Hear a 19-Hour Playlist of Ludwig Wittgenstein’s Favorite Music: Schubert, Mozart, Beethoven, Brahms, and… Yvette Guilbert

Among his many var­ied interests—which, in addi­tion to phi­los­o­phy, includ­ed aero­nau­ti­cal engi­neer­ing and archi­tec­tureLud­wig Wittgen­stein was also a great lover of music. Giv­en his well-deserved rep­u­ta­tion for intel­lec­tu­al aus­ter­i­ty, we might assume his musi­cal tastes would tend toward min­i­mal­ist com­posers of the ear­ly 20th cen­tu­ry like fel­low Aus­tri­an Arnold Schoen­berg. The “order­ly seri­al­ism,” of Schoenberg’s aton­al music “does seem an obvi­ous com­ple­ment to Wittgenstein’s phi­los­o­phy,” writes Grant Chu Cov­ell. “Observers have won­dered why the famous­ly arro­gant thinker who attempt­ed to infuse phi­los­o­phy with log­ic didn’t find Schoenberg’s 12-tone sys­tem attrac­tive.”

But indeed, he did not—in fact, Wittgen­stein despised almost all mod­ern music and seemed to believe that “noth­ing of val­ue had been com­posed after the 19th century’s demise.” While his philo­soph­i­cal work made as rad­i­cal a break with the past as Schoenberg’s the­o­ry, when it came to music, the philoso­pher was a strict tra­di­tion­al­ist who “liked to say that there were only six tru­ly great com­posers: Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, Schu­bert, Brahms and Labor.”

This last name will hard­ly be famil­iar to most read­ers. Labor, a blind organ­ist and com­pos­er, was a close friend of the Wittgen­stein fam­i­ly and a teacher of Ludwig’s broth­er Paul (and of Schoen­berg as well). Although he lived into the twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry, Labor main­ly drew his influ­ence from ear­ly music.

The extrav­a­gant­ly wealthy Wittgen­steins were a musi­cal family—both Ludwig’s old­er broth­ers became musi­cians. Wittgenstein’s par­ents and grand­par­ents knew Brahms, adopt­ed vio­lin­ist Joseph Joachim, a dis­tant cousin, into the fam­i­ly, and fre­quent­ly host­ed such lumi­nar­ies as Gus­tav Mahler and Richard Strauss. Lud­wig him­self learned to play the clar­inet and “was a fas­tid­i­ous lis­ten­er,” Cov­ell notes. “Acquain­tances mar­veled at his vir­tu­oso whistling. His reper­toire includ­ed Brahms’ Haydn Vari­a­tions and oth­er sym­phon­ic works. He would unhesi­tat­ing­ly cor­rect oth­ers’ inac­cu­rate hum­ming or singing.” He sup­pos­ed­ly had an “untir­ing obses­sion with per­fect recre­ations of the clas­sics.”

The philosopher’s per­fec­tion­ism lead to some harsh crit­i­cal judg­ments. “Brahms is Mendelssohn with­out the flaws,” he wrote. He declared Mahler “worth­less… quite obvi­ous­ly it took a set of very rare tal­ents to pro­duce this bad music.” What did Wittgen­stein val­ue in music besides an ide­al of per­fec­tion? Gram­mar, silence, and pro­fun­di­ty. “The music of the Baroque era… made use of the spe­cial effect of silence,” writes Yael Kaduri at Con­tem­po­rary Aes­thet­ics. “The gen­er­al pause of the Baroque was used to illus­trate con­cepts such as eter­ni­ty, death, infin­i­ty and silence in vocal music.” These con­cepts “did not dis­ap­pear in the tran­si­tion to the clas­sic era.” Haydn’s music in par­tic­u­lar “con­tains so many gen­er­al paus­es that it seems they form an intrin­sic com­po­nent of his musi­cal lan­guage.”

Wittgen­stein had oth­er cri­te­ria as well, much of it, sure­ly, as enig­mat­ic as the prin­ci­ples that gov­erned his thought. What does become clear, Cov­ell argues, is that “Wittgen­stein could only have been attract­ed to com­mon-prac­tice tonal­i­ty, with its cod­i­fied rules and delin­eation between orna­ment and form.” He need­ed “a sys­tem the details of which enhance an under­ly­ing struc­ture.” In the playlist above, you can hear a selec­tion of the philoso­pher’s favorites. Com­piled by Wittgen­stein biog­ra­ph­er Ray Monk, the playlist omits Haydn, for some rea­son, but includes Wag­n­er and Roman­tic com­pos­er Georges Bizet.

