The Time Neil Young Met Charles Manson, Liked His Music, and Tried to Score Him a Record Deal

Wag­ing Heavy Peace — it’s not your aver­age rock star biog­ra­phy. There’s not much sex and drugs. There’s some rock ’n’ roll. But most­ly, there’s a lot of Neil Young being an ordi­nary guy, hang­ing out with fam­i­ly and friends, tin­ker­ing with toy trains, and refur­bish­ing old cars. It’s a decid­ed­ly down-to-earth auto­bi­og­ra­phy, so far as auto­bi­ogra­phies go. But it’s not entire­ly devoid of fan­tas­ti­cal sto­ries. Like the time when, dur­ing the late 1960s, Young stopped by the Los Ange­les home of Den­nis Wil­son, the drum­mer of The Beach Boys. There, Wil­son was liv­ing with three or four girls who had an “intense vibe” and a “detached qual­i­ty about them.” Young con­tin­ues:

After a while, a guy showed up, picked up my gui­tar, and start­ed play­ing a lot of songs on it. His name was Char­lie. He was a friend of the girls and now of Den­nis. His songs were off-the-cuff things he made up as he went along, and they were nev­er the same twice in a row. Kind of like Dylan, but dif­fer­ent because it was hard to glimpse a true mes­sage in them, but the songs were fas­ci­nat­ing. He was quite good.

Young then adds:

I asked him if he had a record­ing con­tract. He told me he did­n’t yet, but he want­ed to make records. I told Mo Ostin at Reprise about him, and rec­om­mend­ed that Reprise check him out.… Short­ly after­ward, the Sharon Tate-La Bian­ca mur­ders hap­pened, and Char­lie Man­son’s name was known around the world.

After the mur­ders, Man­son kind of got a record deal. His record­ings were com­mer­cial­ly released on the album Lie: The Love and Ter­ror CultAbove, we have one bizarrely upbeat song from the col­lec­tion, “Home Is Where You’re Hap­py.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Neil Young Reveals the New Killer Gad­get That Will Save Music

Neil Young Busk­ing in Glas­gow, 1976: The Sto­ry Behind the Footage

‘The Nee­dle and the Dam­age Done’: Neil Young Plays Two Songs on The John­ny Cash Show, 1971

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Jack Kerouac’s Naval Reserve Enlistment Mugshot, 1943

kerouac mugshot

In the sum­mer of 1942, Jack Ker­ouac fol­lowed in the foot­steps of Joseph Con­rad and Eugene O’Neill and went to sea. After drop­ping out of Colum­bia Uni­ver­si­ty the pre­vi­ous Fall, the 20-year-old Ker­ouac signed up for the mer­chant marine and shipped out aboard the U.S. Army Trans­port ship Dorch­ester.

Although World War II had bro­ken out at about the time of his depar­ture from Colum­bia, Ker­ouac’s motives for going to sea were more per­son­al than patri­ot­ic. “My moth­er is very wor­ried over my hav­ing joined the Mer­chant Marine,” Ker­ouac wrote in his jour­nal at the time, “but I need mon­ey for col­lege, I need adven­ture, of a sort (the real adven­ture of rot­ting wharves and seag­ulls, winey waters and ships, ports, cities, and faces & voic­es); and I want to study more of the earth, not out of books, but from direct expe­ri­ence.”

In Octo­ber of 1942, after com­plet­ing a voy­age to and from an Army com­mand base in Green­land (which he would lat­er write about in Van­i­ty of Dulu­oz), Ker­ouac left the mer­chant marine and returned to Colum­bia. That was lucky, because most of the Dorch­ester’s crew–more than 600 men–died three months lat­er when the ship was tor­pe­doed by a Ger­man U‑boat. But the rest­less Ker­ouac last­ed only a month at Colum­bia before drop­ping out again and mak­ing plans to return to sea. In Decem­ber of 1942 he enlist­ed in the U.S. Naval Reserve. He want­ed to join the Naval Air Force, but failed an apti­tude test. So on Feb­ru­ary 26, 1943 he was sent to the Naval Train­ing Sta­tion in New­port, Rhode Island. That’s appar­ent­ly when the pho­to­graph above was tak­en of the young Ker­ouac with his mil­i­tary hair­cut. It would have been right around the time of his 21st birth­day.

