Watch David Bowie Perform “Imagine”: A Touching Tribute to His Friend John Lennon (1983)

John Lennon’s “Imag­ine” is one of the most cov­ered songs in rock his­to­ry. Its sim­ple mes­sage is ever­green, its sen­ti­ments not hard to get across, but few ren­di­tions are as mov­ing as David Bowie’s one-night-only per­for­mance when his 1983 Seri­ous Moon­light tour wrapped at the Hong Kong Col­i­se­um.

It was espe­cial­ly fit­ting giv­en that this, the final night of the tour, coin­cid­ed with the 3rd anniver­sary of Lennon’s mur­der.

While legions feel a deep per­son­al con­nec­tion to that song, Bowie and Lennon were “as close as fam­i­ly,” accord­ing to Lennon’s wid­ow, Yoko Ono.

Lennon cowrote Bowie’s 1975 hit, “Fame,” join­ing him in the stu­dio with his gui­tar and a mem­o­rable falset­to. As Bowie recalls below, he also pro­vid­ed some much-appre­ci­at­ed coun­sel regard­ing man­agers.

As the anniver­sary loomed, Seri­ous Moon­light gui­tarist Earl Slick, who played on sev­er­al Lennon albums, sug­gest­ed that a trib­ute was in order. He sug­gest­ed “Across the Uni­verse,” which Bowie had cov­ered in the same ses­sion that yield­ed “Fame.”

Bowie report­ed­ly respond­ed, “Well if we’re going to do it, we might as well do ‘Imag­ine.’ ”

It was the final song played that night, Bowie set­ting the stage with some per­son­al anec­dotes, includ­ing one that had tak­en place at a near­by vendor’s stall, where Bowie spied a knock-off Bea­t­les jack­et and con­vinced Lennon to pose in it. (What we wouldn’t give to be able to share that pho­to with read­ers…)

Fre­quent Bowie col­lab­o­ra­tor back up singer George Simms told Voyeur, the fanzine of the inter­na­tion­al David Bowie Fan­club:

If I remem­ber well, we didn’t rehearse that song. The night David did the ‘Imag­ine’ song, none of us in the band had any idea how that song was going to come off. David told us before, at a cer­tain point, he would cue the band to start the song instru­men­tal­ly. We didn’t know what he was going to do in the begin­ning but he had it very care­ful­ly worked out with the light­ing peo­ple. We were on stage and it was dark. David was sit­ting on the stage at one par­tic­u­lar place and, all of a sud­den, a sin­gle spot­light went on David and hit him exact­ly where he was sit­ting. David start­ed to tell some­thing about John Lennon. Dur­ing this, it went dark a few times again, but then when the spots went on again David was sit­ting some­where else on the stage. David cued the band and we start­ed the song. It was the third anniver­sary of Lennon’s death; it was Decem­ber 8. We all grew up lis­ten­ing to The Bea­t­les and John Lennon. After we did “Imag­ine,” we all went off the stage and back into the hold­ing area. Nor­mal­ly we’d be slap-hap­py, talk­ing and laugh­ing, but that night there was absolute silence because of all the emo­tion of doing a trib­ute to John Lennon—especially know­ing that David was a friend of his and that David was speak­ing from his heart. We didn’t know how dra­mat­ic the lights’ impact was going to be. Nobody want­ed to break the silence; it was like a sledge­ham­mer into your chest.

Lennon’s admi­ra­tion mir­rored the respect Bowie had for him. He may have bust­ed Bowie’s chops a bit by reduc­ing the glam-rock­er’s approach as “rock n’ roll with lip­stick,” but he also described his own Dou­ble Fan­ta­sy album as an attempt to “do some­thing as good as (Bowie’s) Heroes.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Get a Fly-on-the-Wall View of John Lennon Record­ing & Arrang­ing His Clas­sic Song, “Imag­ine” (1971)

Watch John Lennon’s Last Live Per­for­mance (1975): “Imag­ine,” “Stand By Me” & More

The Mak­ing of Queen and David Bowie’s 1981 Hit “Under Pres­sure”: Demos, Stu­dio Ses­sions & More

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

The 25 Principles for Adult Behavior: John Perry Barlow (R.I.P.) Creates a List of Wise Rules to Live By

Image by the Euro­pean Grad­u­ate School, via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

