours appeared to have built a sense of musical community across the hostile divide. Listeners were now interested in these musicians as musicians, not solely as curiosities.206 Cultural diplomacy made contact between the hostile superpowers first possible and then commonplace. Recurring lapses in negotiations, practical arrangements, and etiquette were all noticed and publicized, yet the practice of exchange persisted. The development of state-to-state exchanges helped build a world where peaceful coexistence could be imagined, for the process of resolving conflicts established routines for managing those conflicts. The more individuals were able to observe the opposing system and meet their counterparts on human terms, the more they were able to accept the differences between the systems. American travelers continued to find Soviet restrictions on communication and expression bizarre, but the accumulated

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experiences of cultural diplomacy led them to accept the situation without surprise. According to a U.S. embassy official in Moscow, the exchange program created “a general impression that relations must not be desperately bad if a regular stream of interchange continues.” The concerts allowed ordinary citizens to believe in stability for the present and the possibility of improved relations in the future. In all these ways “the Cold War appeared increasingly ‘normal’ ”—and musical diplomacy played an important role in helping people grow used to the stalemate.207 The mid-1960s saw a shift in the foreign policies of both superpowers away from the endless escalation of hostilities toward a more stable coexistence, later referred to as “détente.” Neither government arrived at détente easily. Although the 1962 Cuban Missile Crisis had demonstrated the unsustainability of the arms race, it remained difficult for policy makers and publics to trust the other side enough to stop the escalation.208 President Kennedy attempted in 1963 to shift the conversation away from conflict toward a focus on common interests: “As Americans, we find communism profoundly repugnant as a negation of personal freedom and dignity. But we can still hail the Russian people for their many achievements—in science and space, in economic and industrial growth, in culture and in acts of courage.”209 Khrushchev invested heavily in portrayals of the Soviet Union as peaceful, but he also characterized any American proposal for “peaceful coexistence” as a ruse: “The enemies of communism would like to see us ideologically disarmed. And they are trying to achieve this insidious purpose of theirs through propaganda of the peaceful coexistence of ideologies, the ‘Trojan horse’ which they would be happy to sneak in to us.”210 At the same time, Soviet officials also saw the advantages of more open trade and scientific communication. After years of hostility the idea of tolerating the enemy “as is” engendered both fear and hope. Scholars of political history disagree about when détente began. Some date the concept to the early 1970s; others trace its roots to the early 1960s.211 Yet cultural diplomacy began the work of détente sooner than that. Georges-Henri Soutou and Wilfried Loth have characterized détente as an “interesting mix of confrontation and cooperation.”212 As we have seen, U.S.-Soviet musical diplomacy is an excellent example of that “interesting mix,” combining competition and critique with praise for the other’s achievements and amicable sharing of common interests. The ClarionBarshai exchange, the tour of Bernstein and the New York Philharmonic, and many visits by other collegiate and professional ensembles all shared in some measure this strange collection of qualities. In May 1972 Richard Nixon and Leonid Brezhnev affirmed a set of agreements on armaments, science, space programs, the environment, and

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other issues. In their “Basic Principles of Relations between the Soviet Union and the United States” they stated “their intention to deepen cultural ties with one another and to encourage fuller familiarization with each other’s cultural values,” agreeing to improve bilateral arrangements for cultural exchange and tourism.213 In theory this agreement was to give stability and permanence to the exchanges already covered by the LacyZarubin agreement. The Soviet regime had little interest in expanding cultural relations, however. Its focus was primarily on the arms agreement and on profiting from scientific and economic relations.214 Despite repeated assurances from both sides, investments in cultural diplomacy declined: the expansion of relations in other areas meant that culture was no longer the only possible form of peaceful engagement, and both sides sought to further their interests through these other means. Yet it seems likely that cultural diplomacy—practiced throughout the late 1950s and 1960s, while other kinds of exchange remained relatively rare—had helped to create the social norms that made this expansion of relations practical. Throughout the heyday of cultural exchange, even during the period of détente, the idea of infiltration remained important as a means of explaining U.S.-Soviet musical diplomacy. Robert Shaw took his professional choral group to the Soviet Union in 1962. Shaw’s programs in the USSR consisted almost exclusively of religious music—as he put it, “first, because that is the historical nature of the great choral repertoire, but also because their ministry of ‘un-theistic’ culture had specifically requested Bach’s Mass in B Minor.” Even more astonishing to Shaw, a concert of this music was broadcast in the Soviet Union, and “for three hours the only radio fare available to this ‘materialistic,’ ‘atheistic’ audience was a monument of Christian creed, philosophy and art.” Shaw reveled in the choir’s warm reception: Bach’s music was praised in the Soviet press as “uplifting,” “simple and majestic, clear and infinitely wise.”215 Repeating the story years later, in 1981, Shaw took care to tell his fellow Americans that the Soviet enemy was not as it seemed—his story recast not only the Soviet people but also some in the government as art-loving, perhaps even God-fearing people, very “like us.” Just as other commentators retrospectively ascribed the fall of Communism to U.S. cultural interventions, Shaw’s triumphalist story highlights music’s power to unlock the Soviets from their oppression—offering support to the myth that all Soviet citizens longed for liberation by the West.216 Shaw’s retelling the story to his own people, even years after the tour, was part of the ritual, enhancing Americans’ pride in the music and their imagined power to change the behavior of the Soviet state.

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Musical exchange had become a key symbolic ritual of the Cold War. Through this ritual Americans could continue to believe they were doing something real to foster the freedom of the Soviet people. As relations between the United States and the USSR stabilized into détente, rendering it even less likely that the United States would engage in substantial political action to change the status quo, such symbolic action became more important. The belief in cultural infiltration was not propagated by the state alone but also by media commentators and the public—a useful coping strategy as the Cold War seemed to settle into permanence. American journalists’ persistent praise for American musicians’ provocative criticisms of the Soviet Union also justified the Cultural Presentations program’s continuing existence. To keep funding the program, members of Congress had to believe that they were getting real subversive value for the money they spent. Likewise, some of the American public needed assurance that by agreeing to détente, the U.S. government was not selling out Eastern Europe by softening its long-standing resistance to Soviet occupation. Even though U.S. budgets for cultural diplomacy declined in the 1970s, the idea that music should be an instrument of change persisted.217 U.S.-Soviet cultural diplomacy was thus a special case for the Cultural Presentations program, eliciting the greatest expectations about what music could do. The fundamental paradox remained the same as ever: the shortterm aim of using music as a direct instrument of U.S. power undercut the long-term aim of winning friends through “mutual understanding.” The efficacy of cultural diplomacy relied to a great extent on belief in the power of music to accomplish political ends and denial of that very power. Or, as President Lyndon Johnson told a group of musicians and other artists: “Your art is not a political weapon. Yet much of what you do is profoundly political.”218

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Conclusion Music, Mediated Diplomacy, and Globalization in the Cold War Era

Marshall McLuhan declared in 1964 that the availability of images and sounds via electronic media had transformed humanity, allowing immediate sensory perception of faraway events and giving each individual opportunities for participatory engagement in those events.1 While McLuhan reveled in this “global embrace,” Daniel Boorstin was more cynical about its effects. Boorstin noted in 1961 that the existence of electronic media had brought into being a great number of “pseudo-events,” news events that were staged for the purpose of being reported in the media. The “pseudoevent” was characterized by the following features: 1. It does not occur spontaneously, but has been incited. 2. It happens primarily in order to be reported or reproduced. 3. Its relation to reality is ambiguous. It attracts interest precisely because the motives of the event’s planners are obscure. 4. The event acts as a self-fulfilling prophecy. When the media highlight the event’s importance, it becomes important precisely through the attention paid to it.2 Boorstin found the roots of these practices in the quickening news cycle. He argued that throughout the history of audiovisual media, the news was marketed ever more effectively. Eventually the purveyors of news found it lucrative to create news events that aroused consumers’ appetite for more news. These events were not fictitious—they really happened—but the viewer would not comprehend their origin and would experience them as genuine rather than fabricated incidents. Boorstin believed that “the power to make a reportable event is thus the power to make experience.”3



A few years earlier, Henry Kissinger had noticed the strange power of mediation, too. As a newly minted PhD observing the diplomatic scene from his faculty position at Harvard, he found that media coverage had altered the very nature of diplomatic relations. The superpower participants were no longer negotiating only with each other: at the same time and with the same words, they were also engaged in “elaborate stage plays” in which they “address[ed] not so much each other as the world at large.”4 (As we saw in chapter 7, they also spent significant resources addressing their home publics.) Even nuclear disarmament talks had this peculiar doubleness: proposals were substantively directed to the opposing side but also formulated to win the sympathy of the watching and listening world.5 Kissinger believed that “the struggle to capture the symbols which move humanity” offered states new opportunities but also set severe limits on their freedom to negotiate. As the 1950s wore on, this phenomenon drew more and more comment. Public relations expert David Finn urged in 1959 that “our leaders must be increasingly alert to the reactions of the world press and keep in mind that they are being closely scrutinized by a vast international audience.”6 This scrutiny profoundly shaped the practice of diplomacy. U.S. leaders were indeed aware of their broader audiences, and the musical events they designed to engage the world’s peoples closely resembled Boorstin’s pseudoevents. The planning of these events encompassed not only the performances but also their reflections in the news and broadcast media. From the earliest days of the Cultural Presentations program, officials used audio recordings and films to increase the impact of each performance—and as we saw in William Strickland’s case, the act of recording music could itself be an event. Thanks to the mediation that surrounded them, the concerts also took on the quality of self-fulfilling prophecy: even musicians who were unknown in the host countries were touted in the press as great artists and greeted with acclaim as a result. While hundreds, thousands, or tens of thousands witnessed each concert in person, many more knew that the concert was happening and had access to details about the musicians both before and after their visits.7 One recalls the extensive concert preparations undertaken by the U.S. embassy in Vietnam before the 1959 arrival of the Jack Teagarden Sextet, the Golden Gate Quartet, and the Little Orchestra Society. The embassy devoted considerable resources to public lectures, brochures, radio advertising, newsreels, and broadcasts, all to make the visits meaningful to Vietnamese people. We might well describe this flurry of activity using Kissinger’s formulation: it was “an elaborate stage play” intended to cultivate satisfied audiences for the concerts and positive news


coverage after the fact. The practice of American musical diplomacy encompassed more than just the concerts. These performances were part of a broader transmission of ideas—about diplomacy, about the music and musicians, and about the gift of these performances from one nation to another. The anthropologist Barbara Kirshenblatt-Gimblett observed that the act of putting culture on display not only “shows” but also “does”—the choosing, presentation, and explanation of performances are all strategic interventions.8 Indeed, the planners of cultural presentations and other forms of exchange recognized that they were doing something remarkable and that new forms of mediation played a consequential role in their project. Assistant Secretary of State for Educational and Cultural Affairs Charles Frankel wrote in 1966 that the United States had entered a new stage of cultural exchange that was neither accidental contact nor purposeful colonialism. Rather, the “extraordinary flow of cultural traffic” seemed an “almost automatic consequence of changes in the character of human thought and work and in the conditions of human travel and communication”—factors we would today call elements of “globalization.”9 Frankel found that the media had become essential to Americans’ understanding, making foreign places “seem more real” and fostering the impression “that we know what is going on and why in other places because we see so much and hear so much about them.”10 Boorstin likewise believed that pseudoevents “increase our illusion of grasp on the world,” making individuals feel well-informed about matters outside their direct experience.11 Whether face-to-face or through the media, the experience of contact encouraged individuals to imagine themselves in connection to others. The musicians, officials, and audiences who participated in American musical diplomacy experienced a shift in perspective that helped them imagine their places in the Cold War world.

MUSICAL DIPLOMACY AS MEDIATED EVENT The concerts offered by the State Department’s Cultural Presentations program were understood foremost as real-time musical performances before live audiences. Department officials argued that the immediacy and appeal of live musical performance cultivated positive feelings about the United States. But, as in the Vietnamese example, these concerts were surrounded by a rush of other activities that helped determine their meanings. PAOs and CAOs in America’s diplomatic posts around the world ensured the publication of press releases informing audiences about the importance and


quality of the performers. Offering free tickets to members of target audiences boosted attendance, and parties for local dignitaries and visiting musicians attracted the social elite. Foreign Service officers went to great lengths to get the public’s attention, as when the consulate general in Hong Kong sponsored a contest for the best translation of Marian Anderson’s autobiography into Chinese before her appearances there.12 In addition to the mediation that set the scene for live music-making, State Department–sponsored musical performances were also designed for broadcast. As a matter of policy, the department encouraged transmission of its concerts over government-owned and commercial networks abroad.13 Sometimes the concerts were broadcast live or recorded as they happened. More often, the musicians would make a scheduled stop at a radio or television studio where they would record a portion of their program for later use. The broadcasts were framed in the press as events of great significance for both countries, and they reminded audiences of the State Department’s gift after the musicians’ departure. When the National Symphony Orchestra of Washington, DC, appeared in San Salvador, they played the Salvadoran national anthem, moving some of the audience to tears. The Salvadoran National Radio then announced its intention to use the American orchestra’s rendition of the anthem at the opening and closing of each day’s broadcast.14 The idea of reaching so many people encouraged both President Eisenhower’s security staff and the program’s planners to pursue media strategies vigorously. At an October 1958 meeting of the Operations Coordinating Board, the board called the Asian tours of Marian Anderson and the Symphony of the Air “outstanding successes which were multiplied through reproductions.”15 According to State Department records, literally millions of viewers and listeners had access to the performances of U.S. musical diplomats over the air. Not only did broadcasts and recordings attract people to later live performances, but they also had a separate function, reaching larger audiences within the host country through repetition and cultivating a sense of celebrity and familiarity for the musicians. The USIA occasionally filmed events from musicians’ tours or used news footage of them in documentaries to be shown in U.S. Information Centers, emphasizing their gracious ambassadorship and their artistic excellence. Sometimes American musicians made live television appearances in the host countries. For example, Zelma George, who toured in 1959 as an expert on Negro spirituals, appeared on a popular Finnish television show. There she talked about spirituals and led the studio audience in participatory singing—a welcome novelty on Finnish television.16 During the Golden Gate Quartet’s trip to Burma that same


year, the accommodation of local preferences encouraged the broader use of sound recordings. Although the recording sent from Washington to introduce the quartet before the tour was poorly received because it contained only spirituals, the tape of the Burmese concert was better adapted to Burmese tastes. The new recording included popular songs and folk songs, with audience applause, and it was a great success on the radio. The Burma Broadcasting System even aired the music more frequently than it had originally agreed to do. Recordings of those performances were also distributed to Burmese schools and other local organizations, serving as a souvenir of the live performances and a separate medium of engagement with foreign publics.17 Even when musical diplomacy was conducted through the media, the message was far from uniform: U.S. officials negotiated local and national media markets and carefully tailored the form and content of American musicians’ performances to please particular audiences.18 Boorstin’s provocative choice of the term pseudo- for the engineered news event might seem to imply that he thought these events were somehow not real. But his exploration of the pseudo-event is more complex than that and thus more useful for my purposes. Boorstin distinguished the pseudo-event from propaganda in the narrower, negative sense of the term. He called propaganda an “appealing falsehood” designed to inflame emotions; by contrast, the pseudo-event seemed to thrive on people’s “honest desire to be informed.” Unlike propaganda, Boorstin wrote, pseudo-events do not make up the witnesses’ minds for them; rather, they “move people indirectly, by providing the ‘factual’ basis on which they are supposed to make up their minds.”19 (This principle resonates with Edward R. Murrow’s project of broadcasting evidence to help television viewers form intelligent opinions.) The apparently informational quality of pseudo-events allowed diplomats to present a seemingly neutral portrayal of American life even while they used the events to convey particular ideas about the United States. From the beginning of U.S. involvement in cultural relations, State Department officials were careful to maintain this distinction. Founded in 1939, the new Division of Cultural Relations was intended for “genuine cultural relations. It is not a propaganda agency, in the popular sense of the term which carries with it implications of penetration, imposition and unilateralism.”20 Even the more overtly propagandistic USIA maintained some distinctions of this kind. As Thomas Sorensen, who worked for the USIA during the 1960s, has explained it, “We did not lie, or distort the news, or subvert the media, but neither were we disinterested.”21 The presentation of an edited version of reality through the media allowed the U.S. government to wield enormous influence while claiming objectivity and truthfulness.22


We might recall, for example, the tours of African American jazz musicians to developing nations in Asia and Africa. The appearance of African Americans on behalf of the U.S. government offered audiences abroad observable facts and personal accounts on which to base their opinions of U.S. race relations. So far as we can ascertain, none of these conversations was formally scripted in advance, nor were any false assertions made. There was no overt attempt to persuade. Yet the overall effect was extremely persuasive, perhaps more so than the direct claims about African American progress that were distributed in USIS pamphlets. The musicians’ appearance was an implicit endorsement, giving the impression by association that the musicians approved of the policies and actions of the U.S. government.23 Boorstin was troubled by the artificial quality of these happenings, that people could in effect create and disseminate a particular version of reality in the guise of news. But he also acknowledged that this effect was not exactly a deception: “Our problem is the harder to solve because it is created by people working honestly and industriously at respectable jobs.”24 The phenomenon Boorstin described is now so much a part of our everyday reality that we barely notice it.25 The production of representations is a mainstay of our political activity and our social lives. We constantly make choices about how to convey our own ideas and those of others in a variety of media, and we are accustomed to interpreting the implications of how a message is presented.26 Yet it is useful to remember that in the 1950s and 1960s, when television was still a marvel, many observers had the disconcerting feeling that reality itself was being destabilized by the new medium. One might be shown images of news events that seemed true but weren’t; one might be manipulated on the basis of those images to make choices; there was always more to the story than one could perceive. Similar uncertainties pervaded the entire enterprise of musical diplomacy. The representation of nations through the arts was an emerging form of expressive culture that took advantage of and even helped to create a novel system for mediating ideas on an international scale.

THE STAGE PLAY OF MUSICAL DIPLOMACY Let us look more closely now at the “people working honestly and industriously” to create musical diplomacy. As Barbara Kirshenblatt-Gimblett has observed, whenever people are put on display, they are doing several kinds of work at once: they can serve as both the specimen who is exhibited and as the museum docent who explains the exhibit.27 In the case of America’s Cold War cultural diplomacy, the musicians toured in order to make music,


as themselves—but they also appeared as an expensive gift from one country to another, as spokespersons for America’s goodwill, and as examples of particular ideas (musical freedom, racial equality). By their presence they enacted a variety of ideas about America, allowing the audience to appraise them as representatives of their ethnic groups, of a generic idea of “artistic excellence,” or of the United States in the abstract. American visitors were “onstage” even in their offstage moments. Their manners, appearance, and interactions would be open to view, interpreted as evidence about America by eyewitnesses and in the press. The complexity of the musicians’ role shares the pseudo-event’s destabilizing synthetic quality—yet the musicians do not typically describe their experiences as ambiguous or unsettling. Participants in cultural diplomacy usually tell of it as a vitally important activity, a highlight of their lives and careers. The musicians’ visits formed real relationships. Marvin Keenze, who toured with the Westminster Choir in 1956, has returned to Japan twentyone times since his initial visit with the choir: he became involved in the International Congress of Voice Teachers and has valued international work throughout his career. Matthiew Ruggiero, bassoonist for the Boston Symphony Orchestra Chamber Players, corresponded with people he met in Latin America and Japan. The tour created for him a lifelong network of colleagues around the world.28 Even in the Soviet Union, where conversation was typically constrained by the supervising authorities, music lovers and musicians sought out the American visitors after concerts to talk about performance technique and make friendly conversation about the music.29 When the University of Illinois Jazz Band visited Tashkent, Yalta, and Krasnodar, they met many Soviet students who had never before spoken to an American. Three Soviet Jews sought out the band in Tashkent, asking whether there were Jews in the band. They were delighted to meet the nineteen-year-old Jewish tuba player: “it was evident that for the three young Soviet Jews this was a great thrill—to talk with Americans, American musicians, a Jew from the outside world.”30 The sympathies cultivated in this way were both personal and geopolitical. American musicians witnessed segregation in South Africa, poverty throughout rural Latin America, and the constraints of Soviet life. Many reported that after their tours they understood the world better and read the newspaper with greater sympathy.31 One musician told me that after returning to the United States he “constantly thought about these places.” A member of the Claremont String Quartet, Marc Gottlieb, recalls that a woman he met in New Zealand took him on an excursion to see a local waterfall. Although he has had no contact with her since, he remembers her


hospitality warmly, noting that an experience like this “reverberates through a life.”32 Indeed, when earthquakes shook New Zealand in 2010 and 2011, decades after Gottlieb’s visit, he found that he felt intensely for the people there. Likewise, the saxophonist Richard Kleinfeldt recalls having tea and conversation with Iranian students, one of whom felt emboldened to reveal his identity as a Christian to the visiting Americans.33 Kleinfeldt responded with great emotion to the Iranian revolution of 1978– 79. He remembered the people he had met on tour and was concerned for them. Some of the American musicians came to believe in cultural diplomacy so much that they made it a career. Kleinfeldt went to work for the Voice of America. Ron Post, who played in the University of Michigan Jazz Band, entered the Foreign Service after his tour. So did Lee Irwin, who toured the Soviet Union and Romania with the Oberlin College Choir.34 Some musicians came to see themselves as ambassadors with a significant role to play in international relations. They typically believed they were serving the United States as a whole, not just its government. When they look back on their tours, musicians invariably comment on the importance of doing one’s part for international understanding. Even today, many identify themselves as active participants in world politics, with their tours as a starting point. The University of Michigan Jazz Band’s 1965 tour of Latin America and the Caribbean offers an unusually dramatic illustration. After playing three successful concerts in the Dominican Republic, the band’s stay was cut short by revolution: members witnessed gunfire at close range and were evacuated by the U.S. military. The students in the band wondered whether the State Department had known that revolution was brewing before making the last-minute decision to send them to Santo Domingo.35 They were truly part of the story, for President Johnson later justified his decision to send in the U.S. Marine Corps and occupy the Dominican Republic by citing the need to protect American citizens on the island.36 As the band members talk about the revolution today, they convey a sense of mystery and drama in being part of an event of worldwide political importance.37 Audiences and musicians from the host countries also willingly adopted roles in the “stage play” of musical diplomacy. We might recall the numerous instances in which musicians joined together in jam sessions so that players and audiences alike were drawn into active participation. The common understanding of state-sponsored concerts as expensive gifts from the United States to the host country implied that the recipients were part of the diplomatic story as well. Susan Migden Socolow, who was assistant CAO at the U.S. embassy in Paraguay, recalls that when musicians visited


the secondary cities or towns, far from U.S. embassies or major cities, they met people who seldom saw foreign visitors. In rural places people were surprised and grateful that anyone had come at all. This effort allowed eyewitnesses to feel flattered that the embassy, and by extension the United States, was present and attending to them.38 Socolow reports that the effects of this work were significant and possibly long-lasting; she continued to receive favorable comments for months after the end of the tour.39 The metaphor of the concert as a gift from one country to another, like the metaphor of playing together, placed U.S. musicians and the people they met into relationship with one another and encouraged people in the host country to imagine themselves as connected with both the United States itself and its ambassadors. Yet the gift could also inspire feelings of insecurity, as when listeners questioned their own expertise or asked the American performers to rate the quality of their audiences. Whether flattered or insecure, whether skeptical or enraptured—all of these responses enacted a social relationship, a bond between performers and listeners. Although all live music-making uses the power of these social bonds, musical diplomacy added political intrigue and the unpredictability of engaging with audiences in their own environments. Audiences sometimes had considerable power to establish relationships with the visitors on their own terms. Ron Post, a member of the University of Michigan Jazz Band, recalled an explicitly political experience in Caracas, where the Michigan band’s concert at the university had been cancelled because of a strike by Communist students.40 Post told the story: As I wended my way down the seemingly endless, dark streets of a residential area, a very middle-class area, there was some jazz coming out of a house, and it sounded like it was live, so I went up to the house and said, “I’m with the U of M jazz band, and I’m a bit lost and trying to find my hotel.” They were practicing for a jazz festival; they invited me in and pretty soon whisked me off to a jazz club in the city. We heard musicians there, and they were very good. They said, “we’re having a concert at the University on Sunday, why don’t you come?” And I thought that was a little strange because we were supposed to have played at the university, but they had had protests, so they wouldn’t allow us to play there. But they invited me, so I invited a couple of the other band members and we went to the University of Caracas for the jazz festival. I was seated with the president of the jazz and drama club, who got up at intermission and gave a harangue against America and the American jazz band. It was really something—they were protesting us but they had invited us to this thing. But it was all good feeling, you know, and we got along with them fine. I leaned over


to the guy next to me and said “What’s going on?” He said “Well, this is sort of the political aspect of the thing, but don’t pay attention, it’s just what we do.” It was quite an experience.

Post continued his reminiscences: Then the next day, of course, I invited them to our concert which had been moved from the university that Sunday to a bowl outside the city. So many people came to the concert that we had to actually go out [on the stage] to play rock ’n’ roll for a while, because people were still streaming in and the people who’d been there for a long time started clapping, asking us to perform. . . . There were about 8,000 people at that concert and it was just a fantastic experience—you get inspired from something like that, so we played really well, they loved us, and there were all the guys from the jazz and drama club, which I later learned was the Communist front of the university. We had a great time with them again.41

Post insisted that the visiting band members weren’t made to feel uncomfortable: “it was so matter of fact, although the speech was given with a good deal of vigor as I remember it. They certainly weren’t angry at us. They treated us very well.”42 The Venezuelan students related to the Michigan Jazz Band in several ways at once. On one hand, they used the band’s presence to attract attention to their own political agenda, criticizing the United States and its representatives. On the other hand, they also enjoyed the company of the American student musicians as peers, establishing social relations that were recalled warmly some forty years after the fact. They distinguished between the music’s appeal and the political motivations of the government that sent the music, accepting the former and assessing the latter more skeptically. The interest of each student group in the other was surely heightened by the fact that there seemed to be more happening—on both sides—than first met the eye. Even people in the United States were given roles to play. Although U.S. law prohibited American officials from broadcasting U.S. propaganda within its own borders, the American news and entertainment media conveyed details of the Cultural Presentations tours. As we saw in chapter 4, for instance, Edward R. Murrow’s coverage of Louis Armstrong and Marian Anderson as ambassadors harmonized perfectly with the strategies of U.S. government propagandists. It presented factual information but not in a disinterested fashion. Bringing African American artists and their Asian and African interlocutors into America’s living rooms allowed viewers a strangely intimate and poignant contact with peoples abroad. (Recall the Protestant women’s groups who responded to the Anderson broadcast by


organizing further study of international issues.) Murrow’s international vignettes offered more than the charm of the unfamiliar: they gave Americans a reason to feel good about their country’s actions abroad.43 The results of musicians’ diplomatic excursions also circulated widely in the United States as sound recordings: Dave Brubeck’s Jazz Impressions of Eurasia; Randy Weston’s African Cookbook; Herbie Mann’s African Suite and Brazil, Bossa Nova and Blue; the Paul Winter Sextet’s Jazz Meets the Bossa Nova; Duke Ellington’s Far East Suite, Latin American Suite, and Afro-Eurasian Eclipse; and many others. These recordings reinforced for ordinary Americans the idea that international engagement could enrich their own lives.44 The mixed reception of folk and rock groups after their tours suggests that U.S. audiences considered seriously the political implications of musical ambassadorship. In light of these experiences of connectedness, Boorstin’s idea about the artifice of the created news event merits further examination. Boorstin wrote that “news events become dramatic performances in which ‘men in the news’ simply act out more or less well their prepared script.” He believed that this “performance” aspect was evidence of shallowness, of the unreality of the entire project.45 Yet when we look closely at the experience of cultural diplomacy, we see that none of these participants was simply reading a script provided by the U.S. government. Far from understanding their task as playacting, many participants adopted wholeheartedly the roles they were assigned in a way that became a life highlight for many and for some an aspect of their identity ever after. Even in cases where U.S. officials tried to shape the message in advance, many of the musicians and the people they met experienced musical diplomacy not as “propaganda” in a pejorative sense but as vivid musical and human connection. Of course, that sensation, too, may have been an effect of the program’s design, purposefully nurtured, yet not quite false. Certainly the state had an interest in maintaining good feelings, which were necessary for continued recruitment of musicians and connection with audiences.46 That a Cold War nation-state assumed the authority to create and assign roles to individual people is not surprising. Indeed, this subtle ability to recruit individuals to the state’s purposes appears to be a defining feature of a “superpower.” Historians have demonstrated that individual citizens often foster international cooperation that serves their own interests rather than those of the state.47 Nevertheless, the evidence of U.S. musical presentations suggests that these seemingly nonpolitical interactions could also be choreographed by the state, even if the participants themselves felt they had chosen their roles freely. Nonstate actors participated in the


government’s program for a variety of reasons, yet their behavior and that of people they met abroad was profoundly shaped by the roles into which they were recruited. Here we see the political made personal, a means of infusing lives with impetus to participate in a political project.48 The pragmatic and ideological purposes of the state had become so much a part of American society that they could be taken for granted as a framework for citizens’ participation in society.49 Boorstin’s idea that “the power to make a reportable event is . . . the power to make experience” rings true.50 Yet it would be an error to regard the State Department’s mobilization of the arts as a solely top-down phenomenon. The crucial mediator between the state’s power and individuals’ participation was a far-reaching set of social conventions governing musical and diplomatic performance. Musical diplomacy relied on these conventions to elicit the desired behavior from performers, audiences, and observers. A concert by a visiting artist called on customs that were already well cultivated in much of the world—hospitality, the acknowledgment of unusual talent, the desire to reveal oneself as an educated listener. Widely respected conventions of concertgoing cued audiences to anticipate enjoyment and required that musicians do their best to please. The relationship between host and guest meant that the Americans would try to be gracious, and their hosts would welcome them warmly. Framing the visits as a form of diplomacy ensured that the American musicians and the people they met would see themselves as representatives of their respective nations. Within these conventional paradigms, everyone had considerable freedom to choose their own words and actions. As performing musicians, the Americans who toured were well-practiced in the social conventions that made music-making powerful, and they decided how to enact those conventions on the spot. Indeed, the American musicians deployed these paradigms for purposes they valued: Marian Anderson discussed civil and human rights; John Finley Williamson supported Christian choirs; and Addiss and Crofut respectfully studied others’ folk songs. Musical diplomacy was an emergent practice that joined citizens’ values closely with the state’s power in a mutually reinforcing way. Through the shared, normative experience of music-making, musicians and audiences were invited to participate not explicitly in politics but rather in a sociability, overtly sponsored by the state, that felt like more than politics. Thus, soft power may not reside in the attractiveness of cultural products, or the transmission of a particular message, as Joseph Nye would have it.51 In the case of U.S. musical diplomacy soft power meant assigning people roles to play that were irresistible, or at least rewarding enough to adopt. Charles Ellison, who directed the Cultural Presentations program in


the 1960s, observed that a major virtue of exchange programs was that they allowed citizens to “play a part in our foreign relations.”52 It is clear that this lesson was taken to heart by administrators, for it was stated in stronger terms in the following decade. In testimony before the House Committee on International Relations, former assistant secretary of state John Richardson explained that not only could the U.S. government improve the functioning of the mass media throughout the world, but it could also place sensitive, qualified people at critical points within global “communication flows” to strengthen relationships between institutions and societies.53 In other words the personal element of building connections was as important as the medium for doing so. That musical diplomacy was understood as artistic exchange, not political exchange, mattered a great deal to its participants. The prevalent public discourse about the arts during this time mandated a separation between art and propaganda. This viewpoint, articulated by musicians and critics alike, was grounded in abhorrence of Nazi propaganda and an older belief that engagement with music is elevating and worthwhile.54 The professional musicians and critics on the State Department’s Music Advisory Panels shared this perspective. As educated Americans, many department officials and Foreign Service officers did, too. Thus, it was possible to deny any direct connection between cultural and educational exchange programs and geopolitics.55 Of course, the musical diplomats themselves also held strong beliefs about the intrinsic value of their art. Many musicians who would not willingly have signed on as supporters of the U.S. government’s policies were happy to share their art abroad. They brought to the project an understanding that their performances were valuable in and of themselves, and they were excited to use government support to stimulate interest in their music or further their own careers. By choosing musical ambassadors who believed that art was more important than politics, the State Department supported the attractive idea that cultural diplomacy was separate from practical political concerns. Ironically, this widely held belief afforded musical diplomacy its political power. Among the officials who planned cultural diplomacy events and the diplomats who made them happen, the question of whether the arts were being presented “for their own sake” or used as a propaganda tool was argued repeatedly and never resolved. The State Department’s Division of Cultural Relations, founded on a principle of “mutual understanding,” was separate from the propaganda initiatives of the Office of War Information and its successor agencies, the International Information Administration and the USIA. In 1951 the Bureau of the Budget entered the debate,


claiming that “culture for culture’s sake has no place in the U.S. Information and Educational Exchange Program”: the only proper diplomatic use of the arts was to win respect and thereby “inspire cooperation with us in world affairs.”56 In practice, however, these opposing ideas did not paralyze the program; rather, the contradiction was necessary to its function. The idea that art remained pure and apolitical allowed musicians and audiences to buy into their roles without much reservation, and the idea that art was entirely in the state’s service allowed politicians to play the required role of cold warriors, investing resources in effective propaganda. Only the cooperation of a variety of actors with heterogeneous aims made the program flourish. The officials who directed the Cultural Presentations program balanced these agendas well enough to keep the program funded and functioning throughout the 1950s and 1960s.57 This assortment of purposes demands an unusually open definition of propaganda, one that allows for many kinds of involvement, many kinds of meaning-making. Extending Kissinger’s thinking about the “stage play” of diplomacy, the historian Kenneth Osgood defines propaganda as “words and deeds used for their impact on the perceptions and attitudes of others.” Osgood points out the false dichotomy between propaganda and truth: the actions of states can have practical consequences even if they also are meant as gestures that change observers’ thinking. In the same way, U.S. musical diplomacy conveyed something substantive about the relationship U.S. officials desired to establish with foreign citizens—it represented real financial investments and real human partnerships. At the same time, it was also intended strategically to convey impressions and beliefs to live and broadcast audiences.58 What was difficult for Boorstin to see, but evident to us as we look back, is that once the mediation of ideas is part of the landscape, authentic behavior is no longer separable from behavior meant to convey a message to a broad audience.59 A given performance can serve both political and artistic aims. That observable events might have many motives behind them is a key feature of the enterprise of musical diplomacy, heightening the excitement and interest of everyone involved.

IMAGINED CONNECTIONS, MEDIATED EXPERIENCE, AND NATIONHOOD The feelings of connectedness and the movement of people and music encouraged individuals to imagine themselves as connected to one another within a “global” order. In some ways musical diplomacy can be understood as an international variant of Benedict Anderson’s concept of the “imagined


community.” Anderson argues that the existence of newspapers encouraged individuals to build common language and concerns, thereby coming to understand themselves as part of a nation.60 Cultural diplomacy relies on a similar trick of mediation, providing people in many places with shared information and experiences—but even as it reinforces linguistic and national borders by showing what is characteristic of a nation, it also crosses those borders by inviting broader participation. The form of globalization we see in cultural diplomacy is not primarily about mobility or even direct communication but about altering local contexts and changing the frame of reference in which people think about themselves and others.61 For most of the history of the Cultural Presentations program a majority of the tours took place in the developing world and the Communist Bloc, areas where people felt little or no connection to the United States. The gift of musical diplomacy from one country to another constructed a peculiar social world—not only on a personal scale but also on a large scale, spanning vast distances. As Assistant Secretary of State John Richardson Jr. explained in 1971, the purpose of the Bureau of Educational and Cultural Relations was “building knowledge and relationships among people who count all the way from community to national levels in this and other countries.”62 Neither live concerts nor print nor broadcasts began this process. Although we tend to think of media as the cause of cultural “flows” in the age of globalization, we often forget to consider how the channels that enable those flows were created. The media were not a neutral tool: these channels of communication were established or expanded for specific political ends.63 Public servants and media executives alike understood their work in this way: they described their geopolitical situation in terms we now commonly use to describe globalization. David Sarnoff, president of the Radio Corporation of America, explained in a 1957 speech: “We live in a world so shrunken that political and social explosions anywhere produce instant and frequently serious tremors everywhere.”64 A State Department report on cultural diplomacy cited the “great flow and counterflow of persons across continents and oceans and national boundaries,” undertaken for mutual benefit.65 Such descriptions were not disinterested; rather, they were authored by Cold War strategists who wanted to ensure victory for America or for the “free world.” In 1963 Walter Laves envisioned the building of a “genuine world community” as the central task for the defeat of Communism. This task would require pervasive outreach, recruiting people to this all-encompassing project through every possible means. In Laves’s vision this effort would create “a world in which the fate of every country is deeply interrelated with that of every other, and in which the possibility


of genuinely independent action by any nation has almost totally disappeared.”66 The perceived political necessity of building “a genuine world community” drove the establishment and use of media that would support substantive relationships across international borders. The state coordinated the effort, but the work was not the state’s alone: by the end of the 1950s the investment of private U.S. institutions in educational exchange and other international programs had surpassed that of the U.S. government.67 Public and private actors built systems of moving ideas and people to serve the nation-state’s interests as well as their own, and they also created the roles for which individual people volunteered.68 If transforming individuals and institutions into willing contributors was central to the Cold War effort, then musical diplomacy was a valuable tool for that transformation, granting Americans warm feelings about their participation and gratifying audiences by fulfilling their own musical ambitions or their desire to connect. The sense of pride in a common artistic cause might even be felt as a (perhaps illusory) sense of common political cause. Of course, the use of music to serve a state’s interests long predates the Cold War. Works of music and theater paid for by the great European powers had for centuries represented the dominance of monarchs, cultivated prestige among peers, or served as a gift to mark or strengthen alliances.69 Likewise, the use of the arts for state propaganda was also in place well before the Cold War: one well-known case was the Nazis’ radio and concert propaganda in the 1930s and 1940s. The elements that distinguished Cold War cultural diplomacy from earlier or wartime efforts were, first, the two superpowers’ aggressive recruitment of political and economic allies as a global project and, second, the growing importance of mediated representation. During the Cold War, state officials and individual citizens increasingly defined their places in the world in terms of national independence and international alliances. Composers had long been exploring ideas about nationhood through music, but Cold War pressures created the sense of a global order within which the nation’s cultural and political contribution had to be defined. A “cultural presentation” was recognized as an important intervention: a way for the nation to take its place within the global order and to reveal itself as producer of its own image.70 The development of this sensibility of representation coincided closely with the postwar development of the United Nations as a paradigm for a world-system. In this new paradigm, self-determining nation-states on the U.S. model became a norm for thinking about international relationships.71 In the era of decolonization and Cold War competition between Communist and capitalist systems, each


nation was called on to show others a legible identity and to clearly state its alliances—or, in the case of nonaligned countries, refusal of alliance. Musical diplomacy helped to make this paradigm seem real to peoples around the world through a kind of metonymy: the “culture” presented by each state functioned as a claim for the validity of that state and the capabilities of its people.72 Many nations, having been addressed in this way, also chose to speak, articulating their own agendas.73 This period saw a worldwide proliferation of musical diplomacy—sponsored not only by a few powers but increasingly by many other countries as well, reaching not only elites but also vast populations.74 The founding of numerous state folk ensembles in the Soviet-occupied East Bloc in the 1950s and the establishment of the U.S. Cultural Presentations program in 1954 were soon followed by the creation of national ballet and musical ensembles in Asia and Africa.75 Many of these new ensembles were designed specifically to represent their nations to the world’s other peoples, just as the State Department’s histories of jazz and the Tamburitzans’ panorama of folkloric styles aimed to explain America through examples of Americana. The symbolic relationship between music and nation was selective and ambiguous: individuals were called on to stand for their states, and state officials chose particular elements of culture to stand for entire populations, leaving others out of the picture.76 As we saw in these cases and others, any selection of a particular kind of music is an intervention that changes relationships. The establishment of jazz as “America’s classical music” made its point abroad but also changed the status of the music at home. The Tamburitzans’ contentious choice of rock and their respectful adoption of Slavic musical works were their own doing, but these choices also served as a form of signaling on the part of the state, by which diverse aspects of American identity were made apparent to others. The nation-states that adopted similar practices of cultural diplomacy made similarly contested choices about what art would represent them. Even if their specific artistic choices engaged only ambivalently with Western or Euro-American models, their participation in the practice of national representation—based as it was on the Western principle of the nation-state—took place largely on Western terms. The process of imputing national meaning to art did not take place solely on the “production” side: the people who witnessed these representations were also empowered to appraise the ideas and images that were on offer, giving or withholding admiration according to their own criteria. In the world the Cold War made, everyone is an actor, everyone a critic. Oddly, this treatment of music, in which every country selects (or recreates) its favored styles for presentation abroad, both transformed the


chosen musical practices and lessened the differences among them. They all began to be framed in similar ways for consumption by the world’s publics. (This “one world, many flavors” approach also recalls the treatment of national minority cultures within the Soviet empire.)77 The availability of media changed the scene by giving every nation a visible platform within the gallery of nation-states (though not all were equally visible), and cultural diplomacy changed the scene by emphasizing the selection and framing of heritage as a strategy for defining the nation’s profile. This combination of media and identity strategies is now more commonly known as nation-branding or place-branding.78 Like Kissinger’s “stage play” of diplomacy, at once aimed at the state’s negotiators and the world audience, cultural diplomacy could seek to please its audiences as artistic performance while also establishing a national brand that could have multiple political uses.

