Patti Smith, The Godmother of Punk, Is Now Putting Her Pictures on Instagram

As evi­denced by her Insta­gram feed the God­moth­er is just like you and me. She posts pic­tures of her kids.

She gives her mom a Moth­ers Day shout out…

She cel­e­brates her friends’ birth­days, posts self­ies, trav­el shots, and pet pics

She’s not above self-pro­mo­tion if the sit­u­a­tion war­rants.

But the accom­pa­ny­ing cap­tions set punk’s poet lau­re­ate apart. No LOLs here.  It’s clear that the award-win­ning author of Just Kids  and M Train thinks about her con­tent, care­ful­ly craft­ing each post before she pub­lish­es. Each is a bite-sized reflec­tion, a page-a-day med­i­ta­tion on what it means to be alive:

This is day two of my Venice report.

I bummed around think­ing of 

Venice in the sev­en­ties. It had

a strong Ras­ta vibe with Reg­gae

music drift­ing from the head shops

and boom box­es on the beach. 

Burn­ing Spear and Jim­my Cliff

and Bob Mar­ley. Venice has an 

ever chang­ing atmos­phere but 

I always like walk­ing around, 

anony­mous, just anoth­er freak. 

On Pacif­ic next to the Cafe Col­lage

I had steamed dumplings and 

gin­ger tea at Mao’s Kitchen. 

The food is great and rea­son­able.

Because it was ear­ly it was 

near­ly emp­ty. Since I was awake

since 4am i was near­ly hyp­no­tized 

by the turn­ing of their over­head 

fan. Before I left they gave me a

for­tune cook­ie. It was a true one.

Reflect­ing my past and cer­tain­ly 

my future. A very good day.

Fol­low Pat­ti Smith on Insta­gram here.

via W Mag­a­zine

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Pat­ti Smith’s 40 Favorite Books

Pat­ti Smith Cre­ates a Detailed Pack­ing List for Going on Tour: Haru­ki Muraka­mi Books, Loquat Tea & More

Hear Pat­ti Smith Read the Poet­ry that Would Become Hors­es: A Read­ing of 14 Poems at Colum­bia Uni­ver­si­ty, 1975

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, the­ater mak­er and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine.  Her solo show Nurse!, in which one of Shakespeare’s best loved female char­ac­ters hits the lec­ture cir­cuit to set the record straight pre­mieres in June at The Tank in New York City. Fol­low her @AyunHalliday.

An 82-Year-Old Japanese Audiophile Searches for the Best Sound by Installing His Own Electric Utility Pole in His Yard

As a long­time record col­lec­tor (first because it was before CDs were invent­ed) and a bud­ding audio­phile (because vinyl does sound bet­ter than dig­i­tal, have at me in the com­ments if you must), I appre­ci­ate a good sto­ry about the search for per­fect sound. But Takeo Mori­ta takes it to a new lev­el.

In the Wall Street Jour­nal sto­ry above, we learn that the 82-year-old has installed a 42-foot util­i­ty pole next to his house. Why? To get that clean elec­tric­i­ty to his sys­tem, not that shared, filthy elec­tric­i­ty from a com­mon-as-muck util­i­ty pole. Elec­tric­i­ty is like blood, he explains, and the clean­er the blood, the bet­ter for the sys­tem.

Now this reminds me, while we’re here, to tell you about a show I once saw on Japan­ese TV and which I one day hope to see on YouTube. A news show pro­filed Japan’s num­ber one Bob Dylan col­lec­tor, who had every vinyl release of the musi­cian, even to redun­dan­cy. At one point he pulled out an album still in its shrink wrap that was no dif­fer­ent from the one next to it. “This has a green stick­er on it,” he said, point­ing to the right hand cor­ner. “But that’s just a stick­er,” said the host. Blank stare. Pause. “But this has a green stick­er on it.”

That’s the spir­it, I thought.

Also: Nev­er catch that spir­it, I thought.

This arti­cle at residentadvisor.net explores the world of Tokyo’s audio­phile under­ground, which is both a log­i­cal out­come for those into hear­ing the best music sys­tems and some­thing quin­tes­sen­tial­ly Japan­ese. I can’t imag­ine an audio­phile bar open­ing up in the States any­time soon. But the lis­ten­ing venue has a long his­to­ry in Japan:

It can be traced back to the rise of jazz kissa (jazz cafés) and meikyoku kissa (clas­si­cal music cafés) in the years fol­low­ing World War II, a time when import­ed records were pro­hib­i­tive­ly expen­sive. This meant that, for many peo­ple, the kissat­en were the only places to hear good music from abroad. The focus at these cafés was on deep, con­cen­trat­ed lis­ten­ing.