The most suc­cess­ful out­laws live by a code, and in many ways John Per­ry Bar­low, founder of the Elec­tron­ic Free­dom Foun­da­tion, Wyoming ranch­er, and erst­while song­writer for the Grate­ful Dead—who died on Wednes­day at the age of 70—was an arche­typ­al Amer­i­can out­law all of his life. He might have worn a white hat, so to speak, but he had no use for the gov­ern­ment telling him what to do. And his charis­mat­ic defense of unfet­tered inter­net lib­er­ty inspired a new gen­er­a­tion of hack­ers and activists, includ­ing a 12-year-old Aaron Swartz, who saw Bar­low speak at his mid­dle school and left the class­room changed.

Few peo­ple get to leave as last­ing a lega­cy as Bar­low, even had he not pio­neered ear­ly cyber­cul­ture, pen­ning the “Dec­la­ra­tion of Inde­pen­dence of the Inter­net,” a techo-utopi­an doc­u­ment that con­tin­ues to influ­ence pro­po­nents of open access and free infor­ma­tion. He intro­duced the Grate­ful Dead to Dr. Tim­o­thy Leary, under whose guid­ance Bar­low began exper­i­ment­ing with LSD in col­lege. His cre­ative and per­son­al rela­tion­ship with the Dead’s Bob Weir stretch­es back to their high school days in Col­orado, and he became an unof­fi­cial mem­ber of the band and its “junior lyri­cist,” as he put it (after Robert Hunter).

“John had a way of tak­ing life’s most dif­fi­cult things and fram­ing them as chal­lenges, there­fore adven­tures,” wrote Weir in a suc­cinct­ly poignant Twit­ter eulo­gy for his friend. We might think of Bar­low’s code, which he laid out in a list he called the “25 Prin­ci­ples of Adult Behav­ior,” as a series of instruc­tions for turn­ing life’s dif­fi­cul­ties into chal­lenges, an adven­tur­ous refram­ing of what it means to grow up. For Bar­low, that meant defy­ing author­i­ty when it imposed arbi­trary bar­ri­ers and pro­pri­etary rules on the once-wild-open spaces of the inter­net.

But being a grown-up also meant accept­ing full respon­si­bil­i­ty for one’s behav­ior, life’s pur­pose, and the eth­i­cal treat­ment of one­self and oth­ers. See his list below, notable not so much for its orig­i­nal­i­ty but for its plain­spo­ken reminder of the sim­ple, shared wis­dom that gets drowned in the assaultive noise of mod­ern life. Such uncom­pli­cat­ed ide­al­ism was at the cen­ter of Perry’s life and work.

1. Be patient. No mat­ter what.
2. Don’t bad­mouth: Assign respon­si­bil­i­ty, not blame. Say noth­ing of anoth­er you wouldn’t say to him.
3. Nev­er assume the motives of oth­ers are, to them, less noble than yours are to you.
4. Expand your sense of the pos­si­ble.
5. Don’t trou­ble your­self with mat­ters you tru­ly can­not change.
6. Expect no more of any­one than you can deliv­er your­self.
7. Tol­er­ate ambi­gu­i­ty.
8. Laugh at your­self fre­quent­ly.
9. Con­cern your­self with what is right rather than who is right.
10. Nev­er for­get that, no mat­ter how cer­tain, you might be wrong.
11. Give up blood sports.
12. Remem­ber that your life belongs to oth­ers as well. Don’t risk it friv­o­lous­ly.
13. Nev­er lie to any­one for any rea­son. (Lies of omis­sion are some­times exempt.)
14. Learn the needs of those around you and respect them.
15. Avoid the pur­suit of hap­pi­ness. Seek to define your mis­sion and pur­sue that.
16. Reduce your use of the first per­son­al pro­noun.
17. Praise at least as often as you dis­par­age.
18. Admit your errors freely and soon.
19. Become less sus­pi­cious of joy.
20. Under­stand humil­i­ty.
21. Remem­ber that love for­gives every­thing.
22. Fos­ter dig­ni­ty.
23. Live mem­o­rably.
24. Love your­self.
25. Endure.