Ker­ouac last­ed only 10 days in boot camp. As Miri­am Klie­man writes at the Nation­al Archives, “The qual­i­ties that made On the Road a huge suc­cess and Ker­ouac a pow­er­ful sto­ry­teller, guide, and lit­er­ary icon are the same ones that ren­dered him remark­ably unsuit­able for the mil­i­tary: inde­pen­dence, cre­ativ­i­ty, impul­siv­i­ty, sen­su­al­i­ty, and reck­less­ness.” Accord­ing to files released by the gov­ern­ment in 2005, Naval doc­tors at New­port found Ker­ouac to be “rest­less, apa­thet­ic, seclu­sive” and deter­mined that he was men­tal­ly unfit for ser­vice, writ­ing that “neu­ropsy­chi­atric exam­i­na­tion dis­closed audi­to­ry hal­lu­ci­na­tions, ideas of ref­er­ence and sui­cide, and a ram­bling, grandiose, philo­soph­i­cal man­ner.” He was sent to the Naval Hos­pi­tal in Bethes­da Mary­land and even­tu­al­ly dis­charged.

For more on Ker­ouac’s brief adven­ture in the Navy, read Kleiman’s Arti­cle, “Hit the Road, Jack! Ker­ouac Enlist­ed in the U.S. Navy But was Found ‘Unfit for Ser­vice’ ”

Relat­ed con­tent:

Jack Ker­ouac Reads from On the Road, 1959

Jack Ker­ouac’s 30 Rev­e­la­tions for Writ­ing Mod­ern Prose

How “Space Oddity” Launched David Bowie to Stardom: Watch the Original Music Video From 1969

It may seem odd to con­tem­plate, but rock titan David Bowie’s rise to fame was a long, frus­trat­ing, stop-and-start affair until he burst onto the inter­na­tion­al scene as Zig­gy Star­dust (though he had some suc­cess with his two pri­or albums, the excel­lent The Man Who Sold the World and Hunky Dory). This is part­ly due to poor man­age­ment, and part­ly due to Bowie’s own dif­fi­cul­ty in find­ing a style that fit his ambi­tions. His first hit, “Space Odd­i­ty,” from his sec­ond, 1969, album of the same name, promised great things. (That record, orig­i­nal­ly called, like his first, just David Bowie, was renamed after the song did the Sev­en­ties equiv­a­lent of viral.) Most peo­ple who grew up with Bowie would tell you the song is a water­shed moment in their dis­cov­ery of pop music’s poten­tial. I recall dis­cov­er­ing Bowie at a young age through “Space Odd­i­ty,” and being giv­en the album on cas­sette as a birth­day present. Like many peo­ple, I was a lit­tle flum­moxed by the record. None of it resem­bles the sin­gle, which isn’t nec­es­sar­i­ly a bad qual­i­ty in gen­er­al, but in this case, it’s hard to know what to make of that strange col­lec­tion of some­times com­ic, Bea­t­les-esque pop frag­ments (“Don’t Sit Down”), some­times cool pro­gres­sive rock (“Janine”), and some­times almost medieval, Judy Collins-like hip­py folk (“Mem­o­ry of a Free Fes­ti­val,” “Wild Eyed Boy from Freecloud”). I grew to love it, but the album’s eclec­ti­cism did­n’t win many over.

Still, near­ly every­one knows and loves the album ver­sion of “Space Odd­i­ty.” But like a great deal of Bowie’s ear­ly work, the song exists in an ear­li­er, more ten­ta­tive ver­sion. Ini­tial­ly record­ed short­ly after his first album, 1967’s David Bowie—which Bowie biog­ra­ph­er David Buck­ley called “the vinyl equiv­a­lent of the mad­woman in the attic”—the song end­ed up on an abortive pro­mo­tion­al film com­mis­sioned by Bowie’s pro­duc­er, Ken­neth Pitt. Called Love You Till Tues­day, after the sin­gle from the first album, the film fin­ished shoot­ing in 1969, but didn’t see the light of day until 1984, long after Bowie hit it big. The film ver­sion of “Space Odd­i­ty” (first video) dif­fers sig­nif­i­cant­ly in sound and vision from the one right above. For one thing, Bowie, who wore a wig for the extent of film­ing because he’d shorn off his hair to audi­tion for a role, looks decid­ed­ly less, well, like a rock star. As “Ground Con­trol,” his Janis Joplin glass­es clash odd­ly with an arty t‑shirt and what looks like a child’s base­ball cap perched atop his wig, both embla­zoned with “GC.” He stands cross-armed and awk­ward, lip synch­ing between space sequences. Of the lat­ter, “Major Tom” parts, one YouTube com­menter quips, “We have no bud­get, no props, only bak­ing foil and corn­flake pack­ets.… Oh well make the video any­way.” Sums things up pret­ty well.

