Stanley Kubrick’s Jazz Photography and The Film He Almost Made About Jazz Under Nazi Rule

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Stan­ley Kubrick (look­ing like a creepy Rowan Atkin­son above) came of age as a chess-hus­tling pho­tog­ra­ph­er in the jazz-sat­u­rat­ed New York City of the 1940s. He began tak­ing pic­tures at the age of thir­teen, when his father bought him a Graflex cam­era. Dur­ing his teenage years, Kubrick flirt­ed with a career as a jazz drum­mer but aban­doned the pur­suit, instead join­ing Look Mag­a­zine as its youngest staff pho­tog­ra­ph­er right out of high school in 1945. His regard for jazz music and cul­ture did not abate, how­ev­er, as you can see from pho­tographs like Jazz Nights below.

Jazz nights Kubrick

Kubrick worked for Look until 1950 (when he left to begin mak­ing films); he cap­tured a wide vari­ety of New York scenes, but often returned to jazz clubs and show­girls, two favorite sub­jects. I’ve often won­dered why Kubrick’s home­town plays so small a role in his films. Unlike also NYC-bred Mar­tin Scors­ese, Kubrick seemed eager to get as far away as he could from the city of his youth, but the filmmaker’s love of for­ties-era jazz nev­er left him. Accord­ing to long­time assis­tant, Tony Frewin, “Stan­ley was a great swing-era jazz fan,” par­tic­u­lar­ly of Ben­ny Good­man.

“He had some reser­va­tions about mod­ern jazz. I think if he had to dis­ap­pear to a desert island, it’d be a lot of swing records he’d take, the music of his child­hood: Count Basie, Duke Elling­ton, Har­ry James.”

Frewin is quot­ed in this Atlantic piece about a film Kubrick almost made but didn’t: an explo­ration of jazz in Europe under the Third Reich. The project began when Kubrick encoun­tered a book in 1985, Swing Under the Nazis, writ­ten by anoth­er jazz enthu­si­ast, Mike Zwerin, who left music for jour­nal­ism and spent years col­lect­ing sto­ries of jazz preser­va­tion­ists in Ger­many and for­mer­ly occu­pied Europe. One of those stories—of Nazi offi­cer Diet­rich Schulz-Koehn—struck Kubrick as Strangelove-ian and noir-ish. Schulz-Koehn pub­lished an ille­gal under­ground newslet­ter report­ing back from var­i­ous jazz scenes in Europe under the pen name, “Dr. Jazz,” the title Kubrick chose for the film project. As Frewin claims:

“Stan­ley thought there was a kind of noir side to this mate­r­i­al…. Per­haps an approach like Dr. Mabuse would have suit­ed the sto­ry. Stan­ley said, ‘If only he were alive, we could have found a role for Peter Lorre.’ ”

Zwerin’s book—and pre­sum­ably Kubrick’s ideas for a fic­tion­al­ized take—traced clan­des­tine con­nec­tions between Nazi Ger­many, Paris, and the Unit­ed States, between black and Jew­ish musi­cians and Nazi music-lovers. We’ll have to imag­ine the odd angles and warped per­spec­tives Kubrick would have found in those sto­ries; his fas­ci­na­tion with Nazis led him to drop Dr. Jazz for a dif­fer­ent project, Aryan Papers, anoth­er unmade film with its own intrigu­ing back­sto­ry.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Napoleon: The Great­est Movie Stan­ley Kubrick Nev­er Made

Stan­ley Kubrick’s Very First Films: Three Short Doc­u­men­taries

Rare 1960s Audio: Stan­ley Kubrick’s Big Inter­view with The New York­er

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

Creative Uses of the Fax Machine: From Iggy Pop’s Bile to Stephen Hawking’s Snark

Iggy fax

Unlike the type­writer, the low­ly fax machine nev­er pulled itself out of the hive-like exis­tence of util­i­tar­i­an office machines and into lit­er­ary celebri­ty. With their bland, func­tion­al styling, fax machines will not have their impend­ing obso­les­cence capped with muse­um exhi­bi­tions. And as lit­tle more than con­duits for wonky, unglam­orous com­mu­niqués, fax machines rarely con­duct a piece of text that inspires peo­ple to savor, and want to save, the words, as with per­son­al let­ters. While we often fea­ture his­toric cor­re­spon­dence of a time before email from one of our favorite sites, Let­ters of Note, the ris­i­ble, pro­found, and shock­ing sen­ti­ments expressed by famous fig­ures when they think that no one’s look­ing rarely make it into office mem­o­ran­da.

