James Brown, Muhammad Ali, and the Legendary Zaire ’74 Festival
If you know anything about boxing — and even if you don’t — you’ve probably heard about the very extraordinary thing that happened in Kinshasa, Zaire in the fall of 1974. At 4:00 AM on October 30, a 32-year-old Muhammad Ali, with two losses behind him and no longer possessed of the legs that once let him “float like a butterfly”, faced the devastatingly powerful George Foreman. For eight rounds, Ali shells up against the ropes, slipping, parrying, and smothering his opponent’s blows, while “Gorgeous George” grows increasingly frustrated and arm-weary. Then, fifteen seconds before the end of the round, Ali bursts out of the corner, unloading a flurry of punches. It’s a flush right hand that seals the deal, and, on the tape, you can see Ali’s hand cocked to hit him again, but instead he steps out of the way, as if to preserve the clean arc of Foreman’s fall. The moment is almost too dramatic to be believed. In one of the famous photos from the match, you can see Norman Mailer and George Plimpton in the second row, their jaws hanging open in astonishment. Ali bomaye!
Enshrined in history as “The Rumble in the Jungle,” the match assumed a cultural import that transcended the sport. Ali, a vocal civil-rights activist and black pride proponent, framed the event not just as a chance to reclaim his heavyweight title, but as a celebration of identity and moment of unity among black people around the globe. The occasion was documented in Leon Gast’s Academy Award-winning film When We Were Kings, which is well worth a watch.
What you may not know is that the Rumble in the Jungle may only be the second most extraordinary thing to transpire in Zaire that fall.
With the attention and resources being devoted to the match and to Zaire, American record producer Stewart Levine and South African trumpet legend Hugh Masekela conceived the Zaire ’74 festival. Intended to coincide with the fight, the three-day concert dovetailed with both the spectacle of the event and its celebration of black culture and art. The promoters managed to assemble an astounding array of talent, showcasing some of Africa’s most prominent musicians (including “Mama Africa” Miriam Makeba and Afro-jazz pioneer Manu Dibango), along with artists from the Afro-Latino tradition (salsa super-group the Fania All-Stars, featuring salsa queen Celia Cruz), as well as blues, funk, and soul artists from the U.S.A. (including B.B. King, Bill Withers, and Mr. Dynamite himself, James Brown). “The festival was going to be a device for expanding consciousness,” Levine said. “It was an attempt on our part to get people interested in Africa and the connection between Africa and America.” This would not just be the case for those who’d come to attend the fight, nor just for the Congolese people (President Mobutu Sese Seko pressured the festival promoters into opening its doors to those without tickets for the concert’s final night), but also for the American performers, many of whom had never been to Africa.
Unfortunately, for a long time, this incredible moment was confined to those who had been there. In their documentation of the fight and its attendant hype, Leon Gast’s production team also shot the Zaire ’74 festival, capturing 450,000 feet of film. However, due to various legal issues, the footage remained unreleased for nearly 35 years, until the release of Jeffery Levy-Hinte’s 2008 documentary Soul Power.
Unlike When We Were Kings, Soul Power uses no photographic pans or talking heads to elucidate its narrative. Assembled completely from footage shot by Gast’s camera team (which included the legendary cameraman/documentarian Albert Maysles), it’s an example of what might be called Direct Cinema, a “fly-on-the-wall” approach to documentary filmmaking that seeks to record events as they unfold, with as little interference as possible. We see the concert promoters hustling to keep things on track despite one setback after another; we see James Brown, Muhammad Ali, and Don King fast-talking behind the scenes; and, of course, we see the show itself.
There’s always a trade-off with the Direct Cinema approach. The method tends to obscure things like greater historical context. Indeed, the film depicts a relatively optimistic, post-colonial Zaire without mention of the brutality and corruption of the Mobutu regime, which would cause much suffering for the Congolese people.
Yet, the film renders its moment with an incredible intensity and tangibility, following its larger-than-life figures in a strange and wondrous situation. Levy-Hinte has an eye for the small occasions that transpire in proximity to the grand events of history. My favorite instances are those that capture connections, people communicating with one another, often through music and movement. Manu Dibango playfully improvises with a group of children on the street. Philadelphia’s own Sister Sledge teaches a dance called “The Bump” to a group of African dancers. Muhammad Ali welcomes a young Congolese girl to his table. A bystander remarks, “She can talk French and you can talk English.” Hugging the child, Ali responds, “She was ruled by the French and I was ruled by the English. So we both done lost our language. But one day we’re going to talk to each other in our own language.”
But the star of the film, of course, is the concert itself. The footage is thrilling and intimate; the musicians are firing on all cylinders. Bill Withers, supposedly in the midst of a bad case of heartbreak, performs a melting rendition of “Hope She’ll Be Happier.” B.B. King pounds his fist into his hand as he belts “The Thrill is Gone.” Celia Cruz whips the frills of her colorful dress as she dances with fellow salsa royalty Johnny Pacheco. “It was a magical setting,” Levine said. “Two, three in the morning. People are going crazy for what you’re doing…the energy and the excitement engendered by being there really infused the music with a whole other dimension.”
Special mention must be made of the show’s headliner, James Brown, then in his gritty, hard-edged “super heavy funk” period. As great as his recorded material may be, a venture down the YouTube rabbit-hole of old concert footage is a hearty reminder that Brown and his band were really in their element in a live setting. In Zaire, feeding off the energy from the rapturous audience, the performance is sweaty, electrifying, ecstatic. The set concludes with Brown’s “Say It Loud, I’m Black and I’m Proud,” a song whose anthemic message of affirmation perfectly encapsulates the spirit of the Zaire ’74 festival.
Indeed, as the film concludes, Brown looks directly into the camera and says “When you walk out of this movie, if there’s one thing you walk out with in your mind…Say to yourself, ‘damn right, I am somebody.’” Brown is referencing the poem “I Am – Somebody,” written by Reverend William Holmes Borders, Sr., frequently recited during civil rights events. It goes like this:
I am Somebody!
I am Somebody!
I may be poor,
But I am Somebody.
I may be young,
But I am Somebody.
I may be on welfare,
But I am Somebody.
I may be small,
But I am Somebody.
I may have made mistakes,
But I am Somebody.
My clothes are different,
My face is different,
My hair is different,
But I am Somebody.
I am black,
Brown, or white.
I speak a different language
But I must be respected,
Protected,
Never rejected.
I am God’s child!
Soul Power plays on glorious 35mm at Bryn Mawr Film Institute on Wednesday, August 22. Visit our website to learn more and purchase tickets.
See you at the movies!
— Jacob Mazer, Special Programming Manager, BMFI