You’ll also find one rare excep­tion to Wittgenstein’s obses­sion with clas­si­cal musi­cal order: cabaret actress and singer Yvette Guil­bert, favorite sub­ject of artist Hen­ri Toulouse-Lautrec and one­time star of the Moulin Rouge. The famous­ly soli­tary, severe, and ill-tem­pered philoso­pher may have, it seems, nur­tured a soft­er side after all.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Hear Wittgenstein’s Trac­ta­tus Logi­co-Philo­soph­i­cus Sung as a One-Woman Opera

An Ani­mat­ed Intro­duc­tion to Lud­wig Wittgen­stein & His Philo­soph­i­cal Insights on the Prob­lems of Human Com­mu­ni­ca­tion

Lud­wig Wittgenstein’s Short, Strange & Bru­tal Stint as an Ele­men­tary School Teacher

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

Finding Meaning in Music: A Short Documentary on How a Young Tech Pioneer, Confronting His Mortality, Prepared for His Final Violin Performance

The doc­tor breaks the news. You have ter­mi­nal can­cer, and you might have only a few months to live. How would you spend those final days? That’s a ques­tion that Eric Sun had to con­front when doc­tors told him he had a glioblas­toma, an aggres­sive form of brain can­cer, in 2016. Only 32 years old, Sun had stud­ied com­put­er sci­ence and eco­nom­ics at Stan­ford, then went to work at Face­book in 2008. Every­thing was on track. Until it was­n’t. Then big deci­sions had to be made.

Last month, the New York­er pub­lished a poignant pro­file on Sun, doc­u­ment­ing how, fac­ing mor­tal­i­ty, he found refuge–and maybe some kind of deep­er meaning–in music. The relat­ed video above, “Find­ing Mean­ing in Music,” lets you see Sun return­ing to his life­long passion–playing violin–and get­ting ready for his final per­for­mance. In the end, it’s art that nour­ish­es the soul.

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Relat­ed Con­tent:

Death: A Free Phi­los­o­phy Course from Yale Helps You Grap­ple with the Inescapable

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

Holo­caust Sur­vivor Vik­tor Fran­kl Explains Why If We Have True Mean­ing in Our Lives, We Can Make It Through the Dark­est of Times

The Brian Eno Discography: Stream 29 Hours of Recordings by the Master of Ambient Music

45 years have passed since Bri­an Eno left Roxy Music to strike out on his own, launch­ing a more or less unprece­dent­ed career spread across music pop­u­lar and exper­i­men­tal as well as oth­er forms of art entire­ly. It seems to have worked out for him: young stars like James Blake, Owen Pal­lett, and Seun Kuti con­tin­ue to seek out the bound­ary-push­ing cre­ative over­sight he pre­vi­ous­ly brought as pro­duc­er to acts like David Bowie and U2, and his own work as a “non-musi­cian” (which began with him twist­ing knobs and push­ing but­tons almost at ran­dom with Roxy Music) con­tin­ues apace, his lat­est album Reflec­tion hav­ing come out just last year.

If you looked for Reflec­tion at the record store, phys­i­cal or dig­i­tal, you might well find it filed under “ambi­ent,” a genre Bri­an Eno often gets cred­it­ed with, though nev­er seems to claim cred­it for, invent­ing.

Whether or not he came up with that atmos­pher­ic, almost spa­tial form of music sin­gle-hand­ed­ly — or its com­put­er-com­posed cousin gen­er­a­tive music, which you can expe­ri­ence with Reflec­tion in app form — mat­ters less than the intel­lec­tu­al frame­work he’s built, and that he con­tin­u­al­ly dis­man­tles and rebuilds, around it.

Though Eno has always insist­ed on the impor­tance of deep feel­ing in music, per­ceiv­ing a kind of sacred­ness in acts like singing and danc­ing, the cre­ation of his own music has also involved no small amount of cog­i­ta­tion, the fruits of which you can hear in the 29-hour Spo­ti­fy playlist above. (If you don’t have Spo­ti­fy’s free soft­ware, you can down­load it here.) If you got into Eno through his ambi­ent work, what you hear on much of this son­ic jour­ney through his discog­ra­phy might sur­prise you: the jagged­ness of a “Sky Saw” from Anoth­er Green World, the cyber­punk beats of Nerve Net, or the nervy grooves on his col­lab­o­ra­tions with for­mer Talk­ing Heads David Byrne. All of it evi­dences that Eno nev­er runs out of musi­cal ideas, nor the fas­ci­na­tion to exe­cute them; no won­der Roxy Music leader Bryan Fer­ry, near­ly half a cen­tu­ry lat­er, wants to col­lab­o­rate with him again.

