The Haunting Background Vocals on The Rolling Stones’ “Gimme Shelter:” Merry Clayton Recalls How They Came to Be

The ques­tion of what an artist is will­ing to give up for her art is unan­swer­able until the moment of sac­ri­fice arrives, and she must make a choice—safety, com­fort, fam­i­ly, etc, or the leap into a cre­ative endeav­or whose out­come is uncer­tain? Then there are those artists—often just as tal­ent­ed and ambitious—who make these choic­es for oth­er people’s art: the pop star’s dance troupe, the Broad­way cho­rus mem­bers, and the rock and roll back-up singers, some of whom we got to know in the 2014 doc­u­men­tary 20 Feet from Star­dom, includ­ing the great Mer­ry Clay­ton, who con­tributed her haunt­ing gospel chops to the Rolling Stones’ “Gimme Shel­ter.”

For the work­ing back­up singers in the doc­u­men­tary, the choic­es between every­day secu­ri­ty and cre­ativ­i­ty aren’t bina­ry. They often present them­selves instead as the kind of seem­ing­ly ordi­nary com­pro­mis­es we all make to some degree: do I go on this lucra­tive tour or attend my daughter’s recital? Do I turn down this job—and paycheck—or miss a birth­day, a fam­i­ly din­ner, a night’s sleep? Clay­ton had to make such a spur-of-the-moment deci­sion late one night, while just get­ting ready for bed at her L.A. home. She got a call from pro­duc­er Jack Niet­zsche, she tells us in a clip from the doc­u­men­tary above, whom she remem­bers say­ing: “There’s a group of guys in town called… the Rolling… Some­bod­ies… and they need some­body that will sing with them.”

Clay­ton had no idea who the Stones were, but at her husband’s urg­ing, she took the gig. She was, after all, a pro. As Mike Springer wrote in a pre­vi­ous post on the Stones’ side of the sto­ry, Clay­ton “made her pro­fes­sion­al debut at age 14, record­ing a duet with Bob­by Darin. She went on to work with The Supremes, Elvis Pres­ley and many oth­ers, and was a mem­ber of Ray Charles’s group of back­ing singers, The Raelettes.” When she got to the stu­dio, she had some reser­va­tions when Richards and Jag­ger asked her to sing “Rape, murder/It’s just a shot away,” but when the band explained the gist of the song, she said “Oh, okay, that’s cool,” and total­ly went for it, as you can hear in her iso­lat­ed part above.

Deter­mined to “blow them out of this room,” she did three increas­ing­ly intense takes, pitch­ing it up an octave and push­ing her voice till it cracked. The results give the song its chill­ing apoc­a­lyp­tic urgency, and they also came at a great per­son­al cost to Clay­ton. Preg­nant at the time of record­ing, “the phys­i­cal strain of the intense duet with Mick Jag­ger,” notes the Los Ange­les Times, “result­ed in a mis­car­riage after the ses­sion.” As Mike Springer wrote in his post, the Stones’ song, and the entire Let It Bleed album, cap­tured a par­tic­u­lar­ly dark time for the band—as Bri­an Jones dete­ri­o­rat­ed into addic­tion and men­tal illness—and for the world, com­ing as it did after the assas­si­na­tions of Mar­tin Luther King, Jr. and the Kennedys and the esca­la­tion of the Viet­nam War. “Gimme Shel­ter” also came to rep­re­sent, Clay­ton told the L.A. Times, “a dark, dark peri­od for me,” though she couldn’t have known the price she’d pay for that ses­sion when she agreed to do it.

But she “turned it around,” she says: “I took it as life, love and ener­gy and direct­ed it in anoth­er direc­tion so it doesn’t real­ly both­er me to sing ‘Gimme Shel­ter’ now. Life is too short as it is and I can’t live on yes­ter­day.” Watch her above take the lead in an incred­i­bly pow­er­ful recent ren­di­tion of the song at the Gib­son Amphithe­atre in Uni­ver­sal City, CA. The per­for­mance fur­ther proves, I think, that, just as much as Richards’ gui­tar lines and Jagger’s lyrics, her voice played a cru­cial, star­ring role in the clas­sic record­ing.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Mick Jag­ger Tells the Sto­ry Behind ‘Gimme Shel­ter’ and Mer­ry Clayton’s Haunt­ing Back­ground Vocals

