History is usually written by the winners, but Johan Grimonprez decided to let the jazz musicians have a say instead. Honestly, calling Soundtrack to a Coup d'Etat a documentary feels like an understatement. It’s more of a rhythmic, chaotic, and terrifyingly precise autopsy of how the Cold War actually functioned on the ground in Africa. Specifically, it's about the 1961 assassination of Patrice Lumumba, the first democratically elected prime minister of the Congo. But it isn't just a history lesson. It’s a film that uses the "Jazz Ambassadors"—legends like Louis Armstrong, Nina Simone, and Duke Ellington—as a lens to view one of the biggest geopolitical crimes of the 20th century.
You’ve probably heard of the CIA's involvement in various global shuffles. This one is different. This film shows how the US State Department literally used Black excellence as a smokescreen. While Louis Armstrong was being cheered on stage in Léopoldville, the machinery of his own government was actively plotting the murder of a man who represented the very freedom these musicians were supposedly "exporting." It’s a gut punch.
The Rhythm of Neocolonialism
The movie moves fast. It’s two and a half hours long, but it feels like a frantic jazz session where the notes are telegrams, archival footage, and corporate logos. Grimonprez doesn't use a standard narrator. Instead, he leans on the "percussive" editing of the music itself. You’ll see Khrushchev banging his shoe at the UN, intercut with Max Roach and Abbey Lincoln crashing a protest. It’s loud. It’s jarring. It’s brilliant.
The central tension of Soundtrack to a Coup d'Etat lies in the irony of the Jazz Ambassadors. The US government sent these iconic Black artists to Africa to promote the "American Way." Meanwhile, back home, these same artists couldn't eat at the same lunch counters as white people. The film highlights how the State Department weaponized jazz to distract from the reality of Belgian and American interests in Congolese uranium.
The Congo had the "good stuff"—the high-grade uranium used for the Hiroshima bomb. Control over that resource was worth any price, including the destruction of a nascent democracy. When you watch the archival footage of Lumumba, he doesn't look like the "dangerous communist" the Western press made him out to be. He looks like a man who simply believed his country’s resources belonged to his country's people.
Who Were the Real Players?
Most history books gloss over the details. This film leans into them. You get the names. Dag Hammarskjöld, the UN Secretary-General, is a massive figure here. The film explores the ambiguity of his role. Was he a tragic hero caught in a vice, or a silent accomplice? Then there’s the sheer audacity of the corporate influence. The Union Minière du Haut-Katanga basically ran its own private state within the Congo.
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And then there's the music.
Nina Simone’s presence in the film is haunting. She wasn't just a performer; she was a witness. The film captures that specific moment when the Civil Rights movement in the US slammed into the decolonization movements in Africa. They were the same fight. When Abbey Lincoln and Max Roach gatecrashed the UN Security Council gallery to protest Lumumba’s death, they weren't just making noise. They were bridge-building.
Why This Film Matters in 2026
We live in an era of "soft power." We see it every day in how brands and governments use culture to mask policy. Soundtrack to a Coup d'Etat acts as a blueprint for understanding how this started. It’s not just about the 60s. It’s about how information is curated and how "vibe" is used to distract from "verb"—the actual actions of those in power.
The documentary uses a dizzying array of sources. We’re talking home movies, industrial films, and leaked memos. It’s dense. You might need to watch it twice just to catch the names of the Belgian operatives. But the effort pays off because it strips away the "official" version of events. It replaces a dry timeline with a visceral, sonic experience of betrayal.
What’s truly wild is seeing Louis Armstrong realize he was being used. "Satchmo" wasn't a political puppet, though the State Department tried to treat him like one. When he figured out the timing of his tour was being used to facilitate the coup, his reaction was one of profound heartbreak and anger. The film gives him his agency back. It shows that the artists were often more politically savvy than the bureaucrats who sent them.
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A Masterclass in Editing
The technical achievement here is insane. Grimonprez treats the screen like a percussion instrument. Text flashes up—quotes from Malcolm X, excerpts from memoirs, or just the names of the different minerals being extracted. The soundtrack isn't just background noise; it's the heartbeat of the narrative. It’s bebop as a political manifesto.
The film refuses to give you the "clean" ending of a standard documentary. There is no neat summary. Instead, you are left with the feeling of a cycle that hasn't finished. The scramble for Africa's resources didn't end with Lumumba; it just changed its branding. Today it's cobalt and lithium instead of uranium and rubber. Same players, different logos.
Putting the Pieces Together
To really grasp what Soundtrack to a Coup d'Etat is doing, you have to look at the "hidden" history of the UN during this period. The film suggests that the international body was essentially a stage for a scripted drama. While the delegates debated, the paratroopers were already on the ground. It’s a cynical view, but the film backs it up with an overwhelming amount of evidence.
It’s also worth noting the role of the "First Lady of Jazz," Ella Fitzgerald. While she isn't as overtly political in the footage as Simone, her presence in the diplomatic circuit shows just how deep the "cultural exchange" went. The US was selling a version of itself that didn't exist for the very people it was using as salespeople.
Reality Check: The Belgian Connection
Belgium’s role in this is particularly grotesque. The film doesn't hold back on the specifics of the 1960 handover. King Baudouin’s speech at the independence ceremony was patronizing, to say the least. Lumumba’s legendary impromptu response—calling out the "humiliating bondage" of colonial rule—is the moment the clock started ticking on his life.
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The film tracks the literal physical movement of Lumumba as he was transported to his death. It’s grim. But by intercutting this with the jazz performances, Grimonprez creates a bizarre, surrealist contrast. It makes the horror feel more "real" because it’s contrasted with such immense beauty and creativity.
How to Watch and What to Look For
If you’re going to sit down with this, do it on the biggest screen possible with the best speakers you have. The sound design is half the story.
- Look for the logos: Notice how often corporate branding appears alongside government seals.
- Follow the drummers: Max Roach’s "Freedom Now Suite" is essentially the spine of the film. Listen to the transitions.
- Watch the UN scenes: The boredom on the faces of the delegates as they discuss the fate of millions is chilling.
Soundtrack to a Coup d'Etat is a reminder that history isn't a straight line. It’s a syncopated, messy, and often violent series of events that we try to make sense of after the fact. Grimonprez doesn't try to make it make sense. He just makes you feel it.
Actionable Next Steps
If you’ve watched the film or are planning to, don't let the credits be the end of it. The history shown here is still active.
- Research the "Jazz Ambassadors" program: Look into the archives of the State Department from the late 50s. The lists of musicians sent abroad are a "Who’s Who" of American music, and their personal journals from these trips (like those of Dizzy Gillespie) offer even more nuance than the film can fit.
- Read "The Assassination of Lumumba" by Ludo De Witte: This is the definitive text that broke the silence on Belgian involvement. It serves as the perfect companion piece to the documentary’s visual style.
- Explore the "Freedom Now Suite": Listen to the full album by Max Roach. Understanding the lyrics and the context of that specific recording session will deepen your appreciation for the scenes where Abbey Lincoln appears in the film.
- Follow the money: Look into the current mining interests in the Katanga region of the DRC. You will see the exact same corporate names—or their direct successors—that appear in the archival footage from 1960.
- Check the credits for the archival list: The film uses a lot of Belgian TV archives that aren't usually seen in the US. If you're a history buff, these sources are a goldmine for further independent research.