The playlist starts with Eno’s first album, 1974’s Here Come the Warm Jets, and then moves through the rest of his discog­ra­phy chrono­log­i­cal­ly. It may not include every album Eno ever made. But it cer­tain­ly seems to include every Eno album cur­rent­ly avail­able on the stream­ing ser­vice.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The “True” Sto­ry Of How Bri­an Eno Invent­ed Ambi­ent Music

Bri­an Eno Presents a Crash Course on How the Record­ing Stu­dio Rad­i­cal­ly Changed Music: Hear His Influ­en­tial Lec­ture “The Record­ing Stu­dio as a Com­po­si­tion­al Tool” (1979)

Bri­an Eno Explains the Loss of Human­i­ty in Mod­ern Music

Bri­an Eno Cre­ates a List of His 13 Favorite Records: From Gospel to Afrobeat, Shoegaze to Bul­gar­i­an Folk

Bri­an Eno on Why Do We Make Art & What’s It Good For?: Down­load His 2015 John Peel Lec­ture

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. His projects include the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Stream the “Complete” John Coltrane Playlist: A 94-Hour Journey Through 700+ Transformative Tracks

In a con­trar­i­an take on the lega­cy of John Coltrane on the 50th anniver­sary of his death last year, Zack Gra­ham at GQ did not rec­om­mend Giant Steps nor A Love Supreme nor Blue Train nor My Favorite Things as the most impor­tant album in the artist’s career, but a record most casu­al jazz fans may nev­er encounter, and which even the hard­est-core Coltrane fans nev­er heard in his life­time. Record­ed in the year of his death, Inter­stel­lar Space—a fre­net­ic suite of free jazz duets with drum­mer Rashied Ali—didn’t appear until 1974. The album has since received wide­spread crit­i­cal acclaim, and stands, Gra­ham argues, as “Coltrane’s most influ­en­tial record, its echoes still heard today in every­thing from elec­tron­ic music to some of the world’s biggest hip hop acts.”

Gra­ham makes a com­pelling case. It’s hard­ly an acces­si­ble album, but dis­cern­ing lis­ten­ers will nonethe­less hear the sound of now in Ali’s stut­ter­ing, rapid fire beats and Coltrane’s modal bleats. Look­ing back, it can almost seem like he knew he was run­ning out of time, and rushed to leave behind a blue­print for the music of the future.

“In his last months,” writes Stephen Davis at Rolling Stone, “Coltrane had changed every­thing about his music,” and, per­haps, every­thing about music in gen­er­al, jazz and oth­er­wise. His evo­lu­tion as a musi­cian and explor­er of the mys­ti­cal poten­tial­i­ties of artis­tic expres­sion was so rad­i­cal that from a cer­tain point of view we are forced to work back­ward when approach­ing his cat­a­log, as we might do with biogra­phies of saints.

Should we pur­sue this line of think­ing, how­ev­er, we might have to grant that the posthu­mous Inter­stel­lar Space and its fol­low-up Stel­lar Regions—com­piled from tapes Alice Coltrane dis­cov­ered in 1994—are the result of Coltrane’s final musi­cal apoth­e­o­sis and thus can sound nigh-incom­pre­hen­si­ble to most mere mor­tals. Inter­stel­lar Space “is a musi­cians’ album, for sure,” Gra­ham admits, and an album for those ful­ly open to the unknown: “the dis­so­nance and enhar­mon­ic exper­i­men­ta­tion… is oth­er­world­ly.”

Work­ing back­ward, we see Coltrane’s trans­fig­u­ra­tion into an avant-garde pio­neer in 1966’s Ascen­sion, an album that “still man­ages to con­found as many lis­ten­ers as it con­vinces,” Derek Tay­lor writes at All About Jazz. A Love Supreme is Coltrane’s gospel, a spir­i­tu­al clas­sic that draws every­one in with its mes­sage of tran­scen­dence and one­ness. Ear­li­er mile­stones My Favorite Things, Giant Steps, and Blue Train are each mirac­u­lous feats of musi­cian­ship that drew huge crowds of admir­ers and imi­ta­tors, and then there are the years of appren­tice­ship, when the young Coltrane stud­ied under mas­ters like Miles Davis and Dizzy Gille­spie, and prac­ticed the dhar­ma of Char­lie Park­er.

