It real­ly is impos­si­ble to over­state the fact that most of the music around us sounds the way it does today because of an elec­tron­ic rev­o­lu­tion that hap­pened pri­mar­i­ly in the 1960s and 70s (with roots stretch­ing back to the turn of the cen­tu­ry). While folk and rock and roll solid­i­fied the sound of the present on home hi-fis and cof­fee shop and fes­ti­val stages, the sound of the future was craft­ed behind stu­dio doors and in sci­en­tif­ic lab­o­ra­to­ries. What the Future Sound­ed Like, the short doc­u­men­tary above, trans­ports us back to that time, specif­i­cal­ly in Britain, where some of the finest record­ing tech­nol­o­gy devel­oped to meet the increas­ing demands of bands like the Bea­t­les and Pink Floyd.

Much less well-known are enti­ties like the BBC’s Radio­phon­ic Work­shop, whose crew of engi­neers and audio sci­en­tists made what sound­ed like mag­ic to the ears of radio and tele­vi­sion audi­ences. “Think of a sound, now make it,” says Peter Zinovi­eff “any sound is now pos­si­ble, any com­bi­na­tion of sounds is now pos­si­ble.” Zinovi­eff, Lon­don-born son of an émi­gré Russ­ian princess and inven­tor of the huge­ly influ­en­tial VCS3 syn­the­siz­er in 1969, opens the documentary—fittingly, since his tech­nol­o­gy helped pow­er the futur­is­tic sound of pro­gres­sive rock, and since, togeth­er with the Radio­phon­ic Workshop’s Delia Der­byshire and Bri­an Hodg­son, he ran Unit Delta Plus, a stu­dio group that cre­at­ed and pro­mot­ed elec­tron­ic music.

Also appear­ing in the doc­u­men­tary is Tris­tram Cary, who, with Zinovi­eff, found­ed Elec­tron­ic Music Stu­dios, one of four mak­ers of com­mer­cial syn­the­siz­ers in the late six­ties, along with ARP, Buch­la, and Moog. Zinovi­eff and Carey are not house­hold names in part because they didn’t par­tic­u­lar­ly strive to be, pre­fer­ring to work behind the scenes on exper­i­men­tal forms and eschew­ing pop­u­lar music even as their tech­nol­o­gy gave birth to so much of it. The aris­to­crat­ic Zinovi­eff and pipe-smok­ing, pro­fes­so­r­i­al Carey hard­ly fit in with the crowd of rock and pop stars they inspired.

In hind­sight, how­ev­er, Zinovi­eff desires more recog­ni­tion for their work. “One thing which is odd, is that there’s a miss­ing chap­ter, which is EMS, in all the books about elec­tron­ic music. Peo­ple do not know what incred­i­ble mechan­i­cal adven­tures we were up to.” Those adven­tures includ­ed not only cre­at­ing new tech­nol­o­gy, but com­pos­ing nev­er-before-heard music. Both Zinovi­eff and Carey con­tin­ue to cre­ate elec­tron­ic scores, and Carey hap­pens to be one of the first adopters in Britain of musique con­crète, the pro­to-elec­tron­ic music pio­neered in the 1940s using tape machines, micro­phones, fil­ters, and oth­er record­ing devices, along with found sounds, field record­ings, and ad hoc instru­ments made from non-instru­ment objects. (See exam­ples of these tech­niques in the clip above from the 1979 BBC doc­u­men­tary The New Sound of Music.)

Many of the sounds that emerged from Britain’s elec­tron­ic music founders came out of the detri­tus of World War II. Carey’s first seri­ous stu­dio design, he says, “coin­cid­ed with the post-war appear­ance of an enor­mous amount of junk from the army, navy, and air force. For some­one who knew what to do, and could han­dle a sol­der­ing iron, and could design audio equip­ment, even if you only had 30 shillings in your pock­et, you could get some­thing.” With their knowl­edge of elec­tron­ics and hodge-podge of tech­nol­o­gy, Carey and his com­pa­tri­ots were design­ing an avant-garde elec­tron­ic “high moder­ni­ty,” author Trevor Pinch declares. “I think you can think of peo­ple like Tris­tan Carey as dream­ing of a future sound­scape of Lon­don.” Nowa­days, those sounds are as famil­iar to us as the music piped over the speak­ers in restau­rants and shops. One won­ders what the future after the future these pio­neers designed will sound like?

