The Night Louis Armstrong Said Eisenhower Had "No Guts"

The article below tells the story, little known today, of September 17, 1957, the night Louis Armstrong said he'd had enough of "The way they are treating my people in the South." The uncharacteristic public outburst by the normally laid-back Armstrong was backed by Sammy Davis Jr., Jackie Robinson, Sugar Ray Robinson, Lena Horne, Eartha Kitt and Marian Anderson. It embarrassed President Eisenhower into enforcing integration of Little Rock's Central High School one week later. Eisenhower sent 1,200 paratroopers to Little Rock to escort nine black students into the school, which led Armstrong to wire the president "God bless you," and inspired Norman Rockwell's iconic work above.


The article, in today's print edition of the Houston Chronicle, first appeared in the New York Times. It was posted yesterday at http://www.chron.com/disp/story.mpl/editorial/outlook/5161213.html


The day Louis Armstrong blew more than his trumpet
Angry words against racism sparked by Little Rock Nine
By DAVID MARGOLICK
Copyright 2007 Houston Chronicle


Fifty years ago this week, all eyes were on Little Rock, Ark., where nine black students were trying, for the first time, to desegregate a major Southern high school. The town of Grand Forks, N.D., with fewer than 150 blacks, hardly figured to be a key front in that battle — until Larry Lubenow talked to Louis Armstrong.

On the night of Sept. 17, 1957, two weeks after the Little Rock Nine were first barred from Central High School, the jazz trumpeter happened to be on tour in Grand Forks. Larry Lubenow was a 21-year-old journalism student and jazz fan at the University of North Dakota, moonlighting for $1.75 an hour at The Grand Forks Herald.

Shortly before Armstrong's concert, Lubenow's editor sent him to the Dakota Hotel, where Armstrong was staying, to see if he could land an interview. Perhaps sensing trouble — Lubenow was, he now says, a "rabble-rouser and liberal" — his boss laid out the ground rules: "No politics," he ordered. That hardly seemed necessary, for Armstrong rarely ventured into such things. "I don't get involved in politics," he once said. "I just blow my horn."

But Lubenow was thinking about other things, race relations among them. The bell captain, with whom he was friendly, had told him that Armstrong was quietly making history in Grand Forks, as he had done innumerable times and ways before, by becoming the first black man ever to stay at what was then the best hotel in town.

Lubenow knew, too, that Grand Forks had its own link to Little Rock: it was the hometown of Judge Ronald Davies, who had just ordered that the desegregation plan in Little Rock proceed after Arkansas Gov. Orval Faubus tried to block it.

As Armstrong prepared to play that night — at Grand Forks' own Central High School — members of the Arkansas National Guard ringed the school in Little Rock, ordered to keep the black students out. President Dwight D. Eisenhower's meeting with Faubus three days earlier had ended inconclusively. Central High School was open, but the black children stayed home.

Lubenow was first told he couldn't talk to Armstrong until after the concert. That wouldn't do. With the connivance of the bell captain, he snuck into Armstrong's suite with a room service lobster dinner. And Armstrong, wearing a Hawaiian shirt and shorts, agreed to talk. Lubenow stuck initially to his editor's script, asking Armstrong to name his favorite musician. (Bing Crosby, it turned out.) But soon he brought up Little Rock, and he could not believe what he heard. "It's getting almost so bad a colored man hasn't got any country," a furious Armstrong told him. Eisenhower, he charged, was "two-faced," and had "no guts." For Faubus, he used a double-barreled hyphenated expletive, utterly unfit for print. The two settled on something safer: "uneducated plowboy." The euphemism, Lubenow says, was far more his than Armstrong's.

Armstrong bitterly recounted some of his experiences touring in the Jim Crow South. He then sang the opening bar of The Star-Spangled Banner, inserting obscenities into the lyrics and prompting Velma Middleton, the vocalist who toured with Armstrong and who had joined them in the room, to hush him up.

Armstrong had been contemplating a good-will tour to the Soviet Union for the State Department. "They ain't so cold but what we couldn't bruise them with happy music," he had said. Now, though, he confessed to having second thoughts. "The way they are treating my people in the South, the government can go to hell," he said. "The people over there ask me what's wrong with my country. What am I supposed to say?"

Lubenow was shocked by what he heard, but he also knew he had a story; he skipped the concert and went back to the paper to write it up. It was too late to get it into his own paper; nor would The Associated Press editor in Minneapolis, dubious that Armstrong could have said such things, put it on the national wire, at least until Lubenow could prove he hadn't made it all up.

So the next morning Lubenow returned to the Dakota Hotel and, as Armstrong shaved, had the Herald photographer take their picture together. Then Lubenow showed Armstrong what he'd written. "Don't take nothing out of that story," Armstrong declared. "That's just what I said, and still say." He then wrote "solid" on the bottom of the yellow copy paper, and signed his name.

The news account ran all over the country. The Russians, an anonymous government spokesman warned, would relish everything Armstrong had said. A radio station in Hattiesburg, Miss., threw out all of Armstrong's records. Sammy Davis Jr. criticized Armstrong for not speaking out earlier. But Jackie Robinson, Sugar Ray Robinson, Lena Horne, Eartha Kitt and Marian Anderson quickly backed him up.

Mostly, there was surprise, especially among blacks. Armstrong had long tried to convince people throughout the world that "the Negro's lot in America is a happy one," Jet magazine, which once called Armstrong an "Uncle Tom," observed, but in one bold stroke he'd pulled nearly 15 million American blacks to his bosom. Any white confused by the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.'s polite talk need only listen to Armstrong, The Amsterdam News declared.

Armstrong's road manager quickly put out that Armstrong had been tricked, and regretted his statements, but Armstrong would have none of that. "I said what somebody should have said a long time ago," he said the following day in Montevideo, Minn., where he gave his next concert.

Armstrong would pay a price for his outspokenness. There were calls for boycotts of his concerts. Ford Motor Co. threatened to pull out of a Bing Crosby special on which Armstrong was to appear. But it didn't really matter.

On Sept. 24, Eisenhower sent 1,200 paratroopers from the 101st Airborne into Little Rock, and the next day soldiers escorted the nine students into Central High School. Armstrong exulted. "If you decide to walk into the schools with the little colored kids, take me along, Daddy," he wired the president. "God bless you."

As for Lubenow, who these days works in public relations in Cedar Park, Texas, he got $3.50 for writing the story and, perhaps, for changing history. But his editor was miffed — he'd gotten into politics, after all. Within a week, he left the paper.

Margolick, a contributing editor at Vanity Fair, is the author of "Beyond Glory: Joe Louis vs. Max Schmeling and a World on the Brink." This article originally appeared in The New York Times.