Bar­low the “cow­boy, poet, roman­tic, fam­i­ly man, philoso­pher, and ulti­mate­ly, the bard of the dig­i­tal revolution”—as Stephen Levy describes him at Wired—“became a great explain­er” of the pos­si­bil­i­ties inher­ent in new media. He watched the inter­net become a far dark­er place than it had ever been in the 90s, a place where gov­ern­ments con­duct cyber­wars and impose cen­sor­ship and bar­ri­ers to access; where bad actors of all kinds manip­u­late, threat­en, and intim­i­date.

But Bar­low stood by his vision, of “a world that all may enter with­out priv­i­lege or prej­u­dice accord­ed by race, eco­nom­ic pow­er, mil­i­tary force, or sta­tion of birth… a world where any­one, any­where may express his or her beliefs, no mat­ter how sin­gu­lar, with­out fear of being coerced into silence or con­for­mi­ty.”

This may sound naïve, yet as Cindy Cohn writes in EFF’s obit­u­ary for its founder, Bar­low “knew that new tech­nol­o­gy could cre­ate and empow­er evil as much as it could cre­ate and empow­er good. He made a con­scious deci­sion to move toward the lat­ter.” His 25-point code urges us to do the same.

via Kot­tke/Hack­er News

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Ale­jan­dro Jodorowsky’s 82 Com­mand­ments For Liv­ing

Lou Reed and Lau­rie Anderson’s Three Rules for Liv­ing Well: A Short and Suc­cinct Life Phi­los­o­phy

Mil­ton Glaser’s 10 Rules for Life & Work: The Cel­e­brat­ed Design­er Dis­pens­es Wis­dom Gained Over His Long Life & Career

The Hobo Eth­i­cal Code of 1889: 15 Rules for Liv­ing a Self-Reliant, Hon­est & Com­pas­sion­ate Life

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

Understanding Pink Floyd’s Wish You Were Here, Their Tribute to Departed Bandmate Syd Barrett

Since Dark Side of the Moon, the mem­bers of Pink Floyd dealt in var­i­ous ways with the fate of their orig­i­nal singer Syd Bar­rett. As Roger Waters said about the band in 1975, “It could­n’t have hap­pened with­out him, but on the oth­er hand, it could­n’t have gone on with him.” On Dark Side of the Moon, Bar­rett is not direct­ly addressed, but the themes of mad­ness swirl through the var­i­ous big state­ment songs and in the var­i­ous quotes from friends and road­ies pep­pered through­out the mix. Lat­er on, The Wall would bring lis­ten­ers a main char­ac­ter who goes mad and shuts him­self up in iso­la­tion exter­nal­ly and inter­nal­ly. Echoes of Syd are every­where.

And right in the mid­dle of that stretch is Wish You Were Here, both a direct trib­ute to Syd Bar­rett and a caus­tic mus­ing on the music busi­ness. The lat­ter both neg­a­tive­ly affect­ed the band at the time and, in some way, accel­er­at­ed Syd’s decline into (most prob­a­bly) schiz­o­phre­nia.

YouTube chan­nel Poly­phon­ic’s eight-minute overview of the album will intro­duce casu­al lis­ten­ers to the sto­ry behind the mak­ing of the album, and the lyrics that specif­i­cal­ly applied to Syd. “You were caught in the cross­fire of child­hood and star­dom” is one of many eulo­gies to their friend, the “crazy dia­mond” of the suite of songs that book­end the album.

The video, which includes clips from the BBC doc­u­men­tary on the mak­ing of the album cur­rent­ly stream­ing in var­i­ous venues (don’t blame us for the par­tic­u­lar poor qual­i­ty of this clip, espe­cial­ly the sub­ti­tles), also men­tions a vis­it that Bar­rett made to the Abbey Road Stu­dio. Bald, eye­brows shaved, and over­weight, the man was unrec­og­niz­able com­pared to the svelte, dark­ly hand­some lead singer they had known only a few years’ ear­li­er. It’s an emo­tion­al moment that only adds to the impact of this ghost­ly and melan­cholic album.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

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

Neil deGrasse Tyson: “Because of Pink Floyd, I’ve Spent Decades Undo­ing the Idea That There’s a Dark Side of the Moon”
Hear Lost Record­ing of Pink Floyd Play­ing with Jazz Vio­lin­ist Stéphane Grap­pel­li on “Wish You Were Here”

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.

