“Remem­ber the 60s?” says Frank Zap­pa in the inter­view above, “that era that a lot of peo­ple have these glo­ri­ous mem­o­ries of?… they real­ly weren’t that great, those years.” Ever the grumpy uncle. But Zap­pa does get nos­tal­gic for one thing, and it’s an unex­pect­ed one: the music busi­ness. “One thing that did hap­pen in the 60s,” he says, “was some music of an unusu­al and exper­i­men­tal nature did get record­ed, did get released.” The exec­u­tives of the day were “cig­ar-chomp­ing old guys who looked at the prod­uct and said, ‘I don’t know. Who knows what it is? Record it, stick it out. If it sells, alright!’”

“We were bet­ter off with those guys,” says Zap­pa, “than we are with the hip, young exec­u­tives,” mak­ing deci­sions about what peo­ple should hear. The hip­pies are more con­ser­v­a­tive than the con­ser­v­a­tive “old guys” ever were. This Zap­pa of 1987 rec­om­mends get­ting back to the “who knows?” approach, “that entre­pre­neur­ial spir­it” of the grand old indus­try barons of the 60s.

One can almost imag­ine Zappa—in the 60s—pining for the days of Edi­son, who refused to give up on the wax cylin­der but would also record vir­tu­al­ly any­thing. If both the time of Edi­son and the time of Zap­pa were bonan­zas for mak­ers of nov­el­ty records, so much the bet­ter. Zap­pa was nov­el.

Still it seems like a fun­ny sen­ti­ment com­ing from a guy who built most of his career in oppo­si­tion to the record indus­try. But it was in the peri­od of alleged decay that Zap­pa broke with Warn­er Bros. and found­ed his own label in 1977, mak­ing a deal with Phono­gram to dis­trib­ute his releas­es in the U.S. When Phono­gram refused to release his 1981 sin­gle “I Don’t Wan­na Get Draft­ed,” Zap­pa cre­at­ed anoth­er label, Bark­ing Pump­kin Records, mak­ing sure he got to make and sell the music he want­ed to.

In many ways peo­ple like Zappa—or lat­er Kate Bush or Prince—anticipated our cur­rent music indus­try, in which we have artists start­ing labels left and right, con­trol­ling their own pro­duc­tion and out­put. But those artists are most­ly a tiny hand­ful of huge­ly suc­cess­ful stars with mogul-sized ambi­tions. Does this help or harm the music econ­o­my as a whole? Inde­pen­dent musi­cians very rarely get the small­est win­dow on how things work at the lev­el of Bey­once, Jay‑Z, or Tay­lor Swift (who “is the indus­try,” Bloomberg once breath­less­ly pro­claimed). But as Zap­pa notes, “the per­son in the exec­u­tive chair may not be the final arbiter of taste for the entire pop­u­la­tion.” Even if those exec­u­tives are them­selves artists, we may great­ly ben­e­fit from a wider range of “unusu­al and exper­i­men­tal” sounds in pop­u­lar cul­ture. Zap­pa sug­gests the way to do that is to get the “cig­ar-chomp­ing old guys” (and they were all guys) back in charge.

The rest of Zappa’s inter­view con­cerns the bogey­man of 80s and 90s music, the PMRC, and his very strong feel­ings about cen­sor­ship, social con­trol, and sex. It’s clas­sic Zap­pa and won’t raise any eye­brows now, but it is inter­est­ing to hear his take on the decline of the music busi­ness since the 60s. We use dif­fer­ent cri­te­ria to mea­sure the apex of the industry—often depend­ing on whether the labels or the artists made more mon­ey. Whichev­er peri­od we lion­ize, for what­ev­er rea­son, with­in a hun­dred-year win­dow a tiny hand­ful of musi­cians and record exec­u­tives made enor­mous, dynasty-mak­ing for­tunes. It just so hap­pens that these days it’s an even tinier hand­ful of musi­cians and exec­u­tives at the top, mak­ing even huger for­tunes. And there’s a lot more syn­er­gy between them.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Bizarre Time When Frank Zappa’s Entire­ly Instru­men­tal Album Received an “Explic­it Lyrics” Stick­er

Hear the Musi­cal Evo­lu­tion of Frank Zap­pa in 401 Songs

Bri­an Eno Explains the Loss of Human­i­ty in Mod­ern Music

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

Talk about pro­lif­ic. French film­mak­er Michel Gondry has just released his 85th music video–this one for The White Stripes’ new song “City Lights.” 