How­ev­er, inspired by our recent post on Mark Twain’s type­writer, a read­er alert­ed us to a Let­ters of Note sub­genre of sorts, “fax­es of note.” These odd­ball mes­sages defy the worka­day con­ven­tions of the fax. Take, for exam­ple, the fax above sent by Iggy Pop to Plazm mag­a­zine writer Joshua Berg­er as an adden­dum to a 1995 inter­view. Scrawled with his fevered thoughts, on Delta Air­lines sta­tion­ary, Pop’s fax amounts to what Let­ters of Note calls “a rant so rich with quotable lines, it’s amaz­ing he was able to con­tain it all on a sin­gle sheet.”

You can click here for a full tran­script of Iggy’s take on Amer­i­can cul­tur­al deca­dence, but here are just a few high­lights from his faxed get-off-my-lawn moment: Pop—on tour in Europe at the time—calls his home coun­try “a nation of midgets,” and decries the ‘90s rehash of ‘60s and ’70s music (“none of them have fuck-all to say”); he rails against the Calvin Klein aes­thet­ic, adding “our gods are ass­holes” (maybe some pro­fes­sion­al jeal­ousy here—Pop more or less invent­ed hero­in chic). Final­ly, he signs off with some cranky ono­matopoeia: “i hate it all. heavy met­al. hol­ly­wood movies. SCHPOLOOGY! YeHE­HCHH!” This is archival-wor­thy vit­ri­ol, for sure.

Hawking fax

Anoth­er fax of note uses the medi­um to oppo­site effect; Stephen Hawking’s fax (above), also from 1995, responds to a request from erst­while British music and fash­ion mag­a­zine The Face for the for­mu­la for time trav­el. Hawk­ing replies, via his per­son­al assis­tant, “Thank you for your recent fax. I do not have any equa­tions for time trav­el. If I had, I would win the Nation­al Lot­tery every week.”  Unlike Iggy’s explo­sion of hand­writ­ten bile, Hawking’s mis­sive retains all the for­mal prop­er­ties of the fax—appropriate insti­tu­tion­al let­ter­head, “from” and “to” lines, etc—which makes his pithy retort all the more incon­gru­ous.

While the 1980s and ’90s were boom times for fax trans­mis­sions, the machine actu­al­ly dates back to 1843, when it was patent­ed by Scot­tish inven­tor Alexan­der Bain. As ear­ly as 1902, fax tech­nol­o­gy allowed pho­tographs to be sent over tele­phone lines. And yes, as every frus­trat­ed admin­is­tra­tive assis­tant knows too well, the hum­ble fax machine is still in use in offices around the world, trans­mit­ting blear­ing­ly bor­ing mes­sages, as well as the occa­sion­al flash of indi­vid­u­al­i­ty. For more on famous fax­es, see this help­ful info­graph­ic from our read­er.

H/T @jaclynlambert

Relat­ed Con­tent:

From The Stooges to Iggy Pop: 1986 Doc­u­men­tary Charts the Rise of Punk’s God­fa­ther

Sev­en Ques­tions for Stephen Hawk­ing: What Would He Ask Albert Ein­stein & More

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

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

Frank Zappa Reads NSFW Passage From William Burroughs’ Naked Lunch (1978)

You may strug­gle to find two more icon­o­clas­tic coun­ter­cul­tur­al fig­ures than William S. Bur­roughs and Frank Zap­pa. The well-known names con­ceal often less well-known and at times inac­ces­si­ble or down­right infu­ri­at­ing work and per­son­al­i­ties. Despite their some­times too-easy asso­ci­a­tion with the move­ments they helped birth, nei­ther Bur­roughs nor Zap­pa fits com­fort­ably with free-wheel­ing Beat sen­si­bil­i­ties or flow­ery Cal­i­for­nia hip­pie cul­ture. They were both sim­ply too con­trary, cul­ti­vat­ed or, at times, too weird and anti­so­cial for that.

