Ron Carter Esperanza Spalding - Downbeat

The Insider | By patricia willard
When Dizzy
Chose To Run
Politics can be exciting. And provocative. And
persuasive. And fun.
The most inspiring campaign of my lifetime
was the 1963–’64 Dizzy Gillespie For President
crusade. Dizzy was a deep thinker, a concerned
humanitarian and a unique jazz innovator.
His comedic timing was as impeccable as
the rhythms of his musical performances.
In the ’40s or ’50s, as a gag, the Associated
Booking Corp. distributed to the press some
nickel-size buttons with the slogan Dizzy Gillespie
For President. A few people smiled, and
it was soon forgotten. Fortuitously, one of those
buttons showed up in the mailbox of syndicated
columnist and former DownBeat editor Ralph
J. Gleason in the early ’60s. Gleason mentioned
in a newspaper column that a Gillespie
presidency might be exactly what the country
needed. Ramona Crowell (who had never met
Dizzy) suggested starting with sweatshirts
bearing his image. Gleason arranged a meeting
with the candidate, and the campaign began.
Crowell and the Gleasons—Ralph’s wife, Jeannie,
volunteered to be national chairperson—
ordered bumper stickers, balloons and larger,
more readable buttons. Crowell advertised the
sweatshirts in the pages of DownBeat, and she
and her husband sold them from a booth at the
Monterey Jazz Festival. Dizzy received a royalty
payment for every shirt sold.
Crowell, a registered member of the Assiniboine
Tribe of the Sioux Nation, was Dizzy’s
vice presidential running mate. Miriam Makeba
appeared at a rally in Palo Alto, Calif.
Clint Eastwood requested a bumper
sticker. U.S. Rep. Barbara Jordan
of Texas wore her Dizzy button on
the floor of the House.
Early on, I was recruited as
Southern California Campaign Chairperson.
I was well stocked with buttons,
balloons, bumper stickers and sweatshirts
when Shelly Manne booked Dizzy’s quintet into
Shelly’s Manne-Hole in Hollywood. Because
I was the venue’s public relations director, I
called a press conference to promote Dizzy’s
opening and his presidential campaign. Down-
Beat Associate Editor John A. Tynan, who was
among the two dozen journalists in attendance,
wrote a comprehensive account in the Nov. 5,
1964, issue. (This fascinating article was later
published in the 2009 book DownBeat—The
Great Jazz Interviews: A 75th Anniversary Anthology.)
When asked about his policy on Vietnam,
Dizzy replied, in part, “If I were president,
I’d get out of there. I’d say, ‘Look, y’all got it,
baby. Yeah, good luck.’ I’d get American soldiers
out of there.” Suddenly there was a loud
interruption as the reporter from
CBS/KNX Radio News banged his
chair against a table and stomped
out, snarling, “I thought this would
be a lot of laughs. This guy’s serious!”
I suggested that we should anticipate
our candidate’s victory with a DownBeat cover
photo of him taking the oath of office in front of
the Manne-Hole. Tynan loved the idea but said
there was no budget for such a set-up. Shelly,
feeling enthusiastic about the coup of having
his club on the cover of DownBeat, agreed to
underwrite expenses. Shelly hired carpenters
to erect a speakers’ platform sturdy enough
for six men and a large U.S. flag. President Gillespie
and his Supreme Court Justices (Kenny
Barron, James Moody, Chris White, Rudy Collins
and Shelly) were outfitted at Western Costume
Company. I donned my Dizzy sweatshirt,
and I assembled my children, their friends,
Tynan and a bunch of dedicated friends of the
musicians. Robert Skeetz took the photos for
the cover of DownBeat. I don’t know whether
Skeetz or an editor cropped the Manne-Hole’s
sign out of the cover photo back in 1964, but
it does appear in the photo that illustrates my
essay here. Until now, most people have never
known that President Dizzy Gillespie’s inauguration
took place at Shelly’s Manne-Hole in
Hollywood. And nobody knew it was actually
financed by Shelly Manne himself.
So what happened to The Movement?
Apparently, several hundred write-in votes for
Dizzy were tabulated in 25 states, all of which
had been circulating petitions to get his name
placed on the 1964 ballot. The National Observer
suggested that 1964 was an encouraging
preparation for a more intense 1968 campaign.
Dizzy was amenable until his spiritual adviser
counseled that running for political office was
an ego trip, and against the principles of his
Bahá’í faith. In 1971, Dizzy chose the stage
of the Monterey Jazz Festival to announce his
permanent withdrawal from politics. DB
16 DOWNBEAT DECEMBER 2012