As the arti­cle men­tions, there are as many mini clubs in Tokyo as there are gen­res, from clas­si­cal to drone/glitch. And it comes down to the idea, start­ed by Amer­i­can soci­ol­o­gist Ray Old­en­burg, of “The Third Place,” the place that is nei­ther home, nor work:

As civ­i­liza­tion has advanced, going to work and back home has become our rou­tine as humans,” Ari­izu­mi says. “The third place is not quite home, and it’s not work, but a com­mu­ni­ty where every­one can be wel­comed and relax, with a nice atmos­phere. I heard about the term ‘third place’ for the first time just when we opened Bridge, and I remem­ber think­ing, ‘This is exact­ly what I want to cre­ate.’ That’s what I want to do, cre­ate a third space. Peo­ple can come here and talk about their jobs or their love life, or they can come here and dance. It’s a place between work and home. Peo­ple need that.

Ques­tion is, dear read­er: do you have a third space?

Relat­ed con­tent:

How Steely Dan Wrote “Dea­con Blues,” the Song Audio­philes Use to Test High-End Stere­os

How Good Are Your Head­phones? This 150-Song Playlist, Fea­tur­ing Steely Dan, Pink Floyd & More, Will Test Them Out
The Dis­tor­tion of Sound: A Short Film on How We’ve Cre­at­ed “a McDonald’s Gen­er­a­tion of Music Con­sumers”

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.

Jimi Hendrix’s “Voodoo Child” Shredded on the Ukulele

Here’s James Hill’s recipe for play­ing Jimi Hen­drix’s 1968 clas­sic, “Voodoo Child (Slight Return)” on the uke. Yes, the uke:

1 Mya-Moe bari­tone ukulele (Low G — G — B — E)
1 gui­tar amp (Fend­er Blues Junior or equiv­a­lent)
1 bass amp (15 inch)
1 line split­ter (Radi­al ABY box)
1 Dia­mond J‑Drive ped­al (made in Hal­i­fax, NS!)
4 bust­ed strings
2 bro­ken fin­ger­nails
Sea­son to taste and serve hot!

Enjoy…

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 Ukulele Orches­tra of Great Britain Per­forms Stun­ning Cov­ers of Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spir­it,” Talk­ing Heads’ “Psy­cho Killer” & More

George Har­ri­son Explains Why Every­one Should Play the Ukulele

Jake Shimabukuro plays “Bohemi­an Rhap­sody” on the Uke

Ukulele Orches­tra Per­forms Ennio Morricone’s Icon­ic West­ern Theme Song, “The Good, The Bad and The Ugly.” And It’s Pret­ty Bril­liant.

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How David Bowie Turned His “Adequate” Voice into a Powerful Instrument: Hear Isolated Vocal Tracks from “Life on Mars,” “Starman,” “Modern Love” “Under Pressure” & More

Believe it or not, the odds were against David Bowie becom­ing an inter­na­tion­al pop super­star. When it seemed he’d final­ly arrived, with the release of Zig­gy Star­dust and the Spi­ders from Mars in 1972, “we didn’t real­ize,” says Jarvis Cock­er in a 2012 doc­u­men­tary, “that he’d been try­ing to be suc­cess­ful for 10 years.” Bowie was 24, a ripe old age in pop star years, and already had four albums under his belt as a solo artist, the first a total com­mer­cial fail­ure, and the sec­ond notable for its one hit, “Space Odd­i­ty,” which seemed like it might have been the artist’s big break in 1969, but some­how wasn’t.

He had played in sev­er­al bands and tried per­form­ing under his giv­en name, Davy Jones, which he just hap­pened to share with one of the biggest pop stars of the day. Had he not per­sist­ed, changed his name and style, and, cru­cial­ly, invent­ed his Mar­t­ian glam per­sona, he might have remained a one-hit-won­der, his excel­lent The Man Who Sold the World and Hunky Dory revered as under­rat­ed cult favorites among fans in the know.

