The Life and Work of Afrobeat Creator Fela Kuti Explored by Radiolab’s Jad Abumrad

When dis­cussing a musi­cian like Fela Kuti, many of our usu­al terms fail us. They fail us, that is, if we came of age in a musi­cal cul­ture in which artists and bands put out an album of ten or so lyrics-for­ward songs every two or three years, pro­mot­ing it on tour while also play­ing their biggest hits. Fela — as all his fans refer to him — could put out six or sev­en albums in a sin­gle year, and refused to play live any mate­r­i­al he’d already record­ed. Even the word song, as we know it, does­n’t quite reflect the nature of his com­po­si­tions, which got expan­sive enough that two or three of them (or just one, half of it on each side) could fill a long-play­ing record.

Wal­ter Ben­jamin said of great lit­er­ary works that they either dis­solve a genre or invent one, and Fela’s musi­cal works invent­ed the genre of Afrobeat. The sound of that genre, as explained by Noah Lefevre in the Poly­phon­ic video above, reflects the dis­tinc­tive for­ma­tion of Fela him­self, who was born and raised in Nige­ria, stud­ied at the Trin­i­ty Col­lege of Music in Lon­don, and came of age dur­ing the end of Africa’s era of decol­o­niza­tion. To a lis­ten­er reared on Anglo-Amer­i­can pop­u­lar music, his sig­na­ture mix­ture of West African rhythms with jazz and funk tex­tures sounds famil­iar enough — at least for the first ten or fif­teen min­utes, after which time the lis­ten­ing expe­ri­ence ascends to a dif­fer­ent state entire­ly.

Some­times it takes Fela just about that long to start singing, and when he does, he’s giv­en to procla­ma­tions, chants, calls-and-respons­es, and polit­i­cal exhor­ta­tions deliv­ered in the kind of Eng­lish that sounds high­ly unfa­mil­iar to non-African lis­ten­ers. Not that it’s always alien­at­ing: indeed, this par­tic­u­lar com­bi­na­tion of words and music has cap­ti­vat­ed gen­er­a­tions of lis­ten­ers from far out­side its place of ori­gin. One of them is David Byrne, who used Talk­ing Heads’ Remain in Light as more or less a medi­um for chan­nel­ing the musi­cal spir­it of Fela. Not that he him­self was gone yet: indeed, he had almost two decades of his event­ful life to go, one you can learn much more about from Fela Kuti: Fear No Man, a twelve-part bio­graph­i­cal pod­cast by Jad Abum­rad.

Brought into Fela’s world by a fam­i­ly con­nec­tion, that for­mer Radi­o­lab host con­duct­ed dozens and dozens of inter­views on the rela­tion­ship between the man, his music, and the polit­i­cal con­text in which he found him­self. The facts, as any Fela fan knows, don’t always align com­fort­ably with main­stream sen­si­bil­i­ties of the twen­ty-twen­ties — the charges range from essen­tial­ism to polygamy — but as Lefevre reminds us, an artist should be inter­pret­ed through the lens of his own cul­ture and his­to­ry. How­ev­er many of us con­sid­er him a “prob­lem­at­ic fave” today, Fela Kuti will always be the man who invent­ed Afrobeat — and since nobody else has quite man­aged to repli­cate his grooves in their simul­ta­ne­ous tight­ness and loose­ness, blunt­ness and sub­tle­ty, per­haps also the man who dis­solved it.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

An Intro­duc­tion to the Life & Music of Fela Kuti: Rad­i­cal Niger­ian Band­leader, Polit­i­cal Hero, and Cre­ator of Afrobeat

When Afrobeat Leg­end Fela Kuti Col­lab­o­rat­ed with Cream Drum­mer Gin­ger Bak­er

Zam­rock: An Intro­duc­tion to Zambia’s 1970s Rich & Psy­che­del­ic Rock Scene

Watch the Talk­ing Heads Play Mate­r­i­al From Their Ground­break­ing Album Remain in Light in an Incred­i­ble Con­cert from 1980

The Awe-Inspir­ing But Trag­ic Sto­ry of Africa’s Fes­ti­val In The Desert (2001–2012)

Stream 8,000 Vin­tage Afropop Record­ings Dig­i­tized & Made Avail­able by The British Library

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Hear Debussy Play Debussy: A Vintage Recording from 1913

A cen­tu­ry ago, the great French com­pos­er Claude Debussy sat down at a con­trap­tion called a Welte-Mignon repro­duc­ing piano and record­ed a series of per­for­mances for pos­ter­i­ty. The machine was designed to encode the nuances of a pianist’s play­ing, includ­ing ped­al­ing and dynam­ics, onto piano rolls for lat­er repro­duc­tion.