Last year, Ted Mills took a look at Gondry’s music videos for Björk, Radio­head and The Chem­i­cal Broth­ers, show­ing us why Gondry, who first began exper­i­ment­ing with the for­mat in 1988, was “one of the last great music video directors”–someone who cre­at­ed “mini-epics just before the music indus­try col­lapsed, and bud­gets dis­ap­peared.” 

Most know Gondry for his 2004 fea­ture film, Eter­nal Sun­shine of the Spot­less Mind. Or per­haps you saw his ani­mat­ed 2013 doc­u­men­tary on Noam Chom­sky, Is the Man Who Is Tall Hap­py? If you did, you’ll rec­og­nize the aes­thet­ic used in the new White Stripes video above. As Rolling Stone describes it, the video is just “a sin­gle shot of the exte­ri­or of a show­er, with [a] bather visu­al­ly draw­ing out the song’s lyrics in the steam and con­den­sa­tion on the show­er door. With each line, the steam slow­ly eras­es the pre­vi­ous draw­ing, and a new image is sketched on the door.” You can try it at home.

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Relat­ed Con­tent:

Noam Chom­sky Talks About How Kids Acquire Lan­guage & Ideas in an Ani­mat­ed Video by Michel Gondry

Watch Michel Gondry Ani­mate Philoso­pher, Lin­guist & Activist Noam Chom­sky

Michel Gondry’s Finest Music Videos for Björk, Radio­head & More: The Last of the Music Video Gods

You’re prob­a­bly famil­iar with the scene in Milos Foreman’s Amadeus (or its bril­liant 30 Rock par­o­dy). Thomas Hulce as the irrev­er­ent musi­cal prodi­gy fever­ish­ly dic­tates the “Dies Irae” sec­tion of his final, unfin­ished Requiem Mass in D minor, con­jur­ing it out of thin air. Mozart’s envi­ous rival Salieri puts pen to paper, strug­gling to keep up (“You go too fast!”). The two com­posers hear exact­ly the same thing, the same piece of music the view­er hears play­ing. The Requiem flows through Mozart as though he were a divine avatar; we’re all sup­posed to hear it—the uni­ver­sal lan­guage of music, celes­tial and mag­nif­i­cent.

The cru­el irony of the scene lies in its abil­i­ty to con­vince us of just that, while show­ing us some­thing far dif­fer­ent. As his many per­plexed moments demon­strate, Salieri doesn’t hear the music, he only sees Mozart’s ges­tures and hears him speak­ing a lan­guage most of us don’t know well, if at all. (It prob­a­bly did not hap­pen this way.) The sheet music in the film rep­re­sents the music’s world­ly medi­a­tion, through a lan­guage alien to the unini­ti­at­ed, a col­lec­tion of hiero­glyph­ics as baf­fling as Cyril­lic to the Telagu speak­er and so on. But the unini­ti­at­ed are rare. Most of us have had some musi­cal edu­ca­tion, how­ev­er fleet­ing, whether at church, school, or home.  

So none of us are Mozart—few of us are even Salieri—but we can all learn or relearn to decode and deci­pher the writ­ten lan­guage of music, even if we can’t hear it play­ing while we read it. As always, Youtube hosts its share of instruc­tion­al videos of vary­ing degrees of qual­i­ty. The ani­mat­ed video at the top of the post might make the list of most enter­tain­ing, but bear in mind, it’s a tongue-in-cheek exer­cise, “a help­ful guide cre­at­ed by an unqual­i­fied indi­vid­ual” (who ini­tial­ly declares him­self a 12-year-old). Nev­er had I seen an unre­li­able nar­ra­tor in an instruc­tion­al video before, but here you have it. On the whole, how­ev­er, the video’s frus­trat­ed ama­teur cre­ator Julian Cian­ci­o­lo gets it right, and when he doesn’t, the few hun­dred musi­cians and teach­ers watch­ing let him know. (Cian­ci­o­lo promis­es to cor­rect the bass clef in a fol­low-up.)

