In 1960, following great anti-colonial unrest, Belgium finally granted Congo independence. Elections held in May were won by Patrice Lumumba’s left wing Mouvement National Congolais (MNC). Three days before independence was enacted in June, Belgium privatised the Union Minière mine, the source of much of the uranium used for the developing US nuclear project. Within seven months, Lumumba had been assassinated under orders from the CIA, the Belgium government, and President Eisenhower.
Soundtrack to a Coup d’État places Lumumba’s assassination in both a political and a musical context. To understand Lumumba’s assassination, we need to look back at the preceding years. In 1947, US President Truman issued his Truman Doctrine aimed at “support[ing] free peoples who are resisting attempted subjugation by armed minorities or by outside pressures.” Initially drafted in response to Communist electoral victories in Italy and Greece, it was also used against the anti-colonial movement in Africa.
In 1955, the Bandung Conference brought together representatives of 29 “non-aligned” countries in what we would now call the Global South, who were trying to end dependency on both US and Soviet imperialism. One year later, Gamel Abdul Nasser, leader of Egypt—one of the countries represented at Bandung—nationalised the Suez Canal, threatening a vital Western trade route, and provoking a military attack by Britain, France and Israel. In 1958, Egypt and Syria united to form the United Arab Republic.
All this was happening in the context of the decolonisation that occurred in the wake of the Second World War. Having taken part in a “war for democracy”, many Global South countries were now fighting for their independence from Western powers. In the year 1960 alone, 16 African countries joined the United Nations. In the light of similar independence movements in Asia, there was a real possibility that US and Soviet control of the UN could be broken.
Meanwhile, in the US, the Civil Rights movement was making its first faltering steps. In 1955, the same year as the Bandung Conference, Ebony magazine announced “the emergence of a ‘new, militant Negro’ … who openly campaigns for his civil rights, who refuses to migrate to the North in search of justice and dignity, and is determined to stay in his own backyard and fight.” That year also saw the Montgomery bus boycott against racial segregation on public transport, organised by Martin Luther King.
Although King’s militancy is sometimes underrated, a more radical movement was developing to his left. Malcolm X and the Nation of Islam were leading campaigns against police racism. In 1965, following another racist attack by the LAPD, Los Angeles went up in flames in the Watts Rebellion. The corrosive effect of the Vietnam war, in which a disproportionate number of conscripts were young Black men, contributed to a growing movement in the US parallel to the former colonies.
This is the background to Soundtrack to a Coup d’Ètat, a breathtaking film by Belgian director Johan Grimonprez, about politics in the US and post-colonial Africa, as well as the development of jazz as a radical musical form. The film astutely switches between political speeches (Malcolm X features prominently), academic texts, and concert performances from Black jazz musicians who were both finding a new audience and engaging with the new political atmosphere.
Jazz works as a perfect medium for the story it wants to tell. Artists like Nina Simone were militant Black activists, but the film is about form just as much as content. When the film makes loud staccato arguments, this is often done to the sounds of Max Roach’s drums. At other times, it explains its point at a much more leisurely pace to far more sedate vocal performances.
And yet, for all the militant statements by jazz musicians, some of their actions were also ambiguous. Louis Armstrong was instrumentalised by the CIA, who sent him to Congo to perform in October 1960, a few months after Lumumba’s assassination. Of course Armstrong was ignorant of the CIA involvement and, when it became known, threatened to move to Africa, but the damage had already been done. Even the righteous activist Nina Simone joined a venture by the CIA-backed American Society of African Culture.
Nonetheless, radical Black artists had an ongoing relationship with the movements against racism, colonialism and war. We see footage of an action led by Roach and writer Maya Angelou, who crashed a meeting of the UN Security Council to protest Lumumba’s murder. The US representative at the UN, failed Democrat presidential candidate Adlai Stevenson, looks on in horror, as well-organised activists manage to push through changes that he was unable to achieve through decades of diplomacy.
Soundtrack to a Coup d’État does not just present us with radical voices. We also hear from the mercenaries and diplomats who fought tooth and nail to defend the status quo. One mercenary describes his modus operandi: “Shoot at the lot, destroy them, burn the villages, kill the chickens and goats … It was a great life, mate. With no regular hours and nice weather … they are cannibals so you can’t class them as shooting normal people. It’s like shooting Irishmen or Germans.”
The diplomats are even more chilling. Speaking with cut glass accents, they show no regret, and even pride in their ability to maintain a racist, colonialist system. They have the self-confidence of people who know that they will never face reprisals for their repugnant actions. Daphne Park, who then worked for MI6 can hardly contain herself when she proudly explains Britain’s strategy of fomenting divisions between Lumumba and General Mobuto so they could control both.
If you don’t get anything more from this film, at least you learn that the figures of the early 1960s were far more charismatic than today’s Olaf Scholz or Keir Starmer. At one meeting of the United Nations, we see Fidel Castro, Mao-Tse Tung, Gamel Abdul Nasser, and Jawaharlal Nehru. And this is even before we get to speeches by Malcolm X. Even from the other side, Dwight D Eisenhauer seems to be more authoritative than recent US presidents.
Having said all this, some of Soundtrack to a Coup d’État’s methodology is open to question. We see joyful footage of Russia’s president Kruschev attacking Western-backed colonialism, but no mention of Russia’s similar venture in 1956 when Soviet troops invaded Hungary. Later, we do witness Kruschev and the US uniting to the detriment of the Global South countries, but the general tone implies that Soviet support for the Global South was motivated by benevolence and not geopolitics.
The film’s conclusion shows fake adverts for iPhone and Tesla, making the point that this is not just a historical problem. There are still $24 trillion of unmined assets in Congo, which mobile phone manufacturers are eager to exploit. End credits cite that 80,000 women have been raped since UN troops arrived in Congo. Imperialist attempts to dominate the Global South are just as strong as ever, and serious questions must be made about how much the UN is able to act independently of its rich backer.
One of the film’s strengths lies with the element of surprise. Instead of a traditional narrative style, we switch backwards and forwards in history, and—more importantly—between politics and music, between long quotes and vibrant live performances. If all documentaries followed this pattern, the form might grow stale, leading to complacency. Instead, this distinctive film grabs us by the scruff of the neck and makes us pay attention.
This is not just a good film—it is a crucial film, which tells a story that is unknown even in many activist circles. It also makes perfectly clear that the colonialism and oppression that it depicts have been ongoing for over 80 years. Most Global South countries may have formally gained independence, but the world economy and military is still stacked against them. This is a film which helps you understand why.