In addi­tion to the dif­fi­cul­ty Bowie had find­ing his niche, he was not a nat­u­ral­ly gift­ed singer and was a reluc­tant per­former. Drawn ear­ly to “move­ment and music” class­es in school, Bowie’s teach­ers called his idio­syn­crat­ic style “vivid­ly artis­tic,” but only rat­ed his voice as “ade­quate.” As voice coach Lisa Popeil writes, “though vocal­ly agile as an adult, Bowie was nev­er known for great pitch accu­ra­cy.”

Such things mat­ter less these days, what with pitch cor­rec­tion soft­ware. In the old days of ana­log, singers couldn’t lean on dig­i­tal wiz­ardry to make them sound bet­ter than they were. Bowie wasn’t “par­tic­u­lar­ly fond” of his own voice, he revealed in an inter­view, and unlike most hun­gry, young would-be stars, he didn’t set out to put him­self in the spotlight—not at first.

“I thought that I wrote songs and wrote music and that was sort of what I thought I was best at doing. And because nobody else was ever doing my songs, I felt, you know, I had to go out and do them.”


So the shy, retir­ing Bowie charged ahead. “With his the­atri­cal bent and fear­less­ness,” Popeil writes, his “abil­i­ty to cre­ate mem­o­rable and emo­tion­al vocal stylings was of the high­est order.” This, we might say, is almost an under­state­ment. Aspir­ing singers and musi­cians can learn much from Bowie’s career, per­haps fore­most the les­son that one needn’t be a prodi­gy or a bub­bly extro­vert to fol­low a musi­cal pas­sion. Bowie honed his vocal skills and achieved mas­tery over his haunt­ing bari­tone, while also learn­ing to move into a pow­er­ful tenor range.

Wit­ness these iso­lat­ed vocal tracks from through­out this career. At the top, the vocal mix from “Life on Mars” shows, as Clas­sic fM writes, that “while unpol­ished, his tremu­lous voice has real qual­i­ty and range.” Fur­ther down, we hear Bowie goof­ing around a bit in the vocal booth before launch­ing into his first hit, “Space Odd­i­ty,” his voice a bit thin in the verse, then hit­ting its full stride in the cho­rus. Three years lat­er, on “Star­man” from Zig­gy Star­dust, we hear more con­fi­dence and con­trol in the vocal track. Then, ten years after Zig­gy, Bowie belts it out on “Mod­ern Love,” above, hav­ing already kept pace with arguably the great­est rock singer of all time on “Under Pres­sure,” fur­ther up.

On “Gold­en Years,” above, Bowie explores his full range, from deep­est bari­tone to falset­to. His voice inevitably waned with age and the sick­ness of his final years, but he nev­er lost the abil­i­ty to imbue a song with max­i­mal emo­tion­al range, mak­ing the ragged vocals on his last album, espe­cial­ly its chill­ing sin­gle “Lazarus,” some of the most grip­ping in his entire body of work. The video below from The Last Five Years doc­u­men­tary strips away the instru­men­ta­tion, leav­ing us with the image of an aged, blind­ed Bowie in bed, singing “Look up here man, I’m in danger/I’ve got noth­ing left to lose.” His breath­ing is audi­bly labored, giv­ing the record­ing a poignant imme­di­a­cy. But the for­ev­er-dis­tinc­tive Bowie vocal style is as deeply mov­ing as ever.


Relat­ed Con­tent:

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

Hear Fred­die Mercury’s Vocals Soar in the Iso­lat­ed Vocal Track for “Some­body to Love”

Hear Dolores O’Riordan’s Beau­ti­ful­ly-Pained Vocals in the Unplugged Ver­sion of The Cran­ber­ries’ 1994 Hit “Zom­bie”

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

Why Stradivarius Violins Are Worth Millions

In 2011, a Stradi­var­ius vio­lin in pris­tine con­di­tion sold for $15.9 mil­lion. And then, in 2014, anoth­er Strad went up for auc­tion with a min­i­mum bid of $45 mil­lion. That auc­tion failed, but it under­scored a trend: The price and pres­tige of Stradi­var­ius vio­lins keep climb­ing, dri­ven by the insa­tiable demand of investors and pro­fes­sion­al musi­cians.

But is a Stradi­var­ius real­ly worth that large sum of mon­ey? As this primer from Vox sug­gests, it depends who you ask. In a high­ly-pub­li­cized blind test, pro­fes­sion­al vio­lin­ists could­n’t tell the dif­fer­ence between mul­ti-mil­lion dol­lar Strads and more mod­est­ly-priced mod­ern vio­lins. On the oth­er hand, some elite vio­lin­ists swear by the Stradi­var­ius, claim­ing that the sub­tle supe­ri­or­i­ty of the instru­ment only becomes appar­ent over time, when it’s played over years, not days or months.

