At the end of January 1976, vascular disease did what the authoritarian might of the American government had failed to do. It broke Paul Leroy Robeson, killing him with a massive stroke.
Imagine for a moment that Bob Marley, at the height of his career, had been labelled a dangerous radical, prevented from international travel, banned from live performance and his records removed from radio playlists. Would that have shocked you? Then consider this man's extraordinary life.
Robeson was born in 1898 and long before stardom called, he showed himself to be exceptional. The son of an escaped slave, at high school and university his sporting prowess saw him playing football at a national level. But in the early 1920s he took up amateur theatre and within ten years was globally famous for his work on screen, stage and radio.
Paul Robeson was the first black man to play Othello in an otherwise white cast but incredibly, it wasn’t acting or sport that was to be his creative legacy. It was his voice.
Most vocalists bear some resemblance to other singers,
but it is all but impossible to recall a delivery approaching
Robeson’s. A bass baritone, to hear this man sing is to hear
a sound so deep it seems to rise from the Earth’s mantle,
so rich it appears to be pouring molasses into your chest
cavity and so soulful you fear you may evaporate in tears.
With this staggering ability, Robeson’s performances in films
like ‘Show Boat’ (in which he performed ‘Old Man River’) saw
his fame spread and his fans become legion. By the 1940s, he
was arguably the most famous African American of all time.
That’s when he did something as notable as it was unexpected.
Always politically interested – he had supported the International Brigades in the Spanish Civil War – at the pinnacle of his fame, he decided that showbusiness should make way for a role as a political artist, dedicated to using his profile and creativity to raise awareness of injustice, oppression and prejudice, wherever he observed it. Naturally, the cause closest to his heart was the U.S. civil rights movement, which sought to end segregation and racial murder in America, but he was driven to understand and join struggles throughout the globe.
He founded the International Committee on African Affairs, he spoke out against fascist Italian incursions into Ethopia and in favour of the revolution in China. When his management expressed alarm at these activities and the potential harm it was doing to his career, he simply said “I can’t help it. Something inside me has turned.”
Unfortunately, these were less than liberal times and an influential black man, with an inclination to vocalise his objections to draconian regimes alongside his stirring music, could not avoid the attention and condemnation of the men in power.
Throughout World War Two, Robeson had been a keen supporter of the allied war effort, even raising funds for the troops affected by the attack on Pearl Harbour. He was a patriot, but when the Iron Curtain fell, left-leaning celebrities were not looked upon with any favour. Not that this held him back. When four men were lynched in Alberta, he telegraphed President Truman to demand action and suggest reluctance was tacit approval. The continuing atrocities in the American south inspired him to lead a 30,000 person march to the Lincoln Memorial, insisting on federal intervention and protection. Addressing the crowd he said “This country can call out the Army, Navy and National Guard to restrict union actions. Why then can we not stop the lynchings?”
It was too much. He was embarrassing the establishment and becoming a thorn in the side of the administration. In 1949 an anti-lynching delegation was refused a meeting with Truman and in 1950, Paul Robeson’s passport was withdrawn. Primarily because of his activism, but also because his concerts and records were now branded ‘communist’ and banned, making international concert tours his sole source of income.
They wanted him broke, frustrated and silent. They didn’t get their wish.
In an act of defiance, unions in the U.S. and Canada organised a concert on the border of Washington state and British Columbia on May 18, 1952. Paul Robeson stood on the back of a flat bed truck on the American side and performed a concert for a 40,000 strong crowd on the Canadian side. Over the next two years, two further concerts took place.
Despite his travel ban and with the encouragement of his friend the Welsh politician Aneurin Bevan, Robeson recorded a number of radio concerts for supporters in Wales.
Continuing his activism, he presented the United Nations with an anti-lynching petition. Called ‘We Charge Genocide’ the document asserted that the U.S. federal government, by its failure to act against lynching in the United States, was "guilty of genocide" under Article II of the UN Genocide Convention.
In 1958 Paul Robeson was handed his passport back. No gratitude was asked and none was given.
The story of this enormously talented and hugely committed man is very much of its time. Paranoia (and people) ran riot in the United States in the aftermath of two global conflicts and movements dedicated to liberty were all too readily taken to be subversive and seditionary. What is striking is Robeson’s unique ability to stand as an adored and charismatic entertainer and a pillar of protest, political momentum and indignation.
So many contemporary rock musicians would aspire to this achievement. But for all their bluster (and occasional good work) they are unlikely to ever struggle with a hostile, racist government, nor risk their popularity and lucrative careers in the way Paul did.
Ultimately, Paul Robeson believed his perfect, reverberating voice was worthless unless those who heard it were free from fear, discrimination, violence and degradation. Which is why it filled the world and the world fell in love with it.