A nar­ra­tive of Coltrane as a kind of musi­cal mes­si­ah explains the lit­er­al ven­er­a­tion of his work by the Church of Saint John Coltrane, but it is only one con­ve­nient means of Coltrane appre­ci­a­tion. In truth, his oeu­vre is too vast and var­ied in scope to neat­ly sum up in any ful­ly sat­is­fy­ing way. We might just as well start at the begin­ning, when Coltrane was a most­ly unknown, but very hip, side­man, play­ing with the greats through­out the fifties. “From his Bird-emu­lat­ing begin­nings to his flights into the unknown in his last years,” writes Fer­nan­do Ortiz, com­pil­er of the “Com­plete” John Coltrane playlist above, “the stan­dard of his music and his pas­sion are always at the top or very close to it.”

Com­pris­ing over 700 tracks, “or four straight days of lis­ten­ing,” this playlist list is still “far from per­fect,” Ortiz admits, “since it is sub­ject to avail­abil­i­ty and to the non-sys­tem­at­ic approach to data on Spo­ti­fy, but it’s not that far this time.”

…no stu­dio record­ing he made between 1955 and 1965 is miss­ing (his pre­vi­ous years are well rep­re­sent­ed, start­ing with his 1946 record­ings while in the Navy), which includes all his stu­dio work as a leader dur­ing those years, as well as all his record­ings as a side­man with Miles and Monk.

The weight­ing toward live record­ings, “both from offi­cial and boot­leg sources,” pro­vides a very mul­ti­fac­eted view of the artist’s onstage devel­op­ment, and the inclu­sion of box sets like Heavy­weight Cham­pi­on: The Com­plete Atlantic Record­ings offer panoram­ic sur­veys of his stu­dio work. While we don’t get every­thing here, and some of the omis­sions are key, you will, if you spend qual­i­ty time delv­ing into this trea­sure house, under­stand why the name Coltrane con­jures such inten­si­ty of awe, praise, and devo­tion.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Orga­nized Reli­gion Got You Down? Dis­cov­er The Church Of Saint John Coltrane

John Coltrane Draws a Mys­te­ri­ous Dia­gram Illus­trat­ing the Math­e­mat­i­cal & Mys­ti­cal Qual­i­ties of Music

John Coltrane’s Hand­writ­ten Out­line for His Mas­ter­piece A Love Supreme (1964)

The His­to­ry of Spir­i­tu­al Jazz: Hear a Tran­scen­dent 12-Hour Mix Fea­tur­ing John Coltrane, Sun Ra, Her­bie Han­cock & More

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

Amanda Palmer Sings a Heartfelt Musical Tribute to YA Author Judy Blume on Her 80th Birthday

Art saves lives, and so does author Judy Blume. While some of her nov­els are intend­ed for adult read­ers, and oth­ers for the ele­men­tary school set, her best known books are the ones that speak to the expe­ri­ence of being a teenage girl.

For many of us com­ing of age in the ‘70s and ‘80s, Blume was our best—sometimes only—source when it came to sex, men­stru­a­tion, mas­tur­ba­tion, and oth­er top­ics too taboo to dis­cuss. She answered the ques­tions we were too shy to ask. Her char­ac­ters’ inte­ri­or mono­logues mir­rored our own.

The hon­esty of her writ­ing earned her mil­lions of grate­ful young fans, and plen­ty of atten­tion from those who still seek to keep her titles out of libraries and schools.

While her sto­ries are not auto­bi­o­graph­i­cal, her com­pas­sion is born of expe­ri­ence.

Here she is on Are You There, God? It’s Me, Mar­garet, a tat­tered paper­back copy of which made the rounds of my 6th grade class, like the pre­cious con­tra­band it was:

When I was in sixth grade, I longed to devel­op phys­i­cal­ly like my class­mates. I tried doing exer­cis­es, resort­ed to stuff­ing my bra, and lied about get­ting my peri­od. And like Mar­garet, I had a very per­son­al rela­tion­ship with God that had lit­tle to do with orga­nized reli­gion. God was my friend and con­fi­dant. But Mar­garet’s fam­i­ly is very dif­fer­ent from mine, and her sto­ry grew from my imag­i­na­tion.

On It’s Not the End of the World:

…in the ear­ly sev­en­ties I lived in sub­ur­ban New Jer­sey with my hus­band and two chil­dren, who were both in ele­men­tary school. I could see their con­cern and fear each time a fam­i­ly in our neigh­bor­hood divorced. What do you say to your friends when you find out their par­ents are split­ting up? If it could hap­pen to them, could it hap­pen to us?