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

For some time now, cer­tain fans of Queen have sought the elu­sive answer to the ques­tion “what made Fred­die Mer­cury such an incred­i­ble singer?” That he was an incred­i­ble singer—one of the great­est in terms of vocal range, emo­tive pow­er, stage pres­ence, song­writ­ing, etc.—is hard­ly a fact in dis­pute. Or it shouldn’t be. You don’t need to love Queen’s music to acknowl­edge its bril­liance, and mar­vel at its frontman’s seem­ing­ly super­hu­man pow­er and sta­mi­na. The expla­na­tions for it are mul­ti­ple and have become far more sophis­ti­cat­ed in recent years.

Sci­en­tif­ic research has exam­ined the pos­si­ble phys­i­o­log­i­cal struc­ture of Mercury’s vocal chords, and con­clud­ed that he was able to vibrate sev­er­al vocal folds at once, cre­at­ing sub­har­mon­ics and a vibra­to faster than that of any oth­er singer. It’s a com­pelling the­o­ry, albeit a lit­tle gross. Who wants to lis­ten to “Some­body to Love”’s glo­ri­ous, swoop­ing soul­ful vers­es and Broad­way show­stop­per cho­rus­es and pic­ture vibrat­ing vocal folds? Mer­cury was a show­man, not a singing machine—and his unique inflec­tions derived not only from biol­o­gy but also—argues Rudi Dolezal, direc­tor of Fred­die Mer­cury: The Untold Sto­ry—from cul­ture.

Mercury’s for­ma­tive expe­ri­ences as a child in Zanz­ibar and India, and the “cul­ture shock” of his move to Lon­don as a teenag­er, may have con­tributed to his expan­sive vocal prowess: “it was mul­ti­cul­tur­al­ism that was com­bined in Fred­die Mer­cury,” says Dolezal, sug­gest­ing that Mercury’s voice went places no one else’s did in part because he com­bined the strengths of East­ern and West­ern music. Maybe. Mer­cury grew up emu­lat­ing Eng­lish and Amer­i­can artists like Cliff Richard and Lit­tle Richard, but one of his biggest influ­ences was Bol­ly­wood super­star Lata Mangeshkar.

Mer­cury him­self had his own unusu­al the­o­ry, believ­ing that his dis­tinc­tive over­bite some­how played a part in his singing abil­i­ty, which is why he nev­er had his teeth straight­ened despite a life­time of self-con­scious­ness about them. Maybe the most hon­est fan answer to the ques­tion might be, “who cares?” Just enjoy it—over-analysis of the parts takes away from the expe­ri­ence of Queen’s bom­bas­tic the­atri­cal whole. That’s fair enough, I sup­pose, but if there’s any voice worth obsess­ing over it’s Mercury’s.

If you’re still in doubt about why, lis­ten to the iso­lat­ed vocal track at the top for “Some­body to Love” from start to fin­ish. You’ll hear a singer who sounds capa­ble of doing pret­ty much any­thing that it’s pos­si­ble to do with the human voice except sing off-key. Yes, of course, it’s impres­sive in con­text, with the band’s vocal har­monies lift­ing Mercury’s voice like a great pair of wings. Take them away, how­ev­er, and strip away all of the song’s instru­men­ta­tion, and Mercury’s vocal seems to soar even high­er. I’d kind of like to know how he did that.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

What Made Fred­die Mer­cury the Great­est Vocal­ist in Rock His­to­ry? The Secrets Revealed in a Short Video Essay

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

Fred­die Mer­cury: The Untold Sto­ry of the Singer’s Jour­ney From Zanz­ibar to Star­dom

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

Hear a 65-Hour, Chronological Playlist of Miles Davis’ Revolutionary Jazz Albums

When Miles Davis attend­ed a White House din­ner in 1987, he was asked what he had done to deserve to be there. No mod­est man, Davis, he respond­ed “Well, I’ve changed music five or six times.”
Is it brag­ging when it’s absolute­ly true? In this recent Spo­ti­fy playlist, Steve Hen­ry takes on the Miles Davis discog­ra­phy in rough­ly a chrono­log­i­cal order, a stun­ning 569 songs and 65 hours of music. That makes that, what, over 90 tracks per rev­o­lu­tion in music?