But these con­found­ing ten­den­cies make both artists peren­ni­al­ly inter­est­ing. Despite their differences—in medi­um, age, and background—both share at least two sig­nif­i­cant traits: a wry, blas­phe­mous sense of humor and descent from fam­i­lies inte­gral to U.S. tech­no­crat­ic suprema­cy: Bur­roughs the grand­son of the inven­tor of the adding machine and Zap­pa the son of a chemist and math­e­mati­cian who helped make chem­i­cal weapons. Maybe it’s his­tor­i­cal irony that the Bur­roughs and Zap­pa fam­i­lies pro­duced such errant off­spring, maybe it’s a dialec­ti­cal inevitabil­i­ty. But it’s cer­tain­ly fit­ting that the two come togeth­er in the audio above, where Zap­pa reads a par­tic­u­lar­ly fun­ny and pro­fane pas­sage from Bur­roughs’ most famous nov­el Naked Lunch.

The occa­sion of this read­ing was the Nova Con­ven­tion in 1978, three days and nights of read­ings, pan­el dis­cus­sions, film screen­ings, and per­for­mances that, The New York Times wrote at the time, “sought to grap­ple with some of the impli­ca­tions of the writ­ing” of Bur­roughs. In addi­tion to Bur­roughs and Zap­pa, the con­ven­tion fea­tured such notable coun­ter­cul­tur­al names as Ter­ry South­ern, Pat­ti Smith, Philip Glass, Brion Gysin, John Cage, Tim­o­thy Leary, and Robert Anton Wil­son. A good bit of the hap­pen­ing (includ­ing the audio above) was record­ed for pos­ter­i­ty and released as a dou­ble-LP by Giorno Poet­ry Sys­tems.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Beat Writer William S. Bur­roughs Spreads Coun­ter­cul­ture Cool on Nike Sneak­ers, 1994

William S. Bur­roughs Shows You How to Make “Shot­gun Art”

Frank Zap­pa Debates Cen­sor­ship on CNN’s Cross­fire (1986)

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

100 Metropolitan Museum Curators Talk About 100 Works of Art That Changed How They See the World

Which best describes your muse­um-going expe­ri­ence? Inspi­ra­tion and spir­i­tu­al refresh­ment? Or a soul crush­ing attempt to fight your way past the hoards there for the lat­est block­buster exhib­it, with a too-heavy bag and a whin­ing, foot sore com­pan­ion in tow?

Would­n’t it be won­der­ful to lose your­self in con­tem­pla­tion of a sin­gle work? What about that giant one at the top of the Met­ro­pol­i­tan Muse­um of Art’s Grand Stair­case? For every vis­i­tor who paus­es to take it in, anoth­er thou­sand stream by with hard­ly a glance.

The above com­men­tary by cura­tor of Ital­ian paint­ings, Xavier Salomon, may well turn Gio­van­ni Bat­tista Tiepolo’s The Tri­umph of Mar­ius into one of the Met’s hottest attrac­tions. It’s often dif­fi­cult for the aver­age muse­um-goer to under­stand what the deal is in one of these dense­ly pop­u­lat­ed, 19th cen­tu­ry oils. Salomon sup­plies the need­ed his­tor­i­cal context—general Gaius Mar­ius parad­ing cap­tive Numid­i­an king Jugurtha through the streets upon his tri­umphal return to Rome.

Things get even more inter­est­ing when he trans­lates the Latin inscrip­tion at the top of the can­vas: “The Roman peo­ple behold Jugurtha laden with chains.” In oth­er words, you can for­go the hero wor­ship of the title and con­cen­trate on the bad guy. This, Salomon spec­u­lates, is what the artist had in mind when swathing Jugurtha in that eye-catch­ing red cape. Jugurtha may be the los­er, but his refusal to be hum­bled before the crowd is win­some.