Debussy record­ed 14 pieces onto six rolls in Paris on or before Novem­ber 1, 1913. Accord­ing to Debussy enthu­si­ast Steve Bryson’s web site, the com­pos­er was delight­ed with the repro­duc­tion qual­i­ty, say­ing in a let­ter to Edwin Welte: “It is impos­si­ble to attain a greater per­fec­tion of repro­duc­tion than that of the Welte appa­ra­tus. I am hap­py to assure you in these lines of my aston­ish­ment and admi­ra­tion of what I heard. I am, Dear Sir, Yours Faith­ful­ly, Claude Debussy.”

The selec­tion above is “La soirée dans Grenade” (“Grena­da in the evening”), from Debussy’s 1903 trio of com­po­si­tions titled Estam­pes, or “Prints.” Debussy was inspired by the Sym­bol­ist poets and Impres­sion­ist painters who strove to go beyond the sur­face of a sub­ject to evoke the feel­ing it gave off. “La soirée dans Grenade” is described by Chris­tine Steven­son at Notes From a Pianist as a “sound pic­ture” of Moor­ish Spain:

Debussy’s first-hand expe­ri­ence of Spain was neg­li­gi­ble at that time, but he imme­di­ate­ly con­jures up the coun­try by using the per­sua­sive Haben­era dance rhythm to open the piece–softly and sub­tly. It insin­u­ates itself into our con­scious­ness with its qui­et insis­tence on a repeat­ed C sharp in dif­fer­ent reg­is­ters; around it cir­cles a lan­guid, Moor­ish arabesque, with nasal aug­ment­ed 2nds, and a nag­ging semi­tone pulling against the tonal cen­tre, occa­sion­al­ly inter­rupt­ed by mut­ter­ing semi­qua­vers [16th notes] and a whole-tone based pas­sage. Debussy writes Com­mencer lente­ment dans un rythme non­cha­la­m­ment gra­cieux [Begin slow­ly in a casu­al­ly grace­ful rhythm] at the begin­ning, but lat­er Tres ryth­mé [Very rhyth­mic] in a bright­ly lit A major as the dance comes out of the shad­ows, ff [Fortissimo–loudly], with the click of cas­tanets and the stamp­ing of feet.

Debussy was 52 years old and suf­fer­ing from can­cer when he made his piano roll record­ings. He died less than five years lat­er, on March 25, 1918. Since then, his beau­ti­ful and evoca­tive music has secured a place for him as one of the most influ­en­tial and pop­u­lar com­posers of the 20th cen­tu­ry. As Roger Hecht writes at Clas­si­cal Net, “Debussy was a dream­er whose music dreamed with him.”

If you would like to sign up for Open Culture’s free email newslet­ter, please find it here. It’s a great way to see our new posts, all bun­dled in one email, each day.

If you would like to sup­port the mis­sion of Open Cul­ture, con­sid­er mak­ing a dona­tion to our site. It’s hard to rely 100% on ads, and your con­tri­bu­tions will help us con­tin­ue pro­vid­ing the best free cul­tur­al and edu­ca­tion­al mate­ri­als to learn­ers every­where. You can con­tribute through Pay­Pal, Patre­on, and Ven­mo (@openculture). Thanks!