That debate will con­tin­ue. And as it does, the Stradi­var­ius will only get older–and, yes, more fetishized as an his­tor­i­cal object that’s con­sid­ered price­less.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

What Makes the Stradi­var­ius Spe­cial? It Was Designed to Sound Like a Female Sopra­no Voice, With Notes Sound­ing Like Vow­els, Says Researcher

Why Vio­lins Have F‑Holes: The Sci­ence & His­to­ry of a Remark­able Renais­sance Design

Musi­cian Plays the Last Stradi­var­ius Gui­tar in the World, the “Sabionari” Made in 1679

Watch Price­less 17-Cen­tu­ry Stradi­var­ius and Amati Vio­lins Get Tak­en for a Test Dri­ve by Pro­fes­sion­al Vio­lin­ists

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Hear a 12-Hour Playlist of Experimental Symphonic Noise Rock by Avant-Garde Guitarist and Composer Glenn Branca (RIP)

Glenn Bran­ca died on Mon­day at age 69. In trib­utes from august pub­li­ca­tions like The Guardian and The New York Times, the gui­tarist and composer’s name is men­tioned by and along­side min­i­mal­ist lumi­nar­ies like Steve Reich and John Cage. Bran­ca him­self cit­ed com­posers like Olivi­er Mes­si­aen and Györ­gy Ligeti as influ­ences. He belongs in the com­pa­ny of these avant-garde pio­neers, but many who might rec­og­nize their names may not have heard the name Glenn Bran­ca.

Bran­ca worked in a much more anar­chic milieu, name­ly the down­town New York noise rock scene that came to be called No Wave. “My real influ­ence was punk,” he told Pitch­fork in 2016. “I must have lis­tened to the first Pat­ti Smith album 300 times.” In turn, the com­pos­er influ­enced the next gen­er­a­tion of under­ground New York artists, nur­tur­ing the tal­ents of Son­ic Youth’s Thurston Moore and Lee Ranal­do, who honed their art-rock chops—the drone notes, odd tun­ings, etc.—in the ear­ly ‘80s while play­ing in one of Branca’s noto­ri­ous­ly noisy gui­tar ensem­bles.

Bran­ca released Son­ic Youth’s first two albums on his record label, tutored abra­sive noise pio­neers Swans’ gui­tarist Nor­man West­berg, and inspired essen­tial down­town fig­ures like Lounge Lizards’ John Lurie, who described see­ing the composer’s band The­o­ret­i­cal Girls in 1979 as a life-chang­ing event. Min­i­mal­ist post-rock mas­ter­minds like God­speed You! Black Emper­or owe much to Branca’s inno­va­tions. Giv­en that he occu­pied such a sem­i­nal place at such a key musi­cal moment, giv­ing birth to such sem­i­nal bands, why isn’t Branca’s work bet­ter known?

Per­haps this is because, while he drew from clas­si­cal avant-garde, jazz, and punk rock, he refused to set­tle com­fort­ably into any par­tic­u­lar camp or to clear­ly define the bound­aries of his work. Bran­ca cre­at­ed a tem­plate all his own. Reich described him as “an absolute orig­i­nal,” which made him a very inspi­ra­tional fig­ure, but a dif­fi­cult one to slot into a genre bin.

His treat­ment of rock instru­ments in orches­tral set­tings made for intense, and for some unlis­ten­able, music that thor­ough­ly defied the con­ven­tions of rock and orches­tral music, with ensem­bles of up to 100 elec­tric gui­tars play­ing at once. (John Cage object­ed to Bran­ca’s over­whelm­ing per­for­mances on “polit­i­cal” grounds, say­ing they “resem­bled fas­cism.”)

But while Branca’s music has nev­er had mass appeal, the few who love it, love it pas­sion­ate­ly. Of his clas­sic 1981 album The Ascen­sion (hear the title track at the top), Allmusic’s Bri­an Olewnick writes, “if one choos­es to cat­e­go­rize the music on this record­ing as ‘rock,’ this is sure­ly one of the great­est rock albums ever made.” One hears in The Ascen­sion and Branca’s work in gen­er­al the gen­e­sis of a mus­cu­lar, noisy, orches­tral post-rock sound now famil­iar in, say, the sound­track work of artists like Radiohead’s Jon­ny Green­wood.