As is 82nd and 5th, an online series that aims to cel­e­brate 100 trans­for­ma­tive works of art from the muse­um’s col­lec­tion before year’s end. In addi­tion to Salomon’s com­pelling thoughts on The Tri­umph of Mar­ius, some plea­sures thus far include Melanie Hol­comb, Asso­ciate Cura­tor of Medieval Art and The Clois­ters, geek­ing out over illus­trat­ed man­u­script pages and fash­ion and cos­tume cura­tor Andrew Bolton recall­ing his first encounter with one of design­er Alexan­der McQueen’s most extreme gar­ments. Each video is sup­ple­ment­ed with a tab for fur­ther explo­ration. You can also find the talks col­lect­ed on YouTube.

Bril­liant­ly con­ceived and exe­cut­ed, these com­men­taries pro­vide vir­tu­al muse­um-goers with a high­ly per­son­al tour, and can only but enrich the expe­ri­ence of any­one lucky enough to vis­it in the flesh.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

 

Down­load Hun­dreds of Free Art Cat­a­logs from The Met­ro­pol­i­tan Muse­um of Art

Google Art Project Expands, Bring­ing 30,000 Works of Art from 151 Muse­ums to the Web

Free: The Guggen­heim Puts 65 Mod­ern Art Books Online

Ayun Hal­l­i­day  has her fin­gers crossed for some com­men­tary on the Met’s hunky Stand­ing Hanu­man.

How Pi Was Nearly Changed to 3.2 … and Copyrighted!

The sto­ry above—from our old friend James Grime of Num­ber­phile and Cam­bridge Uni­ver­si­ty—has all the mak­ings of weirdo Amer­i­cana: bad ama­teur sci­ence, com­mer­cial ven­tures based upon the same, and a state leg­is­la­ture eager to embrace it all. In 1897, an ama­teur math­e­mati­cian named Edwin Good­win believed he’d solved an ancient prob­lem ruled insol­u­ble fif­teen years ear­li­er. He thought that he had squared the cir­cle and could rea­son­ably copy­right Pi as 3.2. Yes, that’s right, after his “dis­cov­ery,” Good­win, a native of Indi­ana, decid­ed to copy­right his proof so that any­one using it out­side of the state would have to pay him roy­al­ties.

But kind­ly, in a ges­ture of nativist good­will (or polit­i­cal oppor­tunism), Good­win decid­ed he would let his home state of Indi­ana use his proof for free for edu­ca­tion­al pur­pos­es. In fact, he said as much when he intro­duced a bill to the Indi­ana House of Rep­re­sen­ta­tives to rule his proof cor­rect and grant him sole pro­pri­etor­ship. And, as some­times hap­pens in sto­ries like this, the bill passed, unan­i­mous­ly, and the leg­is­la­tors were impressed. But one man wasn’t. By sheer chance, a pro­fes­sor of math­e­mat­ics hap­pened to be in atten­dance. While he declined to meet math­e­mat­ics hero Edwin Good­win, he did take it upon him­self to warn the Indi­ana Sen­ate of what was com­ing its way. Luck­i­ly for the state’s school­child­ren, the Sen­ate threw the bill out, but not before a half-hour spent  mock­ing its silli­ness.

But is the idea of squar­ing a cir­cle ridicu­lous? Dr. Grime cites one Indi­an math­e­mati­cian who pro­posed a some­what fea­si­ble solu­tion. And what exact­ly does it mean to “square a cir­cle”? If you don’t know (and I don’t), you’ll have to wait till next time on Num­ber­phile, when Grime and his team promise to explain it to us rubes.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Math in Good Will Hunt­ing is Easy: How Do You Like Them Apples?

The Enig­ma Machine: How Alan Tur­ing Helped Break the Unbreak­able Nazi Code

Incred­i­ble Men­tal Math Gym­nas­tics on “Count­down”

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

Thomas Edison and Nikola Tesla Face Off in “Epic Rap Battles of History”

We’ve writ­ten a fair amount on the var­i­ous facets of Thomas Edison’s career, and some­what less on his less-famous for­mer employ­ee-become-rival Niko­la Tes­la (who seems to polar­ize peo­ple in ways Edi­son doesn’t). Both inven­tors pro­voke all kinds of seri­ous spec­u­la­tion, com­men­tary, and debate. But even peo­ple hav­ing fun with these larg­er-than-life char­ac­ters feel the need to pick sides. For exam­ple, there’s web­com­ic The Oatmeal’s “Why Niko­la Tes­la was the great­est geek who ever lived,” which obvi­ous­ly comes down hard in favor of Tes­la. Then there’s Tet­suya Kuro­sawa Bio­graph­i­cal com­ic Thomas Edi­son: Genius of the Elec­tric Age, which gives the edge to Edi­son.