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2013.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Hear The Rite of Spring Con­duct­ed by Igor Stravin­sky Him­self: A Vin­tage Record­ing from 1929

Hear a 1930 Record­ing of Bolero, Con­duct­ed by Rav­el Him­self

Rare 1946 Film: The Great Russ­ian Com­pos­er Sergei Prokofiev Plays Piano, Dis­cuss­es His Music

Tom Jones Performs Prince’s “Purple Rain” Accompanied by Pink Floyd’s David Gilmour (1992)

Over the decades, Tom Jones has per­formed with the best of them. In 1969, we can find him singing “Long Time Gone” with Cros­by, Stills, Nash & Young, and tak­ing them delight­ful­ly by sur­prise. The same goes for his duet with Janis Joplin in that same year. Now fast for­ward to the 1990s. In this decade, Jones teamed up with the Swedish rock band The Cardi­gans and per­formed a rol­lick­ing ver­sion of the Talk­ing Heads “Burn­ing Down the House.” And, rather unex­pect­ed­ly, he would get paired with Pink Floy­d’s David Gilmour and croon Prince’s “Pur­ple Rain.”

The record­ing above comes from Jones’ show The Right Time, a six-episode tele­vi­sion series that aired in 1992. Trac­ing the evo­lu­tion of pop music, the show fea­tured appear­ances by Bob Geld­of, Cyn­di Lau­per, The Chief­tains and Ste­vie Won­der. When it comes to his ver­sion of “Pur­ple Rain,” don’t miss the Gilmour solo mid­way through. Enjoy!

Relat­ed Con­tent 

Tom Jones Per­forms “Long Time Gone” with Cros­by, Stills, Nash & Young–and Blows the Band & Audi­ence Away (1969)

Janis Joplin & Tom Jones Bring the House Down in an Unlike­ly Duet of “Raise Your Hand” (1969)

Tom Jones Cov­ers Talk­ing Heads “Burn­ing Down the House”–and Burns Down the House (1999)

Prince Plays a Mind-Blow­ing Gui­tar Solo On “While My Gui­tar Gen­tly Weeps”

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Talking Heads’ David Byrne Performs a Tiny Desk Concert

If you’ve seen a David Byrne con­cert in recent years, you know that he per­forms with a large ensem­ble of musi­cians, each car­ry­ing their own instru­ments across the stage, all while mov­ing in intri­cate­ly chore­o­graphed pat­terns. On his cur­rent tour, Byrne and his band stopped by NPR’s stu­dio and played a very dif­fer­ent kind of show—a show tight­ly squeezed behind NPR’s Tiny Desk. As you will see above, they per­formed two songs (“Every­body Laughs” and “Don’t Be Like That”) from Byrne’s new album, along with two Talk­ing Heads favorites, “(Noth­ing But) Flow­ers” and “Life Dur­ing Wartime.” Enjoy!

Relat­ed Con­tent 

David Byrne Explains How the “Big Suit” He Wore in Stop Mak­ing Sense Was Inspired by Japan­ese Kabu­ki The­atre

A Behind-the-Scenes Tour of NPR’s Tiny Desk Con­cert

Watch a Very Ner­vous, 23-Year-Old David Byrne and Talk­ing Heads Per­form­ing Live in NYC (1976)

Watch David Byrne Prac­tice His Dance Moves for Stop Mak­ing Sense in New­ly Released Behind-the-Scenes Footage

224 Books About Music in David Byrne’s Per­son­al Library

The Illustrated Version of “Alice’s Restaurant”: Watch Arlo Guthrie’s Thanksgiving Counterculture Classic

Alice’s Restau­rant. It’s now a Thanks­giv­ing clas­sic, and some­thing of a tra­di­tion around here. Record­ed in 1967, the 18+ minute coun­ter­cul­ture song recounts Arlo Guthrie’s real encounter with the law, start­ing on Thanks­giv­ing Day 1965. As the long song unfolds, we hear all about how a hip­pie-bat­ing police offi­cer, by the name of William “Obie” Oban­hein, arrest­ed Arlo for lit­ter­ing. (Cul­tur­al foot­note: Obie pre­vi­ous­ly posed for sev­er­al Nor­man Rock­well paint­ings, includ­ing the well-known paint­ing, “The Run­away,” that graced a 1958 cov­er of The Sat­ur­day Evening Post.) In fair­ly short order, Arlo pleads guilty to a mis­de­meanor charge, pays a $25 fine, and cleans up the thrash. But the sto­ry isn’t over. Not by a long shot.