DID CULTURAL PRESENTATIONS “WORK”? We have seen that U.S. cultural presentations had far-reaching effects. Were they also effective in the narrower sense of furthering the state’s interests? The answer depends on which objectives are in view and what threshold of success one sets for a program that always had a modest budget. As an American embassy official in Moscow noted in 1958, cultural presentations were no panacea: the political and ideological disagreements that shaped international relations would not be erased by a concert or two. Yet the official also acknowledged that, for U.S. diplomats in the Soviet Union, exchanges of persons were at that time “the only formally arranged means of breaking down the barriers to communication.”79 The overwhelming consensus among American ambassadors was that cultural diplomacy was effective. When the State Department surveyed them, many cited the opening of channels of communication. The examples they gave reveal that time and again, the embassies used people’s engagement in musical activities for other, nonmusical purposes. Sometimes these purposes were tangible. The embassy in Nigeria explained that the presence of performing artists typically led to better connections between the embassy and the community: “For example, the visit of the de Paur chorus to Ibadan led to contacts with leaders in the local battalion which in turn led to a weekly USIS program of speakers and movies supplied to the battalion. This was a significant new opportunity for us.” The U.S. ambassador in Zambia reported that a concert created persistent warm feelings on the part of important political figures: “The Phoenix Singers made such a favorable


impression in their public appearances that they were invited to give a special, private performance at a closed conclave of top Zambian Government officials headed by President Kaunda himself. Recollection of that occasion with any of these officials today tends almost invariably to relax the situation quite noticeably.”80 Often the results were hard to specify, yet most of the embassies reported that these channels of communication were important. Ron Post, who toured as a musician before joining the Foreign Service, explained that cultural diplomacy “changes the valence” of relations, putting into place the open, friendly attitudes that are necessary for people to “at least consider what our policies are.”81 Music introduced positive feelings into a public arena fraught with conflict. It not only brought people to the State Department’s events, but it also allowed people abroad and at home to feel good about investing in international relationships. On many levels, then, it appears that musical diplomacy mattered as the United States tried to forge a “genuine world community.” Apart from this kind of attitude change, we do see hints of other concrete outcomes in the reception of some tours. The case of William Strickland’s Asian and European tours demonstrates that the U.S. government used music to give communities access to expertise that would enhance their local, national, or regional prestige. When Edward R. Murrow was appointed director of the USIA, he acknowledged that effectiveness in this narrower sense was hard to measure: “no computer clicks, no cash register rings when a man changes his mind.”82 Yet changing minds—persuading people to accept policies or ideologies—was not the main purpose of the Cultural Presentations program as it was carried out by its practitioners in the field. Rather, their work consistently privileged the human connections that were made possible by musical performance and conversation about music. The evaluation of cultural diplomacy’s effectiveness has been complicated by the assumptions of those who have sought to revitalize the practice in the years since 11 September 2001. A large body of recent writing defines a “new public diplomacy,” and most of the authors assert that what is needed today differs dramatically from Cold War cultural diplomacy. Historians Giles Scott-Smith and Martijn Mos have identified three ways in which the new public diplomacy differs from previous models of cultural diplomacy: (1) the importance of non-state actors alongside and outside of interstate relations has increased; (2) the practice of public diplomacy abroad is intimately and necessarily linked to the practice of public affairs at home; and


(3) it is not so much geared towards the management of information for the purpose of convincing others to adopt another point of view, but towards an engagement with other constituencies with an aim of establishing a dialogue on the grounds of mutual interest or concern.83

Yet this list highlights elements that already characterized the musical diplomacy of the 1950s. Even as people have sought to bring cultural diplomacy back to the forefront of international relations in the present, they have also obscured what it was in the past. It is understandable that today’s observer, looking back, might imagine Cold War cultural diplomacy as a state-oriented, “top-down” practice and believe that today’s networked approaches are different.84 After all, the notion that the United States could win the war of ideas by communicating its values abroad was propagated widely, both by the press in the United States and in the State Department’s requests for funding sent to Congress.85 The intermingling of the USIA with the State Department in the operations of the Cultural Presentations program further complicates the picture, for USIA officials were charged with developing detailed country plans that did enumerate specific messages to be brought across to the public in each place: for example, “America is culturally diverse and it has modern and traditional music”; “African Americans have access to education”; “Americans respect many religions.”86 In practice, though, musical presentations conveyed the relevant messages only implicitly. As Boorstin’s model suggests, the chosen messages came across in the form of evidence offered to audiences rather than conclusions drawn for them—and we have seen that audiences chose for themselves which conclusions to draw. Although USIA officials gladly reported on the successful delivery of their messages, many believed that the benefits of cultural presentations were more social and relational than propagandistic. By emphasizing human relations, twoway communication, and depictions of America’s complexity, the advocates of “the new public diplomacy” describe something very like the practice of musical diplomacy in the 1950s. Although Cold War cultural diplomacy sometimes made effective propaganda, the channels of communication it built were its most important legacy.87 In a time when states were committing every resource possible to sway distant populations to choose one ideological system over another, or to make a case for their own nationhood, music proved a very attractive resource. Offerings of musical diplomacy altered the contexts in which individuals imagined themselves, allowing them to feel social and musical connections with people from other lands. Even though political pressures


helped to stimulate the building of the media channels that supported Cold War musical diplomacy, we cannot assume that the music was simply a superficial reflection of an underlying political reality. Rather, the practice of musical diplomacy, at once fabricated and genuine, helped to create the personal experiences and the global sensibilities of the Cold War era.

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abbreviations A Amb. AmCon AmConGen AmEmb ARK



Airgram Ambassador American Consulate American Consulate General American Embassy Manuscript Collection (MC) 468: Bureau of Educational and Cultural Affairs Historical Collection, Special Collections, University of Arkansas Library, Fayetteville Branch Public Affairs Officer Central Decimal File, 1955–59, Record Group 59, National Archives at College Park (The dates of items in the Central Decimal File are typically encoded in the file numbers: 4–659 indicates April 6, 1959.) Central Decimal File, 1960–63, Record Group 59, National Archives at College Park CIA Records Search Tool, National Archives at College Park Despatch Department of State Field Message Foreign Relations of the United States Institute of Jazz Studies, John Cotton Dana Library, Rutgers University


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John Finley Williamson Collection, Westminster Choir College Archives, Talbott Library, Rider University Louis Armstrong House Museum, Queens, NY Leonard Bernstein Collection, Library of Congress Message Marian Anderson Papers, Kislak Center for Special Collections, Rare Books, and Manuscripts, University of Pennsylvania The Marshall Winslow Stearns Collection, Institute of Jazz Studies, Rutgers University Libraries National Archives at College Park New York Times Richard Crawford Papers, Bentley Historical Library, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor Robert P. Fountain Papers, RG 30/368, Oberlin College Archives, Oberlin, OH Record Group Record Group 59: General Records of the Department of State, National Archives at College Park Record Group 306: Records of the United States Information Agency, National Archives at College Park Subject-Numeric File, 1963, Record Group 59, National Archives at College Park Subject-Numeric File, 1967–69, Record Group 59, National Archives at College Park. Telegram William Remsen Strickland Collection, Music Division, Library of Congress

introduction 1. Edmund H. Kellogg, Chargé d’affaires a.i., AmEmb Phnom Penh Despatch 367 (hereafter D-367) to DOS, Central Decimal File 1955–59 (hereafter CDF55–59) 032/4–659, Record Group 59 (RG 59), National Archives at College Park (hereafter NA). All items in the Central Decimal File are from RG 59. 2. See Jennifer Campbell, “Shaping Solidarity: Music, Diplomacy, and InterAmerican Relations, 1936–1946” (PhD diss., University of Connecticut, 2010); Carol Hess, “Copland in Argentina: Pan Americanist Politics, Folklore, and the

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Crisis in Modern Music,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 66, no. 1 (2013): 191–250; and Justin Hart, Empire of Ideas: The Origins of Public Diplomacy and the Transformation of U.S. Foreign Policy (New York: Oxford University Press, 2013). See also Ruth Emily McMurry and Muna Lee, The Cultural Approach: Another Way in International Relations (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1947), 208–29; and Charles A. Thomson and Walter H. C. Laves, Cultural Relations and U.S. Foreign Policy (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1963). 3. Campbell, “Shaping Solidarity,” 240–44. 4. Lee Irwin, interview by the author, 15 November 2013. Incomplete budget figures can be found in boxes 35–46, Series 6 (Budget), Group I (CU Organization and Administration), MC468: Bureau of Educational and Cultural Affairs Historical Collection, Special Collections, University of Arkansas Library, Fayetteville. See also Appendix 1.1: “Cultural Presentations Budgets, 1961–1974,” 5. On more recent forms of musical engagement see AMS Planning and Research, “Evaluation of the Jazz Ambassadors Program,” vol. 1, http://eca; Hisham Aidi, Rebel Music: Race, Empire, and the New Muslim Youth Culture (New York: Pantheon, 2014); and Kendra Salois, “The U.S. Department of State’s ‘Hip Hop Diplomacy’ in Morocco,” in Music and Diplomacy from the Early Modern Era to the Present, ed. Rebekah Ahrendt, Mark Ferraguto, and Damien Mahiet (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2014), 231–50. 6. Charles Frankel, The Neglected Aspect of Foreign Affairs: American Educational and Cultural Policy Abroad (Washington: Brookings Institution, 1965), 9–34. 7. Departments of State and Justice, the Judiciary, and Related Agencies Appropriations for 1960: Hearings Before the Subcommittee on Appropriations, House of Representatives, Eighty-Sixth Congress, Second Session, 966. On biased reporting of outcomes see Charles Frankel, High on Foggy Bottom (New York: Harper and Row, 1968), 80. 8. For a description of how the embassies placed information in local newspapers, see AmEmb Santiago D-291 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Thebom, Blanche/9–1757, NA. The relationship between diplomatic posts and local media is described in Thomas C. Sorensen, The Word War: The Story of American Propaganda (New York: Harper and Row, 1968), 66. On the importance of newspaper reports for judging effectiveness see remarks of Robert Thayer in Departments of State and Justice, the Judiciary, and Related Agencies Appropriations for 1960: Hearings Before the Subcommittee on Appropriations, House of Representatives, Eighty-Sixth Congress, Second Session, 965. 9. J. Manuel Espinosa, Inter-American Beginnings of U.S. Cultural Diplomacy, 1936–1948, DOS Publication 8854 (1976), viii. 10. “Are the Communists Right in Calling Us Cultural Barbarians?” Rep. Frank Thompson Jr. (D-NJ), 84th Cong., 1st sess., Extension of Remarks, Cong. Rec. 101 (27 June 1955), A4692.

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11. IIA: The International Information Administration Program, DOS Publication 4939 (1953), 4, 8. 12. See Walter Hixson, Parting the Curtain: Propaganda, Culture, and the Cold War, 1945–1961 (New York: St. Martin’s, 1997), xii, xv–xvi, 114–19. 13. Kellogg, AmEmb Phnom Penh D-367 to DOS, CDF55–59 032/4–659, NA. 14. Matthew Fraser, Weapons of Mass Distraction: Soft Power and American Empire (New York: St. Martin’s, 2003), 29. 15. Clare Croft, “Funding Footprints: U.S. State Department Sponsorship of International Dance Tours, 1962–2009” (PhD diss., University of Texas, Austin, 2010), 16. 16. “Holiday on Ice” appeared in Calcutta and Bombay in 1955, apparently under private sponsorship. Advertisements, Billboard, 5 February 1955, 54; and Billboard, 19 February 1955, 73. 17. AmEmb Karachi D-55 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Anderson, Marian/7–1857; AmEmb Karachi T-649 to DOS, ibid./9–2557; AmEmb Karachi D-466 to DOS, ibid./12–357, NA. 18. “Cultural Presentations: President’s Program: Program Guide,” DOS Instruction CA-265 to all diplomatic and consular posts, CDF55–59 032/7–959, NA. 19. AmEmb Karachi D-293 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Minneapolis Symphony Orchestra/10–357; AmEmb Karachi T-649 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Anderson, Marian/9–2557; AmEmb Karachi D-327 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Teagarden, Jack Sextet/10–658, NA. 20. Nicholas Cull acknowledges that one role of cultural diplomacy may be “empowering indigenous voices within a target state or states.” Nicholas Cull, “Public Diplomacy: Seven Lessons for Its Future from Its Past,” in Place Branding and Public Diplomacy 6, no. 1 (2010): 14. On the role of private impresarios in facilitating U.S.-Soviet cultural exchange see also Harlow Robinson, The Last Impresario: The Life, Times, and Legacy of Sol Hurok (New York: Viking, 1994), 343–442. 21. Guerrero-Nakpil and Soliongco quoted in AmEmb Manila D-819 to DOS and USIA, CDF55–59 032 Steber, Eleanor/4–1257, NA. See also Raul Rodrigo, The Power and the Glory: The Story of the Manila Chronicle (Pasig City: Eugenio Lopez Foundation, 2007), 57–65. 22. AmEmb Rio de Janeiro D-542 to DOS, CDF55–59 032/11–2559; AmConGen Nairobi D-616 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Westminster Singers /5–1559, NA. 23. AmEmb Cairo D-908 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Westminster Singers/5–2659; AmEmb Monrovia D-271 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Westminster Singers/3–259, NA (emphasis in original). 24. Fosler-Lussier, “Cultural Diplomacy as Cultural Globalization: The University of Michigan Jazz Band in Latin America,” Journal of the Society for American Music 4, no. 1 (2010): 79; and Rhea B. Williamson, Tour Diary, Westminster Choir World Tour 1956–57, entries for Nov. 1, Nov. 21, Nov. 28,

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Jan. 15, and Jan. 21, John Finley Williamson Collection cabinet 1, drawer B, folder 12, Talbott Library, Rider University. 25. “The International Cultural Exchange Service of the American National Theatre and Academy (ANTA) and Its Relationship to the President’s Special International Program for Cultural Presentations of the Bureau of International Education and Cultural Affairs, Department of State,” folder “Material Sent to Art Committee,” CU/ACS: Records of the U.S. Advisory Committee on the Arts, 1951–60, Entry A1–5079, RG 59, NA. 26. Transcript of Proceedings, First Meeting of the Advisory Committee on the Arts, 16 January 1958, B-19, CU/ACS: Records of the U.S. Advisory Committee on the Arts, 1951–60, Entry A1–5079, RG 59, NA. For a list of agencies involved in U.S. propaganda efforts see Kenneth Osgood, “Hearts and Minds: The Unconventional Cold War,” Journal of Cold War Studies 4, no. 2 (2002): 87. 27. Paul C. Domke to IES-Mr. Riley, “Establishment of the Committee on Arts,” memorandum, 11 February 1954, folder “Committee on Arts, Appointment of Members, 1951–54,” CU/ACS: Records of the U.S. Advisory Committee on the Arts, 1951–60, Entry A1–5079, RG 59, NA. 28. Thomas Huff, who served the Cultural Presentations program as escort officer and later director, attributed the posts’ recommendations to the CAOs’ personal musical tastes. See Interview with Thomas Huff, 3 May 1974, tape 6, transcript, p. 166, MC 468: Bureau of Educational and Cultural Affairs Historical Collection, Group XIX (Audiovisual Materials), box 351, folder 2, Special Collections, University of Arkansas Libraries, Fayetteville. This collection cited hereafter in the form ARK XIX b351 f2. 29. On the respective roles of State Department personnel and the ANTA panels see Remarks of Andrew H. Berding, Assistant Secretary for Public Affairs, minutes, First Meeting of the Advisory Committee on the Arts, 15–16 January 1958, Attachment 3, p. 3, folder ACA Document 1, CU/ACS: Records of the U.S. Advisory Committee on the Arts, 1951–60, Entry A1–5079, RG 59, NA; and Martin Ackerman to Anderson and Sorensen of IOP [Office of Policy and Plans], “Cultural Presentations Advisory Committee Meeting March 7 and 8, 1963, Transcript of Proceedings,” memo, 23 April 1963, ARK II (Cultural Presentations program) b94 f21. 30. For further background on music in U.S. government programs see Emily Abrams Ansari, “‘Masters of the President’s Music’: Cold War Composers and the United States Government” (PhD diss., Harvard University, 2009), 22–80. 31. “Outline of Tentative Program for the Division of Cultural Relations, Department of State, June 1, 1939,” folder Cultural Cooperation Program, 1938–1953, Subject Files 1953–2000, USIA Historical Collection, RG 306, NA. 32. President John F. Kennedy, speech to the American Society of Newspaper Editors, 20 April 1961, cited in Walter Joyce, The Propaganda Gap (New York: Harper and Row, 1963), 5. 33. Ben M. Cherrington, “Cultural Ties That Bind in the Relations of the American Nations,” Hispania 22 (October 1939): 246–47, cited in Espinosa,

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Inter-American Beginnings, 140. Erving Goffman noted that joint attention to a conversation or game is a powerful form of engagement; this premise holds true for musical diplomacy. See Erving Goffman, Encounters: Two Studies in the Sociology of Interaction (1961; New York: Macmillan, 1985). 34. Frankel, High on Foggy Bottom, 23. 35. Remarks of James Magdanz, Minutes, Music Advisory Panel, 24 April 1957, 2, ARK II b100 f2. 36. DOS Instruction CA-9512 to New Delhi, Bombay, Calcutta, Madras, CDF55–59 032 Steber, Eleanor/5–2956, NA. 37. AmEmb Moscow T-552 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Boston Symphony Orchestra/9–1056, NA. 38. AmEmb Prague T-113 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Boston Symphony Orchestra/9–1256, NA. 39. Remarks of James Magdanz, Minutes, Music Advisory Panel, 24 April 1957, 2, ARK II b100 f2. 40. Roy E. Larsen and Glenn G. Wolfe, Report of Survey, Cultural Presentations Program, for the U.S. Advisory Commission on International Educational and Cultural Affairs, summary in International Understanding . . . through the Performing Arts: A Report on the Cultural Presentations Program of the Department of State, July 1, 1963–June 30, 1964, DOS Publication 7819 (1965), 78–79. For the complete Larsen-Wolfe report see enclosure in Larsen and Wolfe to John W. Gardner, Chairman, U.S. Advisory Commission on International Educational and Cultural Affairs, 17 December 1962, CDF60–63 032/1–1463, NA. For a contemporaneous argument in favor of competitive propaganda see Joyce, The Propaganda Gap. 41. Nicholas Cull, The Cold War and the United States Information Agency: American Propaganda and Public Diplomacy, 1945–1989 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008), 342–43; Charles Frankel, High on Foggy Bottom, 20–22, 31. The United States Information Agency (USIA), known outside the United States as the United States Information Service (USIS), was founded in 1953 to consolidate information functions that had been managed by the International Information Administration (IIA) and other agencies, while exchanges remained the province of the State Department. The State Department’s Bureau of Educational and Cultural Relations (CU) was founded in 1959 to handle its growing exchange programs. In 1961 the bureau was reorganized as the Bureau of Educational and Cultural Affairs. In 1977 the USIA and the Bureau of Educational and Cultural Affairs combined to become the United States International Communication Agency (USICA), removing CU from the State Department; the USICA later became again the USIA. In 1999 the USIA was reabsorbed into the State Department and its elements dispersed. Embassy public diplomacy personnel were made subject to the geographic bureaus of the State Department; information elements became the new Bureau of International Information Programs (IIP); press work was transferred into the Bureau of Public Affairs; and the cultural program, exchange, and language work became part of the Bureau of Educational and Cultural Affairs (ECA). An

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overview of the history of the State Department’s cultural exchange functions and the related aspects of USIA can be found at the website of the Bureau of Educational and Cultural Affairs, My thanks to Nicholas Cull for his help in sorting out this history. 42. Milton Cummings, “Cultural Diplomacy and the United States Government: A Survey,” cited in Cultural Diplomacy: Recommendations and Research (Washington, DC: Center for Arts and Culture, 2003), 2. Kirsten Bound et al. argue that Cold War cultural diplomacy was a proxy battle between the superpowers and that culture should not be exploited in this way. See Kirsten Bound et al., Cultural Diplomacy (London: Demos, 2007), 12, 21. 43. Ambassador Laurence Pope, closing remarks at the conference “Music and Diplomacy,” Harvard and Tufts Humanities Centers, March 2013. 44. Bas Arts, Math Noortmann, and Bob Reinalda, eds., Non-state Actors in International Relations (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2001); Graham Carr, “Diplomatic Notes: American Musicians and Cold War Politics in the Near and Middle East, 1954–60,” Popular Music History 1, no. 1 (2004): 42; Sari Autio-Sarasmo and Katalin Miklóssy, “Introduction: The Cold War from a New Perspective,” in Reassessing Cold War Europe, ed. Sari Autio-Sarasmo and Katalin Miklóssy (London: Routledge, 2011); Jessica Gienow-Hecht, Sound Diplomacy: Music and Emotions in Transnational Relations, 1850–1920 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2009). 45. Kyle Lehning, interview by the author, 15 December 2008. See also Harvey Cohen, Duke Ellington’s America (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2010), 428. 46. Thomas D. Huff to Richard Crawford, 18 November 1964, box 1, Richard Crawford Papers, Bentley Historical Library, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor (hereafter RCP); “Democracy vs. Dictators” and other pamphlets, personal papers of Joe Mallare. My thanks to Mr. Mallare for sharing these documents with me. 47. Brent Herhold, interview by the author, 13 June 2006. Corroborated by Dennis Garrels, interview by the author, 14 June 2006. 48. Student questionnaires, box 1, RCP; Quincy Jones, Q: The Autobiography of Quincy Jones (New York: Doubleday, 2001), 112. William Faulkner sardonically hoped in 1961 that soon “the new administration will have created an actual foreign policy, so that they wont need to make these frantic desperate cries for help to amateurs like me who dont want to go” [sic]. Lisa C. Hickman, William Faulkner and Joan Williams: The Romance of Two Writers (Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2006), 188–89. 49. AmEmb Caracas D-315 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Columbus Boy Choir/11–657; AmEmb The Hague D-186 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Concordia College Choir/8–2058, NA. 50. See Barbara Kirshenblatt-Gimblett, Destination Culture: Tourism, Museums, and Heritage (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998); Richard Schechner, Between Theater and Anthropology (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1985), 35–36; Diana Taylor, The Archive and

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the Repertoire: Performing Cultural Memory in the Americas (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2003), 3, 15. 51. William B. Macomber Jr. to Senator Hubert Humphrey (D-MN), CDF55–59 032/6–359; Macomber to Senator Frank Carlson (R-KS), 11 December 1959, CDF55–59 032 Centennial Choir/12–159, NA. 52. See, e.g., AmEmb Beirut D-406 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Westminster Choir/3–1257, NA. 53. Frederick C. Dutton, Assistant Secretary of State for Legislative Affairs, to Rep. Charles A. Halleck (R-IN), 20 December 1962, CDF60–63 032 Chapel Choir/12–1161, NA. 54. Michael Boerner, interview by the author, 27 February 2009. For a more complete account of this dynamic see Fosler-Lussier, “Cultural Diplomacy as Cultural Globalization,” 73–79. 55. Boerner, interview. Likewise, in Tunis, Randy Weston’s performance of modern jazz enabled access to previously unavailable political officials. USIS Tunis Message 5 to USIA Washington, 5 September 1967, ARK II b85 f2. 56. AmEmb Rangoon D-863 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Westminster Choir/6– 1157; USIS Calcutta D-426 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Westminster Choir/2–2057, NA. 57. AmConGen Madras D-616 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Westminster Choir/2–557, NA. 58. Larsen and Wolfe, Report of Survey, summary in International Understanding . . . through the Performing Arts, 79. 59. DOS Instruction A-212 to AmEmb Tokyo, CDF55–59 032 Tucker/9–1757, NA. 60. Emily Abrams Ansari, “ ‘A Serious and Delicate Mission’: American Orchestras, American Composers, and Cold War Diplomacy in Europe,” in Crosscurrents: American and European Music in Interaction, 1900–2000, ed. Felix Meyer, Carol J. Oja, Wolfgang Rathert, and Anne C. Shreffler (Basel: Paul Sacher Stiftung, 2014), 287–98; Jonathan Rosenberg, “An Idealist Abroad,” in Burton Bernstein and Barbara Haws, Leonard Bernstein: American Original (New York: Philharmonic-Symphony Society of New York, 2008), 117–34; Jessica Gienow-Hecht, “The World Is Ready to Listen: Symphony Orchestras and the Global Performance of America,” Diplomatic History 36, no. 1 (2012): 17–28. 61. Anna Tsing, Friction: An Ethnography of Global Connection (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2005), 7. 62. See William Mazzarella, “Culture, Globalization, Mediation,” Annual Review of Anthropology 33 (2004): 347–48. 63. James Der Derian, On Diplomacy: A Genealogy of Western Estrangement (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1987), 6. 64. Christopher Small, “Why Doesn’t the Whole World Love Chamber Music?” American Music 19, no. 3 (2001): 345. See also Christopher Small, Musicking: The Meanings of Performing and Listening (Hanover, NH: University Press of New England, 1998), 13–14; and Thomas Turino, Music as

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Social Life: The Politics of Participation (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2008), 23–65. 65. Zelma George, interview by Marcia Greenlee, 20–21 August 1978, Black Women Oral History Project, ed. Ruth Edmonds Hill, vol. 4 (Westport, CT: Meckler, 1991), 122.

chapter 1. classical music and the mediation of prestige 1. “A Statement on the Selection of American Art to be Sent Abroad under the Government’s International Cultural Relations Programs,” minutes, Eighth Meeting of the Advisory Committee on the Arts, 25–26 April 1960, Attachment 8, pp. 2–3, folder ACA Document 21, box 159, CU/ACS Records of the U.S. Advisory Committee on the Arts, 1951–60, Entry A1–5079, RG 59, NA. 2. Minutes, Music Advisory Panel, 15 November 1955, p. 3, ARK II b100 f1. 3. Remarks of Andrew H. Berding, Assistant Secretary for Public Affairs, minutes, First Meeting of the Advisory Committee on the Arts, 15–16 January 1958, Attachment 3, p. 1, folder ACA Document 1, box 155, CU/ACS Records of the U.S. Advisory Committee on the Arts, 1951–60, Entry A1–5079, RG 59, NA. 4. Minutes, Music Advisory Panel, 16 September 1959, p. 2, ARK II b100 f5; AmEmb Tokyo Airgram C-127 to Robert H. Thayer, DOS, CDF55–59 032/8– 2659, NA. 5. Emily Abrams Ansari, “ ‘Masters of the President’s Music’: Cold War Composers and the United States Government” (PhD diss., Harvard University, 2009), 95–98. 6. Manuela Aguilar distinguishes cultural diplomacy from information policy, saying that the former is directed toward broad publics, whereas information propaganda is aimed at opinion leaders (Aguilar calls them “multipliers”), such as journalists, politicians, publishers, and university professors. The evidence presented here belies this distinction. See Manuela Aguilar, Cultural Diplomacy and Foreign Policy: German-American Relations, 1955–1968 (New York: Peter Lang, 1996), 8–9. 7. Roy Larsen and Glenn Wolfe, Report of Survey of the Cultural Presentations Program for the U.S. Advisory Commission on International Educational and Cultural Affairs, summary in International Understanding . . . through the Performing Arts, 79–80. See also DOS, Bureau of Educational and Cultural Affairs, “Paper for the Advisory Committee on the Arts on the Fiscal Year 1964 Cultural Presentations Program Planning for Africa,” ARK II b94 f14. 8. Examples include Evaluation Report, Claremont Quartet, ARK II b96 f16; Evidence of Effectiveness Reports, Alvin Ailey in Africa, ARK II b97 f1; AmEmb Buenos Aires A-1150 to DOS, 13 October 1968, ARK II b59 f23; AmEmb Mexico A-1325 to DOS, 4 September 1968, ARK II b59 f23. 9. Minutes, Music Advisory Panel, 26 May 1970, p. 5, ARK II b99 f21; see also Minutes, Music Advisory Panel, 26 September 1967, p. 2, ibid.

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10. AmEmb Rio de Janeiro A-1028 to DOS, 6 September 1968, ARK II b59 f23; AmEmb Mexico A-1325 to DOS, 4 September 1968, ARK II b59 f23. Cunningham’s three programs included the following works: Program 1: Suite for Five (Cage), Rainforest (Tudor), Place (Mumma); Program 2: Scramble (Ichiyanagi), Winterbranch (Young), How to Pass, Kick, Fall and Run (Cage); Program 3: Collage III (Schaeffer/Henri); Field Dances (Cage); Night Wandering (Nilsson); Walkaround Time (Behrman). 11. “The Caracas Audience: ‘Receptive’ and ‘Sympathetic,’ ” Daily Journal, 21 August 1968, encl. in AmEmb Caracas A-1102 to DOS, 27 August 1968, ARK II b59 f23. 12. On European classical music in Latin America see Rodrigo Herrera, “The Role of Classical Music in the Development of Nationalism and the Formation of Class in Quito, Ecuador” (PhD diss., University of Texas, Austin, 2000). On prestige see Joseph Bensman, “Classical Music and the Status Game,” Trans-action 4, no. 9 (1967): 55–59. 13. Christopher Small, “Why Doesn’t the Whole World Love Chamber Music?” American Music 19, no. 3 (2001): 351. 14. See AmEmb Quito T-546 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 New Orleans Philharmonic Symphony/3–556, NA. 15. IIA: The International Information Administration Program. DOS Publication 4939 (1953), 4. 16. AmEmb Warsaw T-791 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Cleveland Symphony Orchestra/12–756, NA. 17. Annette Weiner, Inalienable Possessions: The Paradox of KeepingWhile-Giving (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1992), 6. See also Marcel Mauss, The Gift: The Form and Reason for Exchange in Archaic Societies, trans. W. D. Halls (1923–24; London: Routledge, 2001); and, on reciprocity, The Gift: An Interdisciplinary Perspective, ed. Aafke Komter (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 1996), part 1. 18. The foregoing discussion draws on Danielle Fosler-Lussier, “American Cultural Diplomacy and the Mediation of Avant-Garde Music,” in Sound Commitments: Avant-Garde Music and the Sixties, ed. Robert Adlington (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), 232–53, esp. 240–44. 19. AmEmb Tokyo T-1577 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Boston Symphony Orchestra/11–1859, NA. 20. AmEmb Tokyo Airgram C-127 to Robert H. Thayer, DOS, CDF55–59 032/8–2659, NA. See also the embassy’s more extensive report on the Little Orchestra Society’s visit to Japan, AmEmb Tokyo D-261 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Little Orchestra Society/8–2159, NA. 21. AmEmb Tokyo T-3301 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Cliburn, Van/6–1658. The State Department acknowledged that Japan was a key target for both Soviet and U.S. cultural diplomacy efforts; see R. Allan Lightner, Acting Assistant Secretary for Public Affairs, letter to Amb. Douglas MacArthur Jr., CDF55–59 032/3–959; and DOS Instruction A-449 to AmEmb Tokyo, CDF55–59 032/4– 2059, NA.

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22. AmEmb Tokyo T-163 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 New York City Ballet/7–2056, NA. See also AmEmb Tokyo D-998 to DOS and USIA, “President’s Program Inadequate to Compete with Communist Cultural Offensive in Japan,” CDF55–59 032/3–659, NA. 23. AmEmb Addis Ababa T-992 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Florida Agriculture and Mechanical University Players/5–1358, NA. 24. See Emily Abrams Ansari, “‘A Serious and Delicate Mission’: American Orchestras, American Composers, and Cold War Diplomacy in Europe,” in Crosscurrents: American and European Music in Interaction, 1900–2000, ed. Felix Meyer, Carol J. Oja, Wolfgang Rathert, and Anne C. Shreffler (Basel: Paul Sacher Stiftung, 2014): 287–98; and D. Kern Holoman, Charles Munch (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 146–54. Jonathan Rosenberg chronicles the New York Philharmonic’s tours in Latin America and the USSR in 1958 and 1959 in “Leonard Bernstein: An Idealist Abroad,” in Leonard Bernstein: American Original, ed. Burton Bernstein and Barbara B. Haws (New York: Collins, 2008), 117–34. 25. AmEmb Lima D-335 to DOS, CDF55–59 032/12–1059, NA. 26. AmEmb Baghdad D-295 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Minneapolis Symphony Orchestra/11–856, NA. 27. USIS Baghdad D-52 to USIA Washington, CDF55–59 032 Steber, Eleanor/2–2557, NA. 28. AmConGen Lahore D-15 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Minneapolis Symphony Orchestra/9–2757, NA. 29. AmEmb Rio de Janeiro D-542 to DOS, CDF55–59 032/11–2559, NA. 30. DOS Instruction A-91 to AmEmb Buenos Aires, CDF55–59 032 National Symphony Orchestra/10–258, NA. 31. Arthur Hoffman, Director of ACC Fukuoka, “The Fukuoka Programs of the American Trio,” encl. in USIS Tokyo D-55 to USIA, CDF55–59 032 American Trio/10–1955, NA. 32. USIS Lisbon D-89 to DOS, CDF55–59 032/8–2459, NA. 33. See, e.g., translation from Tokyo Shimbun, 28 March 1957, encl. in AmEmb Tokyo D-343 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Steber, Eleanor/9–2057; USIS Vienna D-183 to USIA and DOS, CDF55–59 032 Cleveland Symphony Orchestra/6–1757; USIS Bonn A-62 to USIA Washington, CDF55–59 032 New York Philharmonic Orchestra/10–3059; Translation of article by Björn Johansson in Göteborgs Handels- och Sjöfartstidning, 9 October 1959, encl. in AmCon Göteborg D-100 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 New York Philharmonic Orchestra/10–1959; AmEmb Rome D-1922 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Robert Shaw Chorale/5–1656; AmEmb The Hague D-731 to DOS, CDF60–63 032 New York Philharmonic Orchestra/3–3160, NA. 34. Much of the material in this section was originally published in FoslerLussier, “American Cultural Diplomacy and the Mediation of Avant-Garde Music,” 232–44. 35. Leo Bogart, Cool Words, Cold War: A New Look at USIA’s “Premises for Propaganda,” rev. ed. (Washington: American University Press, 1995), 30. 36. Minutes, Music Advisory Panel, 8 February 1955, p. 4, ARK II b100 f1.

