Get­ting your gig shut down by the cops is always excel­lent pub­lic­i­ty–just ask the Bea­t­les. But there’s a world of dif­fer­ence between the 1969 rooftop con­cert and this June 7, 1977 boat par­ty to pub­li­cize the Sex Pis­tols’ sec­ond sin­gle “God Save the Queen.” It shows how quick­ly the hip­pie dream of the ‘60s had cur­dled into the grim eco­nom­ics of mid-‘70s Lon­don, where race riots and police bru­tal­i­ty, along with numer­ous nation­al strikes, had made the UK fer­tile ground for the birth of punk.

This film above, low in qual­i­ty but a marked improve­ment over oth­er ver­sions cir­cu­lat­ing, is the longest doc­u­men­ta­tion yet of the infa­mous and antag­o­nis­tic trip.

The brain­child of man­ag­er and provo­ca­teur Mal­colm McLaren, the riv­er boat ride was a satire of the Queen’s roy­al riv­er pro­ces­sion that was due to take place two days lat­er, cel­e­brat­ing the Queen’s Sil­ver Jubilee. The flotil­la was just one event in a jubilee year that had been going on since Feb­ru­ary. It was all pomp and cer­e­mo­ny, and many saw it as an insult­ing dis­trac­tion from the real prob­lems fac­ing the coun­try.

But there was the oth­er rea­son, one that ani­mat­ed McLaren: The band had been dropped by EMI and then picked up by Vir­gin. The sin­gle had been banned and kept out of the offi­cial BBC charts and radio, despite sell­ing enough to send it shoot­ing up the charts. They were already con­tro­ver­sial, and McLaren want­ed to stoke that fire.

On board the Queen Eliz­a­beth, the band and their man­ag­er, music press writ­ers, fel­low artists, punk fans, and a film crew direct­ed by Julien Tem­ple set off in the after­noon, with some pub­licly avail­able beer to drink and some speed to do in secret.

Jon Sav­age, who would go on to write one of the sem­i­nal books about the Pis­tols and punk, England’s Dream­ing, was on board and pro­vides one of the best descrip­tions of the day:

The atmos­phere on the boat was para­noid and claus­tro­pho­bic, but also very excit­ing. They were by far the best I ever saw them that day. You can’t beat the Sex Pis­tols, jubilee week­end, “Anar­chy in the UK,” out­side Par­lia­ment.

While the sun was up and peo­ple milled about, it was just like any oth­er relax­ing cruise up the Thames. You can hear the lilt of reg­gae being played over the P.A. sys­tem. Also see some great pho­tos from the day here.

But once the sun went down, the Sex Pis­tols were ready to rock, and so they did, blast­ing out a furi­ous set, releas­ing a lot of built up ten­sion, not just per­son­al­ly, but as Sav­age sug­gests, all the frus­tra­tions of that year.

It wasn’t long till the police sur­round­ed the boat on the water and forced it back to dock, and then pulled the pow­er. Despite protes­ta­tions the par­ty was over, and the police took out their own frus­tra­tions on a com­bat­ive McLaren, beat­ing the hell out of him before arrest­ing him and cart­ing him away. (The Pis­tols escaped in the chaos.)

(The video ends with a fas­ci­nat­ing record­ing from Capi­tol Radio explain­ing why, despite being num­ber one, the sta­tion can’t play the song.)

It was per­fect the­ater for McLaren, who was always a Sit­u­a­tion­al­ist at heart. And along with the sin­gle it announced the main­stream arrival of punk music, despite the establishment’s protes­ta­tions. Punk was nev­er meant to last. And in a bizarre cap­per on events, the son of McLaren and punk fash­ion design­er Vivi­enne West­wood set fire to around $8 mil­lion of punk mem­o­ra­bil­ia in 2016…on a barge in the Riv­er Thames.