What the Future Sound­ed Like will be added to our col­lec­tion of Doc­u­men­taries, a sub­set of our col­lec­tion, 4,000+ Free Movies Online: Great Clas­sics, Indies, Noir, West­erns, Doc­u­men­taries & More.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Two Doc­u­men­taries Intro­duce Delia Der­byshire, the Pio­neer in Elec­tron­ic Music

Meet Four Women Who Pio­neered Elec­tron­ic Music: Daphne Oram, Lau­rie Spiegel, Éliane Radigue & Pauline Oliv­eros

The His­to­ry of Elec­tron­ic Music Visu­al­ized on a Cir­cuit Dia­gram of a 1950s Theremin: 200 Inven­tors, Com­posers & Musi­cians

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

In the fall of 1968, Eric Clap­ton was 23 years old and at the height of his cre­ative pow­ers. His band, Cream, was on its farewell tour of Amer­i­ca when a film crew from the BBC caught up with the group and asked the young gui­tar vir­tu­oso to show how he cre­at­ed his dis­tinc­tive sound.

The result is a fas­ci­nat­ing four-minute tour of Clapton’s tech­nique. He begins by demon­strat­ing the wide range of tones he could achieve by vary­ing the set­tings on his psy­che­del­i­cal­ly paint­ed 1964 Gib­son SG Stan­dard gui­tar. His wah-wah ped­al (an ear­ly Vox mod­el) was crit­i­cal to the sound of so many Cream clas­sics, like “Tales of Brave Ulysses.” In the film, Clap­ton real­ly has to stomp on it to get it work­ing.

One of the most dif­fi­cult skills to mas­ter, Clap­ton says, is the vibra­to. In a 1970 inter­view with Gui­tar Play­er mag­a­zine he goes into more detail: “When I stretch strings,” he says, “I hook my thumb around the neck of the gui­tar. A lot of gui­tarists stretch strings with just their hand free. The only way I can do it is if I have my whole hand around the neck—actually grip­ping onto it with my thumb. That some­how gives me more of a rock­ing action with my hand and wrist.” If you watch the BBC clip close­ly you will see this in action.

The inter­view was con­duct­ed with Clap­ton seat­ed in front of his famous stack of Mar­shall ampli­fiers. In the Gui­tar Play­er inter­view, how­ev­er, he admits he rarely used both at the same time. “I always had two Mar­shalls set up to play through,” he says, “but I think it was just so I could have one as a spare. I usu­al­ly used only one 100-watt amp.”

Clapton’s demon­stra­tion (along with inter­views of bassist Jack Bruce and drum­mer Gin­ger Bak­er) was incor­po­rat­ed into Tony Palmer’s film of Cream’s Farewell Con­cert, which took place on Novem­ber 21, 1968 at the Roy­al Albert Hall in Lon­don.

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Relat­ed Con­tent:

Eric Clapton’s Iso­lat­ed Gui­tar Track From the Bea­t­les’ ‘While My Gui­tar Gen­tly Weeps’ (1968)

Eric Clap­ton Tries Out Gui­tars at Home and Talks About the Bea­t­les, Cream, and His Musi­cal Roots

Hear the Nev­er Released Ver­sion of The Stones’ “Brown Sug­ar,” With Eric Clap­ton on Slide Gui­tar

There are those who say Jim­my Page’s gui­tar play­ing went into decline near the end of the 70s for rea­sons that are in dis­pute, whether drugs, ten­donitis, or a bro­ken ring fin­ger dur­ing a 1975 tour. (Thir­ty-two years lat­er, he broke his pinky and had to delay a Led Zep­pelin reunion.) Every musi­cian goes through slumps. Page talked in a 1977 inter­view about an ear­li­er such episode, dur­ing his ses­sion work in the six­ties when horns and orches­tras began to eclipse gui­tars, and he found him­self “tak­ing a back seat with just the occa­sion­al riff.” The expe­ri­ence made him reeval­u­ate his career. “I didn’t real­ize how rusty I was going to get until a rock and roll ses­sion turned up from France, and I could hard­ly play.”