Now, in anoth­er show­down between the pio­neer­ing genius­es of the elec­tric age, we have Epic Rap Bat­tles of His­to­ry, Sea­son 2, with Edi­son and Tes­la spit­ting rhymes to prove who should wear the top inventor’s crown. Pre­vi­ous Epic Rap Bat­tles of His­to­ry episodes pit Gand­hi against Mar­tin Luther King, Oba­ma vs. Rom­ney, and Steve Jobs vs. Bill Gates. They’re all pret­ty great, but this one goes out to the sci­ence his­to­ry nerds (who have a sense of humor). The lyrics hit the high points of Edi­son and Tesla’s careers—Edison’s intel­lec­tu­al prop­er­ty theft, end­less string of patents, use of direct cur­rent, and “stack­ing rich­es”; Tesla’s almost reli­gious belief in the pow­er of elec­tric­i­ty, dis­in­ter­est in busi­ness, griev­ances with Edison—and there are plen­ty of per­son­al insults thrown into the mix.

Whether you’re a par­ti­san of Edi­son or Tes­la, or couldn’t care less either way, no doubt you’ll get a kick out of this. And for an added bonus, check out the “mak­ing of” video below.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Magi­cian Mar­co Tem­pest Daz­zles a TED Audi­ence with “The Elec­tric Rise and Fall of Niko­la Tes­la”

A Brief, Ani­mat­ed Intro­duc­tion to Thomas Edi­son (and Niko­la Tes­la)

Thomas Edi­son Recites “Mary Had a Lit­tle Lamb” in Ear­ly Voice Record­ing

Hayek vs. Keynes Rap

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

 

Big History: David Christian Covers 13.7 Billion Years of History in 18 Minutes

Per­haps you noticed? Dur­ing the past two years, the TED brand has mor­phed into some­thing new. Once known for stag­ing a cou­ple of high-priced annu­al con­fer­ences, TED has recent­ly launched a series of new prod­ucts: TEDx con­fer­ences for the mass­es, TED Books, TED Radio, TED ED and Ads Worth Spread­ing. In the wake of all of this, some have ques­tioned whether TED has grown too quick­ly, or to put it more col­lo­qui­al­ly, “jumped the shark.” There are days when TED feels like a vic­tim of its own suc­cess. But there are oth­er days — espe­cial­ly when it returns to its roots — where the orga­ni­za­tion can still be a vital force. That hap­pens when­ev­er TED wraps up its big annu­al con­fer­ence, as it did two weeks ago, and puts some note­wor­thy talks online. (See, for exam­ple, Stew­art Brand describ­ing how sci­en­tists will bring extinct species back from the dead.) Or it hap­pens when TED brings old­er talks from its archive to YouTube.

Which brings us to the talk above. Here we have David Chris­t­ian, a pro­fes­sor at Aus­trali­a’s Mac­quar­ie Uni­ver­si­ty, explain­ing the his­to­ry of the world in less than 18 min­utes, start­ing with the Big Bang and then cov­er­ing anoth­er 13.7 bil­lion years. For­mal­ly trained as a Russ­ian his­to­ri­an, Chris­t­ian began work­ing on Big His­to­ry in the 1980s, a meta dis­ci­pline that “exam­ines long time frames using a mul­ti­dis­ci­pli­nary approach based on com­bin­ing numer­ous dis­ci­plines from sci­ence and the human­i­ties.” Chris­t­ian then pop­u­lar­ized his new­fan­gled way of telling his­to­ry when he pro­duced for the Teach­ing Com­pa­ny: Big His­to­ry: The Big Bang, Life on Earth, and the Rise of Human­i­ty. It did­n’t hurt that Bill Gates stum­bled upon the lec­tures and gave back­ing to The Big His­to­ry Project, an online ini­tia­tive that exper­i­ments with bring­ing Big His­to­ry to high school stu­dents. The Big His­to­ry Project got its start at the 2011 TED con­fer­ence, with the talk pre­sent­ed above.