At the time, my own mar­riage was in trou­ble but I was­n’t ready or able to admit it to myself, let alone any­one else. In the hope that it would get bet­ter I ded­i­cat­ed this book to my hus­band. But a few years lat­er, we, too, divorced. It was hard on all of us, more painful than I could have imag­ined, but some­how we mud­dled through and it was­n’t the end of any of our worlds, though on some days it might have felt like it.

And on For­ev­er, which won an A.L.A. Mar­garet A. Edwards Award for Out­stand­ing Lit­er­a­ture for Young Adults, 20 years after its orig­i­nal pub­li­ca­tion:

My daugh­ter Randy asked for a sto­ry about two nice kids who have sex with­out either of them hav­ing to die. She had read sev­er­al nov­els about teenagers in love. If they had sex the girl was always punished—an unplanned preg­nan­cy, a hasty trip to a rel­a­tive in anoth­er state, a gris­ly abor­tion (ille­gal in the U.S. until the 1970’s), some­times even death. Lies. Secrets. At least one life ruined. Girls in these books had no sex­u­al feel­ings and boys had no feel­ings oth­er than sex­u­al. Nei­ther took respon­si­bil­i­ty for their actions. I want­ed to present anoth­er kind of story—one in which two seniors in high school fall in love, decide togeth­er to have sex, and act respon­si­bly.

The heart­felt lyrics of Aman­da Palmer’s recent paean to Blume, who turned 80 this week, con­firm that the singer-song­writer was among the legions of young girls for whom this author made a dif­fer­ence.

In her essay, “Why Judy Blume Mat­ters,” Palmer recalls com­ing up with a list of influ­ences to sat­is­fy the sort of ques­tion a ris­ing indie musi­cian is fre­quent­ly asked in inter­views. It was a “care­ful­ly curat­ed” assort­ment of rock and roll pedi­gree and obscu­ri­ties, and she lat­er real­ized, almost exclu­sive­ly male.

This song, which name checks so many beloved char­ac­ters, is a pas­sion­ate attempt to cor­rect this over­sight:

Per­haps the biggest com­pli­ment you could give a writer ― or a writer of youth fic­tion ― is that they’re so indeli­ble they van­ish into mem­o­ry, the way a dream slips away upon wak­ing because it’s so deeply knit­ted into the fab­ric of your sub­con­scious. The expe­ri­ences of her teenage char­ac­ters ― Dee­nie, Dav­ey, Tony, Jill, Mar­garet ― are so thor­ough­ly enmeshed with my own mem­o­ries that the line between fact and fic­tion is deli­cious­ly thin. My mem­o­ries of these char­ac­ters, though I’d pre­fer to call them “peo­ple” ― of Dee­nie get­ting felt up in the dark lock­er room dur­ing the school dance; of Dav­ey list­less­ly mak­ing and stir­ring a cup of tea that she has no inten­tion of drink­ing; of Jill watch­ing Lin­da, the fat girl in her class, being tor­ment­ed by gig­gling bul­lies ― are all as vivid, if not more so, as my own mem­o­ries…

Palmer’s hus­band, Neil Gaiman, puts in a cameo in the video’s final moments as one of many read­ers immersed in Blume’s oeu­vre.

Read­ers, did a spe­cial book cov­er from your ado­les­cence put in an appear­ance?

For more on Judy Blume’s approach to char­ac­ter and sto­ry, con­sid­er sign­ing up for her $90 online Mas­ter Class.

Name your own price to down­load Judy Blume by Aman­da Palmer here.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Judy Blume Now Teach­ing an Online Course on Writ­ing

Hear Aman­da Palmer’s Cov­er of “Pur­ple Rain,” a Gor­geous Stringfelt Send-Off to Prince

Aman­da Palmer Ani­mates & Nar­rates Hus­band Neil Gaiman’s Uncon­scious Mus­ings

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, the­ater mak­er and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine.  Fol­low her @AyunHalliday.

A One-Man Pink Floyd Band Creates Note-Perfect Covers of “Echoes,” “Comfortably Numb,” “Mother” & Other Classics: Watch 19-Year-Old Wunderkind Ewan Cunningham in Action

If you’re a 19-year-old wun­derkind like Ewan Cun­ning­ham, who can play any num­ber of instru­ments, it’s a great time to be alive. Record­ing is cheap, video is just as cheap, and YouTube pro­vides a venue to share a slew of his home­made cov­ers of rock clas­sics.