Even more so than those who bought Space Odd­i­ty after hear­ing its name­sake sin­gle, any­one who heard this ear­ly ver­sion, then went and bought Bowie’s first album would have been thor­ough­ly per­plexed. ‘67’s David Bowie is a very strange, though some­times very intrigu­ing, record, large­ly influ­enced by the musi­cal com­e­dy of pop­u­lar Eng­lish enter­tain­er Antho­ny New­ley. Watch the film’s title track (and open­ing sequence), “Love You Till Tues­day” below, with Bowie, in wig and frilly Austin Pow­ers suit, doing some weird Tom Jones thing that just real­ly does­n’t work.

Had Bowie fol­lowed this tra­jec­to­ry, instead of find­ing his voice in the space­rock of his first big sin­gle, it’s pret­ty like­ly no one would have heard from him again. Lucky for us, the young pop star was noth­ing if not per­sis­tent.  And lucky for us, he still is. The 66-year-old Bowie just released his first sin­gle in a decade, the con­tem­pla­tive “Where Are We Now?” with an album, The Next Day, com­ing in March.

Relat­ed Con­tent

The Sto­ry of Zig­gy Star­dust: How David Bowie Cre­at­ed the Char­ac­ter that Made Him Famous

David Bowie Cel­e­brates 66th Birth­day with First New Song in a Decade, Plus Vin­tage Videos

David Bowie’s First Amer­i­can Fan Let­ter And His Evolv­ing Views of the U.S. (1967–1997)

Josh Jones is a free­lance writer, edi­tor, and musi­cian based in Wash­ing­ton, DC. Fol­low him @jdmagness

NASA Sends Image of the Mona Lisa to the Moon and Back

The same super-fast laser tech­nol­o­gy that sent clear images of Mars back to Earth just cleared anoth­er hur­dle clos­er to home by send­ing an image of the Mona Lisa to the sur­face of the moon and back again.

Sci­en­tists at NASA want­ed to know whether they could use laser puls­es to “com­mu­ni­cate” with the lunar sur­face using the same tool that tracks the posi­tion of the Lunar Recon­nais­sance Orbiter.

The team sent a dig­i­tized ver­sion of Leonardo’s famous­ly inscrutable sig­no­ra from the God­dard Space Cen­ter in Mary­land 240,000 miles up to a laser trans­mit­ter aboard the orbit­ing space­craft. Pix­els trav­eled one at a time and were adjust­ed for bright­ness by con­trolled delays in their arrival time. The team cor­rect­ed errors in the image using com­mon DVD and CD tech­niques.

Pret­ty much every­body knows what the Mona Lisa looks like, so maybe that’s why they picked her face, instead of, well, mine. Maybe NASA is hop­ing her name will be changed to Moona Lisa.

The Lunar Recon­nais­sance Orbiter (explained above) began its lunar orbit near­ly four years ago. Laser puls­es beam down to the moon and then bounce back to form images of the sur­face. Like those star­tling pic­tures of Mars, laser tech­nol­o­gy is help­ing devel­op a crys­tal clear topo­graph­i­cal map of the moon, includ­ing the tracks of two astro­nauts’ unsuc­cess­ful trek to the top of a crater and the site of a lost Russ­ian rover.

The Mona Lisa’s trip to the moon is impor­tant because the image was sent at the same time as laser puls­es that track the craft’s position—the first out­er space con­fer­ence call—and it sets the stage for future high-data trans­mis­sions between Earth and its satel­lite explor­ers.

via The Atlantic

Relat­ed Con­tent

NASA Presents “The Earth as Art” in a Free eBook and Free iPad App

Leonard Nimoy Nar­rates Short Film About NASA’s Dawn: A Voy­age to the Ori­gins of the Solar Sys­tem

NASA’s “Spot the Sta­tion” Will Text or Email You When the Space Sta­tion Pass­es Over Your Home

Kate Rix writes about dig­i­tal media and edu­ca­tion. Vis­it her at .