Lat­er, when Arlo (son of Woody Guthrie) gets called up for the draft, the pet­ty crime iron­i­cal­ly becomes a basis for dis­qual­i­fy­ing him from mil­i­tary ser­vice in the Viet­nam War. Guthrie recounts this with some bit­ter­ness as the song builds into a satir­i­cal protest against the war: “I’m sit­tin’ here on the Group W bench ’cause you want to know if I’m moral enough to join the Army, burn women, kids, hous­es and vil­lages after bein’ a lit­ter­bug.” And then we’re back to the cheery cho­rus again: “You can get any­thing you want, at Alice’s Restau­rant.”

We have fea­tured Guthrie’s clas­sic dur­ing past years. But, for this Thanks­giv­ing, we give you the illus­trat­ed ver­sion.

If you would like to sign up for Open Culture’s free email newslet­ter, please find it here. It’s a great way to see our new posts, all bun­dled in one email, each day.

If you would like to sup­port the mis­sion of Open Cul­ture, con­sid­er mak­ing a dona­tion to our site. It’s hard to rely 100% on ads, and your con­tri­bu­tions will help us con­tin­ue pro­vid­ing the best free cul­tur­al and edu­ca­tion­al mate­ri­als to learn­ers every­where. You can con­tribute through Pay­Pal, Patre­on, and Ven­mo (@openculture). Thanks!

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Sto­ry Behind “Alice’s Restau­rant,” Arlo Guthrie’s Song That’s Now a Thanks­giv­ing Tra­di­tion

What Amer­i­cans Ate for Thanks­giv­ing 200 Years Ago: Watch Re-Cre­ations of Recipes from the 1820s

Read 1,000+ Thanks­giv­ing Books Free at the Inter­net Archive

William S. Bur­roughs’ Scathing “Thanks­giv­ing Prayer,” Shot by Gus Van Sant

Mar­i­lyn Monroe’s Hand­writ­ten Turkey-and-Stuff­ing Recipe

F. Scott Fitzgerald’s 13 Tips for What to Do with Your Left­over Thanks­giv­ing Turkey

AC/DC Plays a Short Gig at CBGB in 1977: Hear Metal Being Played on Punk’s Hallowed Grounds

Punk rock and heavy met­al were two gen­res that evolved over the ‘70s, but seemed to run par­al­lel to each oth­er, despite shar­ing com­mon fash­ion, sounds, and atti­tudes. But then there are moments in his­to­ry, where every­body plays togeth­er in the same sand­box. For exam­ple, the above remas­tered audio, which cap­tures the Aus­tralian band AC/DC on their first Amer­i­can tour, play­ing New York’s CBGB, syn­ony­mous now with punk and new wave music.

The date is August 24, 1977, and AC/DC were on a cross-coun­try trip that had tak­en in both club dates and are­nas, where they supported—yes, hard to believe, I know—REO Speed­wag­on. Their album Let There Be Rock had just dropped in June. The band would be in the States until the win­ter.

This CBGB gig finds them on the same bill as Talk­ing Heads and the Dead Boys, accord­ing to a poster from the time. And while there’s no video for this show, you can find a few pho­tos that doc­u­ment the con­cert here. You can feel the mug­gy New York sum­mer in these pho­tos, but also the excite­ment of an unfor­get­table gig.

At 15 min­utes, the set is short, but still three min­utes longer than the Ramones’ first set at the same club three years ear­li­er. That’s pret­ty met­al, man.

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2016.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

NYC’s Icon­ic Punk Club CBG­Bs Comes Alive in a Bril­liant Short Ani­ma­tion, Using David Godlis’ Pho­tos of Pat­ti Smith, The Ramones & More

CBGB’s Hey­day: Watch The Ramones, The Dead Boys, Bad Brains, Talk­ing Heads & Blondie Per­form Live (1974–1982)

Lis­ten to Pat­ti Smith’s Glo­ri­ous Three Hour Farewell to CBGB’s on Its Final Night

The Talk­ing Heads Play CBGB, the New York Club That Shaped Their Sound (1975)

Watch an Episode of TV-CBGB, the First Rock ‘n’ Roll Sit­com Ever Aired on Cable TV (1981)

Ted Mills is a free­lance writer on the arts.