Above is one of his most ambi­tious ven­tures: a full note-for-note cov­er of Pink Floyd’s “Echoes,” all 20 min­utes, that uses video trick­ery to have four Ewans side-by-side play­ing at Dob­bie Hall. (From what we can tell, Dob­bie Hall is locat­ed in Lar­bert, Scot­land, a town about equidis­tant between Glas­gow and Edin­burgh.)

Div­ing down into all six years of Ewan’s videos and we find, at first, not a 13-year-old Ewan, but his dad, play­ing and singing an acoustic cov­er of Coldplay’s “Par­adise”. So we know where Ewan got the music bug.

In fact, he tells us “I start­ed play­ing drums at the age of 4 and con­tin­ued to only play drums until I start­ed branch­ing out into oth­er instru­ments such as gui­tar, bass, key­boards and vocals. I’ve been teach­ing myself to mix, record and film music since I was 10 years old and this is my pas­sion.”

Ewan start­ed upload­ing drum cov­ers at 14, play­ing along to every­one from Evanes­cence to Foo Fight­ers. At 16 he uploaded his first Floyd drum cov­er (“Brain Damage/Eclipse”) and, like many a teen before him, fell hard for the band.

Then the cov­ers begin in earnest, with him shar­ing duties with his dad (“Wot’s…Uh the Deal” and “Brain Dam­age”) and then on to “Grantch­ester Mead­ows” (from Pink Floyd’s Ummagum­ma) and final­ly on Jan­u­ary 1, 2017, when Ewan pre­miered his three song set from Dob­bie Hall, fea­tur­ing “A Saucer­ful of Secrets,” “Care­ful with that Axe, Eugene,” and the afore­men­tioned “Echoes.”

After a suc­cess­ful Indiegogo cam­paign, he returned lat­er in 2017 to Dob­bie Hall for three cov­ers from “The Wall,” which cheek­i­ly includ­ed a papi­er-mache air­plane crash­ing into the stage at the end of “In the Flesh?”.

The ques­tion this rais­es is obvi­ous: does Ewan record any­thing orig­i­nal? Indeed, a few months ago he start­ed a new YouTube chan­nel of his own songs. It’s up to you, dear read­er, to check them out.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch Scenes from the “Pink Floyd Bal­let:” When the Exper­i­men­tal Rock Band Col­lab­o­rat­ed with Bal­let Chore­o­g­ra­ph­er Roland Petit (1972)

Hear Lost Record­ing of Pink Floyd Play­ing with Jazz Vio­lin­ist Stéphane Grap­pel­li on “Wish You Were Here”

Pink Floyd Plays in Venice on a Mas­sive Float­ing Stage in 1989; Forces the May­or & City Coun­cil to Resign

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.

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

Seri­ous fans of live record­ings well know that such pro­duc­tions are usu­al­ly doc­tored before they reach the mass­es, with effects added to sweet­en the mix, record­ing errors cor­rect­ed, instru­ments and crowd noise over­dubbed, tracks rearranged, and per­for­mances from dif­fer­ent nights com­bined. It’s a com­mon prac­tice and shouldn’t alarm any­one expect­ing absolute doc­u­men­tary fideli­ty. If you couldn’t make the show to expe­ri­ence the band first­hand, they’d at least like you to hear them at their best. (Who could resist the oppor­tu­ni­ty to revise, say, a pub­lic speak­ing gig after the fact?)

When record com­pa­nies are involved, every effort can go into mak­ing a saleable prod­uct, but heavy edit­ing usu­al­ly doesn’t hap­pen to taped bootlegs. One notable excep­tion hap­pens to come from an excep­tion­al gig, when the Sex Pis­tols fol­lowed John­ny Cash’s exam­ple and played the Chelms­ford Top Secu­ri­ty Prison dur­ing their first major tour of Eng­land in 1976 for an audi­ence of 500 pris­on­ers. Part­ly due to a seri­ous record­ing issue—the near total fail­ure to cap­ture orig­i­nal bassist Glen Matlock—and part­ly to a “con­fused idea of what would make for a wor­thy release,” writes Ned Raggett at All­mu­sic, the band’s sound­man Dave Good­man decid­ed to make sev­er­al alter­ations to the record­ing.

These changes, in turn, gave rise to a mythol­o­gy sur­round­ing the show, rais­ing its rep­u­ta­tion to the lev­els of chaos for which the Pis­tols are renowned. That rep­u­ta­tion itself large­ly revolves around Sid Vicious’ lat­er onstage antics, and is at times inflat­ed. The Pis­tols could be a great live band—Steve Jones, Paul Cook, and Mat­lock were all more than capa­ble musi­cians, and John­ny Rot­ten was a per­fect punk spec­ta­cle all his own. But the ele­ments didn’t always come togeth­er amidst the band’s unre­hearsed dis­or­der.