Lovers and Philosophers — Jean-Paul Sartre & Simone de Beauvoir Together in 1967

Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beau­voir. They were the intel­lec­tu­al pow­er cou­ple of the 20th cen­tu­ry. Some have called Sartre the father of Exis­ten­tial­ism. But per­haps it’s more accu­rate to call him the chief pop­u­lar­iz­er of the philo­soph­i­cal move­ment. And Simone de Beau­voir, she wrote The Sec­ond Sex, the sprawl­ing 1949 tome that laid the intel­lec­tu­al foun­da­tion for sec­ond-wave fem­i­nism that explod­ed dur­ing the 1960s.

The two philoso­phers first became an item in Octo­ber 1929, but it was nev­er a tra­di­tion­al rela­tion­ship. They nei­ther mar­ried nor shared the same liv­ing quar­ters, and they famous­ly had an open rela­tion­ship. But, as de Beau­voir said, “The com­rade­ship that weld­ed our lives togeth­er made a super­flu­ous mock­ery of any oth­er bond we might have forged for our­selves.”

They were a pow­er­ful cou­ple, writes Louis Menand in The New York­er, “with inde­pen­dent lives, who met in cafés, where they wrote their books and saw their friends at sep­a­rate tables… but who main­tained a kind of soul mar­riage.” What­ev­er your per­son­al views, you need to con­sid­er this: The rela­tion­ship worked for Sartre and de Beau­voir for 50 years.

Despite their celebri­ty, we’ve rarely come across footage of the two philoso­phers togeth­er. So we’re bring­ing you this — a rare clip from a 1967 doc­u­men­tary filmed at Sartre’s Mont­par­nasse high-rise apart­ment, over­look­ing the ceme­tery where the two philoso­phers were even­tu­al­ly buried. Some­what fit­ting­ly, we see the two intel­lec­tu­als, but nev­er in the same frame. You can pur­chase the com­plete film for edu­ca­tion­al use here.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Jean-Paul Sartre Breaks Down the Bad Faith of Intel­lec­tu­als

Jean-Paul Sartre Writes a Script for John Huston’s Film on Freud (1958)

Sartre, Hei­deg­ger, Niet­zsche: Three Philoso­phers in Three Hours

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“Moon Hoax Not”: Short Film Explains Why It Was Impossible to Fake the Moon Landing

S.G. Collins does­n’t trust the Unit­ed States gov­ern­ment. They “lie all the time, about all kinds of things,” he insists, “and if they haven’t lied to you today, maybe they haven’t had cof­fee yet.” Like some of those who express a sim­i­lar dis­trust, he claims he has no way to ver­i­fy that NASA land­ed on the moon in 1969. But unlike most of that sub­set, he does­n’t think the gov­ern­ment could have pulled off a con­vinc­ing hoax about it. In oth­er words, Amer­i­ca “did have the tech­ni­cal abil­i­ty, not to men­tion the req­ui­site mad­ness, to send three guys to the moon and back. They did not have the tech­nol­o­gy to fake it on video.” Calm­ly, method­i­cal­ly, with a dead­pan wit, Collins uses the thir­teen min­utes of Moon Hoax Not to explain exact­ly why, as improb­a­ble as the real moon land­ing sounds, a fake moon land­ing would have been down­right impos­si­ble.

“The lat­er you were born,” Collins says, “the more all-pow­er­ful movie mag­ic seems.” Hol­ly­wood could now fake dozens of moon land­ings every day, but they did­n’t always have that abil­i­ty. Mar­shal­ing knowl­edge accrued over thir­ty years as a pho­tog­ra­ph­er, he address­es each of the points that moon-land­ing con­spir­a­cy the­o­rists com­mon­ly cite as visu­al evi­dence of the sup­posed fraud. He also brings to bear facts from the his­to­ry of video tech­nol­o­gy, such as 1969’s com­plete lack of the high-speed video cam­eras, need­ed to shoot the sort of slow motion nec­es­sary to cre­ate the illu­sion of low grav­i­ty. And what if they’d shot the entire Apol­lo 11 tele­cast on film instead? Collins also knows, and names, exact­ly the prob­lems even the most ambi­tious, tech­no­log­i­cal­ly advanced char­la­tans would have encoun­tered, even—as in moon-land­ing hoax mock­u­men­tary Dark Side of the Moon—with Stan­ley Kubrick on their side.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Dark Side of the Moon: A Mock­u­men­tary on Stan­ley Kubrick and the Moon Land­ing Hoax