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Watch 50 David Bowie Music Videos Spanning Five Decades of Reinvention: “Space Oddity,” “Life on Mars?” “ ‘Heroes’,” “Let’s Dance” & More

Each of us has a dif­fer­ent idea of when, exact­ly, the six­ties end­ed, not as a decade, but as a dis­tinct cul­tur­al peri­od. Some have a notion of the “long six­ties” that extends well into the sev­en­ties; if pressed for a spe­cif­ic final year, they could do worse than point­ing to 1972, when David Bowie made his epoch-shift­ing appear­ance as Zig­gy Star­dust, backed by the Spi­ders from Mars, on the BBC’s Top of the Pops. It was also the year he released music videos for “Space Odd­i­ty,” the sin­gle that had begun to make his name at the time of the moon land­ing in 1969, and “Jean Genie,” the first sin­gle from Aladdin Sane, an album inspired in part by the debauch­ery of the Amer­i­can Zig­gy tour he under­took after blast­ing off into star­dom.


Hav­ing strug­gled in the six­ties to find a suit­able iden­ti­ty and audi­ence, the young Bowie devel­oped an unusu­al­ly strong under­stand­ing of not just the music indus­try, but also the cul­ture itself. One era was giv­ing way to anoth­er, and nobody knew it bet­ter than he did. When all those hir­sute fig­ures in beards and den­im, singing with osten­ta­tious earnest­ness about love and free­dom, dis­ap­peared, who would replace them?

In Bowie’s vision, the next phase belonged to clean-shaven, made-up androg­y­nes in flam­boy­ant design­er cos­tumes work­ing grand, some­times sci­ence fic­tion­al, and often inscrutable themes into what would strike con­cert­go­ers as almost com­plete the­atri­cal expe­ri­ences — and he would be the first and fore­most among them.

Bowie, in oth­er words, made the sev­en­ties his own, oper­at­ing on his knowl­edge of and instincts about the media envi­ron­ment of that decade and how images would be made in it. By that time, he’d seen too many flash­es in the pan of pop music to get com­pla­cent about his own prospects for endurance. The recep­tion of “Space Odd­i­ty” as a nov­el­ty song did its part to moti­vate him to come up with his bisex­u­al space-alien rock-star alter ego — and to moti­vate him to ter­mi­nate that per­sona on stage in 1973. A cou­ple of years before that, he had already sung of the impor­tance of changes, a kind of man­i­festo that would guide his career through all the decades that remained. Nev­er would Bowie adhere to a par­tic­u­lar musi­cal or aes­thet­ic style for very long, an abid­ing ten­den­cy vivid­ly on dis­play in this playlist of 50 music videos on his offi­cial YouTube chan­nel.

The expe­ri­ence of putting out music videos in the sev­en­ties placed Bowie well, espe­cial­ly com­pared to oth­er artists of his gen­er­a­tion, to make his mark on MTV in the eight­ies with a sta­di­um-ready hit like “Let’s Dance.” The nineties found him tak­ing the form in new direc­tions, as with the cinephili­cal­ly astute video for “Jump They Say” and the dar­ing­ly action-free visu­al treat­ment of the reflec­tive “Thurs­day’s Child” (from the album Hours…, which began as the sound­track to the com­put­er game Omikron: The Nomad Soul). Apart from this playlist, his chan­nel also con­tains music videos for his lat­er songs from the two-thou­sands and twen­ty-tens, from “New Killer Star” to “The Stars (Are Out Tonight)” to “Black­star” — the nature of star­dom hav­ing been a pre­oc­cu­pa­tion since the begin­ning, even though he kept on chang­ing to the very end.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch David Bowie Star in His First Film Role, a Short Hor­ror Flick Called The Image (1967)

Watch David Bowie Per­form “Star­man” on Top of the Pops: Vot­ed the Great­est Music Per­for­mance Ever on the BBC (1972)

David Bowie Per­forms “Life on Mars?” and “Ash­es to Ash­es” on John­ny Carson’s “Tonight Show” (1980)