Joe Corre, the man in ques­tion, explained it this way: “Punk was nev­er, nev­er meant to be nos­tal­gic.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch the Sex Pis­tols’ Christ­mas Par­ty for Children–Which Hap­pened to Be Their Final Gig in the UK (1977)

The Sex Pis­tols’ 1976 Man­ches­ter “Gig That Changed the World,” and the Day the Punk Era Began

When the Sex Pis­tols Played at the Chelms­ford Top Secu­ri­ty Prison: Hear Vin­tage Tracks from the 1976 Gig

Ted Mills is a free­lance writer on the arts who cur­rent­ly hosts the artist inter­view-based FunkZone Pod­cast and is the pro­duc­er of KCR­W’s Curi­ous Coast. You can also fol­low him on Twit­ter at @tedmills, read his oth­er arts writ­ing at tedmills.com and/or watch his films here.

The phrase “holy grail of tone” shows up a lot in the mar­ket­ing of gui­tar gear, a promise of per­fec­tion that seems more than a lit­tle iron­ic. Per­fect “tone”—that neb­u­lous term used to describe the sound pro­duced by an ide­al com­bi­na­tion of instru­ment, effects, ampli­fi­er, and settings—is ever sought but nev­er seem­ing­ly found. Gui­tarists bick­er and advise on forums, and reli­gious­ly con­sult the gear guides of the pros, who often deign in mag­a­zines and videos to explain their own pecu­liar setups.

While more and more man­u­fac­tur­ers are promis­ing to recre­ate the tone of your favorite gui­tarist in dig­i­tal sim­u­la­tions, true tone-ophiles will nev­er accept any­thing less than the real thing. Pink Floyd’s David Gilmour, a gui­tarist whose tone is unde­ni­ably all his own, has inspired a cot­tage indus­try of fan-made videos that teach you how to achieve “The David Gilmour Sound.” But there’s no sub­sti­tute for the source.

In the clip above from a BBC doc­u­men­tary, Gilmour vague­ly dis­cuss­es “the Floyd sound” and some of the tech­niques he uses to get his dis­tinc­tive gui­tar tone. Every dis­cus­sion of tone will include the admon­ish­ment that tone resides in the play­er’s fin­gers, not the gear. Gilmour sug­gests this ini­tial­ly. “It’s the tini­est lit­tle things,” he says, that “makes the gui­tar so per­son­al. Add a hun­dred dif­fer­ent tiny inflec­tions to what you’re doing all the time. That’s what gives peo­ple their indi­vid­ual tone.”

It’s a true enough state­ment, but there are still ways to get close to the sound of Gilmour’s gui­tar set­up, if not to actu­al­ly play exact­ly like him. You can buy the gear he’s used over the years, or some­thing approx­i­mat­ing it, any­way. You can learn a few of his tricks—the bluesy bends and slides we know so well from his emo­tive solos. But unless you have the lux­u­ry of play­ing the kinds of huge stages, with huge vol­ume, Gilmour plays, he says, you’ll nev­er quite get it. Small amps in small rooms sound too cramped and arti­fi­cial, he says.

And if you’re play­ing stages like that, you’ve prob­a­bly dis­cov­ered a holy grail of tone that’s all your own, and legions of fans are try­ing to sound like you.

via Laugh­ing Squid

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch David Gilmour Play the Songs of Syd Bar­rett, with the Help of David Bowie & Richard Wright

Pink Floyd’s David Gilmour Sings Shakespeare’s Son­net 18

Ital­ian Street Musi­cian Plays Amaz­ing Cov­ers of Pink Floyd Songs, Right in Front of the Pan­theon in Rome

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

Maybe there’s truth to the old joke about the 60s—“If you remem­ber it, you weren’t there”—but it’s hard to believe any­one could for­get see­ing Hen­drix. If you caught him in Stock­holm in 1969 how­ev­er and it some­how slipped your mind, you can relive it again for the first time in the well-pre­served, new­ly restored con­cert film above: a full hour of “elec­tric church music” from the Jimi Hen­drix Expe­ri­ence.