Tech­ni­cal­ly, Davis’ first record­ed appear­ance was as a mem­ber of Char­lie Parker’s quin­tet in 1944, and his first as a leader was a 1946 78rpm record­ing of “Mile­stones” on the Savoy label. But this playlist starts with the 1951 Pres­tige album The New Sounds (which lat­er made up the first side of Con­cep­tion). By this time, Davis had tak­en the jaun­ty bebop of men­tor and idol Park­er and helped cre­ate a more relaxed style, a “cool” jazz that would come to dom­i­nate the 1950s. Pri­vate­ly he swung between extremes: a health nut who got into box­ing, or a hero­in addict and hustler/pimp, and he would oscil­late between health and ill­ness for the rest of his life.

Dur­ing the 1950s how­ev­er, he also cre­at­ed some of his most stun­ning clas­sics, first for Pres­tige and Blue Note, where he devel­oped the style to be known as “hard bop; then for Colum­bia, a label rela­tion­ship that would result in some of his most rev­o­lu­tion­ary music. (Note: to get out of his Pres­tige con­tract that want­ed four more albums out of him, Davis and his Quin­tet booked two ses­sion dates and record­ed four albums worth of mate­r­i­al, the Cookin’ Relax­in’ Workin’ and Steamin’ albums that in no way sounds like an oblig­a­tion.)

At Colum­bia, Davis made his­to­ry with 1959’s Kind of Blue, con­sid­ered by many as one of the great­est jazz albums of all time, along with his col­lab­o­ra­tions with arranger Gil Evans (Sketch­es of Spain, Por­gy and Bess, Miles Ahead). After a lull in the mid-‘60s where the music press expect­ed either a resur­gence or a trag­ic end, Davis returned with sec­ond quin­tet (Wayne Short­er, Her­bie Han­cock, Ron Carter, Tony Williams) for anoth­er run of albums in his then “time, no changes” free jazz style, includ­ing Miles Smiles, Sor­cer­er, and Filles de Kil­i­man­jaro.

But none of those pre­pared any­body for the giant leap beyond jazz itself into pro­to-ambi­ent with In a Silent Way and the men­ac­ing mis­te­rioso-funk of Bitch­es Brew of 1970. Davis had watched rock and funk go from teenag­er pop music at the begin­ning of the decade to lit­er­al­ly chang­ing the world. He respond­ed by cre­at­ing one of the dens­est, weird­est albums which both owed some of its sound to rock and at the same time refut­ed almost every­thing about the genre (as well as the his­to­ry of jazz). He was 44 years old.

His band mem­bers went on to shape jazz in the ‘70s: Wayne Short­er and Joe Zaw­in­ul formed Weath­er Report; John McLaugh­lin formed the Mahav­ish­nu Orches­tra; Her­bie Han­cock, although already estab­lished as a solo artist, brought forth the Head­hunters album; Chick Corea helped form Return to For­ev­er.

As for Davis, he delved deep­er into funk and fusion with a series of albums, includ­ing On the Cor­ner, that would go unap­pre­ci­at­ed at the time, but are now seen as influ­en­tial in the world of hip hop and beyond. By the ‘80s, after a few years where he just dis­ap­peared into reclu­sion, he returned with some final albums that are all over the map: cov­er­ing pop hits by Cyn­di Lau­per and Michael Jack­son much in the same way that Coltrane cov­ered The Sound of Music; exper­i­men­tal sound­tracks; and exper­i­ment­ing with loops, sequencers, beats, and hip hop. Hav­ing strug­gled with ill­ness and addic­tion all his life, he passed away at 65 years old in 1991, leav­ing behind this stun­ning discog­ra­phy, still offer­ing up sur­pris­es to those look­ing to explore his lega­cy.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Paint­ings of Miles Davis

Miles Davis Dish­es Dirt on His Fel­low Jazz Musi­cians: “The Trom­bone Play­er Should be Shot”; That Ornette is “F‑ing Up the Trum­pet”

The Night When Miles Davis Opened for the Grate­ful Dead in 1970: Hear the Com­plete Record­ings

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.