While Cian­ci­o­lo gets to work on anoth­er video, you may want to check out some more straight­for­ward resources. The playlist fur­ther up, from youcanplayit.com, offers a very thor­ough expla­na­tion of the staff, clefs, notes, time sig­na­tures, etc. It does not do so in the most excit­ing of ways, and many of its oth­er lessons apply specif­i­cal­ly to the piano or recorder. Just above, we have a les­son on the bass clef from the Music The­o­ry Guy, who makes videos on, you guessed it, music the­o­ry, from begin­ner to advanced. His style is a bit more ellip­ti­cal than that of you­can­play­it, but his deliv­ery more than makes up for it. 

In a cheer­ful British accent, the Music The­o­ry Guy gen­tly coax­es us into a con­cept, like the bass clef, with sim­ple but effec­tive descrip­tions of the things around the bass clef. Anoth­er video, “The Impor­tance of Mid­dle C,” just above, does the same thing. These resources—even the fast-paced, dead­pan “How to Read Sheet Music” at the top—all offer at the very least a refresh­er course on musi­cal lan­guage com­pre­hen­sion. For many, they serve equal­ly well as qual­i­ty first intro­duc­tions to musi­cal sym­bols and some basic com­po­si­tion­al the­o­ry.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

“Hum­ming­bird,” A New Form of Music Nota­tion That’s Eas­i­er to Learn and Faster to Read

Learn to Play Gui­tar for Free: Intro Cours­es Take You From The Very Basics to Play­ing Songs In No Time

Paul McCart­ney Offers a Short Tuto­r­i­al on How to Play the Bass Gui­tar

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

Like Lou Reed, her reluc­tant co-leader in the Vel­vet Under­ground, Ger­man-born mod­el-cum-singer Nico had a pro­nounced mean streak. Or, as Simon Reynolds writes in The Guardian, “talk of her dark side is accu­rate.” At a 1974 con­cert, Nico caused an audi­ence riot by per­form­ing the Ger­man nation­al anthem “com­plete with vers­es that had been banned after 1945 on account of their Nazi asso­ci­a­tions.” A 15-year-long addic­tion to hero­in—“over­whelm­ing,” as key­boardist James Young described it—did not help mat­ters. “Being around Nico was kin­da depress­ing,” recalls pro­duc­er Joe Boyd, “She was a very tor­tured char­ac­ter.” When it comes to rock stars and artists, we typ­i­cal­ly gloss over social fail­ings that would doom oth­er pro­fes­sion­als. That isn’t always easy to do in Nico’s case.

But it also isn’t easy to gloss over Nico’s musi­cal lega­cy. Her flat, dron­ing vocals on the Velvet’s debut album remain cen­tral to that band’s last­ing influ­ence. Songs like “All Tomorrow’s Par­ties” and “I’ll be Your Mir­ror” defined the emerg­ing under­ground sound of the late six­ties that grew into punk and new wave in the sev­en­ties. Nico’s Chelsea Girl stands alone as an artis­tic achieve­ment. Her and pro­duc­er John Cale’s inter­pre­ta­tions of songs like Jack­son Browne’s “These Days” (mem­o­rably used in Wes Anderson’s The Roy­al Tenen­baums) served as neo-folk tem­plates for decades to come.