The event was not meant to have been pre­served at all. As Cata­ri­na Wil­son of Sweden’s pub­lic tele­vi­sion sta­tion SVT explained to the BBC, the tape should have been erased and reused because the sta­tion couldn’t afford to keep so much raw footage. Some tech­ni­cian at the sta­tion like­ly real­ized its val­ue and stashed it away. Since it was unla­beled, the footage sat for­got­ten on the shelf for 35 years, until a team under­took a project of trans­fer­ring archival mate­r­i­al to dig­i­tal and dis­cov­ered the full Hen­drix gig.

“The tape was shot on Jan­u­ary 9, 1969 at Stockholm’s Kon­serthuset,” reports Swedish news site The Local, “for a pop music show called ‘Num­mer 9.’ Only ten min­utes of the con­cert was broad­cast on Jan­u­ary 21st of that year.” After their intro­duc­tion, Hen­drix ded­i­cates the show to “the Amer­i­can desert­ers society”—soldiers refus­ing to go to Viet­nam, some of whom may have been in the audi­ence. Then, after a lit­tle tun­ing up and anoth­er obscure ded­i­ca­tion, the band launch­es into “Killing Floor.”

See the full track­list for the Stock­holm Kon­serthuset show below (the tape cuts off right before the encore).

01 Killing Floor
02 Span­ish Cas­tle Mag­ic
03 Fire 04 Hey Joe
05 Voodoo Child (Slight Return)
06 Red House
07 Sun­shine Of Your Love

Hen­drix also men­tions that the band will only play “oldies but bad­dies,” hint­ing at one of the many ten­sions between him and bassist Noel Red­ding that broke the band apart just six months lat­er. “The audi­ence want­ed us to play the old Hen­drix stan­dards,” Red­ding told Rolling Stone in Novem­ber, “but Jimi want­ed to do his new stuff. The last straw came at the Den­ver Pop Fes­ti­val when Jimi told a reporter that he was going to enlarge the band… with­out even con­sult­ing myself or our drum­mer, Mitch Mitchell.”

Com­pared to this sure­ly mem­o­rable, yet fair­ly stan­dard Stock­holm con­cert, the Experience’s last stage appear­ance in Den­ver “end­ed up being an unfor­get­table show,” notes Ulti­mate Clas­sic Rock, “for all the wrong reasons”—containing all the things we asso­ciate with the chaot­ic late six­ties. Hen­drix dropped acid before the gig. “Com­bined with the near-riot that took place out­side of the venue by those who demand­ed that the pro­mot­ers make the event free, it made for a bad vibe over­all.”

You can hear that con­cert above, includ­ing Hendrix’s dec­la­ra­tion, mid-way through the set, that it would be “the last gig we’ll ever play togeth­er.” Just a few min­utes lat­er, police fired tear gas into the crowd, the wind blew it back toward the stage, and “the Expe­ri­ence set down their instru­ments for the final time and fled for cov­er.” Red­ding quit that night and board­ed a plane for Lon­don, and just over a year lat­er, Hen­drix was gone.

via Laugh­ing Squid

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch the Ear­li­est Known Footage of the Jimi Hen­drix Expe­ri­ence (Feb­ru­ary, 1967)

Jimi Hendrix’s Final Inter­view on Sep­tem­ber 11, 1970: Lis­ten to the Com­plete Audio

Hear a Great 4‑Hour Radio Doc­u­men­tary on the Life & Music of Jimi Hen­drix: Fea­tures Rare Record­ings & Inter­views

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

First of all, hap­py belat­ed birth­day to Evan Puschak, the man behind Nerd­writer and some of the best video essays on the web that we often fea­ture here on Open Cul­ture. He recent­ly turned 30, and if you’re in your 20s that’s some elder states­man busi­ness. If you’re old­er, well, remem­ber how you felt when you turned 30? Wouldn’t you want that youth­ful anx­i­ety back?