The audi­ence at Chelms­ford were, please excuse the pun, a cap­tive one, and there­fore, unable to dis­play the same unbri­dled enthu­si­asm as the band’s usu­al crowds of rub­ber­neck­ers and scen­esters. To play up the gig, then, Good­man dubbed in the sounds of “ran­dom crowd and vio­lence noise” and sirens. He didn’t only see fit to over­dub Matlock’s miss­ing bass, but also added in “an incred­i­bly poor Rot­ten imi­ta­tor goad­ing the ‘pris­on­ers’ on between songs,” Ragett notes, “as well as often singing on top of the real Rot­ten him­self!” That first 1990 release of Live at Chelms­ford does not so much gild the band’s musi­cal strengths as it “plays on the revolutionary/anarchy side of the punk image to no avail.”

Luck­i­ly, the orig­i­nal record­ings remained, and were released lat­er on the Sex Pis­tols Alive com­pi­la­tion, in their orig­i­nal order, and, rearranged, on a sec­ond Live at Chelms­ford Prison CD. It is the orig­i­nals, with min­i­mal treat­ment, that you can hear here. At the top is “Anar­chy in the UK,” below it “Sub­mis­sion,” and a sneer­ing cov­er of The Who’s “Sub­sti­tute” fur­ther down.  The giant hole in the mid­dle of the mix where Matlock’s bass should be is hard to ignore, but over­all, these are some occa­sion­al­ly great per­for­mances, par­tic­u­lar­ly from Cook and Jones, whose pound­ing drums and blis­ter­ing gui­tar come through loud and clear, often bury­ing Rotten’s voice, which is mud­died through­out.

But a good record­ing of half the band hard­ly sells the leg­end of the Sex Pis­tols, espe­cial­ly the Sex Pis­tols in prison. “By all accounts,” writes Raggett, “it was a bit of a har­row­ing expe­ri­ence.” But you’d have to have been there to know it, and you prob­a­bly wouldn’t want to be. So it’s no won­der Good­man saw the need to spruce things up with what Discogs’ notes describe as “a canned audio track of a riot (com­plete with shout­ing, scuf­fles, break­ing glass, etc.)” A lot of peo­ple hat­ed it, but if you’re real­ly curi­ous, you can grab a copy of the over­dubbed ver­sion and hear for your­self. Or lis­ten to the full, undoc­tored, record­ing on YouTube.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Sex Pis­tols Make a Scan­dalous Appear­ance on the Bill Grundy Show & Intro­duce Punk Rock to the Star­tled Mass­es (1976)

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

Watch the Sex Pis­tols’ Very Last Con­cert (San Fran­cis­co, 1978)

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

Watch Scenes from the “Pink Floyd Ballet:” When the Experimental Rock Band Collaborated with Ballet Choreographer Roland Petit (1972)

We all know that rock opera isn’t actu­al­ly opera. It bor­rows some of the clas­si­cal form’s affects—theatrical bom­bast and loud cos­tum­ing, which seem a nat­ur­al fit—but it doesn’t attempt the extreme for­mal rig­or. Rock and roll is loose, intu­itive, expres­sion­is­tic, best played by or to libidi­nous kids or kids-at-heart; opera is tight­ly con­trolled and per­formed by trained vocal gym­nasts to audi­ences of sophis­ti­cates. Both of these forms excel at emo­tive sto­ry­telling, but beyond that, with some rare excep­tions, their sim­i­lar­i­ties are most­ly cos­met­ic.

Now imag­ine not rock opera, but a rock bal­let. What could ath­let­ic Euro­pean clas­si­cal dance con­tribute to songs about sex and drugs? What could elec­tric gui­tars, drums, and key­boards do for pirou­ettes, arabesques, or grand jetés? Part of the prob­lem with such a mashup comes—as not­ed above—from the intrin­sic for­mal dif­fer­ences between the two. Pink Floyd’s David Gilmour put it well when he not­ed in 1973 that his band found bal­let “too restrict­ing for us. I mean, I can’t play and count bars at the same time.”

Yes, there was once a Pink Floyd bal­let, or, well, almost. For rea­sons that may or may not be obvi­ous, the attempt was not pop­u­lar, and it has not gone down in either rock or bal­let his­to­ry as a mem­o­rable event. But it was an inter­est­ing exper­i­ment, per­haps both more com­pelling and more inco­her­ent than one might think. An unusu­al col­lab­o­ra­tion between the prog-rock super­stars and French chore­o­g­ra­ph­er Roland Petit, the show first began to take shape in 1970 over a series of lunch­es and din­ner and drinks—as a high-con­cept adap­ta­tion of Proust.