Despite his con­tention, as he told the NYT, that “I don’t change,” his work has evolved over time, devel­op­ing new depths and com­plex­i­ty. In the Spo­ti­fy playlist fur­ther up, hear Branca’s devel­op­ment as a com­pos­er in 66 tracks (or 12 hours) of sym­phon­ic exper­i­men­tal noise rock, and in the inter­view just above with the Louisiana Chan­nel, see Bran­ca describe (and demon­strate) his unusu­al gui­tar tech­niques and his breadth of musi­cal influ­ences.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Hear Steve Reich’s Min­i­mal­ist Com­po­si­tions in a 28-Hour Playlist: A Jour­ney Through His Influ­en­tial Record­ings

The Music of Avant-Garde Com­pos­er John Cage Now Avail­able in a Free Online Archive

Son­ic Youth Gui­tarist Thurston Moore Teach­es a Poet­ry Work­shop at Naropa Uni­ver­si­ty: See His Class Notes (2011)

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

Watch the Brand New Trailer for Bohemian Rhapsody, the Long-Awaited Biopic on Freddie Mercury & Queen

“Talk of a movie about [Fred­die Mer­cury], who died in 1991, has gone on for years: Dex­ter Fletch­er came up as a poten­tial direc­tor, and for the role of Mer­cury both Ben Wishaw and Sacha Baron Cohen have at dif­fer­ent times been attached. But now the film has entered pro­duc­tion, hav­ing found a direc­tor in Bryan Singer, he of the X‑Men fran­chise, and a star in Rami Malek, best known as the lead in the tele­vi­sion series Mr. Robot.”

That’s how our Col­in Mar­shall intro­duced a post last fall which, among oth­er things, gave us a first unof­fi­cial glimpse of Rami Malek as Fred­die Mer­cury. Now comes the first offi­cial glimpse of Malek as Mer­cury. Above, watch the new­ly-released trail­er for Bohemi­an Rhap­sody, the long-await­ed biopic that explores 15 years in the his­to­ry of Queen–from the for­ma­tion of the band, to their cap­ti­vat­ing, career-defin­ing 1985 per­for­mance at Live Aid, pre­vi­ous­ly fea­tured on our site here.

Enjoy the trail­er, and look for Bohemi­an Rhap­sody to hit the­aters on Novem­ber 2.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch Queen’s Stun­ning Live Aid Per­for­mance: 20 Min­utes Guar­an­teed to Give You Goose Bumps (July 15, 1985)

Lis­ten to Fred­die Mer­cury and David Bowie on the Iso­lat­ed Vocal Track for the Queen Hit ‘Under Pres­sure,’ 1981

65,000 Fans Break Into a Sin­ga­long of Queen’s “Bohemi­an Rhap­sody” at a Green Day Con­cert in London’s Hyde Park

Sci­en­tif­ic Study Reveals What Made Fred­die Mercury’s Voice One of a Kind; Hear It in All of Its A Cap­pel­la Splen­dor

Hear Fred­die Mercury’s Vocals Soar in the Iso­lat­ed Vocal Track for “Some­body to Love”

Hear the Recently Discovered, Earliest Known Recording of “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” (1894)

As keen observers of Amer­i­can cul­ture and his­to­ry like W.E.B. Du Bois and Ralph Elli­son have writ­ten, there is no Amer­i­can music with­out African-Amer­i­can music. The his­to­ry of the record­ing indus­try bears wit­ness to the fact, with jazz, blues, and rag­time dom­i­nat­ing the ear­ly releas­es that drove the indus­try for­ward. Before these pop­u­lar forms and the age of “race records,” how­ev­er, came the spir­i­tu­als, gospel songs dat­ing back to slav­ery, whose fame spread across the world in the lat­ter half of the 19th cen­tu­ry with groups like the Fisk Jubilee Singers. As Du Bois wrote in 1903, “their songs con­quered till they sang across the land and across the sea, before Queen and Kaiser, in Scot­land and Ire­land, Hol­land and Switzer­land… they tell of death and suf­fer­ing and unvoiced long­ing toward a truer world, of misty wan­der­ings and hid­den ways.”

Giv­en the world­wide fas­ci­na­tion with the spir­i­tu­al and the singing groups who spread them across the world, it’s no won­der this was sought-after mate­r­i­al for a nascent indus­try eager for music that appealed to the mass­es. And no spir­i­tu­al has had more mass appeal than “Swing Low, Sweet Char­i­ot.”