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37. Music Advisory Panel member Virgil Thomson supported the tour. See Naima Prevots, Dance for Export: Cultural Diplomacy and the Cold War (Hanover, NH: University Press of New England, 1998), 53–58. 38. Minutes, Music Advisory Panel, 14 September 1960, p. 4, ARK II b100 f4. 39. See my Music Divided: Bartók’s Legacy in Cold War Culture (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2007), 89–93. 40. Gunther Schuller to John Calhoun, U.S. Mission Berlin, [February] 1966, 1–2, ARK IV (Special Programs) b147 f50. 41. Minutes, Music Advisory Panel, 21 February 1967, p. 10, ARK II b99 f20. 42. Guy Coriden to Thomas Huff, 19 April 1967, ARK IV b147 f50. 43. Cultural Presentations USA 1966–1967. A Report to the Congress and the Public by the Advisory Committee on the Arts, with an added section on athletic programs, DOS Publication 8365 (1968), 45–46. 44. “Music from America,” clipping encl. in George D. Henry to Charles Ellison, 7 October 1966, ARK II b81 f21. On American experimental music in Europe see Amy Beal, New Music, New Allies: American Experimental Music in West Germany from the Zero Hour to Reunification (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2006). 45. See Fosler-Lussier, Music Divided, xv, 149–56; and Peter Schmelz, Such Freedom, If Only Musical: Unofficial Soviet Music during the Thaw (New York: Oxford University Press, 2009). 46. Memorandum of conversation, Walter Levin, La Salle Quartet, Ralph Jones, and James A. Duran Jr., DOS, 8 April 1963, SN63, EDX32 Cultural Exchange Program, RG 59, NA. 47. William Sydeman, “Report on Tour of Eastern Europe,” ARK IV b148 f5. Emily Abrams Ansari has explored the strategic interests of American composers in cultural presentations. See Emily Abrams Ansari, “ ‘Masters of the President’s Music’: Cold War Composers and the United States Government”; and Emily Abrams Ansari, “Shaping the Policies of Cold War Musical Diplomacy: An Epistemic Community of American Composers,” Diplomatic History 36, no. 1 (2012): 41–52. For a list of scores Sydeman brought to Europe, see Fosler-Lussier, “American Cultural Diplomacy and the Mediation of AvantGarde Music,” 238. 48. Translated excerpt in AmEmb Budapest A-88 to DOS, 25 June 1969, CUL13–1 HUNG, SN67–69, RG 59, NA. 49. Nikolais’s programs in Budapest included Tent, Imago, and Somniloquy. See selections on The World of Alwin Nikolais (New York: Nikolais/Louis Foundation for Dance and Video D Studios, 1996), DVD. 50. Jane Taylor, interview by the author, 20 January 2011. 51. Evidence of Effectiveness Report, Dorian Woodwind Quintet, May-June 1970, ARK II b97 f4. 52. Sometimes recipients perceived tours as a waste of resources in the face of dire economic need. See Warner Lawson to Roy Larsen and the Advisory Committee on the Arts, “Report of Tour to Africa, Bonn, and Frankfort [sic],

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Germany and Luxembourg,” p. 3, ARK II b94 f14; and Evaluation Report, Cozy Cole, ARK II b96 f12. 53. AmEmb Taipei A-66 to DOS, 15 April 1976, ARK II b59 f15. On controversies about American modern dance in Korea, see Myung Hye Chun, “The United States Government’s Cultural Presentations Program in Korea from 1955 to 1992” (M.A. thesis, American University, 1993), 52–62. 54. AmEmb Mexico A-1325 to DOS, 4 September 1968, ARK II b59 f23. 55. AmEmb Lima A-179 to DOS, 5 August 1974, ARK II b61 f2. 56. “Staff Study on Embassies’ Reactions, Suggestions and Comments on Effectiveness of Various Categories and Aspects of Cultural Presentations,” pp. 5, 6, ARK II b94 f14. 57. See Bogart, Cool Words, Cold War, 51–59. 58. R. Allan Lightner to Amb. MacArthur, Tokyo, CDF55–59 032/3–959; and DOS Instruction A-449 to AmEmb Tokyo, CDF55–59 032/4–2059, NA. 59. James Magdanz, “Recent Developments in the Cultural Presentations Program,” A-19. In Transcript, Third Meeting of the Advisory Committee on the Arts, 7 October 1958, box 158, CU/ACS: Records of the U.S. Advisory Committee on the Arts, 1951–60, Entry A1–5079, RG 59, NA. 60. Minutes, Music Advisory Panel, 17 December 1958, p. 4, ARK II b100 f2. See also AmEmb Phnom Penh D-367 to DOS, CDF55–59 032/4–659, NA. 61. Jack Metcalfe, “Washington Word,” New York Standard, 15 March 1963. 62. AmEmb Rabat A-261 to DOS, 9 November 1962, ARK II b59 f13 (emphasis in original). 63. Mabel Smythe to Lucius Battle, 23 June 1963, folder ACS 7, box 15, Subject Files 1948–65, U.S. Advisory Commission on International Educational and Cultural Affairs, Bureau of Cultural Affairs, Entry A1–5460, RG 59, NA. 64. Larsen and Wolfe, Report of Survey, summary in International Understanding . . . through the Performing Arts, 85. 65. Minutes, Music Advisory Panel, 17 December 1958, pp. 4–5, ARK II b100 f2. 66. Dorothy Kilgallen, “Vaudeville Isn’t Dead,” clipping enclosed in Congressman James Delaney (D-NY) to Alfred Boerner, Director, Bureau of Educational and Cultural Affairs, DOS, CDF60–63 032 Adams, Joey/1–2662, NA. 67. International Understanding . . . through the Performing Arts, 50–51, 57. 68. The mixed program strategy was used to entertain and educate members of the U.S. military during World War II. See Annegret Fauser, Sounds of War: Music in the United States during World War II (New York: Oxford University Press, 2013), 42–51, 85–89. 69. Cultural Presentations USA 1967–1968, DOS Publication 8438 (1969), 15. 70. Evaluation Report, Claremont Quartet, ARK II b96 f13; “Chamber Music Is a Hit in Africa,” NYT, 11 May 1964. See also Appendix 1.2: “Programs of the Claremont Quartet, 1965 Latin American Tour,” 71. Jay Walz, “Claremont Group Cheered in U.A.R.,” NYT, 4 March 1964. 72. John Sinclair, “Good Music, Free—but No Audience,” Herald (Melbourne), 8 September 1969, ARK II b73 f19. For the contents of these

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mixed programs see Fosler-Lussier, “American Cultural Diplomacy and the Mediation of Avant-Garde Music,” 242. 73. Frederick J. Barcroft, PAO, AmEmb Lima A-205 to DOS, 29 September 1965, ARK II b96 f14. 74. Study materials for commission report, Part IV: Views of government officials on the State Department’s educational and cultural programs. Study Materials, Secretariat to the Advisory Commission on International Educational and Cultural Affairs, 1962–63, Bureau of Educational and Cultural Affairs, Entry A1–5458, RG 59, NA. 75. Minutes, Music Advisory Panel, 24 July 1963, p. 8, ARK II b99 f19. 76. See, e.g., Paul Konye, African Art Music: Political, Social, and Cultural Factors behind Its Development and Practice in Nigeria (Lewiston, NY: Edwin Mellen, 2007); Bode Omojola, Nigerian Art Music (Ibadan: Institut français de recherche en Afrique, 1995). 77. Taylor, interview; see also International Understanding . . . through the Performing Arts, 34–35. 78. International Understanding . . . through the Performing Arts, 34. 79. Ibid., 36. 80. Marc Gottlieb, interview by the author, 23 January 2012. 81. International Understanding . . . through the Performing Arts, 36. 82. DOS CA-9202 to Buenos Aires, Guatemala, La Paz, Lima, Mexico, Montevideo, Rio de Janeiro, 8 March 1965, ARK II b59 f2. See also International Understanding . . . through the Performing Arts, 38. 83. “Chamber Music Is a Hit in Africa,” NYT, 11 May 1964. 84. Gottlieb, interview. 85. International Understanding . . . through the Performing Arts, 36. 86. Charles Frankel, “The Era of Educational and Cultural Relations,” Department of State Bulletin 54 (6 June 1966): 895. 87. DOS, Bureau of Educational and Cultural Affairs, “Paper for the Advisory Committee on the Arts on the Fiscal Year 1964 Cultural Presentations Program Planning for Africa,” ARK II b94 f14. 88. AmCon Chiengmai [Chiang Mai] D-14 to DOS, CDF55–59 032/3–2059, NA. 89. AmEmb Rio de Janeiro D-542 to DOS, CDF55–59 032/11–2559, NA. 90. AmEmb Tokyo D-1459 to DOS, CDF55–59 032/6–1559, NA. 91. AmEmb Saigon D-385 to DOS, CDF55–59 032/5–2559, NA. 92. Ibid. 93. See Frauke Hess, “Verstehen: Ein musikpädagogischer Mythos” (Understanding: A Myth of Music Education), in Musikpädagogik als Aufgabe: Festschrift zum 65. Geburtstag von Siegmund Helms, ed. Matthias Kruse and Reinhard Schneider (Kassel: Bosse, 2003), 119–35; and Jerrold Levinson, Music in the Moment (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1997), esp. 174–75. 94. “Symphony Orchestras in the Cultural Presentations Program,” p. 3, ARK II b94 f11.

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95. Peter van Ham, Social Power in International Politics (New York: Routledge, 2010), 8, 49. 96. Joseph Nye Jr., Bound to Lead: The Changing Nature of American Power (New York: Basic Books, 1990), 193–95; Joseph Nye Jr., Soft Power: The Means to Success in World Politics (New York: Public Affairs, 2004), 46–55. 97. Van Ham, Social Power, 33, 46–59, esp. 52. 98. Edward Lock, “Soft Power and Strategy,” 37. 99. Van Ham, Social Power, 8.

chapter 2. classical music as development aid 1. See Martha Finnemore and Kathryn Sikkink, “International Norm Dynamics and Political Change,” International Organization 52, no. 4 (1998): 887–917; and Karen Johnson-Cartee and Gary Copeland, Strategic Political Communication: Rethinking Social Influence, Persuasion, and Propaganda (Lanham, MD: Rowman and Littlefield, 2004), 4, cited in Geoffrey Allen Pigman, Contemporary Diplomacy: Representation and Communication in a Globalized World (Cambridge: Polity, 2010), 123. 2. On the distinction between the American Specialists program and the Cultural Presentations program see Glenn Wolfe to Members of the Advisory Committee of the Arts, Music Panel, Dance Panel, Academic Panel, and Ad Hoc Drama Panel, memorandum, 9 August 1963, Edwin Hughes Collection, University of South Carolina Music Library, /singleitem/collection/ehc/id/72/rec/1; and Glenn Wolfe and John Pressly Kennedy to Lucius D. Battle, memorandum, 9 May 1963, Edwin Hughes Collection, University of South Carolina Music Library, .edu/cdm/compoundobject/collection/ehc/id/1603/rec/4. 3. “New Music from the West,” translation from Das neue Österreich, 10 April 1954, William Remsen Strickland Collection, box 3, folder 4 (hereafter cited in the form WSC b3 f4), Music Division, Library of Congress. 4. Warren D’Oyly-Rhind to Giichi Imai of Asahi Shimbun, Tokyo, 2 September 1956, and D’Oyly-Rhind to Riichi Tanaka, Asahi Broadcasting Corporation, Tokyo, WSC b3 f17; and Getta Strok to Noboru Yoshida, General Director of ABC Symphony, 16 September 1957, WSC b3 f15. 5. Noboru Yoshida, Tokyo, to Warren D’Oyly-Rhind [between 2 September and 22 September 1956], WSC b3 f17. 6. See correspondence in WSC b3 f14. 7. “Ilban Kongyo˘ndo So˘nghwang, Su˘ Ssi Myo˘ng Ch’ihwi e Kammyo˘ng, Hammi Ch’inso˘n Yo˘njuhoe” (The concert for a general audience was a great success too—Deeply impressed by Strickland’s excellent conducting—KoreanAmerican friendship concert), Soˇul Sinmun (Seoul newspaper), 31 March 1958, clipping; and “Hammi Ch’inso˘n Yo˘njuhoe Taeso˘nghwang, Noryo˘nhan Ch’ihwi Wa, Nangman u˘i So˘nnyul e Toch’wi” (The concert for a general audience, a great success. Mr. Strickland’s skilled conducting—the audience was enraptured

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by elegant and romantic melody), Soˇul Sinmun, 30 March 1958, clipping, both in WSC b5 f3. My thanks to Hye-jung Park for translating these items. 8. Strickland, “Chronology: A Report and Plea for Aid,” WSC b4 f8. 9. Christina Klein, Cold War Orientalism: Asia in the Middlebrow Imagination, 1945–1961 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2003), 5–9. 10. Strickland, penciled notes, WSC b4 f8. 11. AmEmb Saigon D-250 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Strickland, William Remsen/1–3159, NA. 12. AmEmb Saigon to AmEmb Tokyo, n.d. [January 1959?], WSC b3 f14. 13. Strickland, “Final Report: Continuing My Last Report of 20 April 1965, a Description of Further Activities,” WSC b6 f10. 14. H. E. Pringsheim, “New Symphony Orchestra Is Organized in Tokyo,” Asahi Evening News, 8 January 1960; Edmund C. Wilkes, “Auspicious Debut of Imperial Philharmonic,” both clippings in WSC b4 f4. 15. ACC Fukuoka to USIS Tokyo, USIS field memorandum, 26 February 1959, WSC b3 f14. 16. Strickland to Douglas Moore, draft letter, 13 May 1958, WSC b3 f15. 17. On the Ditson Fund see Elizabeth Davis and Bob George, “A Force for American Music: The Alice M. Ditson Fund and the ARChive of Contemporary Music,” unpublished paper presented at the Columbia University Department of Music, fall 2009. My thanks to Ms. Davis for sharing the paper. On CRI see Allan Kozinn, “Composers Recordings Inc., Surprising Survivor,” High Fidelity 29, no. 9 (1979): 79–83. 18. These are the works marked with asterisks in Appendices 2.1 (“Recordings of William Strickland Conducting Japanese Orchestras”) and 2.2 (“Recordings by Akeo Watanabe and the Japan Philharmonic Released on CRI”) at All appendices are available there. 19. Japan Philharmonic Symphony Orchestra Broadcasting Schedule, WSC b4 f3. 20. Hirokazu Suzano, n.t., Ongaku Shinku, 4 April 1959, translated clipping, WSC b4 f4. 21. “Vital Performance: 111th Regular Concert of Kansai Symphony Orchestra,” translation from Osaka Press, 25 January 1959, WSC b4 f5. 22. Strickland to George Allen, Director, USIA, 16 June 1959, WSC b3 f14. 23. Thea Dispeker to Strickland, 6 April 1960, WSC b3 f15. See also Keiji Okuda to Strickland, 1 February 1960, WSC b3 f15. 24. J. Matsukawa, “Envies Tradition-Free Japanese,” Mainichi, 23 February 1959, WSC b4 f4. See also Appendix 2.2: “Recordings by Akeo Watanabe,” 25. Penciled speech on Shinzo Kusakari to William Strickland, 30 September 1959, WSC b3 f15. 26. Press release, Japan Philharmonic Symphony Orchestra, n.d., WSC b4 f2. 27. Marcel Grilli, n.t., Ongakuno Tomo, n.d. [October 1959], WSC b4 f4. See also Grilli, “A New Musical Promise,” WSC b4 f4.

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28. Edmund C. Wilkes, “Auspicious Debut of Imperial Philharmonic,” WSC b4 f4. 29. Yoshio Nomura, “Religious Music,” in Music—East and West, Report on 1961 Tokyo East-West Music Encounter Conference (Executive Committee for 1961 East-West Music Encounter, Tokyo, 1961), 28. 30. Strickland, “Chronology: A Report and Plea for Aid,” WSC b4 f8. 31. Strickland, penciled note, WSC b4 f8. 32. Strickland, “Tractors before Symphonies,” WSC b20 f3. 33. Strickland to Jack James, Asia Foundation, 29 October 1959, WSC b5 f1. 34. Ibid. 35. This perspective is congruent with an economic theory developed in the 1950s by David McClelland, who identified cultural factors (“values,” “motivation”) as keys to development. See David McClelland et al., The Achievement Motive (New York: Appleton-Century-Crofts, 1953). 36. Mary Louise Pratt, Imperial Eyes: Travel Writing and Transculturation (London: Routledge, 1992), 7, 78–81; Klein, Cold War Orientalism, 13. 37. Americanizing the American Orchestra: Report of the National Task Force for the American Orchestra: An Initiative for Change (Washington, DC: American Symphony Orchestra League, 1993). 38. Carmita Carrion, “The Manila Symphony Society: 1926–1958,” Philippine Studies 6, no. 1 (1958): 18. 39. For biographical information see Trinidad M. Gomez, “Trinidad Fernandez-Legarda,” in Women of Distinction: Biographical Essays on Outstanding Filipino Women of the Past and the Present, ed. Jovita Varias de Guzman et. al. (n.p., 1967): 167–71. 40. Rodolfo Cornejo to Strickland, 13 October 1958, WSC b4 f9; V. P. Joven, “Young Visayan Pianist to Debut with Visiting Conductor, MSO,” Manila Times Daily Magazine, 1 November 1958, WSC b4 f11. 41. Strickland, handwritten notes for speech in Bacolod, WSC b4 f13. 42. Trinidad Legarda to Strickland, 11 April 1958, WSC b4 f9. 43. Correspondence, WSC b4 f9. 44. AmEmb Manila D-460 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Strickland, William Remsen/1–659, NA. 45. “The ‘Good Samaritan’ for P.I. Musicians,” Daily Mirror, 3 January 1959, WSC b4 f11. 46. Morli Dharam, “Views and Reviews,” Manila Times, 10 March 1958, WSC b4 f12. 47. Rosalinda Orosa, “Man with a Messianic Complex,” Manila Chronicle, 6 March 1958, WSC b4 f11. 48. Paul A. Kramer, The Blood of Government: Race, Empire, the United States, and the Philippines (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2006), 29–32, 171–208; Mary Talusan, “Music, Race, and Imperialism: The Philippine Constabulary Band at the 1904 St. Louis World’s Fair,” Philippine Studies 52, no. 4 (2004): 499–526. 49. Kramer, The Blood of Government, 32 and 198–208.

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50. Strickland, “Report from the Orient: Japan, the Philippines, Korea,” Musical Courier 157 (June 1958): 12–13; “PCS Presents Premiere Feb 22,” Philippines Herald, 19 January 1959, WSC b4 f12. Some of the sheet music for this concert was provided to the choir by USIS, including an arrangement of Tom Scott’s “The Creation” and a series entitled “War Portraits” with movements by Cecil Effinger (“Fanfare on Chow Call”), Robert Ward (“Hush’d Be the Camps Today”), and Homer Keller (“The Raider”). Also on the program were Nicanor Abelardo’s “Mutya ng Pasig,” Polovtsian Dance no. 17 from Alexander Borodin’s Prince Igor, Franz Abt’s “Laughing Song,” and excerpts from Carl Orff’s Carmina Burana. 51. Julian Go, American Empire and the Politics of Meaning (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2008), 4. 52. Kathy Sternberg to Strickland, 14 April 1958, WSC b4 f9. 53. Grace San Agustin to Strickland, 31 March 1958, WSC b4 f9. 54. Rosario Valdés, President of the Manila Symphony Society, to Strickland, 2 January 1959, WSC b4 f9. 55. Rosalinda Orosa, “A Shining Example of Phil-American Unity,” Manila Chronicle, 4 November 1958, cited in AmEmb Manila D-460 to DOS, CDF55– 59 032 Strickland, William Remsen/1–659, NA. 56. Morli Dharam, “Happy Return,” Manila Times, 3 November 1958, cited in AmEmb Manila D-460 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Strickland, William Remsen/1–659, NA. 57. Morli Dharam, “Views and Reviews,” Manila Times, 4 December 1958, WSC b4 f11. 58. Strickland, “Chronology: A Report and Plea for Aid,” WSC b4 f8. 59. Strickland to Legarda, draft letter, 1 May 1958, WSC b4 f9; Liwanag Cruz to Strickland, 23 March 1958, WSC b4 f9; Legarda to Strickland, 27 June 1958, WSC b4 f9; Legarda to Strickland, 24 March 1959, WSC b5 f5. 60. William Morris, Chief CAO, AmEmb Manila, to Strickland, 12 March 1958, WSC b4 f9. 61. Nick Cullather, Illusions of Influence: The Political Economy of United States–Philippines Relations, 1942–1960 (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1994), 154, 160, 172–80. 62. “Korea-American Goodwill Concert Successful,” translation from Soˇul Sinmun, 31 March 1958, WSC b5 f3. 63. “Plans for Phil-American Concert Series,” WSC b4 f9. 64. Herbert Zipper to Strickland, 14 March 1966, WSC b4 f9. 65. Manila Symphony Orchestra website, 66. Cullather, Illusions of Influence, 152. 67. U.S. government support for Strickland’s visit to Saigon was part of a sweeping program of development aid to Vietnam during this period. See James M. Carter, Inventing Vietnam: The United States and State Building, 1954– 1968 (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2008), 84–105.

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68. Le journal d’Extrême-Orient, 24 January 1959, translation encl. in AmEmb Saigon D-250 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Strickland, William Remsen/1–3159, NA. 69. “The Times of Viet Nam Interviews Mr. W. Strickland, Musical Director of the Oratorio Society N.Y.C.,” Times of Viet Nam, WSC b5 f7. 70. AmEmb Saigon D-250 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Strickland, William Remsen/1–3159, NA. 71. Tran Van Khe, “Problems of Sino-Japanese Musical Tradition Today,” in Music—East and West, Report on 1961 Tokyo East-West Music Encounter Conference (Tokyo: Executive Committee for 1961 East-West Music Encounter, 1961), 57. 72. Paul Jones, “Orient Goes Symphonic,” Philadelphia Evening Bulletin, 7 July 1959, WSC b5 f7. 73. Legarda to Strickland, 24 March 1959, WSC b5 f5; Nguyeˆ˜n Van Huan to Legarda, 14 May 1959, WSC b5 f5. 74. Legarda to Strickland, 28 July 1960, WSC b5 f5. 75. Robert Burton, Assistant CAO, AmEmb Saigon, to Strickland, 8 November 1959, WSC b5 f5. 76. “William Strickland Conducts Open Air Concert at V.A.A.,” Vietnam presse édition en anglais, 13 July 1959, WSC b5 f7. 77. Strickland, “Chronology: A Report and Plea for Aid,” WSC b4 f8. 78. John D. Montgomery to Strickland, 7 September 1967, WSC b5 f5. 79. In the autumn of 2011, for example, German conductor Jonas Alber, Russian violinist Sergei Sivolgin, Korean pianist Cho Eun Young, Korean soprano Cho Hae Ryong, and Italian and Belgian ballet dancers Francesca Imoda and Samuel Lefeuvre were featured as soloists, as were Vietnamese soloists drawn from the orchestra. See; and http://en.baomoi .com/Info/City-orchestra-all-set-for-autumn-concerts/11/169587.epi. 80. Hả i Linh to Strickland, 28 September 1961, WSC b5 f5; and Nguyeˆ˜n Xuân-Thả o, “Hả i-Linh and His Music,”–20. 81. Lawrence Carlson, AmEmb Reykjavík, to Strickland, 18 September 1962, WSC b5 f9. 82. Strickland to Carlson, 11 June 1963, WSC b5 f9. 83. On Cowell and the American Specialists program see ARK IV b143 f56. 84. Thorkell Sigurbjörnsson, “Music,” translation from Visir, 12 October 1962, 5, WSC b5 f11; and “A Symphony Concert,” translation from Timinn, 14 October 1962, 5, WSC b5 f11. 85. Strickland to Carlson, 11 June 1963, WSC b5 f9. 86. Árni Kristjánsson to Strickland, 16 December 1963, WSC b5 f9. Kristjánsson also visited the United States under a Leader grant from the State Department. 87. Carlson to Strickland, 13 February 1963, WSC b5 f9.

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88. Strickland to Carlson, 11 June 1963, WSC b5 f9. 89. Carlson to Amb. James K. Penfield, 12 March 1963, WSC b5 f9. 90. Strickland, penciled note on Iceland, WSC b5 f12. 91. Glenn Wolfe to Bela Zempleny, 27 November 1963, ARK IV b147 f86. Buketoff was born in Connecticut of Russian parentage. 92. Schuller was likely funded by a Specialist grant. See Shirley Gornitzky to Bela Zempleny, 7 January 1964, ARK IV b147 f50. 93. Educational and Cultural Diplomacy, 1964, DOS Publication 7979 (1965), 46. 94. For a list of Strickland’s Scandinavian recording projects see Appendix 2.3: “Strickland’s Scandinavian Recordings for CRI,” http://musicdiplomacy .org. 95. Seppo Nummi, “Finnish Music-Cities: Lahti Elected Ives,” translation from Uusi Suomi, 8 November 1964, WSC b6 f3. 96. Strickland, “Report on Trip to Stockholm, Göteborg, Copenhagen, Warsaw, Cracow,” 22 May 1964, WSC b6 f5. See also Daryl Dayton, “Charles Ives in the USIA,” Student Musicologists at Minnesota 6 (1975): 87–94. 97. Strickland to Bela Zempleny, 15 October 1963, ARK IV b147 f86. 98. David Hall, President of CRI, to Sven Wilson, STIM Stockholm, 5 March 1963; and Strickland, “Report on 60 Days of Grant in Finland, 1965,” WSC b6 f5. 99. “Philharmonic Society’s Orchestra Records Music for the United States in the Great Hall of the University,” translation from Aftenposten (Oslo), 16 April 1962, WSC b7 f8. 100. Strickland, “Report on 60 Days of Grant in Finland, 1965,” WSC b6 f5 (emphasis in original). 101. Strickland, “An Interim Report [on 100 days in Finland],” 20 May 1964, WSC b6 f5. 102. Strickland, “Final Report [Finland],” 6 February 1965, WSC b6 f5. 103. Paavo Rautio to Strickland, 7 April 1964, WSC b6 f1. 104. Translated clipping from Kansan Tahto (Communist paper, Oulu), 6 November 1964, WSC b6 f4. 105. Translated clipping from Liitto (agrarian paper, Oulu), 6 November 1964, WSC b6 f4. 106. “USA Conductor in Pori,” Hufvudstadsbladet (conservative paper, Helsinki), 20 January 1965, translated clipping, WSC b6 f4. 107. “American Conductor in Pori,” translation from Satakunnan Työ (Communist paper, Pori), 26 January 1965, WSC b6 f4. 108. “The Symphony Concert a Brilliant Success,” translation from Björneborgs Tidning (Pori), WSC b6 f4. 109. Strickland, “Report on Trip to Stockholm, Göteborg, Copenhagen, Warsaw, Cracow,” 22 May 1964, WSC b6 f5. 110. Elliott Carter, “Letter from Europe,” Perspectives of New Music 1, no. 2 (1963): 195–205.

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111. On this book see David Paul, “From American Ethnographer to Cold War Icon: Charles Ives through the Eyes of Henry and Sidney Cowell,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 59, no. 2 (2006): 439–51. 112. Strickland, “An Interim Report [Poland],” 20 April 1965, WSC b6 f10. 113. Strickland, “Final Report: Continuing My Last Report of 20 April 1965, a Description of Further Activities,” WSC b6 f10. 114. Ibid. 115. See Appendix 2.4: “American Works Recorded by the Polish National Radio Orchestra with Polish Conductors and Orchestras,” and Appendix 2.5: “Recordings by the Polish National Radio Orchestra, Strickland Conducting,” both at 116. Strickland, penciled note on attendance list for a reception, 15 April [1964], WSC b6 f10. 117. Stanisław Lutkiewicz, Ars Polona, to Strickland, 6 May 1967, WSC b6 f6. 118. Lutkiewicz to Bart Stephens, cultural attaché, AmEmb Warsaw, 16 September 1965, WSC b6 f6. 119. Carter, “Letter from Europe,” 203. Strickland also gave the Kraków Trio scores by David Diamond and Vincent Persichetti, as well as access to other scores from the USIS library in Warsaw. 120. Strickland, “Final Report: Continuing My Last Report of 20 April 1965, a Description of Further Activities,” WSC b6 f10. 121. On the Warsaw Autumn Festival as a site of engagement with the West see Lisa Jakelski, “Górecki’s Scontri and Avant-Garde Music in Cold War Poland,” Journal of Musicology 26, no. 2 (2009): 205–39; and Jakelski, “The Changing Seasons of the Warsaw Autumn: Contemporary Music in Poland, 1960–1990” (PhD diss., University of California, Berkeley, 2009). 122. Cindy Bylander, “Charles Ives and Poland’s Stalowa Wola Festival: Inspirations and Legacies,” Polish Review 59, no. 2 (2014): 43–60. Adrian Thomas also mentions the importance of Ives in the MMMM movement in his Polish Music since Szymanowski (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 290. 123. Krzysztof Droba to Cindy Bylander, personal communication, November 2013. My thanks to Dr. Bylander for sharing this information. 124. Strickland, “Report on Two Polish Concerts—September and November 1965,” WSC b6 f10. 125. Guy Coriden, DOS, to Strickland, 11 December 1970 and 19 January 1971, WSC b6 f6. 126. See esp. Michael Latham, ed., Staging Growth: Modernization, Development, and the Global Cold War (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 2003). 127. See John Degnbol-Martinussen and Poul Engberg-Pedersen, Aid: Understanding International Development Cooperation, trans. Marie Bille (London: Zed, 2003), 239–40, 244, 265; and Clark C. Gibson, Krister Andersson,

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Elinor Ostrom, and Sujai Shivakumar, The Samaritan’s Dilemma: The Political Economy of Development Aid (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 3–5. 128. The American conductor Joel Eric Suben, who studied in Poland as a Fulbright scholar in the 1970s, has since the 1990s recorded extensively with the Polish National Radio Orchestra and the Slovak State Radio Orchestra. 129. Remarks of Chester Bowles, Official Minutes, Twelfth Meeting of the ACA, 28 February–1 March 1961, p. 12, folder ACA Doc. 26, box 157, CU/ACS Records of the U.S. Advisory Committee on the Arts, 1951–60, Entry A1–5079, RG 59, NA. 130. Johnson-Cartee and Copeland, Strategic Political Communication, 4.

chapter 3. jazz in the cultural presentations program 1. Foundational accounts of this dynamic include Brenda Gayle Plummer, Rising Wind: Black Americans and U.S. Foreign Affairs, 1935–1960 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1996); Paul Gordon Lauren, “Seen from the Outside: The International Perspective on America’s Dilemma,” in Window on Freedom: Race, Civil Rights, and Foreign Affairs, 1945–1988, ed. Brenda Gayle Plummer (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2003), 21–43; Thomas Borstelmann, The Cold War and the Color Line: American Race Relations in the Global Arena (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2001); and Jonathan Rosenberg, How Far the Promised Land? World Affairs and the American Civil Rights Movement from the First World War to Vietnam (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2006), 156–213. See also Cull, The Cold War and the United States Information Agency, 147– 48, 211–13, 234–36; Lisa Davenport, Jazz Diplomacy (Jackson: University Press of Mississippi, 2009); Penny Von Eschen, Satchmo Blows Up the World: Jazz Ambassadors Play the Cold War (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2004); and Laura Belmonte, Selling the American Way: U.S. Propaganda and the Cold War (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2008), 159–77. 2. Executive Session, First Meeting of the Advisory Committee on the Arts, 16 January 1958, p. B-24, box 158, CU/ACS Records of the United States Advisory Commission on the Arts, 1951–60, Entry A1–5079, RG 59, NA. 3. Gwynne Kuhner Brown, “A Dubious Triumph: Porgy and Bess as Propaganda, 1952–1956,” unpublished paper presented at the annual meeting of the American Musicological Society, Seattle, November 2004. My thanks to Dr. Brown for sharing this paper. 4. Christian Herter, DOS Instruction CA-265, “Cultural Presentations: President’s Program: Program Guide,” CDF55–59 032/7–959, NA. On music panelists’ resistance to jazz see Emily Abrams Ansari, “Shaping the Policies of Cold War Musical Diplomacy: An Epistemic Community of American Composers,” Diplomatic History 36, no. 1 (2012): 44–45. 5. My thanks to Richard Crawford for this formulation. Richard Crawford, interview by the author, 10 April 2006.

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6. Progress Report on Activities of the OCB Cultural Presentation Committee, 13 July 1956, OCB 007 (file #3) (9), box 16, OCB central files, Eisenhower Presidential Library, cited in Kenneth A. Osgood, Total Cold War: Eisenhower’s Secret Propaganda Battle at Home and Abroad (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 2006), 226. 7. AmEmb Phnom Penh D-367 to DOS, CDF55–59 032/4–659, NA. 8. AmEmb Athens D-1019 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Gillespie, Dizzy/6–456, NA. 9. AmEmb/USIS Tokyo D-730 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Dance Jubilee/12–3158, NA. For a history of jazz subcultures in Japan see E. Taylor Atkins, Blue Nippon: Authenticating Jazz in Japan (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2001). 10. U.S. News and World Report, April 1957, clipping, CDF55–59 032 Gillespie, Dizzy/4–2357, NA. See also clippings about this tour in box 24 folder 2, box 12 folder 7, and box 20 folder 24, Marshall Winslow Stearns Collection (MC 030), Institute of Jazz Studies, Rutgers University Libraries (hereafter MSC). For context on salary and Gillespie’s tour see Ingrid Monson, Freedom Sounds: Civil Rights Call Out to Jazz and Africa (New York: Oxford University Press, 2007), 111–28. 11. “Jazz Goes to College,” Picture Week, 13 March 1956, 62, clipping, folder “Universities, Jazz in,” Subject Clipping Collection, Institute of Jazz Studies, Rutgers University Libraries (hereafter IJS). On Stearns’s contribution to the historiography of jazz see John Gennari, Blowin’ Hot and Cool: Jazz and Its Critics (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2006), 144–55. 12. “John S. Wilson, Jazz Critic, Is Dead at 89,” NYT, 28 August 2002. See also radio programs, folder “Wilson, John S.,” Name Clipping Collection, IJS. 13. Ronald Radano, New Musical Figurations: Anthony Braxton’s Cultural Critique (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993), 14–16; see also Gennari, Blowin’ Hot and Cool, 207–15. 14. John S. Wilson, “Weston Is Heard in Jazz Program,” NYT, 14 March 1964. 15. Robert Schnitzer, ANTA, to Marshall Stearns, 30 January 1956, b12 f2, MSC. 16. Handwritten program, b20 f22, MSC. 17. “History of Jazz Big Feature of Gillespie Overseas Tour,” Down Beat, 2 May 1956, 9, clipping, b12 f7, MSC. 18. Building Bridges between Nations . . . through the Performing Arts. A Report on the Cultural Presentations Program of the Department of State, July 1, 1965–June 30, 1966, DOS Publication 8254 (1967), 21. 19. Cultural Presentations USA 1966–1967: A Report to the Congress and the Public by the Advisory Committee on the Arts, with an Added Section on Athletic Programs, DOS Publication 8365 (1968), 36. 20. AmEmb New Delhi D-1512 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Brubeck, David Jazz Band/6–658, NA. 21. “Cozy Cole to Stress Rhythm on Trip Abroad,” Chicago Daily Defender, 9 October 1962.

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22. Scott DeVeaux, “Constructing the Jazz Tradition: Jazz Historiography,” Black American Literature Forum 25, no. 3 (1991): 543–44. 23. Marshall Stearns to Glenn Wolfe, 5 March 1963, b10 f29, MSC. 24. Martin Williams, “The Rediscovery of Earl Hines,” Saturday Review, 26 June 1965, 59, clipping, file “Hines, Earl,” Name Clipping Collection, IJS. 25. Robert Palmer, “From Africa—Where His Roots Are: Weston, Jazz, and Africa,” NYT, 7 January 1973. 26. Randy Weston with Willard Jenkins, African Rhythms: The Autobiography of Randy Weston (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2010), 115. 27. Minutes, Music Advisory Panel, Sub-committee on Jazz, 12 May 1967, pp. 3–4, ARK II b98 f26. 28. Minutes, Academic/Community Music Advisory Panel, 18 April 1966, p. 2, ARK II b98 f26. Bruce Fisher, interview by the author, 18 July 2006; Lanny Austin, interview by the author, 12 June 2006; Crawford, interview. 29. AmEmb Phnom Penh D-367 to DOS, CDF55–59 032/4–659, NA. 30. Stearns to Glenn Wolfe, 5 March 1963, b10 f29, MSC. 31. AmEmb Ankara D-593 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Gillespie, Dizzy/6–156, NA. 32. AmConGen Dacca D-230 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Gillespie, Dizzy/4– 1356, NA. 33. “From School to Dipoli,” translation from Uusi Suomi, encl. in AmEmb Helsinki A-98 to DOS, 7 March 1969, ARK II b81 f22. 34. Translation from Hufvudstadsbladet, encl. in AmEmb Helsinki A-98 to DOS, 7 March 1969, ARK II b81 f22. 35. AmEmb Tokyo D-1267 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Teagarden, Jack Sextet/5–759, NA. 36. AmEmb Manila D-537 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Teagarden, Jack/2–359, NA. 37. Nestor Gheorghiu, “The Jazz Orchestra of Illinois University,” translation from Munca, encl. in AmEmb Bucharest A-481 to DOS, 5 November 1968, ARK II b81 f23. 38. AmEmb Ankara D-593 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Gillespie, Dizzy/6–156, NA. 39. DeVeaux, “Constructing the Jazz Tradition,” 545. 40. Belmonte, Selling the American Way, 165–66. 41. Laurence Bergreen, Louis Armstrong: An Extravagant Life (New York: Broadway Books, 1997), 463. 42. J. A. Rogers, “Jazz at Home,” in The New Negro, ed. Alain Locke (1925; repr. New York: Simon and Schuster, 1992), 223. Rogers’s account emphasizes the modernity of jazz, calling it “a joyous revolt from convention” (217). 43. “Jazz Memo to Charlie Palmer,” Joe Barry, Paris bureau chief, to Charles Palmer, Sunday Department, New York Times, 22 January 1951, folder “Jazz Abroad,” Subject Clipping Collection, IJS. 44. Uta Poiger, Jazz, Rock, and Rebels: Cold War Politics and American Culture in a Divided Germany (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000).

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45. “Memo on Jazz for Magazine” to [Charles] Palmer, 24 January [1951], folder “Jazz Abroad,” Subject Clipping Collection, IJS. 46. Peter J. Martin, “Spontaneity and Organization,” in The Cambridge Companion to Jazz, ed. Mervyn Cooke and David Horn (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2002): 133–35. 47. Stearns, quoted in a press release for a 1951 radio show, “Jazz Goes to College,” b9 f8, MSC. 48. Ibid. On the lectures abroad see AmEmb Beirut D-500 to DOS, CDF55– 59 032 Gillespie, Dizzy/5–1856, NA. 49. Dave Brubeck, “Jazz Perspective,” Perspectives USA 15 (Spring 1956): 21–29, cited in Stephen A. Crist, “Jazz as Democracy? Dave Brubeck and Cold War Politics,” Journal of Musicology 26, no. 2 (2009): 159. 50. George E. Pitts, “Some Russians Dug Goodman, Some Didn’t,” Pittsburgh Courier, 16 June 1962. 51. AmEmb Bangui A-039 to DOS, 16 April 1969, ARK II b72 f20. 52. William J. Maxwell, “Ralph Ellison and the Constitution of Jazzocracy,” Journal of Popular Music Studies 16, no. 1 (2004): 46. 53. Minutes, Music Advisory Panel, 24 July 1963, p. 8, ARK II b99 f19. 54. Paul Hofmann, “Satchmo Plays for Congo’s Cats,” NYT, 29 October 1960. 55. AmEmb Leopoldville T-1084 to DOS, 2 November 1960, CDF60–63 032 Armstrong, Louis Band [11–260], NA. 56. Max Kaminsky with V. E. Hughes, My Life in Jazz (New York: Harper and Row, 1963), 219. 57. Stearns, tour notebook, b20 f22, MSC. 58. AmEmb Quito D-51 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Gillespie, Dizzy/7–2656, NA. 59. See Walter Hixson, Parting the Curtain: Propaganda, Culture, and the Cold War, 1945–1961 (New York: St. Martin’s, 1997), 115–19; Von Eschen, Satchmo Blows Up the World, 13–17; S. Frederick Starr, Red and Hot: The Fate of Jazz in the Soviet Union, 1917–1980 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1983), 243–46; and Terence Ripmaster, Willis Conover: Broadcasting Jazz to the World (New York: iUniverse, 2007). 60. Lanny Austin, interview by the author, 12 June 2006. Joe Mallare also commented on the deep knowledge of Latin American jazz enthusiasts. Mallare, interview by the author, 14 June 2006. See Fosler-Lussier, “Cultural Diplomacy as Cultural Globalization: The University of Michigan Jazz Band in Latin America,” Journal of the Society for American Music 4, no. 1 (2010): 70–73. 61. AmEmb Moscow A-370 to DOS, 6 September 1966, ARK II b66 f14. 62. Ibid. 63. “Visit of Wilbur de Paris Jazz Orchestra,” AmConGen Leopoldville D-230 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 De Paris, Wilbur/4–2657; and AmEmb Khartoum D-288 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 De Paris, Wilbur/5–257, NA. 64. Stearns, penciled notes “Dizzy Liner,” b20 f1, MSC. 65. “Gillespie’s Band a Hit in Beirut,” NYT, 30 April 1956, clipping, folder Gillespie Tour-1956, box 3, MSC.

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66. Translation of Paulo Fernando Cravairo, “Meeting Ground,” Jornal do Comercio, Recife, Brazil, 30 June 1970, ARK II b71 f9. 67. Bruce Fisher, “University of Michigan Jazz Band Tours Latin America,” report, June 1965. Personal papers of Bruce Fisher. McGregor, Crawford, Austin, Post, and Fisher, interviews. 68. Typescript liner notes, “Dizzy in Greece—Volume II,” b20 f1, MSC. 69. Tom Jenkins, interview by the author, 2 September 2008. 70. “Cultural Presentations: Evaluation of University of Illinois Jazz Band Performances in Finland,” AmEmb Helsinki A-52 to DOS, 7 February 1969, ARK II b81 f22. 71. “Ellington Orchestra Leaves after Thrilling Visit,” Deccan Chronicle (Hyderabad), 3 October 1963, clipping, folder “1962–63,” file “Ellington, Duke,” Name Clipping Collection, IJS. On this tour see Harvey Cohen, Duke Ellington’s America (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2010), 424–41. 72. “Ellington Orchestra Leaves after Thrilling Visit,” Deccan Chronicle (Hyderabad), 3 October 1963, clipping, folder “1962–63,” file “Ellington, Duke,” Name Clipping Collection, IJS; and http://bluerhythm.wordpress. com/2011/08/28/video-clip-from-the-film-an-ellington-story-without-theduke/. Nance was sent home because of his erratic behavior; the escort officer presumed he was using drugs. Thomas W. Simons Jr. to Glenn Wolfe, 17 September 1963, ARK II b61 f5. 73. AmEmb New Delhi D-1512 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Brubeck, David Jazz Band/6–658, NA. 74. Jack Teagarden Sextet, Concert at Brabourne Stadium, sound recording, 7 October 1958. Library of Congress, Recorded Sound Reference Center, LC control no. 2007654855LCCN. 75. [Thomas W. Simons Jr.], untitled report on Duke Ellington Tour, p. 17, ARK II b61 f5. See also Von Eschen, Satchmo Blows Up the World, 13. 76. AmEmb Ankara D-593 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Gillespie, Dizzy/6–156, NA; and Stearns, “Dizzy Gillespie—World Statesman,” folder Gillespie Liner– Norman Granz, box 3, MSC. 77. Kaminsky, My Life in Jazz, 219–20. 78. See, e.g., Ingrid Monson, “The Problem with White Hipness: Race, Gender, and Cultural Conceptions in Jazz Historical Discourse,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 48, no. 3 (1995): 396–422; and Paul Lopes, “Pierre Bourdieu’s Fields of Cultural Production: A Case Study of Modern Jazz,” in Pierre Bourdieu: Fieldwork in Culture, ed. Nicholas Brown and Imre Szeman (Lanham, MD: Rowman and Littlefield, 2000): 165–85. 79. AmConGen Casablanca D-174 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 De Paris, Wilbur/5–2957, NA. 80. AmConGen Dacca D-230 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Gillespie, Dizzy/4– 1356, NA. 81. John Miller, interview by the author, 11 June 2006. 82. AmConGen Bombay D-449 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Teagarden, Jack Sextet/2–459, NA.