But the com­po­si­tion did not come eas­i­ly. For one thing, the band couldn’t get through the source mate­r­i­al. “David did the worst,” remem­bers Nick Mason, “he only read the first 18 pages.” Roger Waters report­ed that he fin­ished “the sec­ond vol­ume of Swann’s Way and when I got to the end of it I thought, ‘Fuck this, I’m not read­ing any­more. I can’t han­dle it.’ It just went too slow­ly for me.” A com­mon com­plaint from attempt­ed read­ers of Proust. Petit then float­ed the idea of adapt­ing A Thou­sand and One Ara­bi­an Nights, then Franken­stein. At one point, Roman Polan­s­ki and Rudolph Nureyev were attached as direc­tor and star. There was talk of a film.

All of these schemes were aban­doned, includ­ing the plan for orig­i­nal music. “Nureyev, Polan­s­ki, and the 108-piece orches­tra,” writes Nicholas Schaffn­er, “were con­spic­u­ous in their absence.” In Petit’s even­tu­al piece, per­formed in Mar­seilles and Paris in 1972–73, the band “game­ly appeared… to pro­vide live ren­di­tions of ‘Care­ful with That Axe Eugene’ and three new­er works in which the Syd-less Floyd had at last dis­cov­ered its rai­son d’être: ‘Echoes,’ ‘One of These Days,’ and ‘Obscured by Clouds,’” among oth­er exist­ing songs. The whole endeav­or was con­sis­tent with the band’s oth­er extra-cur­ric­u­lar for­ays, into film and musique con­crete for exam­ple, but the rote recy­cling of mate­r­i­al was not.

The bal­let, notes Dan­ger­ous Minds, “wasn’t shot live, but an in stu­dio ver­sion was pro­duced in 1977.” (You can see a clip from that rather slick arti­fact at the top of the post.) The oth­er videos you see here come from rehearsals for the live 1973 shows (the clip sec­ond from top fea­tures inter­views with Petit and a shy, French-speak­ing Gilmour). It’s an odd affair: male dancers who all vague­ly resem­ble Bruce Lee—and pull off some Lee-like punch­es; inex­plic­a­ble syn­chro­nized line dances; dancers form­ing pairs to the har­row­ing screams of “Care­ful with That Axe, Eugene”; and a very con­tem­po­rary 70s feel over­all mark these per­for­mances as the kind of thing like­ly to feel deeply unsat­is­fy­ing to con­nois­seurs of either Pink Floyd or the bal­let.

Who, exact­ly, one won­ders, was the audi­ence for this? Maybe you’ll get some sense of the appeal in the brief inter­views and com­men­tary from the French jour­nal­ists in this rehearsal footage. Or per­haps a pro­gram from one of the Mar­seille per­for­mances sheds more light on the inten­tions behind this pro­duc­tion. Petit did sup­pos­ed­ly say, “It all began in the late ‘60s. One day my daugh­ter… gave me an album by Pink Floyd and said, ‘Dad, you have to make a bal­let with this music.’” After some ini­tial skep­ti­cism, “when I heard the music,” he remem­bers, “I agreed with my daugh­ter.” Per­haps he sim­ply couldn’t refuse her a request.

Those who did attend these shows may have been delight­ed, con­fused, bored, enraged, or some com­bi­na­tion of any of these emo­tions and more besides. As for the band’s strug­gles, Gilmour admits, “we had to have some­one sit­ting on stage with us with a piece of paper telling us what bar we were play­ing.” (Before you make a joke about how rock musi­cians can’t count, bear in mind most clas­si­cal play­ers can’t impro­vise.) At the end, how­ev­er, audi­ences wouldn’t have been left want­i­ng. “The bal­let cli­maxed,” Schaffn­er writes, “with a typ­i­cal­ly Floy­di­an flour­ish: ten cans of oil explod­ing like fire­balls from the front of the stage.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Hear Lost Record­ing of Pink Floyd Play­ing with Jazz Vio­lin­ist Stéphane Grap­pel­li on “Wish You Were Here”

When Pink Floyd Tried to Make an Album with House­hold Objects: Hear Two Sur­viv­ing Tracks Made with Wine Glass­es & Rub­ber Bands

The “Lost” Pink Floyd Sound­track for Michelan­ge­lo Antonioni’s Only Amer­i­can Film, Zabriskie Point (1970)

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

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