One thing that sus­tained Page in those low times was his acoustic play­ing. As a ses­sion play­er, he tells the ‘77 inter­view­er, “I had to do it on stu­dio work, and you come to grips with it very quick­ly too, very quick­ly, because it is what is expect­ed. There was a lot of busk­ing in the ear­ly days, but as I say, I had to come to grips with it, and it was a good school­ing.”

Though Page first start­ed out play­ing in acoustic skif­fle bands, he says his first gui­tar was a Grazz­ioso, “which was like a copy of a Stra­to­cast­er,” his next instru­ment a real Fend­er Strat, and his third, the “Black Beau­ty” Gib­son Les Paul that he played on Zeppelin’s ear­ly stu­dio ses­sions before it was stolen. It was his ear­li­er ses­sion work that trained him as a dis­ci­plined, and under­rat­ed, acoustic player—and at times a pro­found­ly inspired one.

When, after almost ten years, Page reunit­ed with Robert Plant in 1994 for a series of MTV Unplugged ses­sions (top), his acoustic play­ing was top notch. In oth­er acoustic ses­sions from just a few years ear­li­er (the 1989 video fur­ther up) a slight­ly out-of-it Page plays with quite much less sub­tle­ty and restraint, though he’s cer­tain­ly still got the skill. But care­less per­for­mances like these are not char­ac­ter­is­tic of Page’s true tal­ents as an acoustic play­er. Ignore the poor video qual­i­ty and lis­ten to his incred­i­ble pick­ing above on a 1970 broad­cast of The Julie Felix Show in Eng­land.

Page could show­case his lead play­ing, adapt­ed to a folk idiom, on the acoustic gui­tar, but he has always excelled as a rhythm play­er as well. Just above, in an out­take from the 2008 doc­u­men­tary It Might Get Loud—while still recov­er­ing from that bro­ken pinky finger—Page plays what Gui­tar World iden­ti­fies only as “an uncred­it­ed instru­men­tal” on a gui­tar that “appears to be in an open tun­ing, pos­si­bly C.” What­ev­er this com­po­si­tion, we can hear in these broad strums a whole rhyth­mic arrange­ment, with drum and bass parts and neg­a­tive space drawn around the hints of melody. Page has always had one of the most thor­ough­ly imag­i­na­tive gui­tar styles in rock and roll, and when he steps back from his blues-based elec­tric play­ing and embraces the acoustic gui­tar, he show­cas­es how much the influ­ence of var­i­ous acoustic world and folk musics “gave Led Zep­pelin a rich­ness,” writes Stephen Erlewine at All­mu­sic, “unheard in their heavy rock peers.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Jim­my Page Tells the Sto­ry of “Kash­mir”

Jim­my Page Tells the Sto­ry of “Stair­way to Heav­en”: How the Most Played Rock Song Came To Be

13-Year-Old Jim­my Page Plays Gui­tar on TV in 1957, an Ear­ly Moment in His Spec­tac­u­lar Career

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

I’ve been a fan of the Acad­e­my of Ancient Music since I picked up its per­for­mance of Vivaldi’s The Four Sea­sons as a teenag­er in the UK. Though into rock and prog at the time, I was always try­ing to expand my learn­ing and would occa­sion­al­ly turn the dial from BBC Radio One (for John Peel, late at night) to Radio Four where I tried to make my way in the heady world of clas­si­cal music. It was how the album was pro­mot­ed and sold: you’ve nev­er heard Vival­di until you’ve heard it on the orig­i­nal instru­ments! I mean, this tied right in at the time to the advent of CDs (“hear it as the musi­cians did in the con­trol room!”) and the begin­ning of “from the orig­i­nal mas­ter tapes!” turn­ing up on record­ings. I was all in, and it’s a thrilling record­ing.