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83. Harilaos Stecopoulos, “The World Elsewhere: U.S. Propaganda and the Cultural Politics of Race and Nation, 1945–1968” (PhD diss., University of Virginia, 1999), 9–10. 84. Von Eschen, Satchmo Blows Up the World, 24, 151, 255. 85. William Warfield with Alton Miller, My Music and My Life (Champaign, IL: Sagamore, 1991), 163–66. 86. AmEmb Lisbon A-258 to DOS, 26 November 1975, ARK II b58 f10. 87. AmConGen Dacca D-230 to DOS, 13 April 1956, CDF55–59 032 Gillespie, Dizzy/4–1356, NA. 88. Stecopoulos acknowledges that Gillespie’s actions were not likely received by people abroad as rebellious (“The World Elsewhere,” 127). 89. Marsha Siefert, “From Cold War to Wary Peace: American Culture in the USSR and Russia,” in The Americanization of Europe: Culture, Diplomacy, and Anti-Americanism after 1945, ed. Alexander Stephan (New York: Berghahn, 2005), 185–217, 192. 90. AmEmb Addis Ababa D-240 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 De Paris, Wilbur/5–2057, NA. 91. Ralph J. Gleason, “Jazz Is What the Whole World Wants,” San Francisco Chronicle, 27 January 1957, clipping, b12 f7, MSC. 92. Von Eschen, Satchmo Blows Up the World, 44–45. 93. AmEmb Moscow A-51 to DOS, 12 January 1970, ARK II b81 f25. 94. Ibid. 95. George Avakian, a producer at Columbia Records, explained in 1957 that the spread in appreciation for jazz was the result of a worthy compromise. George Avakian, “Louis Armstrong,” in The Jazz Makers, ed. Nat Shapiro and Nat Hentoff (New York: Grove, 1957), 57. 96. Stecopoulos, “The World Elsewhere,” 128. 97. Robert C. Hill to Representative Walt Horan (R-WA), CDF55–59 032 De Paris, Wilbur/3–1957, NA. 98. Robert C. Hill to Senator John Marshall Butler, 29 April 1957, CDF55– 59 032 Gillespie, Dizzy/4–1757, NA. 99. Minutes, Music Advisory Panel, 13 November 1957, p. 5, ARK II b100 f3. 100. William “Billy” Taylor, “Jazz: America’s Classical Music,” in “Black American Music Symposium, 1985,” special issue, Black Perspective in Music 14, no. 1 (1986): 21–25. 101. Robert Sylvester, “Dream Street: Ah, Culture, Culture!” New York Daily News, 8 September 1958; Paul Lopes, The Rise of a Jazz Art World: Jazz Enthusiasts, Professional Musicians, and the Modernist Revolt (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 163–73. See also comments of Iola Brubeck cited in Penny Von Eschen, “The Real Ambassadors,” in Uptown Conversation: The New Jazz Studies, ed. Robert O’Meally, Brent Hayes Edwards, and Farah Jasmine Griffin (New York: Columbia University Press, 2004), 189–90. 102. Don DeMicheal, “The Year in Review,” Down Beat Music ’67 (yearbook), 10; Don DeMicheal, “Jazz in Government,” Down Beat, 17 January

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1963, 15–17, 45, cont. in Down Beat, 31 January 1963, 19–20; “State Department Alters Program Affecting Jazz,” Down Beat, 14 February 1963, 15. 103. Dan Morgenstern, “1968: The Year That Was,” Down Beat Music ’69 (yearbook), 11–15. 104. Joseph Kuhn Carey, Big Noise from Notre Dame: A History of the Collegiate Jazz Festival (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1986), 45; Harry Allen Feldman, “Jazz: A Place in Music Education?” Music Educators Journal 50, no. 6 (1964): 60, 62–64; Wayne Scott, “Jazz Goes to College,” Music Journal 20, no. 6 (1962): 28, 98–100; William T. McDaniel, “The Status of Jazz Education in the 1990s: A Historical Commentary,” International Jazz Archives Journal 1, no. 1 (1993): 114–39; Alice Goldfarb Marquis, “Jazz Goes to College: Has Academic Status Served the Art?” Popular Music and Society 22, no. 2 (1998): 117–24; Richard Kleinfeldt, interview by the author, 20 August 2008; Alma Schueler, interview by the author, 16 December 2008; and David Morrow, interview by the author, 27 July 2008. See also Fosler-Lussier, “Cultural Diplomacy as Cultural Globalization,” 68. 105. Dizzy Gillespie with Ralph Ginzburg, “Jazz Is Too Good for Americans,” Esquire, June 1957, 55. See also “Gillespie’s Bop Scores in Greece,” Chicago Daily Defender, 16 May 1956. 106. African American newspapers likewise expressed approval of the State Department’s support for jazz, with feature articles on most tours and editorials praising the Cultural Presentations program. The Chicago Defender even praised the integrationist, color-blind approach of white-led bands such as Benny Goodman’s ensemble and the Paul Winter sextet. “U.S. to Use Jazz in Cold War,” Chicago Defender, 26 November 1955; Bob Hunter, “Rate Jazz U.S.’s Best Export,” Chicago Daily Defender, 17 April 1963. 107. Dizzy Gillespie with Al Fraser, To Be, or Not . . . to Bop: Memoirs (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1979), 414. Cited in Von Eschen, Satchmo Blows Up the World, 34. 108. Ben Keppel, The Work of Democracy: Ralph Bunche, Kenneth B. Clark, Lorraine Hansberry, and the Cultural Politics of Race (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1995), 27. See also Gerald Early, “Understanding Integration,” Civilization 3, no. 5 (1996): 51–59. 109. W. E. B. DuBois, “American Negroes and Africa’s Rise to Freedom,” in The World and Africa, ed. Henry Louis Gates Jr. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), 217–18. See Keppel, The Work of Democracy, 234, 237. For another trenchant critique of jazz musicians’ service to the U.S. government see Frank Kofsky, “Black Music: Cold War ‘Secret Weapon,’ ” in Frank Kofsky, Black Nationalism and the Revolution in Music (New York: Pathfinder, 1970), 109–21. 110. Gillespie, To Be, or Not . . . to Bop, 434. 111. See Taylor, “Jazz: America’s Classical Music,” 21–25; Jon Pareles, “Don’t Call Jazz America’s Classical Music,” NYT, 28 February 1999. For the Weston quotation see Robin D. G. Kelley, Africa Speaks, America Answers: Modern Jazz in Revolutionary Times (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2012), 76.

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112. Barbara Kirshenblatt-Gimblett, Destination Culture: Tourism, Museums, and Heritage (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998), 65. 113. See Andre Craddock, Wynton Marsalis, and James Lincoln Collier, “Jazz People,” Transition 65 (1995): 140–78; and Frederick Spencer, “The Debate That Never Was,” IAJRC Journal 37–38, no. 3–4 (2005): 41–43. 114. Herman Gray, Cultural Moves: African Americans and the Politics of Representation (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2005), 32–51; Kabir Sehgal, Jazzocracy (Mishawaka, IN: Better World Books, 2008); William Maxwell, “Ralph Ellison and the Constitution of Jazzocracy,” 40–57; Congressional Resolution, 23 September 1987, repr. in Keeping Time: Readings in Jazz History, ed. Robert Walser (New York: Oxford University Press, 1999), 332–33; Iain Anderson, This Is Our Music: Free Jazz, the Sixties, and American Culture (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2011), esp. 1–48. 115. See Von Eschen, Satchmo Blows Up the World, 29.

chapter 4. african american ambassadors abroad and at home 1. Ralph Engelman, Friendlyvision: Fred Friendly and the Rise and Fall of Television Journalism (New York: Columbia University Press, 2009), 133. 2. The half-hour segment about Armstrong aired as part of “Two American Originals,” See It Now, season 5, episode 3, 12 December 1955. The hour-long program about Anderson was entitled “The Lady from Philadelphia,” See It Now, season 7, episode 4, 30 December 1957. 3. Melinda Schwenk-Borrell, “Selling Democracy: The U.S. Information Agency’s Portrayal of American Race Relations, 1953–1976” (PhD diss., University of Pennsylvania, 2004), 167. On the changing roles of African Americans on network television in this period see Thomas Doherty, Cold War, Cool Medium: Television, McCarthyism, and American Culture (New York: Columbia University Press, 2003), 70–80; and Herman Gray, Watching Race: Television and the Struggle for Blackness (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2004), 74–77. 4. Felix Belair Jr., “United States Has Secret Sonic Weapon—Jazz,” NYT, 6 November 1955. Von Eschen, Satchmo Blows Up the World, 9–12; Terry Teachout, Pops: A Life of Louis Armstrong (Boston: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2009), 311–12. 5. “They Cross Iron Curtain to Hear American Jazz,” U.S. News and World Report, 2 December 1955, 54–62. 6. Fred Reynolds, “Platter Chatter,” Chicago Daily Tribune, 1 June 1953 and 4 June 1955; John S. Wilson, “Jazz Moves into Microgroove Age,” NYT, 21 November 1954. 7. George Avakian, liner notes to Ambassador Satch, Columbia CL840, 1956; Ricky Riccardi, What a Wonderful World: The Magic of Louis Armstrong’s Later Years (New York: Pantheon, 2011), 116, 118–19. According to Riccardi (122–32), Avakian also arranged the filming of Armstrong for See It Now and the later feature film, though it was Murrow’s idea to send Armstrong to Africa.

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Gary Giddins notes that Armstrong’s identity as “ambassador” was “manufactured”; see Gary Giddins, Satchmo (New York: Doubleday, 1988), 159. CBS, the network for which See It Now was filmed, also owned Columbia Records, so the episode of See It Now and the LP would have served as mutual advertisements. A soundtrack to Satchmo the Great was also issued on LP. 8. Murrow and Friendly, “Two American Originals.” Armstrong tells similar anecdotes in response to similar questions in an interview with Joe Jeru [June 1956], Louis Armstrong House Museum (hereafter LAHM), 1987.3.14, track 8. 9. Armstrong, interview with Al Collins [1957], LAHM 1987.3.294, track 14. See also “Russian Cats Dig Satchmo,” Washington Post and Times Herald, 11 July 1956. For Dave Brubeck’s version of the Berlin story see Jack Heaney, “Jazzman Says He’d Like to Play Moscow,” Brownsville (TX) Herald, 3 April 1955. 10. Jack Gould, “TV: American Originals: Grandma Moses, Louis Armstrong Featured,” NYT, 14 December 1955. 11. Donald Horton and R. Richard Wohl, “Mass Communication and Parasocial Interaction: Observations on Intimacy at a Distance,” Psychiatry 19 (1956): 215, cited in David Morley and Kevin Robins, Spaces of Identity: Global Media, Electronic Landscapes and Cultural Boundaries (London: Routledge, 1995), 130. 12. A. M. Sperber, Murrow: His Life and Times (New York: Fordham University Press, 1998), 29–30, 40–44. 13. Lawrence Sheldon Rudner, “The Heart and the Eye: Edward R. Murrow as Broadcast Journalist, 1938–1960” (PhD diss., Michigan State University, 1977), 187. 14. Murray R. Yaeger, “An Analysis of Edward R. Murrow’s ‘See It Now’ Television Program” (PhD diss., State University of Iowa, 1956), 84. 15. Rudner, “The Heart and the Eye,” 190, 195–96, 207. 16. Robert Raymond, Black Star in the Wind (London: Macgibbon and Kee, 1960), 215. 17. John S. Wilson, “American Jazzmen Overseas,” NYT, 14 July 1957. See also “100,000 in Africa Cheer ‘Satchmo,’ ” NYT, 24 May 1956. 18. Raymond, Black Star in the Wind, 217–18, 236–41; Murrow and Friendly, “Two American Originals.” 19. Raymond, Black Star in the Wind, 227–32. 20. “Bonus at Jazz Concert: Philharmonic Joins Armstrong at Stadium on Saturday,” NYT, 9 July 1956; John S. Wilson, “Music: Jazz Is Tested at Stadium: Armstrong and Brubeck Draw Sellout Crowd,” NYT, 16 July 1956; “Louis Armstrong Storms Stadium,” NYT, 15 July 1956; Michael Meckna, “Louis Armstrong in the Movies, 1931–1969,” Popular Music and Society 29, no. 3 (2006): 366. 21. Armstrong, radio interview [1957], Oneonta, New York, LAHM, 1987.3.56, track 8. 22. Cecil Smith, “Marian Anderson Goodwill Journey to Be Shown,” Los Angeles Times, 29 December 1957; “College to Honor Armstrong,” NYT, 13 April 1958.

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23. “ ‘Ambassador’ Satchmo,” Washington Post and Times Herald, 2 July 1957. 24. Daniel Stein, Music Is My Life: Louis Armstrong, Autobiography, and American Jazz (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2012), esp. 12–13, 26–27, 109–10, 135, 247–48. 25. For accounts of the events in Little Rock see Catherine M. Lewis and J. Richard Lewis, eds., Race, Politics, and Memory: A Documentary History of the Little Rock School Crisis (Fayetteville: University of Arkansas Press, 2007); David A. Nichols, A Matter of Justice: Eisenhower and the Beginning of the Civil Rights Revolution (New York: Simon and Schuster, 2007), 167–213; and Elizabeth Jacoway, Turn Away Thy Son: Little Rock, the Crisis That Shocked the Nation (New York: Free Press, 2007). 26. See Gene Roberts and Hank Klibanoff, The Race Beat: The Press, the Civil Rights Struggle, and the Awakening of a Nation (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2006): 143–83. It has been estimated that 66 percent of American households owned television sets by 1955, and 87 percent by 1960; see Lawrence Lichty and Malachi C. Topping, American Broadcasting: A Source Book on the History of Radio and Television (New York: Hastings House, 1975), 522. Rates of adoption differed by region, with people in the South and Southwest lagging behind other areas of the country in obtaining television sets, and rural people less likely to own sets than urban people. Leo Bogart, The Age of Television, 2nd ed. (New York: Frederick Ungar, 1958), 10, 15, 17. 27. “ ‘Satchmo’ Tells Off Ike, US! Armstrong Blasts Bias in America,” Pittsburgh Courier, 28 September 1957; “Louis Armstrong, Barring Soviet Tour, Denounces Eisenhower and Gov. Faubus,” NYT, 19 September 1957. 28. See “Satchmo Mad; Blisters Ike in School Fight,” Chicago Daily Tribune, 19 September 1957; “Armstrong May Tour: U.S. Hopes He’ll Visit Soviet Despite Segregation Issue,” NYT, 20 September 1957; W. H. Lawrence, “Eisenhower ‘Disappointed’ by Impasse at Little Rock,” NYT, 20 September 1957; “Satchmo Is a Great Trumpet Player,” editorial, Chicago Daily Tribune, 21 September 1957; “Domestic,” Chicago Daily Tribune, 22 September 1957; Donald J. Gonzales, “Satchmo Asked to Reconsider Refusal of Iron Curtain Tour,” Washington Post, 20 September 1957; “Station Discards Satchmo Music in Mississippi,” Washington Post, 22 September 1957; “Musician Backs Move: Armstrong Lauds Eisenhower for Little Rock Action,” NYT, 26 September 1957; “Satchmo Wires Ike, ‘Take Me Along, Daddy,’ to School,” Chicago Daily Tribune, 26 September 1957; “Russian Trip for Satchmo Is On Again,” Washington Post, 26 September 1957; Leonard Feather, “Satchmo Blitzes Governor Faubus,” Melody Maker, 28 September 1957; Drew Pearson, “ ‘Satchmo’ Stand Helped Steel Ike,” Washington Post, 7 October 1957; “Armstrong Asked to Play in Arkansas,” Washington Post, 15 October 1957; “Satch Speaks Twice,” Down Beat, 31 October 1957; Drew Pearson, “Ike to Carry On ‘Like a Soldier,’ ” Washington Post, 14 December 1957. See also Davenport, Jazz Diplomacy, 62–66.

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29. “Eartha, Lena Agree with ‘Satchmo,’ ” Pittsburgh Courier, 28 September 1957; “Entertainers Join Satchmo in Blast at U.S.,” Chicago Daily Tribune, 20 September 1957. 30. “Satchmo Missed a Point, Sammy Davis Jr. States,” Baltimore AfroAmerican, 12 October 1957; Lee Belser, “Cole Disagrees with Satch Blast of Ike and Ark. Gov.,” Chicago Defender, 28 September 1957; “Sammy Davis Tells View on Eisenhower,” Chicago Daily Tribune, 22 September 1957. See also Sasha Torres, Black, White, and in Color: Television and Black Civil Rights (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2003), 22. 31. Charles E. Larson, 54th District Republican Assemblyman of Los Angeles County, rejected Armstrong on racist grounds, as well as because of the insult to Eisenhower: Larson to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Armstrong, Louis/9–2357, NA. See also Representative George Grant (D-AL) to John Foster Dulles, 24 September 1957, ibid./9–2457; Mrs. H. G. Stuart, Orlando, Florida, to Dulles, ibid./9–3057; Mrs. Sarah E. Williams, San Diego, CA, to DOS, 12 October 1957, ibid./10–1257, NA. For citizens’ negative reactions to other jazz tours see Davenport, Jazz Diplomacy, 46–47. 32. Mrs. Hannah Jones, Salisbury, MD, to Dulles, CDF55–59 032 Armstrong, Louis/11–457, NA. 33. “Satchmo Not Man for Job,” editorial, Miami Herald, 9 October 1957. See also Edwin Kane to Assistant Secretary of State Walter S. Robertson, 20 September 1957: “His remarks about the President make him unfit to speak outside of the United States.” CDF55–59 032 Armstrong, Louis/9–2057, NA. 34. G. C. von Riestenberg, quoted in Senator Lister Hill (D-AL), to Assistant Secretary of State John S. Hoghland II, 26 September 1957, CDF55–59 032 Armstrong, Louis/9–2657. See also postcard, Richard Ziegler to DOS, ibid./9– 2257, NA. 35. Donald Bogle characterizes Armstrong’s public persona as a “stepchild” of Stepin Fetchit. See Donald Bogle, Toms, Coons, Mulattoes, Mammies, and Bucks: An Interpretive History of Blacks in American Films, 4th ed. (New York: Continuum, 2002), 71, 75–77. See also Stein, Music Is My Life, 145–82. 36. See Yale Richmond, Cultural Exchange and the Cold War: Raising the Iron Curtain (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2003), chap. 3. 37. See CDF55–59 032 Armstrong, passim, NA; and Minutes, Music Advisory Panel, 15 November 1955 and 12 June 1956, ARK II b100 f1. 38. “Satchmo Will Make Reds ‘Dig’ the Blues,” Chicago Daily Tribune, 7 November 1955; “Satchmo Longs to Warm Cool Moscow Cats,” Chicago Daily Tribune, 31 December 1955. Cf. Von Eschen, Satchmo Blows Up the World, 58–91. The idea that the Soviet tour was actually offered to Armstrong is propagated widely in scholarly writing: see, e.g., Brian Harker, review of Thomas Brothers, Louis Armstrong in His Own Words, Notes 57, no. 4 (2001): 913; Joshua Berrett, ed., The Louis Armstrong Companion: Eight Decades of Commentary (New York: Schirmer Books, 1999), 186; and Teachout, Pops, 312. 39. “ ‘Cats’ Talk Same Language,” Arkansas Democrat, 4 March 1961, clipping in Armstrong, scrapbook, LAHM 1987.8.39.

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40. “Eartha, Lena Agree with ‘Satchmo,’ ” Pittsburgh Courier, 28 September 1957. 41. AmEmb Saigon D-130 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Anderson/10–1657, NA. 42. AmEmb Taipei D-213 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Anderson/10–1557, NA. 43. “Satchmo Lauds Ike for Rockin’ L.R.: Vows He Won’t Toot Horn ‘Down Yonder,’ ” Chicago Defender, 19 October 1957. 44. CBS Television, “The Lady from Philadelphia: Through Asia with Marian Anderson,” See It Now script, p. 16, folder 7650 (hereafter f7650), box 136, Marian Anderson Papers (hereafter MAP) II.B., Kislak Center for Special Collections, Rare Books, and Manuscripts, University of Pennsylvania. 45. Schwenk-Borrell, “Selling Democracy,” 169. 46. Mary Dudziak identifies this story about race as an important Cold War narrative. See Mary Dudziak, Cold War Civil Rights: Race and the Image of American Democracy (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2000), 13. See also Michael Krenn, Black Diplomacy: African Americans and the State Department, 1945–1969 (London: M. E. Sharpe, 1999), 39–43. 47. Murrow’s crew had insisted on including a similar scene, set in a classroom of children, in filming Satchmo the Great. See Raymond, Black Star in the Wind, 218. Murrow had previously used the classroom scenario in an episode about the desegregation of southern schools; see “A Study of Two Cities,” season 3, episode 36, which aired 25 May 1954. 48. Murrow and Friendly, “The Lady from Philadelphia,” 1957. 49. Schwenk-Borrell, “Selling Democracy,” 72–73, 136. 50. Belmonte, Selling the American Way, 165–66. 51. Script, “Marian Anderson,” folder Marian Anderson (#108), Movie Scripts, 1942–1965, Entry A1–1098, RG 306, NA. 52. Murrow and Friendly, “The Lady from Philadelphia,” 1957. 53. Lillian Gould, Floral Park, Long Island, NY, 31 December 1957, to See It Now and CBS, f7434, box 127, MAP I.C.3. All fan mail cited below is from box 127, MAP I.C.3. 54. Yvonne Porter, Loudonville, NY, to Murrow, n.d., f7441. 55. Vesta Slogel, Topeka, IN, to CBS, 2 January 1958, f7443; Kate B. Carrico, Granite City, IL, to CBS, 30 January 1958, f7430; Mrs. Richard E. Peters, Richmond, IN, to Murrow, 4 January 1958, f7441; Mrs. John D. Owen, Jefferson, IA, to Murrow, 31 December 1957, f7441; Mrs. E. C. Palm, Darwin, MN, to Murrow, n.d., f7441; Mr. and Mrs. Walter Duvall, West Chester, IA, to WMT-TV, Cedar Rapids, IA, 31 December 1957, f7431. 56. The music of the documentary included “Home” (sung with the Eighth Army Choir, conducted by a Korean civilian); “He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands”; “Getting to Know You” (sung by a chorus of Vietnamese children to welcome Anderson); “Trampin’,” “Comin’ through the Rye,” Schubert’s “Serenade” and “Ave Maria,” “Go Down, Moses” (in a Vietnamese church); “There’s No Hidin’ Place Down There,” “I Open My Mouth” (a few phrases); “Negaraku,” the new Malayan national anthem; “You’ve Got to Be Carefully Taught” from South Pacific; a brief excerpt of Indian traditional music; Saint-Saëns, “Mon cœur s’ouvre

2 6 0 / N OT E S TO PAG E S 113 – 116

à ta voix” from Samson and Delilah, accompanied by the newly formed Bombay City Orchestra; “Lead Kindly Light” (at Gandhi’s grave); and Brahms, “Der Schmied” (over the final credits, with the Bombay City Orchestra). 57. Julia Morris, n.p., to KWX-TV, St. Louis, MO, 15 January 1958, f7439. 58. Indeed, many Korean commentators noted Anderson’s “spiritual superiority” as well. “Hwanghol Kyo˘nggo˘n u˘i Toch’wikyo˘ng: Marian Aendo˘su˘n Tokch’anghoe” (The state of euphoria of ecstasy and piety: Marian Anderson vocal recital) and “Saso˘l: Aendo˘su˘n Yo˘sa Naehan e Ju˘u˘m Hayo˘” (Editorial: On the occasion of Ms. Anderson’s performance in Korea), clippings, Anderson Scrapbook 11, box 427, MAP IX.I.2. My thanks to Hye-jung Park for translations. 59. Margery Ware, Bethesda, MD, to Murrow, 15 January 1958, f7445. 60. Emma V. McFarland, Rutherfordton, NC, to Murrow, 9 January 1958, f7439. 61. Mrs. Chester Lott, Pascagoula, MS, to Murrow, 7 January 1958, f7449; Alfred M. Powers, Augusta, GA, to Murrow and CBS, 3 January 1958, f7449; Leslie E. Pease, Appleton, WI, to Murrow, 4 January 1958, f7449; Frances Frese, Tampa, FL, to Murrow, 31 December 1957, f7449. 62. Louis H. Bean, Arlington, VA, to Murrow, 31 December 1957, f7429; and Margery Beavers, Winston-Salem, NC, to Murrow, 7 January 1958, f7429. 63. Steven F. Lawson emphasizes the gender as well as class implications of this role in his Civil Rights Crossroads: Nation, Community, and the Black Freedom Struggle (Lexington: University Press of Kentucky, 2003), 273. Herman Gray points out that “good taste” could also be a way of domesticating black identity for consumption by whites; see Gray, Watching Race, 76. 64. “The Television Code of the National Association of Radio and Television Broadcasters,” in Television’s Impact on American Culture, ed. William Y. Elliott (East Lansing: Michigan State University Press, 1956), 328. Cited in Alan Nadel, Television in Black-and-White America: Race and National Identity (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 2005), 34. The code also claimed “excellence and good taste” as obligations of the television broadcaster. 65. Mary Louise Hinton, Kansas City, MO, to Murrow, n.d., f7435. 66. Shirley Fairley, Long Beach, MI, to Murrow, 20 March 1958, f7433. 67. Janie Stacy Gwynn, Chapel Hill, NC, to Murrow, 5 January 1958, f7434. 68. Elizabeth Cushman, Long Beach, CA, to Murrow, 2 January 1958, f7430; Lura Street Jackson, Washington, DC, to Murrow, 31 December 1957, f7436; Gladys Lawler, Kansas City, MO, to Murrow, 27 January 1958, f7438; Mr. and Mrs. Sam Lichtenstein, Detroit, MI, to Murrow, [30 December 1957], f7438; Herbert K. Palmer, Everett, WA, to Murrow c/o KTNT-TV, Tacoma, WA, 30 December 1957, f7441. 69. Elizabeth Pattullo, Cambridge, MA, to “Gentlemen” [CBS], 30 December 1957, f7441. 70. Andy Razaf, n.p., to Murrow, 31 December 1957, f7442. 71. Peter Renner, Philadelphia, PA, to Murrow, 31 December 1957, f7442. 72. Mrs. Wallace K. Reese, Winchester, KY, to Murrow and CBS, 30 December 1957, f7442.

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73. Anna D. Anderson to Marian Anderson, 11 October 1957, f237, box 5, MAP I.A. 74. Edwin R. Croft, Evanston, IL, to Murrow, 5 January 1958, f7430. 75. Carol Denison, Old Greenwich, CT, to CBS, 31 December 1957, f7431; see also Jane R. Keating, New York, NY, to Murrow, 30 December 1957, f7437. 76. Mary Dudziak, Cold War Civil Rights; see also Thomas Borstelmann, The Cold War and the Color Line: American Race Relations in the Global Arena (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2001), 93–95. 77. Gladys Kinney, San José, CA, to Program Director, KPIX, San Francisco, 1 January 1958, f7437; Mary D. Moakler, n.p., to Murrow, 30 December 1957, f7439; Betty Johnson, Minneapolis, MN, to WCCO-TV, Minneapolis, 7 January 1958, f7436. 78. Eugene P. Foley, Wabasha, MN, to Murrow, 31 December 1957, f7433. 79. Ida Hood, Gainesville, TX, to Murrow, 30 December 1957, f7435; Mrs. Bailey Femling, Auburn, CA, to Murrow, 31 December 1957, f7433; Harriet Trilling Schwartz, Scarsdale, NY, to Murrow, 4 January 1958, f7443. 80. Ivy Madden, New York, NY, to See It Now, 30 December 1957, f7439. 81. Daniel G. McCook, Lafayette, LA, to Murrow, 31 December 1957, f7439. Bunche was a distinguished African American intellectual who worked in the State Department and the United Nations; he collaborated closely with the NAACP and was a famous advocate for civil rights. 82. Mrs. Raymond Hoxing, Pittsburgh, PA, to Murrow, 28 January 1958, f7435; Mr. and Mrs. Sam Lichtenstein, Detroit, MI, to Murrow, [30 December 1957], f7438. 83. AmEmb Buenos Aires D-724 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Armstrong/11–2157, NA. 84. AmEmb Montevideo D-569 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Armstrong/12–1257; AmEmb Caracas D-524 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Armstrong/1–2058, NA. 85. “Satchmo, in S.A., Sounds Off Again on Race Problem,” clipping encl. in Hannah Jones, Salisbury, MD, to Dulles, CDF55–59 032 Armstrong/11–457, NA. 86. “They Cross Iron Curtain to Hear American Jazz,” 54; and Leonard Ingalls, “Armstrong Horn Wins Nairobi, Too,” NYT, 7 November 1960. See also “Satchmo Describes His Tour,” clipping, scrapbook, LAHM 1987.8.39. 87. AmConGen Singapore D-319 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Anderson/1–1458, NA. 88. Harold Weston to Lucius D. Battle, 17 January 1963, folder 4, box 9, subseries 7, series 3, Edwin Hughes Collection, University of South Carolina Music Library, /id/1931/rec/72. 89. John S. Wilson, “Music: Jazz Is Tested at Stadium,” NYT, 16 July 1956. See also John S. Wilson, “Jazz: Fusion at Newport,” NYT, 7 July 1956, where he quotes similar remarks by George Wein; and [John S. Wilson], “Louis Armstrong Heard in Concert,” NYT, 23 November 1956. 90. The anti-Communist New York Journal American published an editorial supporting Armstrong’s ambassadorship: “Good Will Asset,” 27 December

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1960. See also Charles Hersch, “Poisoning Their Coffee: Louis Armstrong and Civil Rights,” Polity 34, no. 3 (2002): 371–92. 91. Von Eschen, Satchmo Blows Up the World, 71. 92. DOS T-208 to AmEmb Caracas, 14 October 1957, CDF55–59 032 Armstrong/10–1057, NA; AmEmb Caracas T-260 to DOS, 10 October 1957, ibid. 93. AmEmb London T-5059 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Armstrong/5–356; and DOS Instruction A-178 to AmEmb Rio de Janeiro, 20 December 1957, CDF55– 59 032 Armstrong/12–557, NA. 94. Ralph J. Gleason, “Perspectives,” Down Beat, 6 February 1958, 33. 95. Dave Brubeck wrote a musical theater piece called “The Real Ambassadors” that satirized musical diplomacy. See Von Eschen, Satchmo Blows Up the World, 260, 58–91. This usage has become widespread: see, e.g., Nate Chinen, “The Real Ambassadors,” Jazz Times 35, no. 4 (2005): 30. 96. Carol Anderson has criticized narratives that too quickly dismiss black intellectuals who worked within the system. See Carol Anderson, “The Histories of African Americans’ Anti-colonialism in the Cold War,” in The Cold War in the Third World, ed. Robert McMahon (New York: Oxford University Press, 2013), 178–87. My thanks to Dr. Anderson for sharing the paper before its publication. 97. Torres, Black, White, and in Color, 3. 98. Terry Teachout, “The Soul of Marian Anderson,” Commentary 109, no. 4 (2000): 56. 99. Gray, Watching Race, 76. For an alternative and illuminating reading of black performers’ assimilation see Gerald Early, “Sammy Davis Jr., Establishment Rebel,” in This Is Where I Came In: Black America in the 1960s (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2003), 36–66. 100. Giddins, Satchmo, 165. 101. See Schwenk-Borrell, “Selling Democracy,” esp. chap. 4. 102. Telegram no. TOUSI 106 to U.S. Information Agency from Manila, 20 September 1957, cited in Schwenk-Borrell, “Selling Democracy,” 149–50. 103. Quoted in AmEmb Manila D-502 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Anderson/12–657, NA. 104. AmEmb Montevideo D-569 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Armstrong/12–1257, NA. 105. Toni Morrison, “The Site of Memory,” in Inventing the Truth: The Art and Craft of Memoir, ed. William Zinsser (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1987), 109–10. The personal writings of Anderson and Armstrong, like the writings Morrison describes, are rarely straightforward in conveying political opinions. 106. Marian Anderson to Sol Hurok, draft letter, f6739, box 108, MAP I.B. 107. “Armstrong Cites Gains: Trumpeter, in Venezuela, Sees U.S. Negroes Better Off,” NYT, 30 November 1957. 108. Murrow and Friendly, “The Lady from Philadelphia.” 109. Anderson continued to comment about race after these events. In an interview in the Ladies’ Home Journal in September 1960 she spoke frankly

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about her personal experiences of racism, even while continuing to voice support for the United States and its institutions. See Marian Anderson with Emily Kimbrough, “My Life in a White World,” Ladies’ Home Journal, September 1960, 160, 173–74, 176.

chapter 5. presenting america’s religious heritage abroad 1. Jonathan P. Herzog, The Spiritual-Industrial Complex: America’s Religious Battle against Communism in the Early Cold War (New York: Oxford University Press, 2011), 6, 49–50. See also Dianne Kirby, “The Religious Cold War,” in The Oxford Handbook of the Cold War, ed. Richard Immerman and Petra Goedde (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 540–64. 2. Andrew Preston, “Peripheral Visions: American Mainline Protestants and the Global Cold War,” Cold War History 13, no. 1 (2013): 109–30. 3. Herzog, The Spiritual-Industrial Complex, 126. 4. Ibid., 6, 98. From the early 1950s Secretary of State John Foster Dulles articulated a plan for demonstrating U.S. intellectual and spiritual superiority. See Richard H. Immerman, John Foster Dulles: Piety, Pragmatism, and Power in U.S. Foreign Policy (Wilmington, DE: SR Books, 1999), 40; and William Lee Miller, “The ‘Moral Force’ behind Dulles’ Diplomacy,” in Piety along the Potomac: Notes on Politics and Morals in the Fifties (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1964), 161–74. 5. Papers Prepared by a Working Group of the Operations Coordinating Board Assistants for the Operations Coordinating Board, Foreign Relations of the United States [hereafter FRUS], 1950–1955, doc. 190; see also Report to the National Security Council by the National Security Council Planning Board, FRUS, 1952–1954, v. 8, doc. 51. Most volumes of the FRUS series are available at 6. “Policy Guide on Religious Matters Issued by U.S. Information Agency,” The Chaplain: A Journal for Protestant Chaplains 13, no. 4 (1956): 8. 7. C. Kenneth Snyder, PAO, USIS Pretoria, to Ronald Bridges, Religious Affairs Officer, USIA Washington, “Memorandum: Some Thoughts on USIA Religious-Cultural Policy,” cabinet 2, drawer C, folder 19 (hereafter 2/C/19), John Finley Williamson Collection (hereafter JFW), Westminster Choir College Archives, Talbott Library, Rider University. 8. “Explains USIA Policy on Religious Information,” press release, Baptist Press: News Service of the Southern Baptist Convention, 23 January 1959,,23-Jan-1959.pdf. This policy was documented in Basic Guidance and Planning Paper No. 8, 1 May 1959, Subject: Religious Information Policy, File: Religious Materials, 1959, box 16, Subject Files, 1953–1967, Information Center/Bibliographic Division, Records of the United States Information Agency (RG 306), NA. My thanks to Laura Belmonte for sharing this source. 9. Evaluation Report, Robert Shaw Chorale, ARK II b96 f13.

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10. Typed copy, Foreign Service Despatch from AmEmb Tokyo, 13 December [1956], JFW 2/C/3. 11. Congressman John J. Rooney (D-NY) to William Schuman, 18 July 1956, folder 3, box 2, William Schuman Papers and Records, JPB 87–33, New York Public Library. 12. AmEmb Bangkok T-1061 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Westminster Choir/10–1556, NA. 13. The Roger Wagner Chorale, proposed for 1966, was rejected by Soviet and Eastern European officials (ARK II b96 f17); in 1974 their performances of spirituals “invariably brought down the house” in the USSR (ARK II b97 f5). The U.S. embassy in Moscow reported that Soviet audiences responded enthusiastically to the University of Michigan Chamber Choir’s rendition of spirituals (ARK II b97 f5). 14. “The Night That Moscow Listened,” New York Herald Tribune, 16 October 1962, clipping, ARK II b98 f21. 15. AmEmb Belgrade D-13 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Robert Shaw Chorale/8–156, NA. 16. AmCon Zagreb D-94 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Westminster Choir/3– 457, NA. 17. AmCon Hue D-8 to DOS, “Conditions Affecting Cultural Presentations,” CDF55–59 032/3–1659; AmCon Peshawar D-31 to DOS, “Conditions Affecting Cultural Presentations in Peshawar,” CDF55–59 032/3–459; AmEmb Rangoon T-626 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Westminster Choir/11–756, NA. 18. Evidence of Effectiveness Report, Deep River Boys, Africa, 21 May–3 July 1970, ARK II b97 f4. 19. AmEmb Rangoon D-392 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Golden Gate Quartet/2–359, NA. 20. Ronald Radano, Lying Up a Nation: Race and Black Music (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2003), 182–86. 21. Pura Santillan Castrence, writing in the Manila Bulletin, 2 March 1959, quoted in AmEmb Manila D-625 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Golden Gate Quartet/3–1059, NA. 22. AmEmb San José A-410 to DOS, “Hamline University Choir—Latin America,” 17 May 1967, ARK II b66 f2. See also Cultural Presentations USA 1966–1967, DOS Publication 8365 (1968), 43. 23. Cultural Presentations USA 1966–1967, 44. 24. AmConGen Nairobi D-92 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Warfield, William/10–2356, NA. 25. USIS Nairobi D-30 to USIA Washington, CDF55–59 032/5–459, NA. 26. AmConGen Hong Kong D-728 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Golden Gate Quartet/4–359, NA. 27. AmEmb Beirut D-176 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Warfield, William/10–2556, NA. 28. AmEmb Rangoon D-948 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Warfield, William/4–3058; AmEmb Kuala Lumpur D-436 to DOS, ibid./5–658; AmConGen Lahore D-131 to

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DOS via AmEmb Karachi, ibid./1–2858; AmEmb Bangkok T-2499 to DOS, ibid. /2–2558; AmEmb Rangoon T-671 to DOS, ibid./1–958; AmConGen Singapore D-479 to DOS, ibid./4–258, NA. 29. Bayard Rustin and Davis Platt, “First Steps in Working for Racial Justice,” p. 4, folder Race Relations/Racial-Industrial Department, 1943–1948, box 16, series E, Fellowship of Reconciliation Records, Swarthmore College Peace Collection. My thanks to Nancy Kates and Wendy Chmielewski for assistance in locating this document. 30. Luis A. Meza, review of Betty Allen, El comercio, 1968, translation in ARK II b54 f9. See also Evaluation Reports, Betty Allen, fiscal year 1964, ARK II b96 f13. 31. Bjorn Franzson, “Betty Allen,” Thjodviljinn, 19 January 1960, 2; and Bjorn Franzson, “Betty Allen Captivated Her Listeners,” Morgunbladid, 13 January 1960, 3, both translations encl. in AmEmb Reykjavík D-280 to DOS, CDF60–63 032 Allen, Betty/2–360. Ryoichi Yokomizo also refers to “natural” and “in-born” traits in “Amazed at and Admired the Voice and Acting of the Golden Gate Quartet,” Tokyo Shimbun, 21 March 1959, translation encl. in AmEmb Tokyo D-168 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Golden Gate Quartet/8–459, NA. 32. Vicente Rivera Jr., in Evening News, 13 March 1958, quoted in AmEmb Manila D-820 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Warfield, William/4–758, NA. On essentialism in Japanese reception of jazz see E. Taylor Atkins, Blue Nippon: Authenticating Jazz in Japan (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2001), 11, 19–30. 33. El mundo, 15 August 1960, quoted in AmEmb Buenos Aires D-429 to DOS, CDF60–63 032 Howard University Choir/9–2760, NA. 34. AmEmb San José D-222 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Wagner, Roger Chorale/11–459, NA. 35. Evidence of Effectiveness Report, University of Maryland Singers, 20 February–24 May 1964, ARK II b97 f1. 36. Ilhan Mimarog˘ lu, review of Shaw Chorale in Akis, translation encl. in AmEmb Ankara D-572 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Robert Shaw Chorale/5–1556, NA. 37. “My Humble Opinion,” Manila Chronicle, 7 August 1961, cited in report on Harvard Glee Club, AmEmb Manila to DOS, 11 August 1961, ARK II b97 f11. 38. AmEmb Kuala Lumpur D-436 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Warfield, William/5–658, NA; Evidence of Effectiveness Report, Deep River Boys, Africa, 21 May–3 July 1970, ARK II b97 f4. There was precedent for the use of spirituals abroad as a vehicle for engagement: see “Talented GIs Convert Jazz-Loving German Kids to Spiritual Singers,” Chicago Defender, 29 September 1951. 39. USIS Belgrade D-106 to USIA, CDF55–59 032 Westminster Choir/4– 2457, NA. 40. Ibid. 41. AmEmb Pretoria D-23 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Westminster Singers/7–1459, NA. The Westminster Singers were the alumni chorus of the Westminster Choir College, led by John Finley Williamson.