When she began writ­ing her own songs, inspired by one­time boyfriend Jim Mor­ri­son, Nico “eclipsed the Doors’ dark­ness” with her album The Mar­ble Index, replac­ing “the sum­mer of love with the win­ter of despair,” and deliv­er­ing an album of pro­found­ly beau­ti­ful bleakness—the songs, writes Reynolds, “glit­ter­ing in their immac­u­late, life­less majesty of some­one cut off from the thaw­ing warmth of human con­tact and fel­low­ship.” A favorite of goths every­where, The Mar­ble Index fre­quent­ly appears on lists of the most depress­ing albums of all time. Asked about the record’s dis­mal sales, Cale remarked, “you can’t sell sui­cide.”

Nico’s songs and Cale’s pro­duc­tion gave us a com­plete­ly Euro­pean sound, “sev­ered from rhythm-and-blues… hark­ing back to some­thing pre-Chris­t­ian and atavis­tic.” That first album of orig­i­nal songs led to five more, cul­mi­nat­ing in 1985’s Cam­era Obscu­ra. At what would fate­ful­ly be her final con­cert in 1988, Nico per­formed songs from that album, includ­ing the hyp­not­ic, swirling “I Will Be Sev­en,” below. She died just a few months lat­er while vaca­tion­ing in Ibiza. Now, her final album forms the cen­ter­piece of a trib­ute from anoth­er pio­neer­ing woman in path­break­ing­ly orig­i­nal under­ground music, Pat­ti Smith.

Smith’s album, Killer Road—A Trib­ute to Nico, made with her daugh­ter Jesse Paris Smith and the ambi­ent trio Sound­walk Col­lec­tive, includes the song “Fear­ful­ly in Dan­ger,” which you can see live in Ger­many in the video at the top of the post. Below it, hear the title track, a chill­ing, atmos­pher­ic song meant to “approx­i­mate what the for­mer Vel­vet Under­ground col­lab­o­ra­tor might have heard when she col­lapsed while bicy­cling in Ibiza in 1988,” writes Rolling Stone. Over the sounds of chirp­ing insects and oscil­lat­ing synths, Smith intones lyrics from Nico’s last album: “The Killer Road is wait­ing for you… I have come to die with you.”

As in her trib­utes to oth­er artis­tic heroes like Vir­ginia Woolf, Smith makes col­lage art from Nico’s words, weav­ing in strains of her own verse. In this case, she ties her frag­ment­ed phras­es and Nico’s haunt­ed lyri­cism to the spe­cif­ic moment of the singer’s death, giv­ing lyrics like “I will be sev­en when I meet you in heav­en” a res­o­nance both mor­dant and vivid, made all the more so when we know that the birds, insects, break­ing waves, and breezes that weave through Smith’s songs come from field record­ings tak­en in sun­ny Ibiza at the site of Nico’s death. Hear Smith’s “cov­er” of “I Will Be Sev­en” below.

It’s a macabre con­cept album, to be sure, but Smith’s con­nec­tion with Nico goes beyond mor­bid fas­ci­na­tion. The two were mutu­al admirers—Nico called Smith “a female Leonard Cohen” for her suc­cess­ful inte­gra­tion of poet­ry and music, and Smith “lat­er played an impor­tant role in Nico’s life,” buy­ing back the singer’s prized har­mo­ni­um at “‘an obscure shop’ in Paris, as Nico put it, after it had gone miss­ing.” Nico remem­bered that Smith refused pay­ment for the recov­ered instru­ment and “insist­ed the organ was a present.” The icy, depres­sive Ger­man singer was moved to tears. She would play the har­mo­ni­um on her final album, and at her final concert—the per­fect accom­pa­ni­ment to her strange, haunt­ing voice and dis­turb­ing, dark lyri­cism.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch Pat­ti Smith Read from Vir­ginia Woolf, and Hear the Only Sur­viv­ing Record­ing of Woolf’s Voice

Pat­ti Smith on Vir­ginia Woolf’s Cane, Charles Dick­ens’ Pen & Oth­er Cher­ished Lit­er­ary Tal­is­mans

The Crazy, Icon­ic Life of Nico; Andy Warhol Muse, Vel­vet Under­ground Vocal­ist, Enig­ma in Amber

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