Photographer Puts Her Archive of Photos Documenting the 1970s New York Punk Scene on Instagram: Iggy Pop, Debbie Harry, Lydia Lunch, Tom Verlaine, and Even Jean Michel Basquiat

Just when you think the fabled down­town New York 70s punk scene cen­tered around CBG­Bs has no more secrets to offer, anoth­er home­grown doc­u­men­tar­i­an appears to show us pho­tographs (on Insta­gram) we’ve nev­er seen and tell some pret­ty nifty sto­ries to go along with them. Julia Gor­ton came to New York from her native Delaware in 1976 and used a Polaroid cam­era to cap­ture her first­hand encoun­ters with leg­ends like Deb­bie Har­ry, Pat­ti Smith, David Byrne, Tom Ver­laine, Iggy Pop, Richard Hell, and Teenage Jesus and the Jerks’ Lydia Lunch (below), “a nat­ur­al for the glam­orous black-and-white pho­tos I liked to make,” she says, and a “a real part­ner” in Gorton’s enter­prise and her most-pho­tographed sub­ject.

In Christi­na Cacouris’ inter­view with Gor­ton at Garage, we learn that the pho­tog­ra­ph­er “end­ed up meet­ing Tom’s mom [Tele­vi­sion singer and gui­tarist Tom Ver­laine] at the flea mar­ket in Wilm­ing­ton [Delaware]. She was a proud mom who played her son’s sin­gle on a cas­sette play­er in the back of her sta­tion wag­on while she sold things on a fold­ing table.”

Exact­ly this kind of inti­ma­cy and fam­i­ly atmos­phere per­vades Gorton’s work in the punk clubs, down­town streets, and record stores. Like most of the per­form­ers onstage, Gor­ton was a rel­a­tive ama­teur, learn­ing her craft along­side the musi­cians and artists she pho­tographed. “You didn’t need to be per­fect before you start­ed,” she says.

Although she found her lack of tech­ni­cal abil­i­ty frus­trat­ing, in hind­sight, Gor­ton says, “images that I per­ceived at the time as fail­ures actu­al­ly rep­re­sent the true char­ac­ter of the time peri­od more hon­est­ly and pow­er­ful­ly than the images I thought were ‘suc­cess­ful.’” In many cas­es, how­ev­er, it has tak­en 21st cen­tu­ry dig­i­tal tech­nol­o­gy to unearth some of her most reveal­ing shots.

The cost of film pro­hib­it­ed her from tak­ing mul­ti­ple expo­sures, and the dark­ness of CBG­Bs left many prints too murky. Using Pho­to­shop, Gor­ton has been able to revis­it many of these seem­ing­ly failed attempts, like the moody por­trait above of Tom Ver­laine. “I was able to scan and final­ly pull him out of the shad­ows of decades past,” she mus­es.

Along with the glam­our of her por­traits, Gorton’s can­did shots of the peri­od cap­ture down­town leg­ends in rare moments and pos­es. (Check out John Cale above at CBG­Bs, for exam­ple, or Jean Michel Basquiat, then known as SAMO, danc­ing on the right, below.) Shot while she was a stu­dent at the Par­sons School of Design, Gorton’s pho­tos of the punk, New Wave, and No Wave scene were the begin­ning of her long career as a pho­tog­ra­ph­er, illus­tra­tor, and graph­ic design­er.

On her Insta­gram feed, 70s and 80s images mix in with her cur­rent projects, and the jux­ta­po­si­tion of con­tem­po­rary musi­cians and artists with their coun­ter­parts from 40 years ago gives a sense of the long con­ti­nu­ity reflect­ed in Gorton’s engage­ment with street art and under­ground rock cul­ture. Explore her pho­to col­lec­tion here.

via Vice

Relat­ed Con­tent:  

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

Take a Vir­tu­al Tour of CBGB, the Ear­ly Home of Punk and New Wave

Pat­ti Smith Plays at CBGB In One of Her First Record­ed Con­certs, Joined by Sem­i­nal Punk Band Tele­vi­sion (1975)