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42. Anthony Tommasini, “Leonard De Paur Dies at 83; Lincoln Center Administrator,” NYT, 11 November 1998. 43. Building Bridges between Nations . . . through the Performing Arts. A Report on the Cultural Presentations Program of the Department of State, July 1, 1965–June 30, 1966, DOS Publication 8254 (1967), 10–12. 44. Cultural Presentations USA 1966–1967, 38–40. Other delegates to the First World Festival of Negro Arts included Duke Ellington and Alvin Ailey. See Von Eschen, Satchmo Blows Up the World, 151–70. 45. Translation of “Artistic Message,” O povo (Fortaleza, Brazil), encl. in AmEmb Rio de Janeiro D-360 to DOS, CDF60–63 032 Howard University Choir/10–3160, NA. 46. Minutes, Music Advisory Panel, 11 October 1955, ARK II b100 f1. 47. “Westminster Choir (new project),” JFW 2/C/2. 48. Ralph Lewando, “Westminster Choir Fails to Equal Past Quality,” Pittsburgh Press [1956], clipping, JFW 2/C/1. 49. Jim Arnold, “Fine Choir Turns Auditorium into Substitute for Heaven,” Sacramento Union, 26 October 1956, clipping, JFW 2/C/4. 50. Tokyo Shimbun, 10 November 1956, cited in “Westminster Choir, Japan Tour, November 7–27, 1956,” encl. in AmEmb Tokyo D-309 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Westminster Choir/9–1357, NA; “Westminster Choir Performance in Fukuoka and Shimonoseki,” ibid. 51. Minutes, Music Advisory Panel, 19 December 1956, ARK II b100 f1; see also Minutes, Music Advisory Panel, 16 January 1957, ARK II b100 f3. 52. Mohammed A. Rauf Jr., “Music to Remember Down the Years: Westminster Choir in City,” Daily Haque (Lucknow), JFW 2/C/12; praise for these concerts is also cited in Delhi Consular District D-1196 to DOS, CDF55– 59 032 Westminster Choir/4–157, NA. 53. “Report from Singapore,” encl. in AmConGen Kuala Lumpur D-286 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Westminster Choir/5–3157, NA. 54. AmEmb Cairo D-908 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Westminster Singers/5–2659; AmEmb Monrovia D-271 to DOS, ibid./3–259, NA. 55. See Rhea Williamson, Diary, Westminster Choir World Tour, entries for 21 and 28 November 1956, 15 and 21 January 1957, JFW 1/B/12. 56. Williamson to Joseph Satterthwaite, DOS, CDF55–59 032 Westminster Singers/3–1059, NA. 57. “Women around the World Discussed at Travel Club,” Invercargill Southland News, 1 March 1961, clipping, JFW 2/C/4. 58. Rhea Williamson, “Around the World with Westminster Choir,” unpaginated, JFW 2/C/3. 59. Rhea Williamson, Diary, Westminster Choir World Tour, 23 January 1957, JFW 1/B/12. 60. Ibid., entry for 23 November 1956. 61. Notes on Westminster Choir, ARK II b98 f20; DOS Instruction CA-1998 to Bombay, Calcutta, Dacca, Kabul, Lahore, Madras, Phnom Penh, Saigon, Taipei, Vientiane, CDF55–59 032 Westminster Choir/8–3156, NA.

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62. “Westminster Choir (new project),” JFW 2/C/2. 63. “The Westminster Choir, Dr. John Finley Williamson, Conductor: Press Book,” [n.d., 1957 or later], JFW 2/C/31. The two African American members of the choir that toured abroad were Clarence Moore and Afrika Hayes. 64. Williamson to Mrs. M. N. Easton, Trenton, NJ, 13 April 1956, JFW 1/D/5. 65. Williamson to Dr. John B. Bennette, Director of Religious Activities, East Carolina College, Greenville, NC, 22 March 1956, JFW 1/D/2. 66. Williamson to James N. Mellor, First Methodist Church, El Dorado, AR, 8 January 1958; and Williamson to Walter Michels, El Dorado, AR, 28 January 1958, JFW 2/A/6. 67. On Williamson’s tours in the South see the correspondence in JFW 2/A/6. 68. “Westminster Choir (new project),” JFW 2/C/2. 69. See Rhea Williamson, Diary, Westminster Choir World Tour, 14 December 1956, JFW 1/B/12. 70. Ibid., entry for 28 December 1956. 71. AmEmb Seoul D-160 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Westminster Choir/11– 1656, NA; Rhea Williamson, “Around the World with Westminster Choir,” JFW 2/C/3. 72. My thanks to Hye-jung Park for this observation. On the relationships between anti-Communist politics and Western music in Korea see Hyun Kyong Chang, “Exilic Suffering: Music, Nation, and Protestantism in Cold War South Korea,” Music and Politics 8, no. 1 (2014), /pod/dod-idx/exilic-suffering-music-nation-and-protestantism-in-cold-war .pdf?c=mp;idno=9460447.0008.105; Ji-Young Lee (Yi Chi-Yo˘ng), “Han’guk Kaesin’gyo Pangongjuu˘i Palcho˘n Gwajo˘ng Yo˘n’gu (1920–1950-yo˘ndae)” (Research on the Development of Protestant Anti-Communism in Korea: 1920s–1950s), master’s thesis, Ewha Woman’s University, 2011; and Chongchol An (An Chong-Ch’o˘l), “Panil, Pan’gong u˘i T’odae roso˘ Kidokkyo: Han Kyo˘ng-ch’ik Moksa u˘i Haepang Cho˘n’hu Sayo˘k” (Christianity as a Foundation of Anti-Japanese and Anti-Communist Work: The Minister Kyung-Chik Han’s Ministry before and after the Liberation), paper presented at the colloquium for the eleventh-year anniversary of the death of Kyung-Chik Han (Seoul: KyungChik Han Foundation, 2011), 67–79. 73. AmEmb Tehran D-753 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Westminster Choir/2– 2557, NA. 74. Williamson to Mrs. M. N. Easton, Trenton, NJ, 13 April 1956, JFW 1/D/5. 75. Typescript, “Dr. Bodo’s Prayer of Concern, Dec. 30, 1956,” JFW 2/C/3. 76. Williamson, verbal introduction to homecoming concert, “1957 World Tour Westminster Choir,” track 2, compact disc, Talbott Library, Rider University. 77. Amb. Max W. Bishop, AmEmb Bangkok, to Williamson, 4 March 1957, JFW 2/C/4; Williamson to Robert Schnitzer, ANTA, 7 June 1957, JFW 2/A/4.

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78. José S. Jacinto Jr., “Commentary” [radio script], Radio DYSR, Silliman University, 3 December 1956, JFW 2/C/3. 79. Ibid. 80. See Rhea Williamson, Diary, Westminster Choir World Tour, 31 December 1956, JFW 1/B/12. 81. Rhea Williamson, “Around the World with Westminster Choir”; and K. C. Harvey, “Artistic Spice,” Hong Kong Standard, 9 December 1956, clipping, JFW 2/C/5. 82. “Westminster Choir, Japan Tour, November 7–27, 1956,” encl. in AmEmb Tokyo D-309 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Westminster Choir/9–1357, NA. 83. Typescript copy of Foreign Service Despatch from Calcutta, encl. in Floria Paci, ANTA, to Williamson, 21 March 1957, JFW 2/A/4. 84. Karl Diffenderfer, Director, U.S. Civil Service Association of the Ryukyu Islands, Civil Information and Education Department, to John M. Steeves, American Consul General, Okinawa, 29 November 1956, encl. in Richard W. Boehm, American Vice Consul, American Consular Unit, Naha, Okinawa D-30 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Westminster Choir/1–1857, NA. 85. AmEmb Karachi D-558 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Westminster Choir/2– 2057, NA. 86. AmCon Madras D-616 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Westminster Choir/2– 557, NA. 87. Rhea Williamson, Diary, Westminster Choir World Tour, 25 November 1956, JFW 1/B/12. 88. “Westminster Choir, Japan Tour, November 7–27, 1956,” encl. in AmEmb Tokyo D-309 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Westminster Choir/9–1357, NA. 89. Ibid.; and Ross Parmenter, “The World of Music: Orient Seeks Teachers from Choir College Schools in Japan,” NYT, 14 July 1957. 90. “Church News,” Mainichi, 4 August 1958; “On Global Instruction Tour,” Mainichi, 22 August 1958; Williamson’s secretary to Edward W. Weidner, Director, Institute of Research on Overseas Programs, Michigan State University, 25 September 1957; Williamson to Robert Schnitzer, ANTA, 7 June 1957, JFW 2/A/4. 91. John Foster Dulles, War or Peace (New York: Macmillan, 1950, 1957), 224–32, cited in Marc G. Toulouse, The Transformation of John Foster Dulles: From Prophet of Realism to Priest of Nationalism (Macon, GA: Mercer University Press, 1985), 226; see also ibid., 116. 92. Dr. Nichio Kozaki, President of New Church Music Institute, speech at farewell party for the Williamsons, 11 September 1957, JFW 2/C/6. 93. Teruko Uraguchi to Williamson, n.d., JFW 2/C/7. 94. Yayonie Hirayama, quoted in Rhea Williamson [Tokyo] to “Friends,” 11 September 1963, JFW 1/A/3. See also Ichiro Saito, Nippon Christian Academy, to Williamson, 24 August 1960, JFW 2/C/22; and Ko Yuki, Chairman of Hymnal Committee, and Darley Downs, Secretary of Inter-board Field Committee for Christian Work in Japan, United Church of Christ in Japan, Tokyo, to Williamson, n.d., JFW 2/C/3.

N O T E S T O P A G E S 1 3 9 – 1 41 / 2 6 9

95. Ruth Kirby, “Concert by the Music Society of H.K.,” South China Morning Post (Hong Kong), 24 October 1958, clipping, JFW 2/C/5; “ ‘Elijah’ to Be Presented Here Next Thursday” [Taipei], n.p., 1 October [1958], clipping, JFW 2/C/5. 96. Report: Dr. and Mrs. Williamson in the Orient, JFW 2/C/19; Rhea Williamson to “Dearest Friends,” 9 November 1960, JFW 1/A/4. 97. Rhea Williamson, Bangkok, to “Dear Friends All,” 2 January 1961, JFW 1/A/4. 98. Festival Choir of Manila, program, 6 November 1960, JFW 2/C/21. 99. Manila Concert Choir, program, 12 November 1960, JFW 2/C/21. 100. Williamson to Arthur Kamitsuka, 25 June 1960; Kamitsuka to Williamson, 26 July 1960, JFW 2/C/22. 101. Hyun Kyong Chang has written powerfully of the Korean situation in “Exilic Suffering: Music, Nation, and Protestantism in Cold War South Korea.” My thanks to Dr. Chang for sharing her article before its publication. 102. Congressman Frank Thompson Jr. (D-NJ), 85th Cong., 1st sess., Cong. Rec. 103, part 9 (15 July 1957), E11777–78; Cyril J. O’Brien, “Princeton’s Westminster Choir Is Praised,” Trentonian, 25 July 1957, clipping, JFW 2/C/4; and Williamson to Robert Schnitzer, ANTA, 7 June 1957, JFW 2/A/4. 103. William Malm, “Layers of Music in Japan since 1945,” in The Fourth Kyushu International Cultural Conference Report, 1977: 33 Years of Post-War Japan (Fukuoka: Fukuoka Yunesuko Kyokai, 1978), English section, 93–94; Tamie Komiya, “Heiwa Kenpo¯ o Mamoru sengoshi no Naka de: Utagoe, Ro¯on, Hankaku Nihon no Ongakukatachi” (Surveying the peace article in Japan’s postwar Constitution: Musicians of Utagoe, Ro¯on, and Hankaku Nihon), Ongaku Geijutsu 53, no. 11 (1995): 44–47; Shiso¯ Undo¯ Kenkyu¯jo (Ideological Movement Research Institute), Osorokubeki Ro¯on: Goju¯man Nen Kaso¯ Shu¯dan no Naimaku (Formidable Ro¯on: The story behind the masked group of five hundred thousand people) (Tokyo: Zenbo¯sha, 1967). Thanks to Hye-jung Park for helping me access these sources. 104. Committee for Study of Social Problems, United Church of Christ in Japan, “The Labor Movement in Japan from the Viewpoint of Christianity,” 5 January 1954, encl. in Rev. Henry D. Jones, Osaka, to Williamson, 14 November 1954, JFW 1/D/9. 105. Williamson, verbal introduction to homecoming concert, “1957 World Tour Westminster Choir,” track 2, compact disc, Talbott Library, Rider University. 106. “Westminster Choir, Japan Tour, November 7–27, 1956,” encl. in AmEmb Tokyo D-309 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Westminster Choir/9–1357, NA. 107. Typed copy, Foreign Service Despatch from AmEmb Tokyo, 13 December [1956], JFW 2/C/3. 108. AmEmb Tokyo D-309 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Westminster Choir /9–1357, NA. 109. “Report: Dr. and Mrs. Williamson in the Orient,” JFW 2/C/19; Rhea Williamson to “Friends,” Sapporo, 3 September 1960, JFW 1/A/4.

2 7 0 / N O T E S T O P A G E S 1 41 – 1 4 5

110. Williamson to Grace Spofford, Chairman, International Music Relations Department, 2 December 1957, JFW 2/C/16. 111. Williamson to Joseph Satterthwaite, DOS, CDF55–59 032 Westminster Singers/9–559, NA. 112. “Report: Dr. and Mrs. Williamson in the Orient,” JFW 2/C/19. 113. Kate Hansen to Williamson, 4 December 1955, JFW 1/D/5; Williamson to Hansen, 7 December 1955, JFW 1/D/5; and Rhea Williamson, Tokyo, to “Dear Ones All,” 8 August 1963, 2/C/21. 114. Typescript translation from The Choral World (Tokyo), August 1957, JFW 2/C/21.

chapter 6. the double-edged diplomacy of popular music 1. Synopsis of meeting, Advisory Committee on the Arts, 7–8 March 1963, p. 1, ARK II b94 f11. 2. Minutes, Academic / Community Music Advisory Panel, 25 March 1963, p. 3, ARK II b98 f26. 3. Martin Ackerman to Anderson and Sorensen, “Cultural Presentations Advisory Committee Meeting March 7 and 8, 1963, Transcript of Proceedings,” memorandum, 23 April 1963, ARK II b94 f21. 4. Building Bridges between Nations . . . through the Performing Arts, DOS Publication 8254 (1967), ii. 5. Larsen and Wolfe, Report of Survey, summary in International Understanding . . . through the Performing Arts, 79, 86. 6. Minutes, Subcommittee on Folk and Jazz, April 1968, “General Discussion on the Current Trend toward Folk-Rock and Electronic Music,” p. 11, ARK II b101 f3. 7. Minutes, Music Advisory Panel, 16 May 1967, Report on Meeting of Subcommittee on Folk and Jazz held on 12 May 1967, p. 2, ARK II b99 f20. 8. AmEmb Cairo D-302 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Golden Gate Quartet / 11–658, NA. 9. Translated excerpt from Swing Journal, 1959, encl. in AmEmb Tokyo D-168 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Golden Gate Quartet / 8–459, NA. 10. Thomas D. Huff, Deputy Director, CU / CP, memorandum: ACA Monthly Bulletin no. 4, December 1967, p. 2, ARK II b95 f1. 11. Effectiveness report, Millikin University Jazz Band, ARK II b71 f7; USIS Beirut FM-24 to USIA Washington, 12 May 1969, “Packaged Program: Today’s Music,” ibid.; USIS Ankara M-73 to USIA Washington, 19 June 1969, Subject: Packaged Program: “Today’s Music,” ibid. The USIA sent the six-film set Jazz Casual and On the Road with Duke Ellington as part of the exhibit. It also recommended several films that had been sent to posts within the past year: American Music: From Folk to Jazz and Pop, The Cradle Is Rocking, and Jazz at Berklee. USIA Circular CA-734, “Packaged Program ‘Today’s Music’: Field Programming

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Notes,” 1 April 1969, ARK II b71 f7. The Cradle Is Rocking is available online at / film,208. 12. Richard Kostelanetz’s article “New Rock: Culture or Chaos” was sent to the posts for translation, as was Daryl Dayton’s lecture “Today’s Music: USA.” USIA Circular CA-734, “Packaged Program ‘Today’s Music’: Field Programming Notes,” 1 April 1969, ARK II b71 f7. “New Rock: Culture or Chaos?” appeared in the Russian-language USIA publication America Illustrated in 1969 and is reprinted as “Rock: The New Pop Music,” in Kostelanetz, The Twenties in the Sixties (Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1979), 261–71. 13. USIA Circular CA-734, “Packaged Program ‘Today’s Music’: Field Programming Notes,” 1 April 1969, p. 2, ARK II b71 f7. 14. AmEmb Tehran A-363 to DOS, 18 August 1969, ARK II b71 f7. 15. Translation of George Leotsakos, “An American Jazz Group,” Ta Nea, 7 June 1969, encl. in AmEmb Athens A-292 to DOS, 17 July 1969, ARK II b71 f7. 16. AmEmb Tehran A-363 to DOS, 18 August 1969, ARK II b71 f7. 17. “Millikin University Jazz Band: Repertoire,” ARK II b71 f7. 18. AmEmb Tehran A-363 to DOS, 18 August 1969, ARK II b71 f7. 19. DOS Circular CA-2082 to Ankara, Athens, Beirut, Istanbul, Lisbon, Nicosia, Tehran, 7 April 1969, ARK II b71 f7. 20. Thomas Huff to Charles E. Courtney, 19 March 1969, ARK II b71 f7. 21. Harry Hirsch, Escort Officer, Istanbul, to Irene Carstones, DOS / CU, 11 May 1969, ARK II b71 f7; Alma Schueler, interview by the author, 16 December 2008. 22. Hirsch, Tehran, to Carstones, 28 May 1969, ARK II b71 f7. 23. AmEmb Athens A-292 to DOS, 17 July 1969, ARK II b71 f7. 24. Hirsch, Shiraz (Iran), to Carstones, 22 May 1969, ARK II b71 f7. 25. AmEmb Nicosia A-107 to DOS, 16 May 1969, ARK II b71 f7. 26. Roger Schueler, Tehran, to Thomas Huff, DOS, 27 May 1969; Hirsch, Istanbul, to Carstones, 11 May 1969, ARK II b71 f7. 27. AmEmb Ankara M-73 to DOS, 10 June 1969, ARK II b71 f7. Gence also recalls meeting Blood, Sweat and Tears, as well as playing with Herbie Mann. Correspondence with the author, 12–13 July 2008. 28. S. I. Nadler, USIS Ankara, to USIA Washington, 19 June 1969, Subject: Packaged Program: “Today’s Music,” ARK II b71 f7. 29. AmEmb Ankara M-73 to DOS, 10 June 1969, ARK II b71 f7. 30. AmEmb Tehran A-363 to DOS, 18 August 1969, ARK II b71 f7. 31. AmEmb Nicosia A-107 to DOS, 16 May 1969, ARK II b71 f7. 32. Effectiveness report, Millikin University Jazz Band, ARK II b71 f7. 33. USIS Beirut FM-24 to USIA Washington, 12 May 1969, “Packaged Program: Today’s Music,” ARK II b71 f7; Hirsch, Beirut, to Carstones, 30 April 1969, ibid.; Congressman William L. Springer (R-IL), 91st Cong., 1st sess., Cong. Rec. 113, part 13 (23 June 1969), E16864. 34. Maxime Celeste, “Black America,” L’oracle (Mauritius), clipping, ARK II b65 f14.

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35. AmEmb Manila A-009 to DOS, 11 January 1969, ARK II b84 f20. 36. AmEmb Taipei A-108 to DOS, 7 March 1969, ARK II b84 f20; AmEmb Lusaka A-314 to DOS, 31 October 1969, ARK II b65 f14. 37. AmEmb Tananarive T-82 to USIA and DOS, 8 May 1969, ARK II b65 f14. 38. AmEmb Port Louis A-182 to DOS, 26 July 69, ARK II b65 f14. 39. AmEmb Djakarta T-11474 to USIA, 12 December 1968, ARK II b84 f20. 40. AmEmb Vientiane A-44 to DOS, 24 February 1969, ARK II b84 f20. 41. AmConGen Hong Kong A-47 to DOS, 11 February 1969, ARK II b84 f20. 42. AmEmb Saigon A-250 to DOS, 10 May 1969, ARK II b84 f20. 43. Fiscal Year 1969 Annual Report: Buddy Guy and his Band, ARK II b65 f14. 44. AmEmb Nairobi A-154 to DOS, 18 June 1969, ARK II b65 f11. 45. Telegram, AmEmb Lusaka to USIA, 23 May 1969, ARK II b65 f11. 46. AmEmb Dar es Salaam D-008 to USIA, 3 May 1969, ARK II b65 f11; AmEmb Blantyre T-322 to USIA and DOS, 28 May 1969, ARK II b65 f11. 47. Monthly Highlights Report—April 1969, USIS Kinshasa M-25 to USIA Washington, ARK II b65 f11. 48. AmEmb Nairobi A-154 to DOS, 18 June 1969, ARK II b65 f11. 49. AmEmb Dar es Salaam A-119 to DOS, 7 May 1969, p. 7, ARK II b65 f11. 50. AmEmb Port Louis A-182 to DOS, 26 July 1969, ARK II b65 f14. 51. AmEmb Djakarta A-50 to DOS, 8 February 1969, ARK II b84 f20. 52. “Mary Apio Talks to Buddy Guy,” People (Kampala), 17 June 1969, clipping, ARK II b65 f13. 53. AmEmb Tananarive A-99 to DOS, 17 May 1969, ARK II b65 f14. 54. Highlights report—May 1969, USIS Dar es Salaam M-9 to USIA, ARK II b65 f11. 55. AmConGen Hong Kong A-47 to DOS, 11 February 1969, ARK II b84 f20. 56. Buddy Guy with David Ritz, When I Left Home: My Story (Philadelphia: Da Capo, 2012), 204. 57. AmEmb New Delhi D-1022 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Two Arrows, Tom / 3–2256; AmConGen Kuala Lumpur D-261 to DOS, ibid. / 5–357, NA. 58. Myung Hye Chun, “The United States Government’s Cultural Presentations Program in Korea from 1955 to 1992” (master’s thesis, American University, 1993), 52; Donald E. Webster, First Secretary of Embassy, AmEmb Taipei D-251 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Two Arrows, Tom / 12–1956; AmEmb Rangoon D-846 to DOS, ibid. / 6–757; DOS Instruction CA-1870 to Asian posts, ibid. / 8–2856, NA. 59. Robert Cantwell, When We Were Good: The Folk Revival (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1996), 291. 60. AmEmb Singapore A-459 to DOS, 30 August 1968, ARK II b60 f2; AmEmb Bangkok A-1480 to DOS, 30 September 1968, ARK II b60 f2. 61. AmEmb Kuala Lumpur T-5174 to AmEmb Saigon and DOS, 30 July 1968, ARK II b60 f2; AmEmb Manila A-770 to DOS, 8 August 1968, ARK II b60 f2. 62. AmEmb Port of Spain A-50 to DOS, 4 April 1969, ARK II b56 f22; AmEmb Port of Spain to DOS, telegram, 14 November 1968, ARK II b56 f26.

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63. “Egyptians Pleased by American Music,” NYT, 8 June 1966; Warner Lawson to Roy Larsen and ACA, “Report of Tour to Africa, Bonn, and Frankfort [sic], Germany and Luxembourg (March 27, 1966 to April 24, 1966),” memorandum, 4 June 1966, ARK II b94 f14. 64. “Ned Wright: Rossford Native Had Long Career in Entertainment,” Toledo Blade, 1 October 1981. 65. Kate Baldwin, Beyond the Color Line and the Iron Curtain (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2002), 202–51. 66. Remarks by Harry Belafonte to the Veterans of the Lincoln Brigade, Paul Robeson Centennial Celebration website, Columbia College Chicago, / robeson / belafonte.html. See also Sam Adams, “Interview: Harry Belafonte,” 19 October 2011, A.V. Club, www.avclub .com / articles / harry-belafonte,63640 / ; and Doris Evans McGinty and Wayne Shirley, “Paul Robeson, Musician,” in Paul Robeson: Artist and Citizen, ed. Jeffrey C. Stewart (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press and Paul Robeson Cultural Center, 1998), 117–20. 67. In 1958 the Music Advisory Panel considered Belafonte’s backup singers for a tour but would not approve them without Belafonte; see Minutes, Music Advisory Panel, 15 January 1958, p. 6, ARK II b100 f2. The USIA specifically requested Belafonte for Africa in fiscal 1964; see Bureau of Educational and Cultural Affairs, Paper for the Advisory Committee on the Arts on the Fiscal Year 1964 Cultural Presentations Program Planning for Africa, ARK II b94 f14. Belafonte was also one of the artists about whom Peter Mennin commented that entertainment would achieve “nothing”; see Martin Ackerman to Anderson and Sorensen, “Cultural Presentations Advisory Committee Meeting March 7 and 8, 1963, Transcript of Proceedings,” memorandum, 23 April 1963, ARK II b94 f21. 68. Philip Maxwell, “Music Festival to Swing to Hootenanny,” Chicago Tribune, 26 April 1964; Larry Wolters, “Gigantic Hootenanny Is Set for Chicago,” Chicago Tribune, 18 June 1964. The group was recorded on the album “Hoot Tonight!” (Warner Bros. W-1512, 1963). See Robert Shelton, “Hoots Galore: Fad Leads to Folk Name on Many Disks,” NYT, 17 November 1963. 69. The U.S. embassy in Bangkok reported that Thai students were reputedly reserved but that when the Phoenix Singers performed at Chiengmai and Thammasat universities, hundreds of students joined the singers onstage to sing. Cultural Presentations USA 1966–1967, DOS Publication 8365 (1968), 27. 70. Cultural Presentations USA 1967–1968, DOS Publication 8438 (1969), 29. 71. See the reminiscence by Pete Seeger in Paul Robeson: The Great Forerunner, collected by the editors of Freedomways (New York: Dodd, Mead, 1965), 311–12. Despite his imprisonment during the Red Scare, Seeger would later travel as a cultural ambassador. See The United States Information Agency: A Commemoration (Washington, DC: United States Information Agency, 2000), 68.

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72. Mike Seeger, Evaluation Report for DOS, 21 March 1977, ARK II b59 f21 (emphasis in original). 73. Evaluation Report, Addiss and Crofut, Southeast Asia tour 1965, p. 3, ARK II b96 f15. 74. Minutes, Academic / Community Music Advisory Panel, 18 April 1966, p. 4, ARK II b98 f26. 75. Strengthening Cultural Bonds between Nations . . . through the Performing Arts. A Report on the Cultural Presentations Program of the Department of State, July 1, 1964–June 30, 1965, DOS Publication 8038 (1966), 20. “How to Defend U.S. on Race to Be Told Students by Kennedy,” Chicago Defender, 8 December 1962. 76. Steve Addiss, interview by the author, 21 May 2014; William Crofut, Troubadour: A Different Battlefield (New York: Dutton, 1968), 153. 77. Ganfa, “U.S. Singer Pleases,” Navhind Times (Panjim [Panaji]), 20 January 1967, clipping, ARK II b59 f20. 78. Crofut, Troubadour, 211–15. 79. Robert Shelton, “Music from Vietnam,” NYT, 24 October 1965. The album was Ethnic Folkways Library FE4352, released on LP in 1965 and 1966, on cassette in 1992, and on CD in 1999 and 2001. 80. “Bill Crofut Scrams State Dept. Tour in Protest over Policy,” Variety, 29 October 1975, 1, 77. 81. Addiss, interview; William Crofut, “American Folk Music,” Rising Nepal, 9 February 1967, 3, clipping encl. in AmEmb Kathmandu A-205 to DOS, 6 March 1967, ARK II b59 f20; AmCon Madras A-95 to DOS, 28 February 1967, ARK II b59 f20. 82. Addiss, interview. 83. Robert Shelton, “U.S. Sending Two Folk Singers to Asian and African Towns,” NYT, 22 November 1964. 84. Ibid. 85. Crofut, Troubadour, 144–45. 86. Ibid., 116–17. 87. Addiss, interview. 88. Topy Malagaris, “The Sound: Music and Radio: For Young Listeners,” Chicago Tribune, 11 October 1967. 89. Edward Folliard, “LBJ Honors General, Touring Troubadours,” Washington Post, 3 April 1965; “Johnson Hears Duo Sing of S. Viet Paddies,” Chicago Tribune, 3 April 1965; Nan Robertson, “Presidential Day Is Grave and Gay: Songs, Party, Ceremony and Vietnam Study Dot Agenda” NYT, 3 April 1965. 90. Susie Crofut, interview by the author, 3 May 2013; Crofut, Troubadour, 250, 252. 91. Frankel, High on Foggy Bottom, 80. 92. Cultural Presentations USA 1966–1967, 26. 93. Hilaire du Berrier, Background to Betrayal: The Tragedy of Vietnam (Boston: Western Islands Press, 1965), 283.

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94. Irwin Silber, “Fan the Flames,” Sing Out: The Folk Song Magazine, May 1965, 63. 95. J. Kirk Sale, “Well Tuned to the Times,” NYT, 26 May 1968. 96. Crofut, Troubadour, 254. 97. Susie Crofut, interview. Most Americans were unaware of or apathetic about American involvement in Vietnam before the 1964 presidential election; and even then, no organized opposition had yet coalesced. Charles DeBenedetti with Charles Chatfield, An American Ordeal: The Antiwar Movement of the Vietnam Era (Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, 1990), 85–102. See also Adam Garfinkle, Telltale Hearts: The Origins and Impact of the Vietnam Antiwar Movement (New York: St. Martin’s, 1995), 67–71. 98. Addiss, interview. 99. Crofut, Troubadour, 259, 283. 100. Susie Crofut, interview; Crofut, Troubadour, 177. 101. Addiss, interview. 102. Crofut, Troubadour, 219–20. 103. Ibid. 104. Harry C. McPherson Jr., the White House, to Charles Frankel, 8 May 1967, ARK II b59 f19. 105. Crofut, Troubadour, 283. 106. Robert Clark, The Basques: The Franco Years and Beyond (Reno: University of Nevada Press, 1979), 175, 180. 107. “Bill Crofut Scrams State Dept. Tour in Protest over Policy,” Variety, 29 October 1975, 1, 77. 108. Crofut to Beverly Gerstein, DOS, 12 June 1978, ARK II b59 f21. 109. Some of the material in this section appears in Fosler-Lussier, “American Cultural Diplomacy and the Mediation of Avant-Garde Music,” 244–46. 110. Memorandum of conversation, Michael Feld, Congressman Scherle’s office (R-IA), Mark B. Lewis, DOS / CU, 15 June 1970, ARK II b57 f4. 111. Mark B. Lewis to William Ackerman, memorandum, 9 June 1970, ARK II b57 f4; Pamela Howard, “Rock Group Goes Right On,” New York Post, 13 June 1970, clipping, ARK II b57 f2. 112. Sally Quinn, “Dissidents as Envoys,” Washington Post, 13 June 1970; “American Rock Group to Tour Three Countries in Eastern Europe,” NYT, 12 June 1970; Don Heckman, “Lessons for a Rock Group,” NYT, 19 July 1970. 113. Louise Patterson to Mrs. John Richardson, 15 June 1970, ARK II b57 f2. 114. Evidence of Effectiveness Report, Blood, Sweat and Tears, ARK II b57 f2. 115. Remarks of Congressman William Scherle (R-IA), 91st Cong., 2nd sess., Cong. Rec. 116, part 15 (17 June 1970), H20248. 116. “Blood, Sweat and Tears: Background Paper for Department of State Press Office,” 8 May 1970, ARK II b57 f2; memorandum of conversation, Michael Feld of Congressman Scherle’s office (R-IA), Mark B. Lewis, DOS / CU, 15 June 1970, ibid.

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117. Pamela Howard, “Rock Group Goes Right On,” New York Post, 13 June 1970. 118. John Richardson Jr., “Only If Asked,” 16 June 1970, ARK II b57 f4. 119. David Clayton-Thomas, Blood, Sweat and Tears (Toronto: Viking Canada, 2010), 117–19. 120. Typescript translation, “An Oscar for Music,” Radio revija (Belgrade), 19 July 1970, ARK II b57 f5. 121. AmEmb Bucharest to DOS A-256, 1 August 1970, pp. 6–7, ARK II b57 f5; AmEmb Bucharest T-1685 to DOS, 29 June 1970, ibid. 122. Don Heckman, “Lessons for a Rock Group,” NYT, 19 July 1970. 123. Evidence of Effectiveness Report, Blood, Sweat and Tears, ARK II b57 f2. 124. “Rock Group Sparks Bucharest Melees,” NYT, 8 July 1970. 125. Evidence of Effectiveness Report, Blood, Sweat and Tears, ARK II b57 f2. 126. Translation, Goran Kobali, “If This Makes Me a Traitor,” interview with David Clayton-Thomas, Susret (Belgrade), 9 September 1970, encl. in AmEmb Belgrade to DOS, operations memorandum, 2 October 1970, ARK II b57 f4. 127. Mark Lewis to John Richardson, memorandum, 13 July 1970, ARK II b57 f5; Ira Wolfert to Richardson, 28 July 1970, ARK II b57 f5. 128. Wolfert to Richardson, 28 July 1970, ARK II b57 f4. 129. AmConGen Istanbul A-29 to DOS, 7 August 1970, ARK II b57 f6. 130. Mark Lewis to Frederick Irving, “Radical Left—Yippies—Attacks Blood, Sweat and Tears,” ARK II b57 f3. 131. Nicholas von Hoffman, “Yippies Unveil ‘Politics of Ecstasy,’ ” Washington Post, 20 March 1968; Don Heckman, “Pop,” NYT, 8 February 1970. 132. A 1973 concert was cancelled for lack of ticket sales. See “B,S&T, Mayfield Canceled,” Washington Post, 22 June 1973. 133. Peter Gorner, “B, S and T Still Have the Touch of Midas,” Chicago Tribune, 23 August 1970; Tom Zito, “Blood, Sweat and Tears: No Spontaneity,” Washington Post, 8 March 1971; James Lichtenberg, “Making Rock Respectable,” NYT, 28 February 1971; Craig McGregor, “Rock: Where Do We Go from Here?,” NYT, 5 April 1970. 134. Tom Zito, “B, S, &T: ‘Devoid of Feeling,’ ” Washington Post, 3 September 1971. 135. Tom O’Brien, letter to the New York Times, 23 August 1970.

chapter 7. music, media, and cultural relations 1. Alexander Werth, Musical Uproar in Moscow (London: Turnstile, 1949); Rósa Magnúsdóttir, “Keeping Up Appearances: How the Soviet State Failed to Control Popular Attitudes Toward the United States of America, 1945–1959” (PhD diss., University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill, 2006), 23–63; Amanda Wood Aucoin, “Deconstructing the American Way of Life: Soviet Responses to

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Cultural Exchange and American Information Activity during the Khrushchev Years” (PhD diss., University of Arkansas, May 2001), 9–10. 2. The literature on U.S.-Soviet cultural exchanges is voluminous. Key items include J. D. Parks, Culture, Conflict, and Coexistence: American-Soviet Cultural Relations, 1917–1958 (Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 1983); Yale Richmond, Cultural Exchange and the Cold War: Raising the Iron Curtain (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2003); Yale Richmond, U.S.-Soviet Cultural Exchanges, 1958–1986: Who Wins? (Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 1987); Naima Prevots, Dance for Export: Cultural Diplomacy and the Cold War (Hanover, NH: Wesleyan University Press/University Press of New England, 1998), 69–91; Hans N. Tuch, Communicating with the World: U.S. Public Diplomacy Overseas (New York: St. Martin’s, 1990), 125–39; and Nigel Gould-Davies, “The Logic of Soviet Cultural Diplomacy,” Diplomatic History 27, no. 2 (April 2003): 193–214. 3. See, e.g., Yale Richmond, Practicing Public Diplomacy: A Cold War Odyssey (New York: Berghahn, 2008), 88. 4. Examples include Walter Hixson, Parting the Curtain: Propaganda, Culture, and the Cold War, 1945–1961 (New York: St. Martin’s, 1997), xii, xv– xvi, 114–19; Reinhold Wagnleitner, “The Empire of the Fun, or Talkin’ Soviet Union Blues: The Sound of Freedom and U.S. Cultural Hegemony in Europe,” Diplomatic History 23, no. 3 (1999): 499–524; David Caute, The Dancer Defects (New York: Oxford University Press, 2005), 1; Sarah Bittner, “Pop in the Bloc: How Popular Music Helped the United States Win the Cold War” (master’s thesis, Georgetown University, 2012). See also comments by Ambassador Foy Kohler in David Mayers, The Ambassadors and America’s Soviet Policy (New York: Oxford University Press, 1995), 218. This line of thinking is criticized by Kristin Roth-Ey in her Moscow Prime Time: How the Soviet Union Built the Media Empire That Lost the Cultural Cold War (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2010), 9–10; see also Jolanta Pekacz, “Did Rock Smash the Wall? The Role of Rock in Political Transition,” Popular Music 13, no. 1 (1994): 41–49; and Gleb Tsipursky, “Pleasure, Power, and the Pursuit of Communism: Soviet Youth and State-Sponsored Popular Culture during the Early Cold War, 1945–1968” (PhD diss., University of North Carolina, 2011), 10–11. 5. See Schmelz, Such Freedom, If Only Musical; Poiger, Jazz, Rock, and Rebels, 162–67; and Fosler-Lussier, Music Divided, 149–56. 6. Anne E. Gorsuch, “From Iron Curtain to Silver Screen: Imagining the West in the Khrushchev Era,” in Imagining the West in Eastern Europe and the Soviet Union, ed. György Péteri (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 2010): 154–55. 7. Milton Cummings, “Cultural Diplomacy and the United States Government: A Survey,” cited in Cultural Diplomacy: Recommendations and Research (Washington, DC: Center for Arts and Culture, 2003): 2; see also Susan Reid, “Who Will Beat Whom? Soviet Popular Reception of the American National Exhibition in Moscow, 1959,” Kritika 9, no. 4 (2008): 860–65. 8. “The Need for a Comprehensive Counter-Offensive to Soviet Cultural Aggression,” OEX/S Document 76, 14 September 1951, p. 2, box 17, Subject

