ROBERT SIEGEL, HOST:
We end this hour with a moment from American history. It was an instance of integration, long before baseball or the army or schools and buses in the South were integrated. It happened in the 1930s when musicians crossed the color line. As we hear from John McDonough, a particular style of jazz was sweeping the country.
JOHN MCDONOUGH, BYLINE: It was called swing and 75 years ago, it all seemed so new, everyone was scratching their heads, asking what is swing and...
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MCDONOUGH: Every expert had his answer, but none saw what seems so obvious now. What really happened when orchestras started to swing was that millions of young, white, middle-class fans suddenly began listening to the same music black audiences had been hearing for years.
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MCDONOUGH: That's Fletcher Henderson. He'd been playing this one in Harlem since 1933. Five years later, in Benny Goodman's hands, the whole country was hearing it.
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MCDONOUGH: Goodman became a national sensation and he invested his stardom fearlessly. He made vibraphonist Lionel Hampton and pianist Teddy Wilson part of his quartet - not because they were black but because they were unique musicians. A decade before Jackie Robinson would integrate Major League Baseball, Hampton and Wilson would integrate American popular music, along with many of its young fans, white and black.
Swing was hot and capitalism followed the heat. Hollywood began feeling the pressure to present the new music to its eager, young audience.
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MCDONOUGH: When the Goodman Quartet appeared on the screen together in 1937, it cracked the most basic rule of racial protocol, strict separation. It should be a screen milestone. There they were - Goodman, Hampton, Wilson and Gene Krupa - two white musicians and two black musicians dressed alike and performing as equals. It violated virtually every African-American image Hollywood had ever purveyed.
Film obeyed provincial tastes, too, though. The scene New Yorkers cheered was often simply cut from the prints in Jim Crow markets. But in a small way, swing made it possible for black artists to be seen as hip musicians and singers, not as old-time servants and maids. It drew white and black fans together to cheer a procession of common heroes and began to expose the indignity in treating one hero differently from another.
It was a lesson Gene Krupa remembered in 1941, when his own orchestra was cast in Sam Goldwyn's "Ball of Fire," with Barbara Stanwyck. There was only one problem. One of Krupa's four trumpet players was Roy Eldridge, and neither his race nor his presence was negotiable. So the Goldwyn Studio and director Howard Hawks came up with a subtle bit of racial cine-manipulation.
I'll try to describe it, but all you really need to know is that in those days, a typical movie was shown on seven or eight reels, using two alternating projectors. Sixteen minutes into "Ball of Fire," Stanwyck comes on stage, sings "Drum Boogie" with the Krupa band and Eldridge stands to take his solo.
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MCDONOUGH: When the song is over, Stanwyck leaves the stage and the first reel ends. As the next reel begins, she comes back for an encore. The band is still in place, the audience is still applauding, but if you look carefully, when the second reel starts, there are now only three trumpets. Guess who's missing.
By simply switching projectors before Stanwyck's first entry, a projectionist could leapfrog the offending sequence on the fly. It was an ingenious accommodation, but Hollywood had a dilemma. It could never move as fast on race as radio or records because movies were visual. There were courageous individuals, but as an institution, it would be years before it was able to portray genuine equality.
Seven years later, Sam Goldwyn remade "Ball of Fire." It was now called "A Song Is Born," and it was full of jazz, all comfortably integrated with musicians like Louis Armstrong, Tommy Dorsey, Lionel Hampton and even Goodman. They all played together, side by side, and a decade after "Hollywood Hotel," it all seemed less revolutionary.
It was progress. Still, Goldwyn was worried. A memo to director Howard Hawks warned him, quote, "not to get the Negroes and the white musicians too close together." Jazz needed an ally. And by 1948, a second front had been opened in Major League Baseball. The flag Lionel Hampton and Roy Eldridge once carried was now in Jackie Robinson's hands. For NPR News, I'm John McDonough.
SIEGEL: McDonough teaches the history of jazz at Northwestern University.
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