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

What Makes Flea Such an Amazing Bass Player? A Video Essay Breaks Down His Style

When punk rock began to wend its way out of the three-chord gui­tar attack and into a new gen­er­a­tion of man­ner­isms, it tend­ed to be bass play­ers who led the way. Joy Division’s Peter Hook, Pub­lic Image Ltd’s Jah Wob­ble, The Cure’s Simon Gallup, Bauhaus’s David J. With their moody takes on dub reg­gae, chord-dri­ven melod­i­cism, and lead lines on the upper frets, these were inno­v­a­tive play­ers, but they still embraced the rel­a­tive sim­plic­i­ty of punk at their core. Across the pond, then across the con­ti­nent, how­ev­er, in South­ern Cal­i­for­nia, punk bass took a much more ani­mat­ed, vir­tu­osic char­ac­ter, thanks to jazz and funk-inspired leg­ends like Min­ute­men’s Mike Watt and the Red Hot Chili Pep­pers’ Flea, who has become, since his ear­ly 80s begin­nings one of the most famous rock musi­cians in the world for his speed and unpar­al­leled tech­nique.

The shirt­less won­der, who comes across both onstage and off as incred­i­bly gre­gar­i­ous, yet hum­ble, was once vot­ed by Rolling Stone read­ers as the sec­ond best bassist of all time, and it’s not hard to see why, for exam­ple, in the mind-blow­ing video just above. But it is hard to see how. How does he do it? And what exact­ly is “it,” that incom­pa­ra­ble Flea style? Where did it come from?

The Poly­phon­ic video at the top breaks it down for us, the com­bi­na­tion of funk slap­ping and pop­ping and punk speed and aggres­sion, com­bined with a melod­i­cism Flea devel­oped as a coun­ter­point to John Frusciante’s rhyth­mic gui­tar lines. Flea’s incred­i­bly detailed attacks stand out for their nov­el­ty and pre­ci­sion, but it’s his ear for melody that makes his play­ing so dis­tinc­tive­ly musi­cal, even when pared down and slowed down in RHCP’s bal­lads.

Some bassists weave lines around gui­tars and vocals, some most­ly syn­chro­nize with the drummer’s kicks and hits—Flea does both, shift­ing from style to style with­in songs, and some­times sound­ing like he’s play­ing two bass­es at once. His syn­co­pat­ed slap bass hits, cour­tesy of Sly Stone’s Lar­ry Gra­ham, cre­ate a sec­ondary back­beat slight­ly ahead or behind Chad Smith’s drum­ming; his use of strummed chords, wild leaps around the neck, and beau­ti­ful­ly melod­ic voic­ing make his bass play­ing an essen­tial ele­ment of every song, rather than a just a low-end har­mon­ic under­pin­ning for more notice­able instru­men­ta­tion. Funk music has always been bass-dri­ven, and the Chili Pep­pers’ funki­est tracks, and most excel­lent cov­ers, fol­low the tra­di­tion. But in rock the bass can feel “like an after­thought.”

In Flea’s more than capa­ble hands, a sim­ple rock bass riff, as in “Snow,” just above, can sud­den­ly become a thing of won­der (check it out at 1:51), even on its own and unac­com­pa­nied. Per­haps no bassist since Paul McCart­ney or John Paul Jones has done as much to turn rock bass into a lead instru­ment or has writ­ten as many mem­o­rable bass lines, only Flea can play them ten times faster while leap­ing sev­er­al feet in the air. His “astound­ing instru­men­tal­ism” has always been amaz­ing to behold, and not easy to imi­tate, to say the least. But why try? Bass play­ers can learn a lot from watch­ing Flea and incor­po­rat­ing his expres­sive tech­niques into their reper­toire. But even Flea him­self, per­haps the most rec­og­niz­able bass play­er in rock, under­stands the instru­ment first and fore­most as a sup­port­ing play­er. His best advice? Play in the “spir­it of giv­ing­ness,” as he says in his video les­son below, and lis­ten to the sub­tleties of the oth­er musi­cians’ play­ing. “You want to make every­one else sound good.” Hey, if it’s good enough for Flea.…

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Genius of Paul McCartney’s Bass Play­ing in 7 Iso­lat­ed Tracks

What Makes John Bon­ham Such a Good Drum­mer? A New Video Essay Breaks Down His Inim­itable Style

The Neu­ro­science of Bass: New Study Explains Why Bass Instru­ments Are Fun­da­men­tal to Music

Watch the Evo­lu­tion of Ringo Starr, Dave Grohl, Tré Cool & 19 Oth­er Drum­mers in Short 5‑Minute Videos

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

H.P. Lovecraft’s Poem “Nemesis” Gets Unexpectedly Sung to the Tune of Billy Joel’s “Piano Man”

“The inter­net made me do it,” says musi­cian Julian Velard. For what­ev­er rea­son, it made him take H.P Love­craft’s 1917 poem “Neme­sis” and mash it up with Bil­ly Joel’s “Piano Man.” Find the orig­i­nal poem below. But know Velard “had to cut a cou­ple lines to get it to fit.” Enjoy.