That thrill nev­er goes away, as demon­strat­ed with the above video of Robert Levin, recent­ly announced as the first Hog­wood Fel­low of the Acad­e­my, play­ing Mozart on Mozart’s own piano. Or rather, Mozart’s fortepi­ano, a small­er and much lighter ver­sion of the piano. It is two octaves short­er, and only sev­en feet long.

Mozart used this fortepi­ano for both com­pos­ing and per­form­ing from 1785 until his death in 1791. He wrote over 50 works on it. The instru­ment dates to 1782, built by Anton Wal­ter, one of the best-known piano mak­ers in Vien­na at that time. In 2012 it final­ly returned to Mozart’s Salzburg home (now a muse­um), hav­ing been in the pos­ses­sion of the Cathe­dral Music Asso­ci­a­tion and Mozar­teum for the major­i­ty of the years since the composer’s death.

“One writes for acousti­cal and aes­thet­ic prop­er­ties of the instru­ments at hand,” Levin says, explain­ing the Academy’s mis­sion and ide­ol­o­gy. Nat­u­ral­ly it fol­lows that Mozart sounds the best on Mozart’s instru­ment. The fortepi­ano is brighter and jaun­tier, and can be a rev­e­la­tion for those with the tal­ent and for­tune to play it. Levin says:

“So sit­ting down at Mozart’s piano, sit­ting down at an organ which Bach played him­self, you under­stand things about the weight of the keys going down and the rep­e­ti­tion and the bal­ance in sound. And all of these things bring you very, very close to the music and make you say ‘A‑ha, that’s why it’s writ­ten that way’, which is not the kind of thing you’re going to get if you’re play­ing on the stan­dard instru­ments that are being man­u­fac­tured today”

Levin is cur­rent­ly record­ing Mozart’s piano sonatas on this very fortepi­ano. The piece he plays in the video is Mozart’s Sonata No. 17 in B flat major KV 570 (3rd move­ment).

via Clas­sic FM

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Hear the Pieces Mozart Com­posed When He Was Only Five Years Old

Watch a Musi­cian Impro­vise on a 500-Year-Old Music Instru­ment, The Car­il­lon

Watch Leonar­do da Vinci’s Musi­cal Inven­tion, the Vio­la Organ­ista, Being Played for the Very First Time

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.

What do you give the Zap­pa fan who has every­thing? Why, of course, the three-disc set, Frank Zap­pa Hal­loween 77—a doc­u­ment of Zap­pa per­for­mances at New York’s Pal­la­di­um in 1977 dur­ing a Hal­loween week­end stint—just released only a few days ago in an offi­cial form, as well as in a box set fea­tur­ing 158 tracks and a Zap­pa mask and cos­tume. Ah, it is too late! Too late! you say. The day is upon us! Tru­ly, it is, but a Zap­pa cos­tume nev­er goes out of style—it can be worn year-round with­out embar­rass­ment. And while you wait for the swag to arrive, light up your Hal­loween night with 15 hours of tracks from the four-night engage­ment in the Spo­ti­fy playlist below.

By the time of these record­ings, Zappa’s Hal­loween shows were “already the stuff of leg­ends,” we learn from the offi­cial source, Zappa.com. “While the shows began in the late ‘60s, around 1972, these mon­u­men­tal per­for­mances would become annu­al events, ini­tial­ly in Pas­sa­ic, NJ and Chica­go IL before mov­ing to New York City in 1974, where they’d remain…. From Octo­ber 28–31, Zap­pa and his band played six his­toric shows at the 3,000 capac­i­ty Pal­la­di­um. All the per­for­mances were record­ed with four being filmed, result­ing in Zappa’s mam­moth film project, ‘Baby Snakes.’”

The 1979 film failed to find an audi­ence beyond Zappa’s rabid­ly loy­al cult fol­low­ing, or a dis­trib­u­tor beyond Zap­pa him­self. Many of the songs Zap­pa and his band played dur­ing the series of con­certs appeared that same year on Sheik Yer­bouti (say it out loud), an album that made sure to piss peo­ple off. The song “Bob­by Brown” was banned from the radio in the U.S.; The Anti-Defama­tion League demand­ed an apol­o­gy, which Zap­pa refused, for the song “Jew­ish Princess,” which was only per­formed once, dur­ing the ’77 Hal­loween shows; and the album’s major hit, “Dancin’ Fool,” made audi­ences dance to a song that made fun of them.