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Files 1948–65, U.S. Advisory Commission on International Educational and Cultural Affairs, Bureau of Cultural Affairs, Entry A1–5460, RG 59, NA. 9. Ibid., pp. 2–4; and Kenneth Osgood, Total Cold War: Eisenhower’s Secret Propaganda Battle at Home and Abroad (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 2006), 214–20. 10. See, e.g., Murrey Marder, “Brownell Reassures U.S. on Reds: Declares Federal Agencies Effective,” Washington Post and Times Herald, 10 April 1954; Will Lissner, “100 Groups Fight Red Infiltration,” NYT, 28 March 1954; “AntiRed Series Backed: N.A.A.C.P. Is Eighth Group to Sponsor Seminars,” NYT, 25 September 1956; “Red Menace Put at a Peak in U.S.: House Panel Reports New Penetration of Industry and Theft of Secrets,” NYT, 9 February 1958. 11. William J. Jorden, “U.S. Study Traces a Soviet Pattern: Intelligence Report Analyzes Communist-Bloc Tactics in Emerging Nations,” NYT, 27 March 1960; Hanson W. Baldwin, “Soviet Is Intensifying Its Middle East Drive,” NYT, 23 December 1956; Polyzoides, “Mikoyan Surprises by Attitude,” Los Angeles Times, 7 January 1959. 12. AmEmb Cairo D-856 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Minneapolis Symphony Orchestra/5–1057, NA. 13. AmEmb Damascus T-3099 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 San Francisco Ballet Company/6–658, NA. See also “Moscow Woos Mexico,” NYT, 30 November 1959. 14. The visitors included Czech violinists Ladislav Jacek and Josef Suk; Czech pianist Mirka Pokorna; the Czech state circus; Soviet violinists Valery Klimov and Mikhail Veiman; Soviet bass Ivan Petrov; Soviet pianist Lev Vlassenko; the Moiseyev State Folk Dance Ensemble; and the Czech Philharmonic Orchestra. AmEmb Tokyo C-127 to DOS, CDF55–59 032/8–2659, NA. 15. AmEmb Tegucigalpa D-181 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 San Francisco Ballet Company/11–1458, NA. 16. Parks, Culture, Conflict, and Coexistence, 118–22. 17. Aucoin, “Deconstructing the American Way of Life,” 56–57; Harlow Robinson, The Last Impresario: The Life, Times, and Legacy of Sol Hurok (New York: Viking, 1994), 339–40. 18. U.S. Congress, 81st Cong., 1st sess., Cong. Rec. 95 (17 March 1949), H2736. Cited in Parks, Culture, Conflict, and Coexistence, 126. 19. See “Canceled Trip,” Commonweal 62, no. 4 (1955): 92; and Robert T. Hartmann, “Moscow Ballet May Yet Come to Hollywood Bowl: Eisenhower Removes Fingerprinting Block,” Los Angeles Times, 12 September 1957. 20. Parks, Culture, Conflict, and Coexistence, 156–58; Elizabeth Wilson, Rostropovich: The Musical Life of the Great Cellist, Teacher, and Legend (Chicago: Ivan R. Dee, 2008), 93–97. See also Meri Herrala, “David Oistrakh and Sviatoslav Richter Stepping through the Iron Curtain,” in Ei ihan teorian mukaan, ed. Mikko Majander and Kimmo Rentola (Helsinki: Työväen historian ja perinteen tutkimuksen seura Yhteiskunnallinen arkistosäätiö, 2012): 241–58,

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21. Oistrakh, Gilels, and Rostropovich were all brought in for profit by Columbia Artists. See Robinson, The Last Impresario, 343–51. On Stern’s tour see Isaac Stern with Chaim Potok, My First 79 Years (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1999): 115–31. 22. Parks, Culture, Conflict, and Coexistence, 162. 23. See Truman Capote, The Muses Are Heard (New York: Random House, 1956); and John Harper Taylor, “Ambassadors of the Arts: An Analysis of the Eisenhower Administration’s Incorporation of Porgy and Bess into Its Cold War Foreign Policy” (PhD diss., Ohio State University, 1994). Czech and Polish reception is detailed in CDF55–59 032 Porgy and Bess, RG 59, NA. 24. AmEmb Moscow D-226 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Boston Symphony Orchestra/10–1856, NA. For a general account of the tour see D. Kern Holoman, Charles Munch (New York: Oxford University Press, 2012), 146–54. 25. Timothy Ryback, Rock around the Bloc: A History of Rock Music in Eastern Europe and the Soviet Union (New York: Oxford University Press, 1990), 30, 34. 26. Ibid., 8–18; Richmond, Cultural Exchange and the Cold War, 11–13; Tsipursky, “Pleasure, Power, and the Pursuit of Communism,” 88–93, 121–64, 283–98. 27. Ryback, Rock around the Bloc, 32–34. 28. On these negotiations see Parks, Culture, Conflict, and Coexistence, 168–71; Katie Louchheim, “10 Years of US-USSR,” Variety, 4 January 1967, 223, 240; and FRUS, 1955–1957, v. 24, docs. 110–14. 29. “Your Request for a Report on the Status of Certain OCB Items,” Arthur L. Richards to DOS, 27 February 1956, p. 2, folder Miscellaneous 1953– 56, Records Relating to State Department Participation in the OCB and the NSC, 1953–60, Entry A1–1586, RG 59, NA. 30. FRUS, 1955–1957, v. 24, docs. 110, 111; and “Fingerprint Requirement Waived,” Department of State Bulletin, 28 October 1957, 682. 31. Amb. William Lacy, Mr. H. J. Heinz II, Mrs. Ruth Kupinsky, Mr. M. G. Kelakos, memorandum of conversation, CDF55–59 511.61/4–458, NA; and Hartmann, “Moscow Ballet May Yet Come.” 32. Frans A. M. Alting von Geusau, Cultural Diplomacy: Waging War by Other Means? (Nijmegen, The Netherlands: Wolf Legal Publishers, 2009), 22–23. See also Charles A. Thomson and Walter H. C. Laves, Cultural Relations and U.S. Foreign Policy (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1963), 167–68. 33. Mr. Boris N. Krylov (Cultural Counselor, Soviet Embassy), Mme. Mamedova (Second Secretary, Soviet Embassy), Frederick T. Merrill, Scott C. Lyon, W. Paul O’Neill Jr., and Lawrence C. Mitchell, memorandum of conversation, CDF55–59 511.613/3–1059; Lacy to John Foster Dulles, CDF55–59 511.61/7–2558, NA. 34. As early as 1958, a representative of the Soviet Ministry of Culture quietly encouraged Hurok’s competitor, Columbia Artists Management, to join the negotiations to extend the Lacy-Zarubin agreement past 1959. See “Visit of

2 8 0 / N O T E S T O P A G E S 171 – 174

Columbia Artists Management Team to the Soviet Union,” memorandum of conversation, CDF55–59 511.613/10–1558, NA. 35. Krylov, Mamedova, Merrill, et al., memorandum of conversation, CDF55–59 511.613/3–1059; Policy Information Statement EUR-279 “U.S.Soviet Exchange Agreement,” encl. in DOS Instruction “U.S.-Soviet Exchange Agreement,” CDF55–59 511.00/1–2958, NA. 36. Joseph H. Dockow, Hicksville, NY, to Senator Stuart Symington, CDF55–59 511.61/1–2858, NA. 37. “America’s Zany Cultural Program,” National Observer, 10 February 1964, 1, 14. 38. Alfred W. Pritchard, “Mass Hypnosis: Soviet Weapon,” American Mercury, February 1959, 111. 39. Eugene Castle, “ ‘Culture’ for Khrushchev,” American Mercury, May 1959, 38–39. See also Scott MacGillivray, Castle Films: A Hobbyist’s Guide (Lincoln, NE: iUniverse, 2004), 5–8. 40. “The Fears of the Periodical ‘American Mercury,’ ” translation by Hans N. Tuch, encl. in Richard H. Davis, Minister-Counselor, AmEmb Moscow, to DOS, CDF55–59 511.613/4–759, NA. 41. William D. Bonis, letter to the editor, Saturday Review, 5 September 1959, 29. 42. CBS, Ed Sullivan Show, season 11, episode 40. See Victoria Hallinan, “The 1958 Tour of the Moiseyev Dance Company: A Window into American Perception,” Journal of History and Cultures 1 (September 2012): 51–64; John Chapman, “Russian Dancers Put Fun and Laughter in Show,” Chicago Daily Tribune, 16 April 1958. 43. F. Larrick, Miami Beach, Florida, to DOS, CDF55–59 511.61/7–1858, NA. 44. Anne and Helen Bannon, Brooklyn, New York, to John Foster Dulles, CDF55–59 032 State Folk Ensemble/7–358, NA. 45. FRUS, 1955–1957, v. 24, doc. 112; and William B. Macomber Jr. to Senator John Marshall Butler, 19 February 1958, CDF55–59 511.61/2–758, NA. 46. Castle, “ ‘Culture’ for Khrushchev,” 45. The OCB had considered this problem. See “Report on Soviet-Dominated Nations in Eastern Europe (NSC5811/1),” 27 July 1960, FRUS, 1958–1960, v. 10, part 1, doc. 30. 47. Mrs. Norman Cooke, Vero Beach, Florida, to DOS, CDF55–59, 511.61/1– 2758, NA. 48. Policy Information Statement EUR-279, “U.S.-Soviet Exchange Agreement,” encl. in DOS Instruction “U.S.-Soviet Exchange Agreement,” CDF55–59 511.00/1–2958, NA. 49. Christopher A. Squire, Second Secretary, American Legation Budapest, to DOS, CDF55–59 032 State Folk Ensemble/7–358, NA. 50. “Bolshoi Ballet to Get Big Play in Soviet Press,” Los Angeles Times, 18 April 1959; see also Jack Masey and Conway Lloyd Morgan, Cold War Confrontations: U.S. Exhibitions and Their Role in the Cultural Cold War (Zürich: Lars Müller, 2008), 152–283.

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51. AmEmb Quito T-422 to DOS, CDF55–59 032/5–2759, NA. 52. On Latin America’s place in Cold War historiography see Gilbert M. Joseph and Daniela Spenser, eds., In from the Cold: Latin America’s New Encounter with the Cold War (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2008). 53. DOS T-1157 to AmEmb Moscow, CDF55–59 032 Rostropovich, Mstislav/4–1356. See also Frederick Schang (Columbia Artists) and Robert O. Blake, DOS, memoranda of conversations, CDF55–59 032 Rostropovich, Mstislav/3–1256 and 3–2756; Yuri I. Gouk, Second Secretary, Soviet Embassy, and Blake, memorandum of conversation, ibid./4–956; and Sergei Striganov, Counselor, Soviet Embassy, and Francis B. Stevens, DOS, memorandum of conversation, ibid./4–1156, NA. 54. Mikhail Smirnovsky, Minister Counselor, and Gennadi D. Fursa, Attaché, Soviet Embassy, with Ambs. William Lacy, Frank Siscoe, and Harry Barnes Jr., DOS, memorandum of conversation, CDF60–63 032 Michigan University Symphonic Band/1–1061, NA; Amb. Llewellyn Thompson, AmEmb Moscow, to DOS, CDF60–63 032 University of Michigan Symphonic Band /1–1061, /1–3061, /2–361, and /2–1061, NA; Rusk to AmEmb Moscow, ibid. /1–3061. 55. On the Beriozka Ensemble’s bookings in Detroit and San Francisco see William Macomber Jr. to Senator Charles E. Potter, CDF55–59 511.613/10–358, NA; and Macomber to Potter, ibid./10–2358. 56. Mr. and Mrs. Nicholas Skylor and Mr. and Mrs. L. A. Spake, San Francisco, to DOS, 3 April 1959; DOS to Mr. and Mrs. Skylor, CDF55–59 032 Bolshoi Ballet/4–359; Marshall W. Krause to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Bolshoi Ballet/4–359; Lydia V. Arnautoff to President Eisenhower (referred to DOS), CDF55–59 032 Bolshoi Ballet/4–559, NA. 57. DOS T-2340 to AmEmb Moscow, CDF60–63 032 Ballet Theatre/5–2060, NA. 58. “Hurok Essays New US-USSR Rapport,” Variety, 27 September 1967, 61. See also Robinson, The Last Impresario, 416–19. 59. Soviet and Eastern European Exchanges Staff, Department of State, Semiannual Reports on Exchanges with the Soviet Union and Eastern Europe, 1964 and 1965. 60. Anne E. Gorsuch, All This Is Your World: Soviet Tourism at Home and Abroad after Stalin (New York: Oxford University Press, 2011), 18. 61. See Coolidge, Peggy Stuart: Collection of Musical Scores, 1924–1981, 62. See Constance A. Bezer, ed., Soviet Union and Eastern Europe: A Guide to Financial Aid, Exchanges and Travel Programs (Columbus, OH: American Association for the Advancement of Slavic Studies, 1972). 63. Gorsuch, All This Is Your World, 18, 112. See also David Mayers, The Ambassadors and America’s Soviet Policy (New York: Oxford University Press, 1995), 217. 64. Larsen and Wolfe, Report of Survey, Cultural Presentations Program, 7, encl. in Larsen and Wolfe to Gardner, CDF60–63 032/1–1463, NA.

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65. William B. Macomber Jr. to Senator Frank Carlson, 11 December 1959, CDF55–59 032 Contennial [sic] Choir /12–159, NA. On the competitive dynamic see Greg Castillo, Cold War on the Home Front: The Soft Power of Midcentury Design (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2010). 66. Transcript of Proceedings, Third Meeting of the Advisory Committee on the Arts, October 1958, p. A-8, box 158, CU/ACS Records of the United States Advisory Commission on the Arts, 1951–60, Entry A1–5079, RG 59, NA. For details on a similar visit, see Kevin Bartig, “Aaron Copland’s Soviet Diary (1960),” Notes 70, no. 4 (2014): 575–96. 67. International Understanding . . . through the Performing Arts: A Report on the Cultural Presentations Program of the Department of State, July 1, 1963–June 30, 1964, DOS Publication 7819 (1965), 25, 26. 68. Ibid., 27. The orchestra played Hall Overton’s Dialogue for Chamber Orchestra; John Lessard’s Concerto for Winds and Strings (revised version); Aaron Copland’s Two Pieces for String Orchestra 1928; Ulysses Kay’s Suite for Strings of 1952; and Ben Weber’s Two String Pieces. “Chamber Players Will Tour Soviet: Clarion Orchestra to Take 2 New Works to 11 Cities,” NYT, 9 September 1963. 69. “Tass Critic Hails Clarion Players: Chamber Orchestra Praised for Moscow Concert,” NYT, 30 September 1963; “Moscow Hails U.S. Orchestra,” Chicago Tribune, 20 September 1963. 70. “Leningrad Hails U.S. Clarion Chamber Orchestra,” Washington Post, 23 September 1963. 71. Florence Jonas, “Moscow Baroque: Soviet Group to Play Early Music Here,” NYT, 20 October 1963. 72. Ibid. 73. Newell Jenkins, “Russia Is Taking to Chamber Orchestras,” NYT, 1 December 1963. 74. Jenkins was not the only one to use early music in diplomacy. Noah Greenberg’s New York Pro Musica Antiqua was received with acclaim, as a novelty, but one that was acceptable to Russian authorities and the musical public. Strengthening Cultural Bonds Between Nations . . . through the Performing Arts: A Report on the Cultural Presentations Program of the Department of State, July 1, 1964–June 30, 1965, DOS Publication 8038 (1966), 18; and Scott C. Lyon, Liaison Officer, to Charles Ellison, DOS, 1 December 1964, ARK II b75 f5. 75. Jenkins, “Russia Is Taking to Chamber Orchestras.” 76. “Barshai Explains Soviet Defection,” Los Angeles Times, 11 March 1977; and “Soviet Conductor Given Permission to Emigrate,” Washington Post, 21 December 1976. 77. Raymond Ericson, “Season Is Opened by Clarion Group: Jenkins Conducts Program of Tour Favorites,” NYT, 4 December 1963. 78. Alexander Gauk, Historical Russian Archives: Alexander Gauk Edition, vol. 2, Brilliant Classics CD 9146/10. My thanks to Peter Schmelz for information about this recording.

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79. Prevots, Dance for Export, 75–91. 80. AmEmb Moscow T-2992 to DOS, CDF60–63 032 Ballet Theatre/5–3160, NA. See also Tim Scholl, “Dansdiplomati genom kalla kriget,” Danstidningen 6 (2006): 20–24, repr. in English as “Guns and Roses, or Dancing through the Cold War,” TEAM Network Yearbook [Trans-disciplinary European Arts Magazines], 2009/10, 66–71. 81. Translation of review published in Göteborgs-Tidningen, 12 June 1960, encl. in USIS Stockholm D-1151 to DOS, CDF60–63 032 Ballet Theatre/6–3060, NA. 82. Croft, “Funding Footprints,” 94–95. 83. International Understanding . . . through the Performing Arts: A Report on the Cultural Presentations Program of the Department of State, July 1, 1963–June 30, 1964, DOS Publication 7819 (1965), 31–32. 84. Ibid., 33. 85. Croft, “Funding Footprints,” 98; Bernard Taper, Balanchine (New York: Harper and Row, 1960), 290. 86. John Chapman, “Bolshoi Ballet Puts Worst Foot Forward in Its Debut,” Chicago Daily Tribune, 26 April 1959. 87. Richard H. Davis, Minister-Counselor, AmEmb Moscow, to DOS, CDF55–59 511.61/12–1858, NA. 88. Houston Brummit, letter to the editor, “New York and Moscow,” NYT, 27 March 1960. 89. Charles Frankel, “We Must Not Let Moscow Set Our Pace,” NYT, 2 October 1960. 90. Excerpts from the film Leonard Bernstein and the New York Philharmonic in Moscow (CBS, aired 25 October 1959) can be viewed at www.; and 91. “English Commentary by Mr. Bernstein, Preceding the Stravinsky Piano Concerto,” 25 August 1959. New York Philharmonic Digital Archives, European Tour 1959: Russia, 14 April 1959–23 March 1960, ID: 023–13–05, p. 19. 92. “Lured Pasternak Out of Retreat—Bernstein,” Chicago Daily Tribune, 13 September 1959; “Pasternak Eulogizes Bernstein at Concert,” Washington Post, 12 September 1959; Val Adams, “Pasternak Film Set for C.B.S.-TV,” NYT, 21 September 1959. See also Nigel Simeone, ed., The Leonard Bernstein Letters (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2013), 418–20. 93. Barry Seldes, Leonard Bernstein: The Political Life of an American Musician (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2009), 84. The management of the New York Philharmonic did everything it could to encourage extensive coverage in the press, especially of Pasternak’s emergence. See George E. Judd Jr., orchestra manager, to Aline Moseby, United Press, Moscow, 28 May 1959, New York Philharmonic Digital Archives, European Tour 1959: Russia, 14 April 1959–23 March 1960, ID: 023–13–05, p. 7; and Carlos Moseley, New York Philharmonic Director of Press and Public Relations, to Frank Milburn, Philharmonic press department, 11 September 1959, ibid., p. 38.

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94. My thanks to Emily Erken for gathering and surveying the Russianlanguage sources on this tour. Part of Pasternak’s conversation with Bernstein is recorded in Evgenii Pasternak and Elena Pasternak, Zhizn’ Borisa Pasternaka: Dokumental’noe povestvovanie (Saint Petersburg: Zvezda, 2004), 480, which does not mention Pasternak’s attendance at the concert. My thanks to Peter Schmelz for this information. 95. Leonard Bernstein. “Jottings—Moscow Show,” notes for broadcast, September 1959. Leonard Bernstein Collection, Music Division, Library of Congress, Digital ID: bhp0193_02, /blurringlines/culturaldiplomacy/ExhibitObjects/BernsteinInTheSovietUnion. aspx. Emily Abrams Ansari has described the positive comments Bernstein made about and to Soviet musicians in “Leonard Bernstein and the New York Philharmonic in Moscow: Educational Television, Diplomacy, and the Politics of Tonal Music,” unpublished paper delivered at the annual meeting of the American Musicological Society, New Orleans, 2012. 96. “Bernstein Drops Talk with Music: Leads 2 Stravinsky Works without Explanation to Leningrad Audience,” NYT, 1 September 1959; “Bernstein Hits Sour Note in Moscow,” Washington Post, 28 August 1959; and transcript of excerpts of Press Club remarks broadcast over VOA, Library of Congress, Music Division, Leonard Bernstein Collection, Box 77, Folder 11. My thanks to Emily Abrams Ansari for sharing her Bernstein essay and Bernstein Collection documents with me. 97. Aram Khachaturian, “Leonard Bernstein on the Podium,” English translation in Current Digest of the Russian Press, 23 September 1959, 14; original in Izvestia, 27 August 1959. 98. Transcript of excerpts of Press Club remarks broadcast over VOA, folder 11, box 77, Leonard Bernstein Collection, Music Division, Library of Congress. 99. Abbott Washburn to Leonard Bernstein, 17 November 1959, folder 17, box 1019, Leonard Bernstein Collection, Music Division, Library of Congress. 100. Sorensen, The Word War, 4. 101. M. Nikolaev, “Free Improvisations of Conductor L. Bernstein,” Soviet Culture, 8 December 1959, translation encl. in Leslie S. Brady, Counselor for Cultural Affairs, AmEmb Moscow, to DOS, CDF55–59, 511.613/12–1159, NA. 102. AmEmb Rome D-606 to DOS, CDF60–63 032 New York Philharmonic Orchestra/1–460, NA. 103. Translation of Alexander Medvedev, “Good—but Not All Good, Mr. Bernstein,” Soviet Culture, 27 August 1959, New York Philharmonic Digital Archives, European Tour 1959: Moscow Reviews and Translations, ID: 023–13– 03, pp. 17–18. 104. AmEmb Moscow, to DOS, 19 May 1967, “Trends in Soviet Cultural Policy Since the 23rd Congress,” SN67–69, CUL 1 USSR, RG 59, NA. 105. Isaiah Berlin, cited in Mayers, The Ambassadors and America’s Soviet Policy, 197; and in Yale Richmond, Practicing Public Diplomacy: A Cold War Odyssey (New York: Berghahn, 2008), 89.

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106. The idea that jazz breached a “hermetically sealed” Iron Curtain remains in some current scholarship: see, e.g., Rüdiger Ritter, “The Radio—A Jazz Instrument of Its Own,” in Jazz behind the Iron Curtain, ed. Gertrud Pickhan and Rüdiger Ritter (Frankfurt: Peter Lang, 2010), 1:36. This idea is challenged by György Péteri, “Nylon Curtain: Transnational and Transsystemic Tendencies in the Cultural Life of State-Socialist Russia and East Central Europe.” Slavonica 10, no. 2 (2004): 113–23. 107. Ryback, Rock around the Bloc, 102–14, and Tsipursky, “Pleasure, Power, and the Pursuit of Communism,” 122–64, 202–27. See also Sergei Zhuk, Rock and Roll in the Rocket City: The West, Identity, and Ideology in Soviet Dniepropetrovsk, 1960–1985 (Washington, DC: Woodrow Wilson Center Press; and Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2010); Thomas Cushman, Notes from Underground: Rock Music Counterculture in Russia (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1995); and Alexei Yurchak, Everything Was Forever, until It Was No More: The Last Soviet Generation (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2006), 158–206. 108. Richmond, Cultural Exchange and the Cold War, 123. 109. “A Regime Afraid of Jazz,” Washington Post, 13 March 1987. 110. Roth-Ey, Moscow Prime Time, 143. 111. Evaluation Report, Juilliard String Quartet, Soviet Union, 9 May–12 June, 1965, ARK II b96 f16. 112. Capote, The Muses Are Heard, 19. See also John MacCormac, “Reds Crack Down on ‘Hooliganism’: Satellites Bewail Infiltration of Jazz, Jitterbugs, Zoot Suits as Secret Weapons,” NYT, 18 April 1954. 113. Peter Schmelz, “Shostakovich Fights the Cold War: Reflections from Great to Small,” typescript essay, 2013. My thanks to Prof. Schmelz for sharing this text with me in advance of its publication. 114. Evidence of Effectiveness Report, University of Michigan Chamber Choir, U.S.S.R., 16 April–7 June 1971, ARK II b97 f5. 115. Joseph Silverstein and Harry J. Kraut, “Report on the Tour to England, Soviet Union, West Germany under the auspices of Department of State Cultural Presentations Program, April 29–June 16, 1967,” p. 18, ARK II b57 f13. 116. Amb. Llewellyn Thompson to DOS, 31 May 1962, FRUS, 1961–1963, v. 5, doc. 199. 117. Amb. Llewellyn Thompson, “Trends in Soviet Cultural Policy Since the 23rd Congress,” SN67–69, CUL 1 USSR, RG 59, NA. 118. Roth-Ey, Moscow Prime Time, 9–13, 164. 119. Thompson, AmEmb Moscow, to DOS, CDF55–59, 511.61/6–1058, NA. 120. AmEmb Moscow T-2548 to DOS, CDF60–63 032 Goodman, Benny/4– 462, NA. 121. Felix Belair Jr., “United States Has Secret Sonic Weapon—Jazz,” NYT, 6 November 1955. 122. Annegret Fauser, Sounds of War: Music in the United States during World War II (New York: Oxford University Press, 2013), 16, 35, 55, 93, 106.

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123. For descriptions of music as a “weapon” see Von Eschen, Satchmo Blows Up the World, 3, 17, 18, 28, 253, 256; and John Gennari, “The Other Side of the Curtain: U.S. Jazz Discourse, 1950s America, and the Cold War,” in Jazz behind the Iron Curtain, ed. Gertrud Pickhan and Rüdiger Ritter (Frankfurt: Peter Lang, 2010), 1:26. For Bowman’s statement see George Weeks, “U.S. Wants More Jazz on Tour” Chicago Defender, 24 December 1960. 124. Ralph Gleason, “This Is the Moment to Get Jazz to Russia,” San Francisco Chronicle, 23 November 1958. 125. N. Eugene Hill, San Francisco, to Dulles, CDF55–59 511.61/11–2358, NA; James Magdanz to Hill, ibid. 126. J. E. Baudine, Vice President, Westinghouse Broadcasting, Red MacLeish, Chief, Washington News Bureau, Westinghouse Broadcasting, Ambassador William Lacy, and Scott Lyon, “Westinghouse Offer of Goodman Jazz Tapes for Exchange Program,” memorandum of conversation, CDF55–59 511.61/6–658, NA. 127. “Jazz Has Firm Foothold in USSR,” 2 January 1957, report S-20–57, Special Reports of the Office of Research, Entry P-160, RG 306, NA. 128. John Tynan, “Russian Culture Workers Meet Western Jazzmen,” Down Beat, 17 August 1961, 18–19; see also George Sherman, “Moscow Jives (Briefly) on a Saturday Night,” Washington Post, Times Herald, 28 February 1960. 129. Leonard Feather, “Report from Russia: Moscow Diary,” Down Beat, 19 July 1962, 17–19, 59–60. 130. Leonard Feather, “Inside Soviet Jazz,” Down Beat, 16 August 1962, 37, 14. 131. AmEmb Moscow A-370, “Cultural Exchange: The Earl Hines Band in the USSR,” to DOS, 6 September 1966, p. 7, ARK II b66 f14. 132. Willie Ruff’s account of the tour is published in his memoir, A Call to Assembly: An American Success Story (New York: Penguin, 1991), 287–90, 294–308. 133. Ibid., 308. 134. “Leningrad’s Longhairs Jump to New York Jazz,” Washington Post, Times Herald, 9 July 1959. 135. Willie Ruff, “Jazz Mission to Moscow,” Down Beat, 21 January 1960, 17. 136. Osgood Caruthers, “U.S. Jazz Duo Rocks Staid Moscow Hall,” NYT, 1 July 1959. 137. Ruff, “Jazz Mission to Moscow,” 19. Leonard Feather reported similar comments from Russian musicians about calling jazz a “weapon.” He may have been talking to the same people. See Feather, “Inside Soviet Jazz,” 13–15, 37. 138. Caruthers, “U.S. Jazz Duo Rocks Staid Moscow Hall.” 139. On the controversy of the Goodman choice see Cynthia Gossett, “ ‘Our Task Is to Present the Truth’: State Department Cultural Diplomacy and Benny Goodman’s 1962 Jazz Tour of the Soviet Union” (master’s thesis, Kent State University, 2003), 61–64. Gossett reviews the Goodman tour in detail, 70–82.

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See also editorial, “The Goodman Tour and the Teapot Tempest,” Down Beat, 24 May 1962, 14; and Bill Coss, “Benny Goodman: On the First Steppe,” ibid., 16–17. 140. Indeed, Leonard Feather noted that Goodman’s conservative taste matched that of Soviet officials. See Feather, “Inside Soviet Jazz,” 15. 141. Assistant Secretary of State for Legislative Affairs Frederick G. Dutton to Senator Jacob Javits, 14 May 1962, CDF60–63 032 Goodman, Benny/4–1862, NA. 142. “Russia Denies Rejecting Duke and Count,” Jet, 21 March 1963, 65. See also Harvey Cohen, Duke Ellington’s America (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2010), 418–21. 143. AmEmb Moscow to DOS, 6 July 1962, Records of the Bureau of Cultural Affairs, Records Relating to the Evaluation of Cultural Programs and to Staff Visits Overseas, 1952–1960, Entry A1–1600, RG 59, NA. 144. “The Goodman Tour and the Teapot Tempest.” 145. Sophia Duckworth, “Letter from a Tourist,” Down Beat, 2 August 1962, 12. 146. Yuri Vikharieff, “Waitin’ for Benny: A Report from Russia,” Down Beat, 5 July 1962, 14; and “Soviets Disappointed Because 1st Jazz Band Wasn’t Negro,” Jet, 28 June 1962, 56–57. 147. AmEmb Moscow A-31 to DOS, “Benny Goodman and His Band in the Soviet Union,” CDF60–63 032 Goodman, Benny Band/7–1062, NA. 148. Translation of K. Pevsner, “After the First Acquaintanceship,” Evening Tbilisi, 11 June 1962, encl. in AmEmb Moscow A-31 to DOS, CDF60–63 032 Goodman, Benny Band/7–1062, NA. 149. Quoted in Max Frankel, “New Spirit in Soviet: Jazz, Lipstick and Freer Expression Mark Period of ‘Post-Repressionism,’ ” NYT, 17 August 1963. 150. “Special Report: Goodman Men Sound Off about Soviet Tour,” Down Beat, 30 August 1962, 12–13, 36; and AmEmb Moscow A-31 to DOS, CDF60– 63 032 Goodman, Benny Band/7–1062, NA. 151. AmEmb Moscow A-31 to DOS, CDF60–63 032 Goodman, Benny Band/7–1062, NA. 152. DOS T-819 to AmEmb Moscow, 5 August 1968, ARK II b60 f4. 153. Aucoin, “Deconstructing the American Way of Life,” 14; Thomas W. Wolfe, “Obstacle Course for Attachés,” Studies in Intelligence 4, no. 3 (1960): 71–77, CIA-RDP78–03921A000300290001–3, CREST, NA. 154. AmEmb Moscow A-370, “Cultural Exchange: The Earl Hines Band in the USSR,” to DOS, 6 September 1966, pp. 3–4, ARK II b66 f14. 155. AmEmb Moscow A-132, “Boston Symphony Chamber Players’ Tour of the USSR,” to DOS and USIA, 1 August 1967, p. 3, ARK II b57 f11. 156. Ibid., p. 4. 157. AmEmb Moscow A-51, “The University of Illinois Jazz Band—An Evaluation,” to DOS, 12 January 1970, ARK II b81 f25. 158. Amanda Aucoin describes persistent Soviet efforts to limit the impact of the U.S. exhibition at Sokolniki Park, including presenting competing exhibitions,

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constraints on journalists, and limiting ticket sales. Aucoin, “Deconstructing the American Way of Life,” 106–8. 159. Walter Kolar and Patricia French, interview by the author, 29 May 2012. 160. David Kolar, interview by the author, 28 March 2012. 161. Evaluation Report, University of Illinois Jazz Band, ARK II b97 f4. 162. “Exchanges: Illinois Band, to AmEmb Moscow 6 September 1969,” DOS telegram, 6 September 1969, ARK II b82 f2. See also (all in ARK II b82 f2): AmEmb Moscow T-4002 to DOS, 8 September 1969; AmEmb Moscow T-4545 to DOS, 10 October 1969; AmEmb Moscow T-4712 to DOS, 21 October 1969. 163. Guy Coriden to Walter Kolar, 4 February 1969, Duquesne University Tamburitzans Archives (hereafter DUT). My thanks to Susan Stafura for access to the archives. 164. Evaluation Report, Duquesne University Folk Ensemble, EE/USSR, 10 June–29 July 1969, ARK II b60 f3. 165. AmEmb Moscow T-4296 to DOS, “Exchanges: Illinois Band,” 25 September 1969, ARK II b82 f2. 166. David Kolar, interview. 167. Mary Patzer, “Duquesne University Folk Dance Ensemble Tour of East Europe and USSR,” 5 November 1969, ARK II b60 f3. 168. Walter Kolar, interview. 169. Effectiveness Report, Duquesne University Folk Ensemble EE/USSR 10 June–29 July 1969, ARK II b97 f3; AmEmb Moscow A-1298 to DOS, “Exchanges: Duquesne University Song and Dance Ensemble,” 22 October 1969, ARK II b60 f3. 170. Telegram copy from Bucharest [to DOS] 13 June [1969], DUT. 171. Rudy Grasha, interview by the author, 13 March 2012. 172. AmEmb Moscow A-1298 to DOS, “Exchanges: Duquesne University Song and Dance Ensemble,” 22 October 1969, ARK II b60 f3; Effectiveness Report, Duquesne University Folk Ensemble EE/USSR 10 June–29 July 1969, ARK II b97 f3; Christine Jordanoff, interview by the author, 29 May 2012. 173. David Kolar, interview. 174. Christine Jordanoff, interview. 175. “Travel to the Soviet Union,” DUT. 176. Roth-Ey, Moscow Prime Time, 10. 177. AmEmb Moscow D-755 to DOS, 27 February 1962, CDF60–63 032 Eastman Philharmonia/2–2762, NA. 178. Richard Service to Foy Kohler, “Shoplifting by Accordionist of Beryozka Ensemble,” memorandum and talking points, 10 February 1959, CDF55–59 032 Beriozka Ensemble/2–1059, NA. 179. Grasha, interview. 180. Suki Schorer, interview by Clare Croft, 20 August 2008, cited in Croft, “Funding Footprints,” 101–2. 181. Kay Mazzo, interview by Clare Croft, 22 August 2008, “Funding Footprints,” 75.

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182. Ibid. 183. Joseph Silverstein and Harry J. Kraut, “Report on the Tour to England, Soviet Union, West Germany under the Auspices of Department of State Cultural Presentations Program, April 29–June 16, 1967,” p. 18, ARK II b57 f13. 184. AmEmb Moscow A-132 to DOS and USIA, “Boston Symphony Chamber Players’ Tour of the USSR,” 1 August 1967, ARK II b57 f11. 185. Matthiew Ruggiero, interview by the author, 26 November 2011. 186. Scott C. Lyon, Liaison Officer, to Charles Ellison, DOS, “Pro Musica Tour of Yugoslavia and U.S.S.R., 1964,” 1 December 1964, ARK II b75 f5. 187. AmEmb Moscow A-1582, “The University of Illinois Jazz Band: Midtour Observations,” to DOS, 10 December 1969, ARK II b81 f25. 188. AmEmb Moscow A-51 to DOS, “The University of Illinois Jazz Band— An Evaluation,” 12 January 1970, ARK II b81 f25; see also Dan Morgenstern, “Cultural Confluence,” Down Beat, 30 April 1970, 13–14. 189. Diane Haley, “Curtain Call,” Oberlin Today 22, no. 4 (1964): 5. Cited in Tim Scholl, “Student Interactions, Race, and the Media: The Oberlin College Choir 1964 Tour of the USSR and Romania,” unpublished working paper presented at the conference “East-West Cultural Exchanges,” Jyväskylä, Finland, 16 June 2012. 190. Russ Hurd, comp., “The Russian Tour—Ten Years Later” (1974), 34, box 4, Series IV: Scrapbooks, Russian Tour, 1964, Robert Fountain Papers, RG 30/368, Oberlin College Archives (hereafter RFP). 191. Ibid., 26, 23. 192. Scholl, comments on “Student Interactions, Race, and the Media,” 16 June 2012; International Understanding . . . through the Performing Arts: A Report on the Cultural Presentations Program of the Department of State, July 1, 1963–June 30, 1964, DOS Publication 7819 (1965), 63–66. 193. Lee Irwin, interview by the author and Tim Scholl, 15 November 2013; Barbara Muller, interview by the author and Tim Scholl, 16 November 2013; and Muller, recollection in Memories of the Oberlin College Choir 1964 Soviet Union Tour (Oberlin, Ohio: Oberlin College and Conservatory, 2013), 26; Barbara Dee Silva, interview by the author, 15 November 2013. 194. Alexander Holmes, “Are Communists ‘Human’? Writer Back from Moscow Raises Doubt,” Los Angeles Times, 30 June 1959. 195. Castle, “ ‘Culture’ for Khrushchev,” 40. 196. Walter Kolar and Patricia French, interview. 197. Leonid Gesin, interview by Katerina Frank, 5 May 2007, cited in Katerina Frank, “Looking at Both Sides of the Iron Curtain: Boston Symphony Orchestra’s Tour of the Soviet Union,” unpublished seminar paper, 2007. My thanks to Ms. Frank for sharing her paper. 198. Richmond, Cultural Exchange and the Cold War, 124. A State Department interpreter cited Soviet observations of American abundance and comfort as a source of disgust with conditions in the Soviet Union: ibid., 179. See also Castillo, Cold War on the Home Front.