Michio Kaku Schools Takes on Moon Land­ing-Con­spir­a­cy Believ­er on His Sci­ence Fan­tas­tic Pod­cast

The Moon Dis­as­ter That Wasn’t: Nixon’s Speech In Case Apol­lo 11 Failed to Return

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture and writes essays on lit­er­a­ture, film, cities, Asia, and aes­thet­ics. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Gimme Shelter: Watch the Classic Documentary of the Rolling Stones’ Disastrous Concert at Altamont

It’s often remem­bered as the day the Six­ties died. On Decem­ber 6, 1969, the Rolling Stones and a group of West Coast bands put on a free con­cert at the Alta­mont Race­way near San Fran­cis­co. The con­cert was billed as “Wood­stock West,” but instead of being anoth­er gath­er­ing of peace, love and music, it was more like a bad trip.

The event was hasti­ly put togeth­er by the Stones to cel­e­brate the end of their Amer­i­can tour, their first with gui­tarist Mick Tay­lor. The stage at the venue was unusu­al­ly low and was sit­u­at­ed at the bot­tom of a hill. To keep the audi­ence of 300,000 peo­ple from engulf­ing the stage, some­one had the bright idea of enlist­ing the Hells Angels motor­cy­cle gang to form a secu­ri­ty cor­don around the stage in exchange for (essen­tial­ly) all the beer they could drink.

As the con­cert descend­ed into chaos, the Hells Angels beat peo­ple with pool cues and motor­cy­cle chains. A gui­tarist and singer for the Jef­fer­son Air­plane, Mar­ty Balin, was knocked uncon­scious. When a man in the audi­ence bran­dished a pis­tol dur­ing an alter­ca­tion while the Stones were onstage, he was stabbed and beat­en to death by mem­bers of the gang.

The whole sor­ry episode is cap­tured in Gimme Shel­ter, the clas­sic doc­u­men­tary by the broth­ers Albert and David Maysles and Char­lotte Zwerin. The film was released in 1970 and can be seen above in its entire­ty. Gimme Shel­ter con­tains ele­ments of a typ­i­cal rock and roll doc­u­men­tary, with footage of the Stones on the road and play­ing a con­cert at Madi­son Square Gar­den in New York. But the main focus is Alta­mont. The Maysles broth­ers hired a large team of cam­era­men for the event, includ­ing film­mak­er Robert Elf­strom, Mag­num pho­tog­ra­ph­er Elliott Erwitt and a young George Lucas.

Gimme Shel­ter is a fas­ci­nat­ing record of the Six­ties coun­ter­cul­ture as it was falling apart. The last third of the pic­ture is painful to watch but dif­fi­cult to turn away from. The hubris and naiveté of the time are cap­tured in a scene before the event, when Mick Jag­ger tells a group of reporters what Alta­mont is all about: “It’s cre­at­ing a sort of micro­cos­mic soci­ety, which sets an exam­ple to the rest of Amer­i­ca as to how one can behave in large gath­er­ings.”

Relat­ed Con­tent

The Rolling Stones Jam With Their Idol, Mud­dy Waters

The Rolling Stones at 50: Mick, Kei­th, Char­lie & Ron­nie Revis­it Their Favorite Songs

Pope John Paul II Takes Batting Practice in California, 1987

Pope John Paul II had a mixed lega­cy. Some good, some bad. But what­ev­er your take on him, you have to give him this — the Pon­tiff could swing a good bat. Vis­it­ing Cal­i­for­nia in 1987, the 67 year-old Pope head­ed to the bat­ting cages and start­ed lin­ing sin­gles and dou­bles, maybe even a few triples. As the video pro­ceeds, we dis­cov­er that the switch-hit­ting Pope had pre­vi­ous­ly honed his bat­ting skills in the Vat­i­can Soft­ball League. The clip con­cludes with the gra­cious hosts giv­ing the Pope the roy­al treat­ment, treat­ing him to a nice 1980s-style ener­gy drink in a sty­ro­foam cup. Pret­ty posh. h/t Metafil­ter

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