David Bowie’s Music Video “Jump They Say” Pays Trib­ute to Marker’s La Jetée, Godard’s Alphav­ille, Welles’ The Tri­al & Kubrick’s 2001

Watch David Bowie’s New Video for “The Stars (Are Out Tonight)” With Til­da Swin­ton

When Bowie & Jagger’s “Danc­ing in the Street” Music Video Becomes a Silent Film

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

The Groundbreaking Animation That Defined Pink Floyd’s Psychedelic Visual Style: Watch “French Windows” (1972)

You could argue that, of all rock bands, that Pink Floyd had the least need for visu­al accom­pa­ni­ment. Son­i­cal­ly rich and evoca­tive­ly struc­tured, their albums evolved to offer lis­ten­ing expe­ri­ences that verge on the cin­e­mat­ic in them­selves. Yet from fair­ly ear­ly in the Floy­d’s his­to­ry, their artis­tic ambi­tions extend­ed to that which could not be heard. Can you real­ly under­stand their enter­prise, it’s fair to ask, if you remain mere­ly one of their lis­ten­ers, nev­er enter­ing the visu­al dimen­sion — not just their album cov­ers, repro­duc­tions of which still grace many a dorm room wall, but also their elab­o­rate stage shows, music videos (which they were mak­ing before that form had a name), and films? One man had more respon­si­bil­i­ty for the devel­op­ment of the Floy­d’s visu­al style than any oth­er: Ian Emes.

In 1972, Emes took it upon him­self to ani­mate their song “One of These Days” from the pre­vi­ous year’s album Med­dle. When the fin­ished work, “French Win­dows,” aired on the BBC music show The Old Grey Whis­tle Test, it caught the eye of the Floy­d’s key­board play­er Rick Wright. The group then got in touch with Emes, ask­ing to use “French Win­dows” as a pro­jec­tion behind their con­certs.

They went on to com­mis­sion fur­ther work from him, for songs like “Speak to Me,” Time,” and “On the Run” from The Dark Side of the Moon. This pro­fes­sion­al con­nec­tion endured for decades. When Roger Waters put on his own per­for­mances of The Wall — includ­ing the enor­mous­ly scaled show in Berlin in 1990 — he had Emes direct its ani­mat­ed sequences. The post-Waters ver­sion of Pink Floyd even called up Emes in 2015 to ask him to make a film to accom­pa­ny their final album The End­less Riv­er.

It was, in a way, the com­ple­tion of a cir­cle: “One of These Days” is a most­ly instru­men­tal song, and The End­less Riv­er is a most­ly instru­men­tal album; “French Win­dows” uses roto­scop­ing, which involves trac­ing over live action footage to make more real­is­ti­cal­ly smooth ani­ma­tion, and the End­less Riv­er film presents its own live action footage in a man­ner that some­times verges on the abstract. Both works cre­ate their own visu­al envi­ron­ments, which dove­tails with what Emes, who died two years ago, once described as the appeal for him of the Floyd: “They went to archi­tec­ture col­lege and so I think their music cre­ates spaces. It cre­ates envi­ron­ments of sound and I was so stim­u­lat­ed that my mind would soar, and so I would see images that were stim­u­lat­ed by the music.” Their music takes a dif­fer­ent form before the mind’s eye of each fan, but it was Emes who made his visions a part of their lega­cy.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Psy­che­del­ic Scenes of Pink Floyd’s Ear­ly Days with Syd Bar­rett, 1967

Pink Floyd Films a Con­cert in an Emp­ty Audi­to­ri­um, Still Try­ing to Break Into the U.S. Charts (1970)

Pink Floyd’s First Mas­ter­piece: An Audio/Video Explo­ration of the 23-Minute Track, “Echoes” (1971)

Down­load Pink Floyd’s 1975 Com­ic Book Pro­gram for The Dark Side of the Moon Tour

The First Pro­fes­sion­al Footage of Pink Floyd Gets Cap­tured in a 1967 Doc­u­men­tary (and the Band Also Pro­vides the Sound­track)

How Pink Floyd Built The Wall: The Album, Tour & Film

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

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