Zappa’s anti-social antics were not bugs but features—he main­tained a rabid fan­base no mat­ter what he did because he was a phe­nom­e­nal­ly tal­ent­ed, irre­press­ibly cre­ative musi­cian who attract­ed the best play­ers in the busi­ness. The 1977 Hal­loween show band—including mad­man drum­mer Ter­ry Bozzio and King Crim­son gui­tarist Adri­an Belew—could not have been in fin­er form. Zappa’s arro­gance may have rubbed non-fans of his music the wrong way, but to those who couldn’t get enough of his vir­tu­oso prog-rock car­ni­val, he had every rea­son to hold such peo­ple in con­tempt.

Zap­pa inspired so much devo­tion among fel­low musi­cians that a num­ber of them have agreed to tour with a holo­gram of the late gui­tarist-band­leader, to be pro­duced by Eye­l­lu­sion, “live music’s pre­mier holo­gram pro­duc­tion com­pa­ny,” explains the offi­cial Zap­pa site. The project has proven, in the words of Belew, who signed on then dropped out of the tour, “caus­tic and divi­sive.” It may also, whether you’re a fan of Zap­pa or not, seem more than a lit­tle spooky, and not in the fun trick-or-treat way. Maybe you, or your Zap­pa fan, would pre­fer to remem­ber him as he was, in the flesh, sneer­ing and shred­ding at the Pal­la­di­um on Hal­loween night, 1977.

via @jhoffman

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Frank Zappa’s Amaz­ing Final Con­certs: Prague and Budapest, 1991

Hear the Musi­cal Evo­lu­tion of Frank Zap­pa in 401 Songs

Frank Zap­pa Explains the Decline of the Music Busi­ness (1987)

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

In “Fear of a Female Genius,” a recent essay on Joni Mitchell, Lind­say Zoladz explains why “one of the great­est liv­ing artists in pop­u­lar music still isn’t prop­er­ly rec­og­nized.” If you’re think­ing that has some­thing to do with gen­der bias, it does. But there’s so much more to Mitchell’s com­plex sto­ry. Those who ful­ly embrace her are an eclec­tic group with lean­ings, like Mitchell, toward folk, jazz, clas­si­cal, and instru­men­tal music world­wide: some­times all at once. Despite occa­sion­al breezy plain­spo­ken­ness, she nev­er makes for easy lis­ten­ing.

Her albums take us on wind­ing jour­neys through pecu­liar­ly evoca­tive lyri­cal tableaus, rich with unex­pect­ed, even jar­ring, images. Even the most acces­si­ble songs—for exam­ple, Court and Spark’s Burt Bacharach-like “Help Me”—spin like ver­ti­go-induc­ing roller coast­ers, lit­tle gyres pow­ered by bound­less cre­ative ener­gy. Her most pop­u­lar tunes glow with a world­ly-wise inten­si­ty all their own. Hear them all, from 1968’s Song to a Seag­ull to 2007’s Shine, in the 18-hour Spo­ti­fy playlist below. Or access it direct­ly here.

The idio­syn­crat­ic beau­ty of Mitchell’s music, woven from shim­mer­ing tonal pat­terns, shift­ing polyrhythms, and odd tim­ings and tun­ings, defies the labels we might apply. “I think when you lis­ten to Court and Spark,” says Bar­ney Hoskyns, edi­tor of a new anthol­o­gy of writ­ing about Mitchell, “you can’t real­ly sit there and say, ‘Well this is just pop music.’ You have to think of it on a lev­el with the great­est art that’s been done in the last hun­dred years.” If Bob Dylan “is sort of Shake­speare,” Hoskyns says, “then Joni Mitchell is Mil­ton… or Dante,” two writ­ers whose labyrinthine verse often pos­es sig­nif­i­cant chal­lenges for read­ers.