Thro’ the ghoul-guard­ed gate­ways of slum­ber,
Past the wan-moon’d abysses of night,
I have liv’d o’er my lives with­out num­ber,
I have sound­ed all things with my sight;
And I strug­gle and shriek ere the day­break, being dri­ven to mad­ness with fright.

I have whirl’d with the earth at the dawn­ing,
When the sky was a vaporous flame;
I have seen the dark uni­verse yawn­ing,
Where the black plan­ets roll with­out aim;
Where they roll in their hor­ror unheed­ed, with­out knowl­edge or lus­tre or name.

I had drift­ed o’er seas with­out end­ing,
Under sin­is­ter grey-cloud­ed skies
That the many-fork’d light­ning is rend­ing,
That resound with hys­ter­i­cal cries;
With the moans of invis­i­ble dae­mons that out of the green waters rise.

I have plung’d like a deer thro’ the arch­es
Of the hoary pri­mor­dial grove,
Where the oaks feel the pres­ence that march­es
And stalks on where no spir­it dares rove;
And I flee from a thing that sur­rounds me, and leers thro’ dead branch­es above.

I have stum­bled by cave-rid­den moun­tains
That rise bar­ren and bleak from the plain,
I have drunk of the fog-foetid foun­tains
That ooze down to the marsh and the main;
And in hot cursed tarns I have seen things I care not to gaze on again.

I have scann’d the vast ivy-clad palace,
I have trod its untenant­ed hall,
Where the moon writhing up from the val­leys
Shews the tapes­tried things on the wall;
Strange fig­ures dis­cor­dant­ly woven, which I can­not endure to recall.

I have peer’d from the case­ment in won­der
At the moul­der­ing mead­ows around,
At the many-roof’d vil­lage laid under
The curse of a grave-gir­dled ground;
And from rows of white urn-car­ven mar­ble I lis­ten intent­ly for sound.

I have haunt­ed the tombs of the ages,
I have flown on the pin­ions of fear
Where the smoke-belch­ing Ere­bus rages,
Where the jokulls loom snow-clad and drear:
And in realms where the sun of the desert con­sumes what it nev­er can cheer.

I was old when the Pharaohs first mount­ed
The jewel-deck’d throne by the Nile;
I was old in those epochs uncount­ed
When I, and I only, was vile;
And Man, yet untaint­ed and hap­py, dwelt in bliss on the far Arc­tic isle.

Oh, great was the sin of my spir­it,
And great is the reach of its doom;
Not the pity of Heav­en can cheer it,
Nor can respite be found in the tomb:
Down the infi­nite aeons come beat­ing the wings of unmer­ci­ful gloom.

Thro’ the ghoul-guard­ed gate­ways of slum­ber,
Past the wan-moon’d abysses of night,
I have liv’d o’er my lives with­out num­ber,
I have sound­ed all things with my sight;
And I strug­gle and shriek ere the day­break, being dri­ven to mad­ness with fright.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Hear 14 Hours of Weird H.P. Love­craft Sto­ries on Hal­loween: “The Call of Cthul­hu,” “The Dun­wich Hor­ror” & More

23 Hours of H.P. Love­craft Sto­ries: Hear Read­ings & Drama­ti­za­tions of “The Call of Cthul­hu,” “The Shad­ow Over Inns­mouth,” & Oth­er Weird Tales

Hear Drama­ti­za­tions of H.P. Lovecraft’s Sto­ries On His Birth­day: “The Call of Cthul­hu,” “The Dun­wich Hor­ror,” & More

H.P. Lovecraft’s Mon­ster Draw­ings: Cthul­hu & Oth­er Crea­tures from the “Bound­less and Hideous Unknown”

H.P. Love­craft Gives Five Tips for Writ­ing a Hor­ror Sto­ry, or Any Piece of “Weird Fic­tion”

Love­craft: Fear of the Unknown (Free Doc­u­men­tary)

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