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

Free Online His­to­ry Cours­es from Great Uni­ver­si­ties

A Crash Course in World His­to­ry

The Com­plete His­to­ry of the World (and Human Cre­ativ­i­ty) in 100 Objects

The Pod­cast His­to­ry of Our World Will Take You From Cre­ation Myths to (Even­tu­al­ly) the Present Day

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Hear Zora Neale Hurston Sing the Bawdy Prison Blues Song “Uncle Bud” (1940)

Last year, we post­ed on a song archive of nov­el­ist and anthro­pol­o­gist Zora Neale Hurston, who, it turns out, was also quite a singer. As she trav­eled through the Amer­i­can South and the Caribbean doing field research in the 1930s and ‘40s, Hurston col­lect­ed and inter­pret­ed sev­er­al folk songs and sto­ries, some­times work­ing with folk­lorists Stet­son Kennedy and Alan Lomax. Hurston dropped off the map for a few decades before a revival of her work in the 1970s caused lit­er­ary schol­ars and his­to­ri­ans to re-eval­u­ate her place in Amer­i­can let­ters. One recent eval­u­a­tion of her work and life, the 2008 PBS Amer­i­can Mas­ters doc­u­men­tary Jump at the Sun, pro­files the writer in all her inde­pen­dence, con­trari­ness, and vig­or. Unfor­tu­nate­ly, the full doc­u­men­tary is not online, but you can order a copy of the award-win­ning film on DVD from Cal­i­for­nia News­reel or Ama­zon.

In the short clip above from Jump at the Sun, you can see footage Hurston shot her­self, over which she sings, in her crys­tal clear alto, a bawdy old-time coun­try blues song called “Uncle Bud.” Hurston called “Uncle Bud” a “jook song,” not the kind of thing sung around (or by) respectable ladies. The song comes from expe­ri­ences with the infa­mous Chief Trans­fer Agent for the Texas prison sys­tem, “Uncle Bud” Rus­sell, whose dread­ed wag­on, “Black Bet­ty,” was pos­si­bly the ref­er­ence for a work song immor­tal­ized by Lead bel­ly, no stranger to Texas pris­ons (Rus­sell also gets a name-check in Lead Bel­ly’s “Mid­night Spe­cial”).

Rus­sell earned his noto­ri­ety, deliv­er­ing 115,000 men and women to prison, includ­ing Clyde Bar­row in 1930. The prison song, with equal­ly pro­fane, but slight­ly dif­fer­ent lyrics, appeared on a 1960 album called The Unex­pur­gat­ed Folk Songs of Men, com­piled by Texas musi­col­o­gist and folk­lorist Mack McCormick, and Texas blues­man Light­nin’ Hop­kins had his own nar­ra­tive of the law­man in “Bud Rus­sell Blues.”

After Hurston’s brief ren­di­tion above, we see a pho­to mon­tage of the author, smil­ing broad­ly, nev­er with­out a rak­ish­ly cocked hat. Part­ly because of the work of folk­lorists and lovers of Amer­i­cana like McCormick and Hurston, songs like “Uncle Bud” stayed in the lex­i­con of pop­u­lar music, trans­mit­ted from obscure folk ren­di­tions to the blues and weav­ing togeth­er work­ing-class black and white blues and folk tra­di­tions that were often nev­er very far apart to begin with. Those worlds come togeth­er in Zyde­co leg­end Boozoo Chavis’ take on “Uncle Bud,” but my favorite ver­sion by far is the lyri­cal­ly cleaned-up, har­mon­i­ca-dri­ven stom­per by Son­ny Ter­ry and Brown­ie McGhee, record­ed in 1956 (below).

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Hear Zora Neale Hurston Sing Tra­di­tion­al Amer­i­can Folk Song “Mule on the Mount” (1939)

Leg­endary Folk­lorist Alan Lomax: ‘The Land Where the Blues Began’

Watch the Only Known Footage of the Leg­endary Blues­man Lead Bel­ly (1935 and 1945)

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

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