The first record­ing of the song was long thought to have been per­formed in 1909 by a four­some, the Fisk Uni­ver­si­ty Jubilee Quar­tet, “car­ry­ing on the lega­cy,” notes Pub­lic Domain Review, “of the orig­i­nal Fisk Jubilee Singers of the 1870s.” You can hear that record­ing below, made by Vic­tor Stu­dios.

Even before the turn of the cen­tu­ry, writes Toni Ander­son at the Library of Con­gress, “the musi­cal land­scape was pep­pered with over ten com­pa­nies fash­ioned after the orig­i­nal Jubilee Singers, and by the 1890s, many black groups had launched suc­cess­ful for­eign tours.” (Du Bois laments the poor qual­i­ty of many of these imi­ta­tors.) The 1909 record­ing, writes Pub­lic Domain Review, “pop­u­lar­ized the song huge­ly,” or, we might say, even more huge­ly, help­ing to make it a sta­ple in decades to come for artists like Paul Robe­son, Louis Arm­strong, Etta James, John­ny Cash, and Eric Clap­ton (in a 1975 reg­gae take). How­ev­er, it turns out that an even ear­li­er record­ing exists, made by one of those suc­cess­ful trav­el­ing groups, the Stan­dard Quar­tette, in 1894.

Record­ed on a wax cylin­der by Colum­bia Records in Wash­ing­ton, DC while the group made a stop on a spring tour, this “’holy grail’ of ear­ly record­ing his­to­ry,” writes Archeo­phone Records, “push­es back by fif­teen years the first known record­ing of the clas­sic spir­i­tu­al,” but it might have been lost for­ev­er had not a care­ful col­lec­tor pre­served it and Archeophone’s Richard Mar­tin not iden­ti­fied its bad­ly-decayed sounds as “Swing Low, Sweet Char­i­ot.” The record­ing has been includ­ed on a 102-track com­pi­la­tion, Wax­ing the Gospel: Mass Evan­ge­lism and the Phono­graph, 1890–1900.

First dis­cov­ered on a “large group of dam­aged ear­ly cylinders—moldy, noisy, and thought to have no retriev­able con­tent,” the song has been unearthed from beneath “an ocean of noise.” What Archeophone’s Mea­gan Hen­nessey found is that the ver­sion “is very dif­fer­ent from what peo­ple expect. The cho­rus is famil­iar, but the vers­es are dif­fer­ent. The Stan­dard Quar­tette sing lyrics we asso­ciate with oth­er jubilee songs.” Also, as Mar­tin points out, the song’s arrange­ment is unusu­al: “there are com­plex things going on here with har­mo­ny and rhythm, but you’ve got to lis­ten close­ly through the noise.” (Learn more about the dis­cov­ery and restora­tion in the short video above.)

The song itself may have been writ­ten in the mid-1800s by an enslaved man named Wal­lace Willis, who was tak­en from Mis­sis­sip­pi to Okla­homa by his half-Choctaw own­er dur­ing forced relo­ca­tion in the 1830s, then “rent­ed out” to a school for Native boys. The head­mas­ter heard him sing it, and passed it on to the Jubilee singers. In anoth­er, more dra­mat­ic, account of the song’s com­po­si­tion, it “’burst forth’ from the anguished soul of Sarah Han­nah Shep­pard, the moth­er of Ella Shep­pard of Fisk Jubilee Singer fame,” when Sarah learned she would be sold and sep­a­rat­ed for­ev­er from her daugh­ter.

In his live per­for­mance of the song, above, John­ny Cash gives a pic­turesque ori­gin sto­ry of an anony­mous slave, “sit­ting on his cot­ton sack one day,” and singing about a vision of a char­i­ot. But what­ev­er the song’s true ori­gins, “Swing Low, Sweet Char­i­ot,” per­haps more than any oth­er pop­u­lar spir­i­tu­al of the 19th cen­tu­ry, has come to rep­re­sent the music, Du Bois wrote, through which “the slave spoke to the world.”

via Pub­lic Domain Review

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Hear Walt Whit­man (Maybe) Read­ing the First Four Lines of His Poem, “Amer­i­ca” (1890)

Hear Voic­es from the 19th Cen­tu­ry: Ten­nyson, Glad­stone & Tchaikovsky

Hear the First Jazz Record, Which Launched the Jazz Age: “Liv­ery Sta­ble Blues” (1917)

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

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