These kinds of “crass analo­gies,” as Hoskyns terms it, might seem off-putting and pre­ten­tious. But if it seems like Mitchell’s name appears more in the com­pa­ny of famous men than women, it’s an asso­ci­a­tion she made her­self.  “Most of my heroes are mon­sters, unfor­tu­nate­ly,” she has said, “and they are men.” Pablo Picas­so, Miles Davis, Charles Min­gus, whose sur­name Mitchell took for the title of her tenth album…. “This kind of male-hero wor­ship,” writes Zoladz, “has made Mitchell a dif­fi­cult fig­ure to some fem­i­nist crit­ics.”

Indeed, there is some­thing “inter­net-proof” about Mitchell—her “unruli­ness” and unwill­ing­ness to remain in one place, to play the roles assigned her, to adopt hip stances, pan­der, or deny her­self the free­dom to move in unfa­mil­iar artis­tic direc­tions, mak­ing dis­cov­er­ies and risk­ing mis­steps more cau­tious artists would avoid.

Chuck Mitchell, the estranged ex-hus­band and musi­cal part­ner who seemed to resent her incred­i­ble tal­ent, called her odd tun­ings “mys­ti­cal.” But she resists the char­ac­ter­i­za­tion of her play­ing as strange. “How can there be weird chords?” she asks; “these chords that I heard inside that suit­ed me—they feel like my feel­ings.” As much as her work has emerged from her admi­ra­tion of male heroes and col­lab­o­ra­tors, it has also been defined by escape from the restric­tions men in her life might place on her, from Mitchell to Gra­ham Nash, whose mar­riage pro­pos­al she declined. “As much as I loved and cared for Gra­ham,” she remem­bered lat­er, “I just thought, I’m gonna end up like my grand­moth­er, kick­ing the door off the hinges, you know what I mean? It’s like, I bet­ter not.”

Albums like Heji­ra—her ver­sion of an Ara­bic word mean­ing some­thing like “jour­ney to a bet­ter place”—and The Hiss­ing of Sum­mer Lawns, with its night­mare vision of domes­tic­i­ty, doc­u­ment Mitchell’s release from the snares of mar­riage. But it has been dif­fi­cult for the 21st cen­tu­ry to come to terms with her for oth­er rea­sons. Her casu­al appro­pri­a­tion of cul­tur­al tropes and her deci­sion to appear in lit­er­al black­face, not only at a Hal­loween par­ty but on the cov­er of 1977’s Don Juan’s Reck­less Daugh­ter, have been called marks of poor taste, at best. Her albums became increas­ing­ly exper­i­men­tal in the late 70s, show­cas­ing a pas­tiche of influ­ences and guest musi­cians over­lay­ing her already unusu­al musi­cal­i­ty, and alien­at­ing many of her fans.

As she left behind the “con­fes­sion­al” voice of albums like 1971’s crit­i­cal­ly-vaunt­ed Blue and head­ed into weird­er ter­ri­to­ry, she lost lis­ten­ers and crit­ics, who sav­aged abstract projects like The Hiss­ing of Sum­mer Lawns, only to find, forty years lat­er, that these were essen­tial works of art pushed aside by the weight of expec­ta­tion. Mitchell had been push­ing against that weight her entire life. Like some oth­er unique­ly tal­ent­ed guitarists—Django Rein­hardt, Tony Iommi—her style devel­oped around a dis­abil­i­ty, in her case a left hand weak­ened by the polio she had as a child in Cana­da. “So she invent­ed her own way of play­ing,” writes Zoladz, and invent­ed her own way of being in the music busi­ness and the world at large. “For good and at times for ill, Joni Mitchell believes she is a genius.” Spend some time with her discog­ra­phy and you may find it hard to dis­agree with her.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Hear the 150 Great­est Albums by Women: NPR Cre­ates a New Canon of Albums That Puts Women at the Cen­ter of Music His­to­ry

For Joni Mitchell’s 70th Birth­day, Watch Clas­sic Per­for­mances of “Both Sides Now” & “The Cir­cle Game” (1968)

Vin­tage Video of Joni Mitchell Per­form­ing in 1965 — Before She Was Even Named Joni Mitchell

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