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199. Shelley Gruskin, interview by the author, 3 November 2011. On the strangeness of the experience of cultural diplomacy see David Newsom, introduction to Private Diplomacy with the Soviet Union (Lanham, MD: University Press of America, 1987), xii. 200. Interview with David Swain, 16 November 2013. 201. Barbara Limberg Davis, quoted in “The Russian Tour—Ten Years Later” (1974), comp. Russ Hurd, 20, box 4, Series IV: Scrapbooks, Russian Tour, 1964, RFP; Capote, The Muses Are Heard, 10; Jordanoff, Ruggiero, D. Kolar, interviews; Sheila Yeomans, interview by Tim Scholl and the author, 15 November 2013; Stanley Drucker, interview with Peter Schmelz, 16 April 2013, cited in Schmelz, “Shostakovich Fights the Cold War.” 202. David Kolar, interview. 203. Tim Edensor, “Staging Tourism: Tourists as Performers,” Annals of Tourism Research 27, no. 2 (2000): 334–36. See also Judith Adler, “Travel as Performed Art,” American Journal of Sociology 94, no. 6 (May 1989): 1366–91. 204. Leonard Garment, Crazy Rhythm: My Journey from Brooklyn, Jazz, and Wall Street to Nixon’s White House, Watergate, and Beyond . . . (New York: Random House, 1997), 173. See also Nancy Dickerson, “Letter from Moscow,” Washington Post, 24 July 1969. 205. “As High Fidelity Sees It: The Moscow–New York Shuttle,” High Fidelity, 15 October 1965, 49. 206. Robert J. Landry, “Soviet ‘Steals’ Cultural Exchange; Oistrakh and Moscow Orch New Case; US May Now Woo East Europeans,” Variety, 14 January 1970, 2, 32. 207. AmEmb Moscow D-107 to DOS, CDF55–59 511.613/8–1458, NA; Jussi M. Hanhimäki, The Rise and Fall of Détente: American Foreign Policy and the Transformation of the Cold War (Washington: Potomac Books, 2013), xvii; Jeremi Suri, “Détente and Human Rights: American and West European Perspectives on International Change,” Cold War History 8, no. 4 (2008): 528. On President Johnson’s strategy of “bridge-building” with Eastern Europe see Mitchell Lerner, “‘Trying to Find the Guy Who Invited Them’: Lyndon Johnson, Bridge Building, and the End of the Prague Spring,” Diplomatic History 32, no. 1 (2008): 77–103. 208. Hanhimäki, The Rise and Fall of Détente, 8–9; Anne de Tinguy, U.S.Soviet Relations during the Détente, no. 526, trans. A. P. M. Bradley (Boulder, CO: East European Monographs, distributed by Columbia University Press, 1999), 14. 209. President John F. Kennedy, Commencement Address at American University, 10 June 1963, quoted in Hanhimäki, The Rise and Fall of Détente, 158. 210. Nikita Khrushchev, speech on 8 March 1963, The Great Mission, 187– 88, cited in Nancy Condee, “Cultural Codes of the Thaw,” in Nikita Khrushchev, ed. William Taubman, Sergei Khrushchev, and Abbott Gleason (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2000), 165. 211. The term was first used officially during the Nixon administration. See Raymond Garthoff, Détente and Confrontation: American-Soviet Relations

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from Nixon to Reagan (Washington: Brookings Institution, 1985), 1–2; Michael B. Froman, The Development of the Idea of Détente: Coming to Terms (New York: St. Martin’s, 1991), 2–8, 121; Keith L. Nelson, The Making of Détente: Soviet-American Relations in the Shadow of Vietnam (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1995), ix, xv. 212. Wilfried Loth and Georges-Henri Soutou, eds., The Making of Détente: Eastern and Western Europe in the Cold War, 1965–1975 (London: Routledge, 2008), 1. 213. “U.S.-U.S.S.R. Agreement on Basic Principles of Relations,” International Legal Materials 11, no. 4 (1972): 760. 214. de Tinguy, U.S.-Soviet Relations during the Détente, 21–23, 64, 74–78. 215. Robert Shaw, “Lecture on ‘The Conservative Arts,’” Harvard University, 9 November 1981, in The Robert Shaw Reader, ed. Robert Blocker (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2004), 355–56. 216. Yurchak, Everything Was Forever, 8–9. 217. In 1977 a task force of the Twentieth Century Fund urged the U.S. government to keep negotiating against Soviet-imposed limits on the styles of American-sponsored cultural presentations and to urge the Soviets to send a greater variety of styles of art to the West. Herbert Kupferberg, “Background Paper,” in The Raised Curtain: Report of the Twentieth Century Fund Task Force on Soviet-American Scholarly and Cultural Exchanges (New York: Twentieth Century Fund, 1977), 10. 218. Howard Taubman, “White House Salutes Culture in America: Dissent of Artists on Foreign Policy Stirs 400 at All-Day Fete,” NYT, 15 June 1965.

conclusion 1. Marshall McLuhan, Understanding Media: The Extensions of Man (1964; Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1994), 3, 4. 2. See Daniel Boorstin, The Image: A Guide to Pseudo-events in America (1961; New York: Atheneum, 1972), 10, 11, 39. 3. Ibid., 12, 10. 4. Henry A. Kissinger, “Reflections on American Diplomacy,” Foreign Affairs 35, no. 1 (1956): 46. Cited in Osgood, Total Cold War, 183. See also Harvey Molotch and Marilyn Lester, “News as Purposive Behavior,” American Sociological Review 39 (February 1974): 104. 5. President’s Committee on Information Activities Abroad, folder PCIAA No. 24, “Disarmament and the Factor of Public Opinion,” 6 June 1960; and folder PCIAA No. 21, “The Problem of U.S. Public Understanding of International Affairs,” 8 August 1960, Bureau of Public Affairs Policy Plans and Guidance Staff, Records Relating to the President’s Committee on Information Activities Abroad, Entry A1–1587Q, RG 59, NA. See also Osgood, Total Cold War, 181–85, 212. 6. David Finn, “Big Sell in the Cold War,” Saturday Review, 10 October 1959, 55. See also Justin Hart, “Foreign Relations as Domestic Affairs: The Role of the

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‘Public’ in the Origins of U.S. Public Diplomacy,” in The United States and Public Diplomacy: New Directions in Cultural and International History, ed. Kenneth Osgood and Brian Etheridge (Leiden: Martinus Nijhoff, 2010), 206–23. 7. The New York Philharmonic attracted an estimated twenty thousand people at an open-air concert in São Paulo: AmEmb Rio de Janeiro D-185 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 New York Philharmonic Symphony Orchestra/8–1858. The Boston Symphony Orchestra attracted nineteen thousand listeners over three concerts in Manila: AmEmb Manila D-641 to DOS, CDF60–63 032 Boston Symphony Orchestra/6–1060, NA. 8. Kirshenblatt-Gimblett, Destination Culture, 6–8. See also Peter DunbarHall, “Culture, Tourism, and Cultural Tourism: Boundaries and Frontiers in Performances of Balinese Music and Dance,” Journal of Intercultural Studies 22, no. 2 (2001): 173–87. 9. Charles Frankel, “The Era of Educational and Cultural Relations,” DOS Publication 8093 (1966), 3. This article also appeared in the Department of State Bulletin 54, no. 46 (1966): 889–97. 10. Frankel, “The Era of Educational and Cultural Relations,” 3, 5. See also Educational and Cultural Diplomacy, 1964, DOS Publication 7979 (1965), 1. 11. Boorstin, The Image, 44. 12. AmConGen Hong Kong D-311 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Anderson, Marian/10–2257, NA. The USIA facilitated many translations of Anderson’s autobiography, My Lord, What a Morning (New York: Viking, 1956). By mid1958 these included versions in Korean, Chinese, Bengali, Thai, Tamil, Hindi, and Gujarati. George V. Allen, Director, USIA, to Anderson, 30 April 1958, f5858, MAP I.A. 13. DOS Instruction A-227 to AmEmb Managua, CDF55–59 032 National Symphony Orchestra/2–2459, NA. Mediated cultural diplomacy is an important precedent for the “media events” (televised public ceremonies) described by Daniel Dayan and Elihu Katz in Media Events: The Live Broadcasting of History (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1992). 14. “Concert by National Symphony Orchestra of Washington D.C. in San Salvador, July 30, 1959,” encl. in AmEmb San Salvador D-97 to DOS, CDF55– 59 032 National Symphony Orchestra/8–3159, NA. 15. Preliminary Notes on OCB Meeting of August 13, 1958, folder Preliminary Notes III, Records Relating to State Department Participation in the OCB and the NSC 1953–60, Entry A1–1586A, RG 59, NA. 16. AmEmb Helsinki D-779 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 George, Zelma (Dr.)/5– 2859, NA. 17. AmEmb Rangoon D-392 to DOS, CDF55–59 032 Golden Gate Quartet/2–359, NA. 18. See Helge Danielsen, “Mediating Public Diplomacy: Local Conditions and U.S. Public Diplomacy in Norway in the 1950s,” in The United States and Public Diplomacy: New Directions in Cultural and International History, ed. Kenneth Osgood and Brian Etheridge (Leiden: Martinus Nijhoff, 2010), 285–314.

N OT E S TO PAG E S 2 0 9 – 21 2 / 2 9 3

19. Boorstin, The Image, 34. 20. “Outline of Tentative Program for the Division of Cultural Relations, Department of State, June 1, 1939,” 1–2, folder Cultural Cooperation Program 1939–1948, Subject Files 1953–2000, USIA Historical Collection, Entry A1–1066, RG 306, NA. 21. Sorensen, The Word War, x. For another account of cultural programs as “honest” but selective see also J. M. Mitchell, International Cultural Relations (London: Allen and Unwin, 1986), 5. 22. These were hotly debated issues within government agencies, and propaganda campaigns were often given names that would soften their propagandistic intent. See Edward W. Barrett, Truth Is Our Weapon (New York: Funk and Wagnalls, 1953); IIA’s internal debates and polling data about propaganda, folder Propaganda, Subject Files 1950–53, Office of the Administrator, International Information Administration, Entry A1–5056, RG 59, NA; Scott Lucas, “Campaigns of Truth: The Psychological Strategy Board and American Ideology, 1951–1953,” International History Review 18, no. 2 (1996): 279–302. 23. On implicit endorsement see Boorstin, The Image, 219. 24. Ibid., 36. 25. Thomas de Zengotita, Mediated: How the Media Shapes Your World and the Way You Live in It (New York: Bloomsbury, 2005), 30. 26. Ibid., 134. 27. Kirshenblatt-Gimblett, Destination Culture, 34, 44. 28. Marvin Keenze, interview by the author, 6 December 2011; Matthew Ruggiero, interview by the author, 26 November 2011. 29. Shelley Gruskin, interview by the author, 3 November 2011; “The Russian Tour—Ten Years Later” (1974), comp. Russ Hurd, box 4, Series IV: Scrapbooks, Russian Tour, 1964, Robert Fountain Papers 30/308, Oberlin College Archives. 30. AmEmb Moscow A-1582 to DOS, 10 December 1969, ARK II b81 f25. 31. Gruskin, interview; Alma Schueler, interview by the author, 16 December 2008; Kleinfeldt, interview by the author, 20 August 2008; Marc Gottlieb, interview by the author, 23 January 2012; Barry Campbell, interview by the author, 25 August 2008. 32. Gottlieb, interview. 33. Kleinfeldt, interview; Tom Jenkins, interview by the author, 2 September 2008. 34. Kleinfeldt, interview; Ron Post, interview by the author, 1 July 2006; Irwin, interview. 35. Rob Roy McGregor, interview by the author, 12 June 2006; Dennis Garrels, interview by the author, 14 June 2006; Joe Mallare, interview by the author, 14 June 2006. 36. Lawrence M. Greenberg, United States Army Unilateral and Coalition Operations in the 1965 Dominican Republic Intervention (Washington, DC: U.S. Army Center of Military History, Analysis Branch, [1986]), 18, 21, 32; and “Evacuees Arrive, Tell of Terror,” NYT, 29 April 1965.

2 9 4 / N OT E S TO PAG E S 21 2 – 216

37. Bruce Fisher, interview by the author, 18 July 2006; Crawford to McGregor, 2 August [1965], personal papers of Rob Roy McGregor; and McGregor, interview. My thanks to Mr. McGregor for sharing his papers, photographs, and an audio recording with me. 38. Susan Migden Socolow, interview by the author, 15 January 2008. See Fosler-Lussier, “Cultural Diplomacy as Cultural Globalization,” 78. 39. Socolow, interview. 40. See “U.S. Band’s Latin Concert Off,” NYT, 7 April 1965; “Reds Label U-M Band ‘Imperialist,’ ” box 1, RCP. The band had been denounced by a Communist paper; however, the conflict on campus was due not to the band’s presence but to the death of a student protester in antigovernment riots the previous week. 41. Post, interview. 42. Ibid. 43. According to Mary Dudziak, Americans’ interest in their international role substantially altered their decisions. See Mary Dudziak, Cold War Civil Rights: Race and the Image of American Democracy (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2000), 17. 44. See Travis Jackson, “Tourist Point of View? Musics of the World and Ellington’s Suites,” Musical Quarterly 96, no. 3–4 (2013): 513–40. 45. Boorstin, The Image, 19. 46. On the purposeful creation of authentic experience see Dean MacCannell, “Staged Authenticity: Arrangements of Social Space in Tourist Settings,” American Journal of Sociology 79, no. 3 (1973): 589–603. 47. Bas Arts, Math Noortmann, and Bob Reinalda, eds., Non-state Actors in International Relations (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2001), 1–4; Autio-Sarasmo and Miklóssy, “Introduction,” 2. 48. The inversion is Lauren Berlant’s, in The Queen of America Goes to Washington City: Essays on Sex and Citizenship (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1997), 175–80. See also Helen Laville and Hugh Wilford, eds., The U.S. Government, Citizen Groups, and the Cold War: The State-Private Network (New York: Routledge, 2006); Michael Hardt, “The Global Society of Control,” Discourse 20, no. 3 (1988): 149; Todd Gitlin, The Whole World Is Watching: Mass Media in the Making and Unmaking of the New Left (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1980), 1, 251–53. 49. Michael Hardt, “The Withering of Civil Society,” Social Text 45 (Winter 1995): 32. Hardt draws especially on Michel Foucault, “Governmentality,” which appears in English in The Foucault Effect: Studies in Governmentality, ed. Graham Burchell, Colin Gordon, and Peter Miller (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1991), 87–104. A precedent for the state’s enlistment of citizens as actors is described in Elizabeth A. Wood, Performing Justice: Agitation Trials in Early Soviet Russia (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2005), 206–7; and Sheila Fitzpatrick, Tear Off the Masks! Identity and Imposture in TwentiethCentury Russia (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2005). See also Gorsuch, All This Is Your World, 107–8.

N OT E S TO PAG E S 216 – 219 / 2 9 5

50. Boorstin, The Image, 12, 10. 51. Nye, Soft Power, x; Nye, Bound to Lead, 194. 52. Charles M. Ellison, “The Performing Arts and Our Foreign Relations,” Music Educators Journal 52, no. 2 (1965): 138. 53. Former Asst. Secretary of State John Richardson, Testimony Before Congress on “Public Diplomacy and the Future,” 15 June 1977, Public Diplomacy and the Future: Hearings Before the Subcommittee on International Operations of the Committee on International Relations, House of Representatives, Ninety-Fifth Congress, First Session, 153. 54. See Richard Crawford, America’s Musical Life: A History (New York: Norton, 2001), 146–55, 272–92, 305–13. 55. See, e.g., Akira Iriye, Cultural Internationalism and World Order (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1997), 3, 11–12, 154–56. Boorstin agreed: he argued repeatedly that works of art were entirely unsuitable for propaganda because their value was separate from practical action, and each work was special. See Boorstin, “The Indivisible World: Libraries and the Myth of Cultural Exchange,” Remarks at the IFLA General Conference, Chicago, 19 August 1985 (Library of Congress, Washington, DC, 1985), 9. 56. Cited in Thomson and Laves, Cultural Relations and U.S. Foreign Policy, 86; and in John Brown, “The Purposes and Cross-Purposes of American Public Diplomacy,” note 23, American Diplomacy, 15 August 2002, /diplomat/archives_roll/2002_07–09/brown_pubdipl/brown_pubdipl.html. 57. On appropriations difficulties see Philip H. Coombs, “The Past and Future in Perspective,” in Cultural Affairs and Foreign Relations, ed. Robert Blum (Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1963), 139–71, 145; Asst. Secretary of State William Benton, Statement Before the House Foreign Affairs Committee, 16 October 1945, cited in DOS, Office of Public Affairs, “America—‘A Full and Fair Picture’: The Government’s Information and Cultural Relations Program Overseas,” April 1946, 5–6, folder Cultural Cooperation Program, Subject Files 1953–2000, USIA Historical Collection, Entry A1–1066, RG 306. 58. Osgood, Total Cold War, 185. 59. Sorensen, The Word War, 4–5. 60. Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origins and Spread of Nationalism (1983; London: Verso, 2006), 33–46. Anderson’s work is critiqued and extended in John D. Kelly and Martha Kaplan, Represented Communities: Fiji and World Decolonization (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2001), 85–99. 61. John Tomlinson, Globalization and Culture (Cambridge: Polity, 1999), 9, 11–12. 62. Remarks of Assistant Secretary of State for Educational and Cultural Affairs John Richardson Jr. to the Annual Foreign Policy Conference for Senior Executives, 7 April 1971, folder Educational Exchanges, Remarks of John Richardson Jr., 1971, Subject Files 1953–2000, USIA Historical Collection, Entry A1–1066, RG 306, NA.

2 9 6 / N OT E S TO PAG E S 219 – 2 21

63. Anna Tsing, “The Global Situation,” Cultural Anthropology 15, no. 3 (2000): 330. Cf. Hung-Gu Lynn, “Globalization in the Cold War,” in The Oxford Handbook of the Cold War, ed. Richard Immerman and Petra Goedde (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 584–601. 64. David Sarnoff, “The Importance of Allies in Their Relation to U.S. Strategy and Policy,” Address at the Third Annual Meeting of the Association of the U.S. Army, 29 October 1957, CIA-RDP80R01731R000700010017–0, CIA Records Search Tool (CREST), NA. A CIA staffer’s summary of Sarnoff’s agenda cited his recommendation to create “new channels of contact.” 65. Educational and Cultural Diplomacy, 1964, 1. 66. Charles Thomson and Walter H. C. Laves, Cultural Relations and U.S. Foreign Policy (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1963), 141–42, 145. 67. Coombs, “Past and Future in Perspective,” 147–53. 68. Brian Larkin, Signal and Noise: Media, Infrastructure, and Urban Culture in Nigeria (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2008), 3; Nancy E. Bernhard, U.S. Television News and Cold War Propaganda, 1947–1960 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 178–90. 69. See Rebekah Ahrendt, Mark Ferraguto, and Damien Mahiet, eds., Music and Diplomacy from the Early Modern Era to the Present (Palgrave Macmillan, 2014). 70. Dipesh Chakrabarty, “The Legacies of Bandung: Decolonization and the Politics of Culture,” in Making a World after Empire: The Bandung Moment and Its Political Afterlives, ed. Christopher J. Lee (Athens, OH: Ohio University Press, 2010), 53–55. See also Kirshenblatt-Gimblett, Destination Culture, 65; and Rob Kroes, “American Empire and Cultural Imperialism: A View from the Receiving End,” Diplomatic History 23, no. 3 (1999): 467. 71. Kelly and Kaplan, Represented Communities, 18–26, 139–42. See also Connie McNeely, Constructing the Nation-State: International Organization and Prescriptive Action (Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1995), 21–26, 35–36. 72. Sulwyn Lewis, “Principles of Cultural Co-operation,” Reports and Papers on Mass Communication, no. 61 (Paris: UNESCO, 1970), 11–12; James W. Fernandez, “Andalusia on Our Minds: Two Contrasting Places in Spain as Seen in a Vernacular Poetic Duel of the Late 19th Century,” Cultural Anthropology 3, no. 1 (1988): 21–35; Kathy Foley, “The Metonymy of Art: Vietnamese Water Puppetry as a Representation of Modern Vietnam,” Drama Review 45, no. 4 (2001): 134–35, 139; Kirshenblatt-Gimblett, Destination Culture, 65. 73. The sovereignty of media was debated hotly in the 1970s: decolonizing nations wanted to join the international exchange of information as equal partners rather than as recipients of foreign media. See Dietrich Berwanger, Television in the Third World: New Technology and Social Change (Bonn: Friedrich-Ebert-Stiftung, 1987), 63. 74. Kelly and Kaplan explain the doubleness of “representation”—meaning both delegated spokesmanship and symbolic portrayal—in their Represented Communities, 22.

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75. Anthony Shay, Choreographic Politics: State Folk Dance Companies, Representation, and Power (Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press, 2002); Kelly Askew, Performing the Nation: Swahili Music and Cultural Politics in Tanzania (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2002); Lisa Gilman, The Dance of Politics: Gender, Performance, and Democratization in Malawi (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 2009), 39; Steve Chimombo and Moira Chimombo, The Culture of Democracy: Language, Literature, the Arts and Politics in Malawi, 1992–1994 (Limbe, Malawi: WASI, 1996), 2–3; and Mike McGovern, Unmasking the State: Making Guinea Modern (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2013), 209, 214–18. 76. Barbara Kirshenblatt-Gimblett, “Intangible Heritage as Metacultural Production,” Museum International 56, no. 1–2 (2004): 52–65. 77. Greg Castillo, “Peoples at an Exhibition: Soviet Architecture and the National Question,” in Socialist Realism without Shores, ed. Thomas Lahusen and Evgeny Dobrenko (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1997), 91–119. 78. Philip Kotler and David Gertner, “Country as Brand, Product, and Beyond: A Place Marketing and Brand Management Perspective,” Brand Management 4, no. 5 (2002): 249–61; and a remarkable early example, Edward Bernays, “The Marketing of National Policies: A Study of War Propaganda,” Journal of Marketing 6, no. 3 (1942): 236–44. See also Margaret Mead, “The Importance of National Cultures,” in International Communication and the New Diplomacy, ed. Arthur S. Hoffman (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1968), 89–105. 79. AmEmb Moscow D-107 to DOS, CDF55–59 511.613/8–1458, NA. 80. “Main Conclusions of U.S. Missions Abroad on U.S. Educational and Cultural Exchange Programs” [ca. 1967], folder Educational Exchanges, Bureau of Educational and Cultural Affairs, 1981–1984, Subject Files, USIA Historical Collection, Entry A1–1066, RG 306, NA. 81. Post, interview. 82. Murrow, appearance before Senate Foreign Relations Committee, quoted in remarks by Thomas C. Sorensen, in “The U.S.—Warts and All”: Edward R. Murrow as Director of USIA, Presenting the U.S. to the World: A Commemorative Symposium, Washington, D.C., October 16, 1991 (Washington, DC: U.S. Information Agency Alumni Association and the Public Diplomacy Foundation, 1992), 16. 83. Giles Scott-Smith and Martijn Mos, “Democracy Promotion and the New Public Diplomacy,” in New Directions in U.S. Foreign Policy, ed. Inderjeet Parmar, Linda B. Miller, and Mark Ledwidge (New York: Routledge, 2009), 227. Scott-Smith and Mos here summarize Jan Melissen, ed., The New Public Diplomacy: Soft Power in International Relations (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2005), 12–13. See also Philip Seib, ed., Toward a New Public Diplomacy: Redirecting U.S. Foreign Policy (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009); Frank Hodsoll, “Issue Briefs: Cultural Engagement in a Networked World,” Journal of Arts Management, Law and Society 39, no. 4 (2010): 280–

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81; and Anne-Marie Slaughter, “America’s Edge: Power in the Networked Century,” Foreign Affairs 88, no. 1 (2009): 112. 84. Nicholas Cull, “Public Diplomacy: Seven Lessons for Its Future from Its Past,” Place Branding and Public Diplomacy 6, no. 1 (2010): 15. 85. Asst. Secretary of State for Public Affairs Andrew Berding, Address to Seattle Bar Association and American Association for the United Nations, 12 November 1958, State Department Bulletin 39 (1958): 955–59. 86. Further: “Iran is a respected member of the free world community, including CENTO, and a valued ally of the United States”; “It is advantageous to Iranians to maintain a realistic awareness of the threat of Communist encroachment and subversion”; “The U.S. is strong, dynamic, and democratic.” Field Message, USIS Tehran to USIA Washington, 8 February 1965, folder Iran 1 of 2, Records of the Office of Exhibits, Entry A1–1039, RG 306, NA. 87. Cull, “Public Diplomacy,” 15. See also Brown, “Purposes and CrossPurposes.”

Selected Bibliography

The endnotes list further literature, including materials about particular places, individual musicians, and specific musical groups. I. II. III. IV.

Archives Interviews Published Sources U.S. Government Publications

i. archives Bentley Historical Library, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor CBS News Archives, New York Duquesne University Tamburitzans Archives, Pittsburgh, PA Institute of Jazz Studies, John Cotton Dana Library, Rutgers University, Newark, NJ Library of Congress, Washington, DC Louis Armstrong House Museum, Queens, NY National Archives at College Park, College Park, MD New York Public Library, Music Division, New York Oberlin College Archives, Oberlin, OH University of Arkansas Library, Special Collections, Fayetteville University of South Carolina Music Library, Columbia Kislak Center for Special Collections, Rare Books and Manuscripts, University of Pennsylvania, Philadelphia

ii. interviews Stephen Ackert, 15 November 2013 Steve Addiss, 21 May 2014 299


Lanny Austin, 12 June 2006 Joy Blackett, 16 November 2013 Michael Boerner, 27 February 2009 Barry Campbell, 25 August 2008 Richard Crawford, 10 April 2006 Susie Crofut, 3 May 2013 Wilber England, 15 June 2006 Carole Scherer Enright, 16 November 2013 Bruce Fisher, 18 July 2006 Patricia French, 29 May 2012 Dennis Garrels, 14 June 2006 Harlan Geiser, 14 August 2008 Marc Gottlieb, 23 January 2011 Rudy Grasha, 13 March 2012 Shelley Gruskin, 3 November 2011 Dianne Haley, 15 November 2013 Brent Herhold, 13 June 2006 Lee Irwin, 15 November 2013 Tom Jenkins, 2 September 2008 Harold Jones, 2 May 2012 Christine Jordanoff, 29 May 2012 Marvin Keenze, 7 December 2011 Richard Kleinfeldt, 20 August 2008 David Kolar, 28 March 2012 Walter Kolar, 29 May 2012 Kyle Lehning, 15 December 2008 Joe Mallare, 14 June 2006 Rob Roy McGregor, 12 June 2006 Alan Mendelson, 26 January 2009 John Miller, 11 June 2006 Dan Morgenstern, 13 May 2011 David Morrow, 27 July 2008 Barbara Muller, 16 November 2013 Tom Pellaton, 16 November 2013 Ron Post, 1 July 2006 Matthew Ruggiero, 26 November 2011 Jack Russell, 15 November 2013 Alma Schueler, 16 December 2008 Carol Oncley Sedgwick, 15 November 2013 Barbara Dee Silva, 15 November 2013 Susan Migden Socolow, 15 January 2008 Charles Suber, 25 April 2008 David Swain, 16 November 2013 Jane Taylor, 20 January 2012


Paul Winter, 2 January 2013 Sheila Yeomans, 15 November 2013

iii. published sources Adler, Judith. “Travel as Performed Art.” American Journal of Sociology 94, no. 6 (1989): 1366–91. Aguilar, Manuela. Cultural Diplomacy and Foreign Policy: German-American Relations, 1955–1968. New York: Peter Lang, 1996. Ahrendt, Rebekah, Mark Ferraguto, and Damien Mahiet, eds. Music and Diplomacy from the Early Modern Era to the Present. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, forthcoming. Anderson, Benedict. Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism. London: Verso, 1991. Anderson, Carol. “The Histories of African Americans’ Anti-colonialism in the Cold War.” In The Cold War and the Third World, edited by Robert McMahon, 178–91. New York: Oxford University Press, 2013. Anderson, Iain. This Is Our Music: Free Jazz, the Sixties, and American Culture. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2007. Ansari, Emily Abrams. “‘Masters of the President’s Music’: Cold War Composers and the United States Government.” PhD diss., Harvard University, 2009. ———. “Musical Americanism, Cold War Consensus Culture, and the U.S.U.S.S.R. Composers’ Exchange, 1958–60.” Musical Quarterly 97, no. 2 (2014): doi:10.1093/musqtl/gdu006. ———. “ ‘A Serious and Delicate Mission’: American Orchestras, American Composers, and Cold War Diplomacy in Europe.” In Crosscurrents: American and European Music in Interaction, 1900–2000, edited by Felix Meyer, Carol J. Oja, Wolfgang Rathert, and Anne C. Shreffler, 287–98. Basel: Paul Sacher Stiftung, 2014. ———. “Shaping the Policies of Cold War Musical Diplomacy: An Epistemic Community of American Composers.” Diplomatic History 36, no. 1 (2012): 41–52. Arndt, Richard. The First Resort of Kings: American Cultural Diplomacy in the Twentieth Century. Dulles, VA: Potomac, 2005. Arsenault, Amelia, and Geoffrey Cowan. “Moving from Monologue to Dialogue to Collaboration: The Three Layers of Public Diplomacy.” Annals of the American Academy of Political and Social Science 616 (March 2008): 10–30. Arts, Bas, Math Noortmann, and Bob Reinalda, eds. Non-state Actors in International Relations. Aldershot: Ashgate, 2001. Askew, Kelly. Performing the Nation: Swahili Music and Cultural Politics in Tanzania. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2002. Aucoin, Amanda Wood. “Deconstructing the American Way of Life: Soviet Responses to Cultural Exchange and American Information Activity during the Khrushchev Years.” PhD diss., University of Arkansas, May 2001.


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Cultural Series 59 (1958). Reprinted from the Department of State Bulletin, 21 July 1958. Cultural Diplomacy. DOS Publication 6887. International Information and Cultural Series 70 (1959). Cultural Presentations USA 1966–1967: A Report to the Congress and the Public by the Advisory Committee on the Arts, with an Added Section on Athletic Programs. DOS Publication 8365. International Information and Cultural Series 95 (1968). Cultural Presentations USA 1967–1968: A Report to the Congress and the Public by the Advisory Committee on the Arts, with an Added Section on Athletic Programs. DOS Publication 8438. International Information and Cultural Series 98 (1969). Departments of State and Justice, the Judiciary, and Related Agencies Appropriations for 1960: Hearings Before the Subcommittee on Appropriations, House of Representatives, Eighty-Sixth Congress, First Session. 27 April 1959. Educational and Cultural Diplomacy, 1960. Bureau of Educational and Cultural Affairs, Department of State. DOS Publication 7259. International Information and Cultural Series 79 (1961). Educational and Cultural Diplomacy, 1961. DOS Publication 7437. International Educational and Cultural Series 82 (1962). Educational and Cultural Diplomacy, 1962. DOS Publication 7612. International Educational and Cultural Series 85 (1963). Educational and Cultural Diplomacy, 1963. DOS Publication 7765. International Educational and Cultural Series 87 (1964). Educational and Cultural Diplomacy, 1964. DOS Publication 7979. International Educational and Cultural Series 89 (1965). Educational and Cultural Diplomacy, 1965. DOS Publication 8160. International Information and Cultural Series 92 (1966). The Educational and Cultural Exchange Program: 24th Semiannual Report to Congress, July 1–December 31, 1959. DOS Publication 7053. International Information and Cultural Series 74 (1960). Espinosa, J. Manuel. Inter-American Beginnings of U.S. Cultural Diplomacy, 1936–1948. Cultural Relations Programs of the U.S. Department of State, Historical Studies, no. 2. DOS Publication 8854. International Information and Cultural Series no. 110 (1976). Frankel, Charles. “The Era of Educational and Cultural Relations.” Department of State Bulletin 54 (6 June 1966): 889–97. Republished as DOS Publication 8093. International Information and Cultural Series 91 (1966). International Educational and Cultural Exchange. Serial. Published by the U.S. Advisory Commission on International Educational and Cultural Affairs, 1965–78. International Educational and Cultural Exchange: A Human Contribution to the Structure of Peace. DOS Publication 8757. International Information and Cultural Series 106 (1974).


International Understanding . . . through the Performing Arts: A Report on the Cultural Presentations Program of the Department of State, July 1, 1963– June 30, 1964: A Report to the Congress and the Public by the Advisory Committee on the Arts. DOS Publication 7819. International Information and Cultural Series 88 (1965). Inventory of Recent Publications and Research Studies in the Field of International Educational and Cultural Affairs. Serial. CU Reference Center, Public Information and Reports Staff, Bureau of Educational and Cultural Affairs, Department of State. Larsen, Roy, and Glenn Wolfe. Report of Survey, Cultural Presentations Program, for the U.S. Advisory Commission on International Educational and Cultural Affairs. Summary in International Understanding . . . through the Performing Arts: A Report on the Cultural Presentations Program of the Department of State, July 1, 1963–June 30, 1964. A Report to the Congress and the Public by the Advisory Committee on the Arts. DOS Publication 7819, International Information and Cultural Series 88 (1965). McMahon, Arthur W. Memorandum on the Postwar International Information Program of the United States. DOS Publication 2438 (1945). ProQuest LLC. ProQuest Congressional Publications. Public Diplomacy and the Future: Hearings Before the Subcommittee on International Operations of the Committee on International Relations, House of Representatives, Ninety-Fifth Congress, First Session (June, 1977). Strengthening Cultural Bonds between Nations . . . through the Performing Arts: A Report on the Cultural Presentations Program of the Department of State, July 1, 1964–June 30, 1965. DOS Publication 8038. International Information and Cultural Series 90 (1966). The United States Information Agency: A Commemoration. Washington, DC: United States Information Agency, 2000. The United States through the Eyes of Soviet Tourists. Committee Print, Subcommittee to Investigate the Administration of the Internal Security Act and Other Internal Security Laws, Committee on the Judiciary, U.S. Senate, 86th Cong., 2nd sess. Washington, DC: U.S. Government Printing Office, 1960. U.S. Department of State, Office of the Historian. Foreign Relations of the United States (FRUS).


Adams, Joey, 36, 37 Addiss, Steve, 155–61, 156fig., 216 “advanced” music. See avant-garde advertising, 7, 12, 43, 145. See also media; mediation; press; radio Advisory Committee on the Arts, 10, 16, 23, 143–44, 176 affluence, 95, 198, 238n52 Afghanistan, 87 Africa, 35, 36, 38, 40–41, 47, 156, 158; African music performed by Americans, 80, 132; African American performers in, 78, 105–6, 131, 148–152; jazz performances in, 86–87, 88, 91, 109; national ensembles, 221; as source for jazz, 80, 81, 84, 86–87; stereotypes of, 9, 38–39, 41, 134; students in Soviet Union, 95 African Americans: comments on race relations, 93, 95, 99, 107–12, 117–19, 121, 151, 216, 262–3n109; as diplomats, 19, 77, 93–95, 100, 101– 122, 148–52, 214; as performers of classical music, 77, 126, 135; singing groups, 126, 127fig., 153–55; stereotypes of, 120, 126; in U.S. media, 101–117, 120. See also civil rights African-American music. See blues; classical music; folk; gospel; jazz; rock ’n’ roll; spirituals

Allen, Betty, 129–130 amateurism: diplomatic, 13–15, 215– 22, 223–25, 233n48, 294n49; musical, 15, 66–67, 70 American Composers’ Alliance, 52 American Indian, 152–53 American National Theatre and Academy (ANTA), 10, 24, 80, 118 American-Scandinavian Foundation, 66 American Specialists program, 10, 13, 31, 32–33, 47–48, 49–51, 57, 66–68, 71, 241n2, 245n83, 246n92 American Trio, 30 Anderson, Benedict, 218–19 Anderson, Marian, 1, 7, 43, 128, 208; as ambassador, 19, 101–2, 103, 109– 22, 115fig., 151, 214–15, 216; on civil rights, 109–12, 216, 262–3n109 anti-Americanism, 62, 98–99 anti-Communism, 123, 136, 138–42, 160–161, 180, 202 Apollo 11, 198 Argentina, 30, 35, 117, 118, 130 Armstrong, Louis, 28, 77, 80, 86–87, 104fig., 106fig., 188; as ambassador, 19, 101–110, 117–122, 151, 214, 258n31; on race relations, 107–8, 117–19, 121, 122 art music. See classical music Asahi Broadcasting Corporation, 49, 51 315

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Asia: classical music in, 17, 48, 49–65, 223, national ensembles, 221; religion in, 19, 125, 133–42, Southeast, 1, 18, 35, 155–161; Soviet propaganda in, 18, 36, 168; U.S. perceptions of, 50, 115–17, 214–15; U.S. tours to 12, 33, 36, 40, 109–12, 125, 133–42, 148–52, 155–59, 208, 210. See also Vietnam War Asia Foundation, 54–55, 64 aspirations: of African-American musicians, 88, 100; of people in host countries, 25, 45, 47, 65, 74 Australia, 38–39 Austria, 31, 48, 49, 59, 161 Avakian, George, 102–3, 253n95 avant-garde: art music and dance, 24–25, 30–35, 34fig., 37, 38, 68–69, 129, 132; jazz, 18, 89–90; in Soviet Union, 184–85, 190 Bach, Johann Sebastian, 64, 139, 202 ballet: American Ballet Theatre 178– 79; Balanchine, 179; Bolshoi, 28, 35, 168, 171, 174, 175, 178; Kirov, 178; national companies, 221; New York City Ballet, 178, 195; Robert Joffrey Ballet, 178, 179; San Francisco Ballet, 8, 168 Bangladesh (East Pakistan), 82, 87, 93, 97fig. Barber, Samuel, 25, 32, 38, 53, 71 Barshai Chamber Orchestra, 177–78, 201 Bartók, Béla, 49 Basie, William “Count,” 80, 82, 189 Bassett, Leslie, 184–85 Beam, Jacob, 193 Beers Family Trio, 153 Beethoven, Ludwig van, 38, 51, 53 Belafonte, Harry, 154, 273n67 Bellari, Shashi, 91 Berding, Andrew H., 23 Berg, Alban, 32, 49, 53 Bernstein, Leonard, 24, 106, 180–183, 184, 199, 201 Billings, William, 38

Blood, Sweat and Tears, 161–65, 271n27 blues, 19, 80, 88, 106, 148–152 Boerner, Michael, 15 Bolivia, 15 Bolshoi: Ballet, 28, 35, 168, 171, 174, 175, 178; Opera, 175; Theater, 179 books, 13, 71, 42–43, 145, 197, 208 Boorstin, Daniel, 205–7, 209–10, 215– 16, 218, 224, 295n55 Boston Symphony Orchestra, 12, 17, 26, 27–28, 28–29, 170, 178, 292n7; Chamber Players, 191, 195–96, 211 Bowles, Chester, 75 Bowman, Heath, 186 Brahms, Johannes, 38, 140 Brazil, 29, 42, 89, 130, 133 Brezhnev, Leonid, 201–2 briefing, 13–14, 99, 198–99 broadcasting, 27, 166, 180–83, 205–9, 214, 218–19. See also radio; television; USIA; Voice of America Brown, Earle, 31 Brubeck, Dave, 77, 80, 86, 90–91, 93, 106, 215 Buddhism, 125, 139 Burma (Myanmar), 126, 158 Cage, John, 31, 236n10 calypso, 80 Cambodia, 1, 4, 6, 79 Cameroon, 40 Caribbean, 212 Carter, Elliott, 71, 72 Catholicism, 57–58, 109, 125, 127 Central Intelligence Agency (CIA), 10, 124 Ceylon (Sri Lanka), 33 chamber music, 31–32, 34, 38–42, 62, 71, 72, 73, 164, 191, 195 charity, 7, 137, 151 Chicago Symphony Orchestra, 28 children, 4, 38, 41, 110, 116–17, 158, 259n47 China, 13, 18, 26, 28, 55, 137, 176, 208 choral singing, 19, 124–142, 184–85 churches, 125, 136–141

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civil rights, U.S.: as international concern, 18–19, 77, 94–96, 101, 104– 5, 119–22, 154, 165, 259n46, 294n43; opinions in U.S., 104–5, 113–14, 119– 20, 135, 165; as story of progress, 84, 86, 110–12, 210, 259n46; U.S. musicians’ comments on, 99, 107–8, 109–12, 117–19, 121, 122, 151, 154, 157–58, 216, 262–3n109 Claremont Quartet, 38, 39, 40, 42, 211 Clarion Concerts Chamber Orchestra, 177–78, 201 classical music: in Africa, 39–42, 77–78; African American performers of, 93, 101, 113, 128–30; American-composed, 24, 38, 48, 49, 52–53, 54, 56, 72–73, 78, 176–77, 238n47; in Asia, 33–34, 42–44, 49–65; in Cultural Presentations program, 16–17, 18, 113; as development aid, 47–76; in Europe, 49, 66–73; European norms for, 23, 24, 26, 36, 45–46, 54–56, 57, 59–61, 70; general audiences and, 7, 18, 24, 39–40; as “highest art,” 23, 24, 38, 45, 54–56, 78; in Latin America, 25, 29, 30, 38, 39, 127, 170; in mixed programs, 124, 126–28; prestige of, 23–46, 124, 126–27, 220, 223; singers, 1, 17, 19, 29, 78, 119–20, 125, 128–31; as “universal,” 17–18, 24, 46, 54, 74. See also chamber music; choral singing; conductors; opera; orchestras Cleveland Orchestra 26, 28 closed cities, 174–75 Cole, “Cozy,” 36–37, 81 Cole, Nat “King,” 108 college. See university colonialism, 8, 25, 35–36, 41–42, 48, 56, 58–63, 77, 105, 158; of U.S. persons toward others, 134–35; of U.S. toward musicians, 81 comedy, 36 Commission on Fine Arts (U.S.), 10 communication, 20, 102, 144, 167, 201, 217, 219, 222–5; barriers to, 11, 222.