Any­way, Evan’s gift to us is this appre­ci­a­tion of Michael Jackson’s “Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough,” the break­away hit from his 1979 album Off the Wall, the one that began Jackson’s rise into the stratos­phere, a jour­ney that would end with an iso­lat­ed man chas­ing the dragon’s tail of suc­cess. But that was far off in the future, and though Thriller was the block­buster album, Off the Wall has so much more joy, sex­u­al­i­ty, and heart than what was to come. “Rock with You” and the title track are smooth, soul­ful num­bers, but as Puschak says, “Don’t Stop” is *the* sin­gle off that album, a song that still sounds fresh today, a cross-over pop hit par excel­lence, despite being over­played at every wed­ding recep­tion since the ‘80s. (Even when watch­ing the video for this piece, I found myself clap­ping along, some­thing I rarely do. But it’s just so. damn. catchy.)

So why is that? How does this song work?

Puschak makes a few salient points.

One is that the song comes heav­i­ly indebt­ed to dis­co, yet it is not a dis­co song. The rhythm struc­ture is clos­er to funk than disco–it’s real­ly just a vamp on two chords–and the verse-cho­rus struc­ture is from rock music. It’s “pure dance music,” as Puschak says, quot­ing writer Ann Daniel­son.

Anoth­er point is that the rhythm mix is all about syn­co­pa­tion, with bass, shak­ers, strings, horns, and even a Coke bot­tle (played by Jack­son him­self) fill­ing in the spaces between the beat. (Those that find, say, house music bor­ing can put a lot of it down to the lack of syn­co­pa­tion).

And final­ly, there’s Jackson’s vocals, the top of each verse being two notes in a tri­tone inter­val. The tri­tone has been called the “devil’s inter­val”–there’s a nice video essay here on its his­to­ry–but there’s noth­ing dev­il­ish about Jackson’s falset­to. As Puschak says, quot­ing Ethan Hein, “the rela­tion­ship between these notes is some­what off kil­ter, and your mind notices that. And that infus­es the song with an urgency that it wouldn’t oth­er­wise have.”

Inter­est­ing­ly, the lyrics are not dis­cussed. And prob­a­bly for good reason–apart from the song’s title in the cho­rus, Jackson’s lyrics are sung so high they are inscrutable. Be hon­est, until you read the lyric sheet, did you know what he was singing? My point would be–it doesn’t mat­ter. The point is in the title; the mean­ing is in the mood.

Jack­son would try to catch light­ing in a bot­tle again on Thriller with “You Wan­na Be Startin’ Some­thing,” a pret­ty bla­tant rewrite. It’s still a great sin­gle, but that song, along with “Beat It” start­ed Jack­son along the path of lry­ics about aggres­sion and pos­tur­ing. (A few years lat­er, we’d have “Bad,” “Smooth Crim­i­nal,” and more.)

Hence my point about the mag­ic of Off the Wall–before the fame, before the insan­i­ty, before the “King of Pop” busi­ness, Jack­son was a sen­su­al, androg­y­nous angel sent down to bring love to the dance floor, or your bed­room, and all spaces in between. It didn’t last long, but it’s a beau­ti­ful sin­gle, a beau­ti­ful album, and a beau­ti­ful moment in pop.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Hear “Starlight,” Michael Jackson’s Ear­ly Demo of “Thriller”: A Ver­sion Before the Lyrics Were Rad­i­cal­ly Changed

The Ori­gins of Michael Jackson’s Moon­walk: Vin­tage Footage of Cab Cal­loway, Sam­my Davis Jr., Fred Astaire & More

Miles Davis Cov­ers Michael Jackson’s “Human Nature” (1983)

Ted Mills is a free­lance writer on the arts who cur­rent­ly hosts the artist inter­view-based FunkZone Pod­cast and is the pro­duc­er of KCR­W’s Curi­ous Coast. You can also fol­low him on Twit­ter at @tedmills, read his oth­er arts writ­ing at tedmills.com and/or watch his films here.