See also engagement; feedback; media Communism: fall of, 166, 184, 202; front groups, 14, 213–14; as godless, 116, 123, 173; religious resistance against, 139, 141; in Southeast Asia, 157, 158; subversion of, 124, 219; U.S. fears of, 168, 169, 172, 198, 201; youth involvement, 196, 213–14. See also anti-Communism competition: U.S.-Europe, 31; U.S.Soviet 12–13, 28, 35, 55, 67–68, 167, 176–80, 182–83, 198, 200 Composers’ Recordings, Inc. (CRI), 52, 69, 70 condescension: toward audiences, 41, 47, 59, 61, 128, 190; toward musicians, 81–82 conductors, 23, 32; as American Specialists, 10, 46, 47–48; Rudolf Barshai, 177–78; Leonard Bernstein, 24, 106, 180–183, 184, 199, 201; Igor Buketoff, 67–68; Antal Dorati, 7; in Iceland, 67–68; in Japan, 52, 53–4, 141, 242n18; Newell Jenkins, 177–78; in the Philippines, 57, 60, 62–63, 139; in Poland, 71–73, 248n128; Soviet, 177–78; William Strickland, 17, 47–76, 58fig., 206, 223; in Thailand, 141; training of, 70–73, 75, 136–42; in Vietnam, 63–65; John Finley Williamson, 133–42 Congo, Democratic Republic of the, 40, 87, 88, 150 Congress, U.S.: anti-Communist laws, 169–71; citizen complaints to, 19, 37, 79, 96–98, 108, 118, 162, 188–89; criticism of cultural presentations, 31, 37, 108, 118, 164, 169, 172; funding for cultural presentations, 3, 11, 111, 124, 167, 176, 186, 203, 224, 295n57; positive views of cultural presentations, 100, 124–25, 148; State Department reports to, 10–11, 37–38, 177, 197; support for jazz, 98, 100

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connoisseurship, 42–43; and jazz, 18, 78, 81, 82, 86–93, 189–90 Conover, Willis, 87, 144, 199 consulates, U.S. See Foreign Service officers consumerism, 44–45 Contemporary Chamber Ensemble, 34–35 conventions: diplomatic, 36, 94, 165, 209, 216; musical, 36, 54, 56, 59, 61, 63, 216 Copland, Aaron, 24, 25, 32, 35, 38, 47, 49, 54, 66, 73, 128–29, 282n66 Costa Rica, 130 Cowell, Henry, 47, 54, 66, 71 Cowell, Sidney, 71 Creston, Paul, 31, 41 Crofut, Bill, 155–61, 156fig., 216 crowd control, 19–20, 90, 105–6, 146, 150–51, 163 Cuban Missile Crisis, 195, 201 Cull, Nicholas, 230n20, 232–33n41 Cullather, Nick, 63 Cultural Affairs Officer (CAO). See Foreign Service officers Cultural Presentations program: aims, 4, 11–13, 16, 33–36, 41–42, 144, 167, 218, 219, 223; distinct from American Specialists, 47–48; effectiveness, 21, 222–23, 224; organization, 2, 9–11, 13, 118; political risks of participation, 158– 61, 162, 164–65; selection of music, 9–10, 78; U.S. observers’ engagement with, 20–21, 102, 107– 8, 112–18, 122, 179, 184, 200–1, 214–16, 220–21; U.S. observers’ concerns about, 19, 37, 79, 96–100, 107–8, 118, 162, 172–74, 188–89, 258n31. See also Foreign Service officers; Larsen-Wolfe report; Music Advisory Panel Cunningham, Merce: Dance Company, 25, 31, 35, 38, 236n10 currency, hard, 72, 168 Cyprus, 147, 148 Czechoslovakia, 12, 26, 184

Dahomey (Benin), 132 dance, 41, 47, 176, 194, 221, 239n53, 245n79; Alwin Nikolais Dance Theatre, 33, 34fig.; ballet, 8, 28, 35, 65, 168, 171, 174, 175, 178–80, 195; Cold War competition in, 28, 168, 178–180, 195; discouraged at U.S.sponsored events, 19–20, 146–47, 150–51, 163, 193; discouraged in Soviet Union, 190, 192–93; engaging crowds, 89fig., 149–50; folk, 152, 172–73, 192–93; Igor Moiseyev State Folk Dance Ensemble, 172–73, 175, 278n14; Merce Cunningham Dance Company, 25, 31, 35, 236n10; vs. “serious” activity, 37, 78, 79, 189 Darmstadt Summer Courses for New Music, 32 Davis, Sammy, Jr., 107–8 Debussy, Claude, 66 decolonization, 18, 36, 105–6, 132, 134, 151–52, 158, 220–21. See also colonialism Deep River Boys, 126, 131 Defense, Department of, 10; as sponsor of tours, 2 democracy: and avant-garde, 34; cultural presentations as demonstration of, 15, 115, 135; jazz and, 77, 84–86, 94–95, 100 Denmark, 66, 68 Der Derian, James, 20 De Paris, Wilbur, 88, 89fig., 92–93, 95 De Paur, Leonard, 132, 222 Department of State. See State Department détente, 167, 200–3 development aid, 17, 47–76 Diamond, David, 247n119 diplomacy, 20, 207; and media, 205–18; musical, 216, 218; staging of, 102, 105–6, 183, 206 discipline, 58–60, 66, 70 Ditson Fund for New Music, 52, 71 Dixieland, 18, 80, 81, 82, 83, 91 Dominican Republic, 212

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Dorian Woodwind Quintet, 33, 40, 42, 80 Dorsey, Thomas, 152–53, 154 Driftwood, Jimmy, 153, 154 DuBois, W. E. B., 99 Dudziak, Mary, 116, 259n46, 294n43 Dulles, John Foster, 138–39, 140, 172, 186, 263n4 Duquesne University Tamburitzans, 192–94, 198, 221 early music, 38, 130, 177–78, 196, 282n74 Eastman: Philharmonia, 194; School of Music, 23Eaton, John, 35 Ecuador, 87, 93, 174 Edensor, Tim, 199 education: African American access to, 77, 94; as cultural presentations strategy, 39–44, 46, 47; outreach to music students, 51–52, 56, 63–65, 74, 140–41, 195–96; and social diversity, 35–36; U.S. excellence in, 14, 23. See also lecture-demonstration; master class; workshop Egypt (United Arab Republic), 9, 38, 40–41, 130, 132, 145, 153–54, 168, 170 Eisenhower, Dwight, 78, 107, 116, 121, 123–24, 171, 208 Eldridge, Roy, 80 electronic music, 33, 184 elites: political, 234n55; social, 15, 18, 45; as target audience for cultural presentations, 24, 35, 36, 39–40, 59–62, 74, 92, 143–44; in U.S. music selection, 16, 17, 23, 78, 217 Ellington, Edward “Duke,” 80, 81, 82, 90, 91–92, 93, 189, 215, 266n44 Ellison, Charles, 216–17 embassies, U.S. See Foreign Service officers engagement: with audiences, 89, 91–92, 149–152, 156–58; via choral singing, 19, 126; diplomatic, 166, 182–83, 200–3; with the enemy, 167, 171, 181, 182, 195, 198, 199, 200,

201, 202, 222; in global scenes, 12, 17–18, 20–21, 55, 60, 64, 70, 74, 75, 187, 212–15, 218–22, 224–25; immediacy of, 18, 27, 74–76, 196; in local social networks, 4–6, 21, 89–92; mediated, 20–22, 27, 103–105, 116– 17, 120, 167, 207; “new public diplomacy” and, 224, 229n5; personal experience of, 211–12, 220, 223; as political work, 158–59, 211– 12, 215, 219–20; through shared goals, 56, 62, 70, 74–76, 231–2n33; social conventions for, 14–15, 216; Soviet barriers to, 190–92, 193, 194, 195, 198, 222; with Soviet musicians, 177, 187, 188, 197fig., 198; of Soviet musicians with U.S. public, 200; with Soviet public, 189, 190, 194–200. See also imagined community; participation entertainment, 36–38, 41, 78, 93, 108, 118, 126, 132, 143–44, 145, 148–50; demand for, 7, 127, 144; opposed to politics, 14, 118, 159, 160 Ethiopia, 28, 95 Europe: expatriates from, 27, 37, 92; jazz in, 79, 102–3; as “norm,” 28, 45–46, 54–56, 59, 63; as origin of classical music, 23, 24, 38, 55, 68, 75; political uses of music in, 220 Europe, Eastern, 12, 48, 67–68, 70, 84–85, 203, 219; avant-garde music in, 32–33, 71–72; censorship in, 166; competing performances from, 1, 168, 176, 193; jazz in, 83, 103; musical diplomacy from, 176, 221; religion in, 124, 125; rock ’n’ roll in, 161–64; as target audience for cultural presentations, 2, 12, 170–71; U.S. folk music in 156, 161; U.S. views of, 172–74. See also Soviet Union Europe, Western, 15; preference for avant-garde music in, 31–32; stereotypes of America, 17, 30, 48, 82; U.S. tours in, 17, 37–38, 48–49, 132, 161, 170

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exhibits: at Sokolniki Park, 174, 186; USIA, 82, 83fig., 145–47 expense, 17, 44, 79, 108, 169, 170, 211, 212, 238n52 experimental music. See avant-garde failure: risks of, 7, 9, 34–35, 37; of U.S. presentations, 3, 29–30, 87 fame: as reward for participation, 54, 55; of U.S. musicians, 15, 27–28, 42–43, 90, 91, 92 Feather, Leonard, 187, 287n140 Federal Bureau of Investigations (FBI), 10 feedback to U.S. from abroad, 8, 18, 26, 27–30, 45–46, 82, 184, 213–14 films, 43, 90, 101–7, 106fig., 110–12, 128, 130, 152, 206 Fine, Vivian, 54 fingerprinting, 169–71 Finland, 48, 50, 66, 68–70; jazz in, 82, 90 flow: cultural, 8, 17–18, 207, 217, 219; information, 4, 5fig., 6fig., 171, 174 folk music: 19–20, 23, 36, 37, 132, 133, 152–61, 192; American Indian, 152– 53, 192; Americans performing others’, 130, 154–55, 156–7, 193–94, 216, 221; authenticity, 153, 155; jazz as, 82, 83–4; national ensembles, 221; revival, 153–58, 160; spirituals as, 126, 128, 130–31, 192 Foreign Service officers: assessment of cultural presentations, 1–3, 223, 224; in Cultural Presentations program, 1–2, 4–5, 9, 13, 14, 15–16, 62, 90–92, 145, 147, 149, 207–8, 217, 222–23, 193, 195; recruited through Cultural Presentations program, 212; relationships with local people, 4–5, 6fig., 7, 21, 36–37, 160–61, 212–13, 229n8; in selection of musicians, 3, 10, 29–30, 31, 36–37, 39, 44–45, 88, 126, 128–29, 130, 144, 164, 231n28; use of media, 207–8 Frankel, Charles, 11, 41–42, 159, 179– 80, 207

Frankenstein, Alfred, 23 freedom, 132, 184, 201, 211; African Americans and, 111, 132–33, 190; artistic representation of, 33, 34fig., 185; avant-garde as, 31–33, 184–85; jazz and, 77, 84–86, 94, 97, 98, 184– 85, 190; of speech and action, 94, 98, 119, 121, 162–64, 198, 216; in U.S. evaluations of Soviet life, 169, 185, 190, 201, 203 Fulbright award, 10, 49 fund-raising: for performing groups abroad, 48, 56, 60, 62–63, 64; for recordings, 52, 69, 71 Garment, Leonard, 199–200 George, Zelma, 21–22, 208 Germany: jazz 8, 103; press, 182; propaganda under National Socialism, 85, 217, 220 Gershwin, George, 32; Porgy and Bess, 78, 154, 170, 184 gift: cultural presentations as, 9, 44, 61, 207, 212–13, 219, 220; economy, 26, 27, 29, 39, 44–45 Ghana (Gold Coast), 89fig., 95–96, 105–6, 106fig. Gilels, Emil, 169–70, 200, 279n21 Gillespie, Dizzy, 28, 77; engagement with public, 90, 92, 94; historical jazz programs, 82, 84, 85; reception 85–6, 87, 93, 97, 98–99; tour planning and publicity, 78–80, 95, 97fig., 97–99 globalization, 6, 20–21, 50, 205, 207, 214–15, 217, 218–22, 224–5 global scenes, 20–21, 55, 60, 64, 70, 74, 75, 187, 212, 214–15, 218–22, 224–5 Go, Julian, 60 Golden Gate Quartet, 1, 43, 126, 127fig., 128, 145, 206 Goodman, Benny, 1, 77, 80, 83, 95, 185, 186, 187, 188–190, 254n106 Goskontsert, 171, 177, 185, 191–92, 193 gospel, 1, 132 Gray, Herman, 120, 260n63

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Greece, 79, 82, 98–99, 146, 147, 161, 170 Guy, Buddy, 148–152 Hamline University Choir, 127 Handel, George Frideric, 64, 137, 139 Hanson, Howard, 23 harmonica, 1, 149 Harris, Roy, 176 Harvard Glee Club, 131 Haydn, Joseph, 38, 40, 51 heritage, 81, 100, 126, 222 Herman, Woody: Jazz Band, 153–54, 168 Herzog, Jonathan, 123 hierarchy of styles, 23, 25, 37, 45–46; jazz in, 78, 79, 82, 85; in mixed programs, 88–89, 124, 126–28; popular music in, 143–44, 146, 147– 48, 149 Hines, Earl “Fatha,” 80, 81, 88, 95, 187, 191 Honduras, 155, 168 Hong Kong, 128, 137, 138, 139, 149, 152, 208 Hoover, Herbert, Jr., 12 Horne, Lena, 107 Hovhaness, Alan, 41 Howard University Choir, 130, 133 Howe, Mary, 64 Huff, Thomas, 146, 148, 231n28 Hungary, 33, 161, 173, 174 Hurok, Sol, 121, 168–69, 169fig., 170, 175, 178, 279n34 Ibert, Jacques, 40 Iceland, 48, 66–68, 130 ice skating, 7, 230n16 Ilori, Solomon, 40 imagined community, 3–4, 39, 46, 91–92, 202, 213, 218–19, 224–25 imperialism, 6, 8, 75, 96, 140, 164 implicit endorsement, 94, 121, 162, 210 improvisation, jazz, 80, 85, 90, 146, 184 India, 7, 16, 33, 116, 138, 156–57, 230n16; Marian Anderson interview in, 111–12, 121–22; jazz in, 80,

90–91, 93; Westminster Choir in, 134, 135, 137, 138 Indonesia, 138, 151, 152 infiltration: Soviet, in Latin America, 168; of Soviet Union, 20, 166–67, 183–190, 192, 197, 201, 202 insecurity, 38, 69, 213 instruments: introduction to, 40, 80–81, 88, 153; as metaphor for democracy, 85; need for, 56, 57–58, 90, 137, 195 intellectuals: critiques of cultural presentations, 37, 99, 152; as target audience for cultural presentations, 31, 37, 91, 143, 152, 185 International Information Administration (IIA), 4, 5fig., 217, 232n41, 293n22 Iran, 90, 136, 145–46, 148, 212 Iraq, 29 Israel, 170 Italy, 182 Ives, Charles, 68–69, 71, 72–73, 184–85 Jackson, Mahalia, 132 Jacobs, Paul, 31 jam sessions, 6, 18, 85, 90, 149, 190, 191, 212 Japan, 135, 211, choral singing, 138– 42; composers, 53–55; jazz in, 28, 79, 83; labor unions, 140–141; musicians’ reputation in, 42–43; opinion of American performers in, 27–28, 30, 48, 133–34, 141, 145; orchestras, 48, 49, 50, 51–56, 68, 71, 75; Soviet cultural diplomacy in, 168, 236n21 Japan-America Society, 53 jazz, 1, 18, 77–100, 101, 102–3, 145–48, 153–54; in Africa, 86–87, 88, 89fig., 91, 109; as America’s classical music, 79–84, 98–100, 221; appeal of, 8, 15–16, 83fig., 96–97; avant-garde, 18, 89–90; connoisseurs, 18, 185, 189–90; and democracy, 77, 84–86, 94–95, 100; in Eastern Europe, 32; effects of Cultural Presentations

322 / INDEX

jazz (continued) program on, 96–100, 157, 215; festivals, 98, 155, 185; as folk music, 82, 83–4; freedom and, 77, 84–86, 94, 97, 98, 184–85, 190; historical programs of, 79–84, 190, 221; mediation of, 79–84, 98–99; popular styles of, 18, 36; and race, 18–19, 103–105, 108, 118; in Soviet Union, 80, 88, 95, 108–9, 170, 183–190, 200; U.S. government advocacy for, 93–100; U.S. public opinion of, 37, 79–80, 96–98, 108, 186; as weapon, 102, 186, 188 Jenkins, Newell, 177–78 Johnson, Lyndon, 158–59, 179, 203, 212 Jordan, 130 Jubilee Singers, 154 Juilliard School, 23, 39, 52, 143, 154, 162 Kaminsky, Max, 92 Katims, Milton, 23 Kay, Ulysses, 176 Kelly, Gene, 47 Kennedy, John F., 11, 39, 40, 201 Kenya (East Africa Protectorate), 9, 40–41, 128, 150, 156, 158 KGB, 184, 200 Khachaturian, Aram, 176, 177, 181, 182 Khan, N. M., 7–8 Khrennikov, Tikhon, 177 Khrushchev, Nikita, 185, 201 Kirshenblatt-Gimblett, Barbara, 99–100, 207, 210 Kirstein, Lincoln, 195 Kissinger, Henry, 206–7, 218, 222 Kitt, Eartha, 107 Klein, Christina, 50 Korea, South, 48, 49–50, 55, 62, 64, 115fig., 136, 137, 138, 140 Kupferman, Meyer, 41 Lacy, William, 171, 186 Lacy-Zarubin agreement, 108, 170–76, 186, 192–93, 202, 279–80n34 Laos, 134, 149, 156

Larsen-Wolfe report, 24, 36, 37, 144, 176, 232n40 La Salle Quartet, 32, 38 Lassus, Orlande de, 130 Latin America, 2, 192; Louis Armstrong in, 119, 121; audience expectations, 35, 87, 130; classical music in, 25, 29, 30, 38, 127, 170; musicians’ reminiscences of, 211, 212, 215; propaganda in, 14, 18, 36; U.S. folk music in, 192; U.S. relations with, 173, 174, 212 Laves, Walter, 219–20 Lebanon, 145 lectures, 10, 47, 206; on classical music, 31, 43, 57, 73; on folk music, 153; on jazz, 79, 80, 82, 85–86, 148, 187; on popular music, 145, 150, 271n12; on spirituals, 22 lecture-demonstrations, 22, 40–41, 47, 80, 82, 148, 149, 153, 187–88 Legarda, Trinidad, 56, 57–58, 60, 64 Liberia, 9, 40 Library of Congress, 10 light music, 23. See also popular music Little Orchestra Society, 28, 43–44, 206 Little Rock, 107–10, 114–19, 120 Lloyd, Charles, 89 Lock, Edward, 45 Loth, Wilfried, 201 Lunceford, Jimmie, 80, 81, 82 Lutosławski, Witold, 71 Madagascar (Malagasy Republic), 131, 149, 151 Magdanz, James, 37 Malaya (Malaysia), 127fig., 131, 134, 136, 138, 153, 156 Manila Symphony: Orchestra, 56–63; Society, 56, 60 Mann, Herbie, 89, 215 Marsalis, Wynton, 100 master classes, 6, 48 Mauritania, 40 Mauritius, 151

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Maxwell, William, 100 McLuhan, Marshall, 205 media, 20, 42–44, 60, 165, 205–220, 222; and African Americans, 101–117, 120; jazz in 79–86, 98–99; in U.S.-Soviet relations, 166, 177–78, 180–83, 203. See also books; press; radio; recordings; television mediation, 18, 20–21, 27, 36, 42–44, 107, 198, 205–225 Mendelssohn, Felix, 53, 139 Mennin, Peter, 143, 148, 176–77, 273n67 Menotti, Gian Carlo, 49 Metropolitan Opera, 17, 29, 179; Guild, 57–58 Mexico, 35 Middle East, 38, 40, 90, 108, 132, 145, 168, 173, 174 Milhaud, Darius, 33 Millikin University Jazz Band, 89, 145–48, 161 Mingus, Charles, 88, 89, 94 Minneapolis Symphony Orchestra, 7, 29, 168 Mitchell, Dwike, 187–88 mixed programs, 37–39, 88–89; folk music in, 154–55; popular music in, 145–46, 150; sacred and secular, 124–28, 133; in the Soviet Union, 184–85, 192–94 modern: art music and dance, 24–25, 30–35, 34fig., 37, 38, 68–69, 129, 132, 190; jazz, 18, 79–80, 81–82, 89–90, 148, 187, 189–90; rock ’n’ roll, 145–48 Moiseyev, Igor: State Folk Dance Ensemble, 172–73, 173fig., 174, 175, 179, 278n14 Morocco, 36–37, 40, 92 Mos, Martijn, 223–24 Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus, 33, 41 Murrow, Edward R., 101–102, 214–15, 209, 223; film about Marian Anderson, 109–117; films about Louis Armstrong, 103–107, 104fig., 255n7, 259n47

music: as political, 84–85, 158–61, 162, 164–65, 220; as separate from politics, 11–12, 14, 75, 107, 118, 157–58, 159, 166, 181, 182, 188, 195, 203, 216, 214, 217–18, 222; social character of, 4–6, 13–16, 21–22, 198, 211–216, 219, 224. See also engagement Music Advisory Panel, 10, 17, 128; and classical music, 23, 30, 31, 33, 39–40, 133; elite membership of, 16, 17, 23, 78, 217; and entertainment music, 37, 143–44, 148; and folk music, 155; and jazz, 78, 79, 82, 98, 108 musical comedy, 37, 143 mutual understanding, 4, 11, 13, 155, 167, 173, 177–78, 181, 183, 201, 203, 217–18. See also reciprocity nation, 17, 26, 42; branding, 222; in global order, 55, 64, 220–21, 224–5; mediated representation of, 20–21, 210–11, 216, 218–22, 296n74; pride in, 60, 62, 64, 74–76; recruiting power, 215–22; and religious identity, 19, 111–13, 123–25, 126, 132–33, 136–37; representation by dissenters, 162, 165; representation by minorities, 99–100, 101–122, 126, 151–152, 153; -state, 44, 100, 215, 216, 220 National Council of Women (U.S.), 52 National Federation of Music Clubs, 52 National Gallery of Art (U.S.), 10 National Security Council, 124 National Symphony Orchestra, 30 negotiations: diplomatic, 206, 222; U.S.-Soviet, 170–71, 174–75, 185, 188–90, 192–93, 198, 200–201, 279– 80n34 Near East. See Middle East Nelson, Oliver, 86 New Orleans Symphony Orchestra, 28

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“new public diplomacy,” 223–24, 229n5 newspapers. See press New York Chamber Soloists, 38–39 New York Philharmonic, 17, 27–28, 28–29, 180–81,182–83, 184, 201, 292n7 New York Pro Musica Antiqua, 196, 199, 282n74 New Zealand, 211–12 Nichols, Red, 81 Nielsen, Carl, 66 Nigeria, 40, 222 Nikolais, Alwin: Dance Theatre, 33, 34fig. Nixon, Richard, 94, 163, 199, 201–2 nonstate actors, 13–15, 215–22, 223– 25, 233n48, 294n49 norms, 45–46, 202, 216. See also conventions North Texas State University Choir, 37–38 Norway, 48, 66, 68 Nye, Joseph, 44–45, 216 Oberlin College Choir, 196–98, 197fig., 199, 212 Office of War Information, 217 Oistrakh, David, 169–70, 279n21 Okinawa, 138 opera, 17, 57, 78, 170, 175, 179; singers, 1, 29, 78, 113, 119–20, 125, 128–30 Operations Coordinating Board, 10, 78, 171, 173, 208 orchestras: assessment of, 27–28, 30, 177–78; in Austria, 49; development aid to, 46–76; in Iceland 66–68; in Japan, 51–56; in Korea, 50; in the Philippines, 50, 56–63; in Poland, 70–73; in Scandinavia, 68–70; Soviet, 177–78; U.S., 7–8, 12, 17, 26–29, 49, 98, 106, 168, 170, 177–178, 182, 201, 208; in Vietnam, 63–65 Ormandy, Eugene, 24 Osgood, Kenneth, 218, 231n26 Pakistan, 7–8, 29, 97fig., 129fig., 138

pan-Africanism, 132, 149, 152 participation, 4–6, 75–76; by audience, 129, 149–151, 152–53, 212; in diplomacy, 216–18; in global music scenes, 25–26, 45, 46, 54, 55, 68, 70, 74, 86–87, 167, 218–22; by host country musicians in U.S. performances, 18, 90–91, 131, 147, 149, 212; by U.S. musicians in others’ music, 48, 61, 137, 147, 154, 156–57, 193–94, 216, 221 Pasternak, Boris, 180–81, 284n94 Perry, Julia, 53 Persichetti, Vincent, 247n119 Peru, 29, 35, 39 Pham Duy, 157 Philadelphia Orchestra, 27–28, 171, 200 Philippine Choral Society, 58, 60 Philippines: American Specialists program and the, 48, 49–50, 55, 56–63, 58fig., 64, 74; choral singing in 138, 139, 140; composers, 55, 57, 63, 140; cultural presentations in, 8–9, 35, 126, 130, 131, 149, 153; jazz in, 83 Phoenix Singers, 126, 153–55, 159, 222–23 Piston, Walter, 49, 178 playing together, 18, 86, 91, 213. See also jam sessions; participation Poland: American Specialists program in, 48, 70–73, 75; Ars Polona, 72, 73; conductors, 71–73, 248n128; cultural presentations in, 26, 32, 161 popular music, 19–20, 36, 41, 95, 132, 143–65; introduced into Cultural Presentations program, 18, 78, 80; as distinct from jazz, 78, 83, 87, 143, 144; in Soviet Union, 170, 192. See also blues; entertainment; folk; jazz; popular songs; rock ’n’ roll popular songs, 1, 36, 126, 128, 145–48, 154 Porgy and Bess, 78, 154, 170, 184 Porter, Quincy, 41 Portugal, 94, 145, 161

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poverty, 90, 91–92, 94, 152, 174–75, 211 Powell, Jimmy, 90 Powell, Mel, 41 power: of music, 13; social, 26, 28, 44–46, 213; soft, 4, 6, 21, 75, 216–18; of state, 13, 215–22; of U.S., 4, 8, 11, 24, 50, 203 Pratt, Mary Louise, 56 President’s Emergency Fund for International Affairs, 2, 10, 16, 29, 176. See also Cultural Presentations program press, 3, 27, 29–30, 46, 74, 180, 211, 219; African, 40, 93; Asian, 8–9, 38–39, 145, 149; Communist, 70, 152, 174; conferences, 102, 162; Eastern European 26, 33, 62, 71, 174; Latin American, 130; releases, U.S., 3, 12, 42–43, 54, 59, 207, 229n8; Soviet 172, 177, 179, 181, 182, 190, 202; U.S., circulating abroad 42–43; U.S., jazz in 86, 92, 97–98, 102, 106, 108; U.S., reception of cultural presentations, 10, 92, 158–60, 164–5, 172, 177–8, 179, 181, 188; Western European 32, 49, 66, 70, 82, 130, 179, 182 prestige: of classical music, 23–46, 54, 55–56; of famous performers, 27–28, 42–43 Prokofieff, Sergei, 53, 182 propaganda, 13, 75–76, 172, 180, 201, 214–15, 218; African Americans and, 77, 84, 96, 100, 110–11, 117, 120–22; Chinese, 13, 26; information, 4, 5fig., 6, 11–12, 44, 45, 47, 223, 224, 235n6; jazz in, 86, 118–19, 185–86, 188; perceptible, 9, 14, 19–20, 29, 182, 209–10; religion in, 123–24, 142; Soviet, 4, 12–13, 23, 26, 77, 116, 184, 189; value of arts for, 19–20, 30–35, 115 protest: audience expectations of, 151– 152, 153, 159–60; about cultural presentations, 37, 79, 151, 164–65, 172–74, 258n31; songs, 157–58;

against U.S. government, 19–20, 99–100, 107–9, 118–19, 144, 154–55, 159–163 Protestantism, 19, 113, 123, 136–37, 140, 142, 214–15 pseudo-events, 205–7, 209–11, 215 Psychological Strategy Board, 123 Public Affairs Officer (PAO). See Foreign Service officers quality: competitively assessed, 176– 180; of performances by host country’s musicians, 54, 61, 66, 69, 70; professionalism and, 155, 162; of U.S. offerings, 8–9, 12, 16, 17, 27–29, 37, 44, 45, 78, 143, 211 race, 14, 18–19, 62, 165; integrated ensembles, 18, 86, 94–96, 135, 188; perceived by U.S. observers, 110, 112–14, 119–20; prejudice among U.S. officials, 36–37, 111, 258n31; prejudice among foreign audiences, 41, 79; progress, 84, 86, 110–12, 210, 259n46; repertoire selection and, 119–120, 128–130, 153; as seen abroad, 18–19, 40, 77, 109–12, 116, 150–153, 155; segregation abroad, 211; segregation in U.S., 77, 112–13, 116, 135, 259n47; U.S. musicians’ comments about, 91–92, 95, 99, 107–12, 117–19, 121, 134, 151, 216, 262–3n109 radio, 10, 20; abroad, 27, 42, 43, 48, 52–53, 202; jamming of, 181–82; in Japan, 49, 51, 52; jazz on, 79–80, 85, 87, 90, 98; in Poland 71, 73; Radio Corporation of America (RCA), 219; in South Africa, 131; broadcasts to Soviet Union, 170, 181–82, 184; Voice of America, 43, 79–80, 87, 91, 144, 181, 190, 212 ragtime, 80 reciprocity, 11, 46, 55, 75–76, 91, 137, 138, 156–57, 158, 171 recordings, 50, 75–76, 208–9; made in Asia, 52–55, 60, 157, 242n18,

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recordings (continued) 246n94, 247n115; broadcast, 43, 52, 71, 208, 209; distribution, 13, 27, 32, 62, 70, 72–73, 75, 87, 90, 131, 145, 170, 186, 188, 206, 215; made in Europe, 49, 66, 69, 72–73; for infiltration, 185–86, 188, 190; jazz, 85, 87, 90, 102–3, 185–86, 215; as preparation for tours, 40, 42–43, 87, 194 recruiting, 90, 215–17, 219–20 religion, 19, 111–113, 116, 123–142, 194, 216; as anti-Communism, 123, 136, 138–42, 202; Buddhism, 125, 139; Catholicism, 57–58, 109, 125, 127; cultural presentations as evangelism, 116, 136–37, 139; Protestantism, 19, 113, 123, 136–37, 140, 142, 214–15; sacred music, 113, 124–25, 127, 136–40; separation of church and state, 124 Revelli, William, 143 Richardson, John, Jr., 162, 217, 219 Rimsky-Korsakov, Nikolai, 53, 178 Robeson, Paul, 154 Rockefeller Foundation, 62 rock ’n’ roll, 19–20, 83, 88, 145–48; Blood, Sweat and Tears, 161–65; repertoire, 88, 145, 146; in Soviet Union, 170, 183, 184, 192–93, 221 Rooney, John, 3 Romania, 161, 163, 193, 197, 212 Rostropovich, Mstislav, 169–170, 175, 279n21 Ruff, Willie, 187–88 Ruggles, Carl, 54 Rusk, Dean, 53, 175 Russia, 65, 140. See also Soviet Union sacred music. See religion Saigon Symphony Orchestra, 63–65 San Francisco Ballet, 8, 168 Sarnoff, David, 219 Scandinavia, 48, 50, 66–70, 75 Schlesinger, Arthur, Jr., 39 Schnitzer, Robert, 24, 80 Schoenberg, Arnold, 49

Schubart, Mark, 39 Schubert, Franz, 113, 125, 259n56 Schuller, Gunther, 31, 33 Schuman, William, 23, 31, 38 Schuyler, Philippa, 78 scores: distribution of, 13, 32, 62, 68, 70–73, 131, 238n47, 247n119; as gifts, 178 Scott-Smith, Giles, 223–24 Sebastian, John, 1 Seeger, Pete, 155, 157 Sehgal, Kabir, 100 Serkin, Rudolf, 24 Sessions, Roger, 71, 72, 176 Seychelles, 156 Shaw, Robert, 202; Chorale, 125, 126, 130–31 Shostakovich, Dmitri, 169, 177, 182 showmanship, 126, 128 Sierra Leone, 40 Singapore, 134, 136 skepticism, of audiences, 9, 29–30 Slonimsky, Nicolas, 24 Smithsonian Institution, 10 socialism, 152, 154 socialist realism, 32, 33, 35, 83, 85, 181 soft power, 4, 6, 21, 75, 216–18 Somalia, 40–41, 95–96, 156 sophistication, 25, 28, 35–39, 41, 92, 93, 126, 187. See understanding Sorensen, Thomas, 209 South Africa, 41, 124, 131, 211 Soutou, Georges-Henri, 201 Soviet bloc, 1, 2, 15, 84, 168, 171, 176, 184, 221. See also Europe, Eastern Soviet Union: Louis Armstrong’s proposed tour of, 103, 107–9, 121; atheism, 19, 116, 123, 202; avantgarde music in, 184–85; censorship, 180–81, 183–88, 190, 200–1, 285n106, 291n217; competition with, 12–13, 28, 35, 55; exchanges with, 4, 12, 20, 26, 39, 108–9, 166– 203 197fig.; folk music in, 192–93, 197; influence on conductors, 53, 67, 70; isolationism, 168–69, 183; jazz in, 80, 88, 95, 108–9, 170, 183–91,

INDEX / 327

191–92, 199–200; jokes about, 199– 200; minority cultures within, 177, 222; musical diplomacy of, 4, 26, 28, 36, 53, 168, 173fig., 175, 176, 194, 279n21, 281n55; orchestras, 177–78, 194, 201; peaceful coexistence with, 200, 201; personal contacts in, 196– 97, 211; privately sponsored U.S. performances in, 169–70; propaganda, 12–13, 23, 55, 77, 122, 167–68; rock ’n’ roll in, 170, 183, 184, 192–93, 194; sacred music in, 125, 184, 202; surveillance, 195–96, 199–200, 211; U.S. intelligence about, 24–25, 176, 185. See also socialist realism Spain, 161, 170 spirituals, 19, 22, 125–33, 141; Marian Anderson and, 110–11, 113, 128; concert, 125–33, 126, 130, 140; as folk music, 126, 128, 154, 192; in mixed programs, 37–38, 80; racial essentialism and, 126, 128–130; in Soviet Union, 264n13 sponsorship: local, 2, 7–8, 34–35, 87; private, 10, 11, 15, 83, 101, 102, 111, 119, 166, 168, 169, 171, 175, 176, 220, 230n16 Sputnik (Sputnik), 115 Sri Lanka. See Ceylon State Department: escort officers, 147, 148, 191, 193, 196, 231n28, 252n72; objectives, 4, 5fig., 6, 11–13, 18, 19, 21, 33–36, 47–48, 138–39, 144, 167, 217–18, 219, 223; official perspectives on cultural presentations, 11–12, 23, 41–42, 75, 96–97, 159, 179–80, 188–89, 207, 217, 219, 231n29; records, 2–3; relations with jazz musicians, 93–100, 107–9; selection of musicians, 9–10, 29. See also Cultural Presentations program Stearns, Marshall, 79–80, 81, 82, 85–86, 87, 108, 148 Steber, Eleanor, 29, 43 Stecopoulos, Harilaos, 93, 95, 96, 100

Stein, Daniel, 107 Stern, Isaac, 24, 170 Stevens, Halsey, 54 Stravinsky, Igor, 180 Strickland, William, 17, 47–76, 58fig., 206, 223, 242n18, 246n94, 247n115 students. See universities Subotnick, Morton, 33 subversion, of U.S. agenda, 93–94, 98–100, 118–19; of Soviet Union, 124, 219, 203 Sudan, 40–41, 88 superpowers: competition between, 3, 178–79, 206, 233n42; and détente, 166, 167, 172, 200–1; recruitment, 45, 215, 220 Sweden, 66, 68 swing, 18, 80, 81, 83, 92 Sydeman, William, 32–33 Symphony of the Air, 8 Syria (United Arab Republic), 168 Taiwan, 34, 49, 109, 138, 149, 152 Tanzania (Tanganyika), 41, 151, 152 Tchaikovsky, Piotr, 35, 179, 200 Teachout, Terry, 102, 119–20 Teagarden, Jack, 81, 97; Jazz Sextet, 8, 43, 82, 83, 87, 91, 92, 93, 206 technical proficiency: as alteration of folk practice, 130–31; as asset, 37–38, 47–48, 74, 81; as stereotype, 30, 82, 133–34 television, 10, 20, 27, 98; cultural presentations coverage in U.S., 172– 73; intimacy, 214–15; Marian Anderson and Louis Armstrong on See It Now, 101–102, 103–105, 109– 17, 119–20 Thailand, 42, 51, 110, 136, 137, 138– 39, 141, 156 Thompson, Frank, Jr., 3 Thompson, Llewellyn, 183, 185, 191 Thomson, Virgil, 23, 47, 129, 132, 238n37 Togo, 132 Tom Two Arrows, 152–53, 154 “top” groups. See quality

328 / INDEX

Torres, Sasha, 119 tourists, musicians as, 9, 15, 20, 134, 175–76, 194, 199 transportation, 2, 41, 158, 169, 171, 174, 191 Trinidad, 153 triumphalism, 20, 202 Tsing, Anna, 17 Tucker, Richard, 43 Tudor, David, 31 Turkey, 82, 83fig., 84, 92, 131, 146–47, 164 Uganda, 39, 41, 151 “understanding” of music, 36, 41, 44, 87, 88, 92 United Arab Republic. See Egypt; Syria United Nations, 220 United States Information Agency (USIA), 10, 53, 102, 217, 223, 224, 232–3n41; communication with performers, 117, 181–82; exhibits, 82, 83fig., 145–47; protests against, 98–99, 172; provision of media, 13, 32, 42, 70, 90, 111, 145, 208–9, 210, 222, 247n119; and race, 111, 120–22, 209–10; and religion, 124 United States Information Service (USIS). See United States Information Agency universals, 17, 46, 74, 113, 132 university: classical ensembles, 19, 31–32, 38, 126, 133–39, 184, 196–98, 264n13; folk ensembles, 192–94, 198; jazz ensembles, 82, 89, 90, 95–96, 98, 191–92, 193, 196, 211, 14, 15, 87, 93, 98, 212, 213–14; rock ’n’ roll band, 145–48; students as target audience for cultural presentations, 15–16, 57, 90, 145–48, 158, 168, 197fig., 213–14 University of Illinois: Contemporary Chamber Players, 31–32; Jazz Band, 82, 90, 95–96, 191–92, 193, 196, 211 University of Maryland Singers, 38, 126

University of Michigan: Chamber Choir, 184, 264n13; Jazz Band, 14, 15, 87, 93, 212, 213–14 Uruguay, 117, 121 USSR. See Soviet Union Van Ham, Peter, 44–46 variety shows: Soviet, 36; U.S., 18, 36–37, 38, 143 vaudeville, 36, 37. See also variety shows Venezuela, 25, 117–18, 213–14 Verdi, Giuseppe, 57–58, 58fig. Vietnam, 43–44, 109, 113, 149, 156fig., 156–65, 244n67; choral groups, 63, 65; folk music of, 157; mediation in, 43–44, 206, 207; orchestras, 48, 50–51, 55, 63–65, 65fig. Vietnam War, 64–65, 158–61; protest against, 19, 164, 175, 275n97 Vlassenko, Lev, 188, 278n14 Voice of America, 43, 79–80, 87, 91, 144, 181, 190, 212 Von Eschen, Penny, 93, 94, 95, 102, 118–19 Wagner, Roger: Chorale, 130, 264n13 Ward, Robert, 53, 64, 244n50 Warfield, William, 43, 78, 128–31, 129fig. Warsaw Autumn International Festival of Contemporary Music, 32, 73 Watanabe, Akeo, 52–54, 242n18 weapon: music as, 102, 186, 188, 203, 254n109, 286n123 Webern, Anton, 32 Westminster College Choir, 16, 19, 125, 131, 133–142, 211 Westminster Singers, 9, 131 Weston, Randy, 80, 81–82, 88, 99, 215, 234n55 Wells, Junior, 148–152 Williams, Camilla, 128 Williams, Marion, 132 Williamson, John Finley, 9, 133–142, 216

INDEX / 329

Wilson, John S., 79–80, 118 Winter, Paul, 89, 215 Wolfe, Glenn, 39, 67, 86–87. See also Larsen-Wolfe report workshops, 35, 40–42, 57, 138–42, 149 World Festival of Negro Arts, 132, 266n44 World War II, 2, 49, 50, 56, 57, 172, 186, 239n68

Yale Russian Chorus, 187 youth: American, 30, 134, 148, 163–64; as target audience, 15–16, 90, 97, 137–38, 145–48, 152, 163 Yugoslavia, 32, 83, 125, 131, 161, 163, 170, 196 Zambia, 149, 222–23