The Rolling Stones’ “Gimme Shel­ter” Played by Musi­cians Around the World

Gimme Shel­ter: Watch the Clas­sic Doc­u­men­tary of the Rolling Stones’ Dis­as­trous Con­cert at Alta­mont

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

Hear Electronic Ladyland, a Mixtape Featuring 55 Tracks from 35 Pioneering Women in Electronic Music

Electronic Ladyland

Giv­en that we’ve pre­vi­ous­ly fea­tured two doc­u­men­taries on elec­tron­ic music pio­neer Delia Der­byshirean intro­duc­tion to four oth­er female com­posers who pio­neered elec­tron­ic music (Daphne Oram, Lau­rie Spiegel, Éliane Radigue & Pauline Oliv­eros), and sev­en hours of elec­tron­ic music made by women between 1938 and 2014, no loy­al Open Cul­ture read­er could claim igno­rance on the theme of this new mix­tape, Elec­tron­ic Lady­land. It comes from the French musi­cal project Aran­del, whose mem­bers remain anony­mous and could there­fore be of any gen­der, but who, in these 45 min­utes (made of 55 dif­fer­ent tracks by 35 female com­posers), dis­play a mas­tery of the field.

“We real­ized that an uncon­scious fem­i­nine elec­tron­ic music Inter­na­tionale has exist­ed through­out the ages and we won­dered whether a secret intu­ition might have gath­ered around shared research,” says Aran­del in a trans­lat­ed inter­view. “Was their mutu­al desires achieved dif­fer­ent­ly in dif­fer­ent coun­tries, with dif­fer­ent tools in dif­fer­ent time­zones? The idea was to see what would hap­pen if we gath­ered them in the same fic­ti­tious room for 45 min­utes, and built a choir from all their pro­duc­tions.”

Aran­del’s inter­view­er describes the musi­cians in the mix as com­ing from “very dif­fer­ent musi­cal hori­zons: we find aca­d­e­m­ic learned musi­cians, research music com­posers and exper­i­menters who used to do DIY works com­posed for adver­tis­ing or tele­vi­sion in a pop or easy lis­ten­ing con­text, some eccen­tric women like The Space Lady or Ruth White.” We also hear from famous names like Lau­rie Ander­son and Wendy Car­los, and Delia Der­byshire. “What she accom­plished is fas­ci­nat­ing,” says Aran­del of Der­byshire, “as is lis­ten­ing to her talk about her inter­est­ing work in doc­u­men­taries,” and they’ve also includ­ed work from Daphne Oram, Lau­rie Spiegel, Eliane Radigue, and Pauline Oliveiros, sub­jects of the oth­er doc­u­men­taries we’ve post­ed here.

Elec­tron­ic Lady­land drops you right into a retro-futur­is­tic son­ic land­scape equal­ly dance­able and haunt­ing, one with great vari­ety as well as an unex­pect­ed con­sis­ten­cy. It pro­vides not just a kind of brief overview of what cer­tain gen­er­a­tions of female com­posers dis­cov­ered with their new and then-strange elec­tron­ic instru­ments and oth­er devices, but one you may well want to keep in your library for fre­quent lis­ten­ing. It will also, accord­ing to Aran­del, make you think: “There is an almost mag­ic link between women and elec­tron­ic music, from the 50’s / 60’s. Have you asked your­self the ques­tion of social, artis­tic, maybe mag­ic rea­sons behind this link?” Hit the play but­ton, and you may start. Find the list of tracks below.

1. Gly­nis Jones : Mag­ic Bird Song (1976)

2. Doris Nor­ton : Nor­ton Rythm Soft (1986)

3. Colette Mag­ny : « Avec » Poème (1966)

4. Daphne Oram : Just For You (Excerpt 1)

5. Lau­rie Spiegel : Clock­works (1974)

6. Pauline Oliveiros : Bog Bog (1966)

7. Megan Roberts — I Could Sit Here All Day (1977)

8. Suzanne Ciani : Paris 1971

9. Lau­rie Ander­son : Tape Bow Trio (Say Yes) (1981)

10. Gly­nis Jones : Schlum Rooli (1975)

11. Ruth White : Mists And Rains (1969)

12. Wendy Car­los : Spring (1972)

13. Ann McMil­lan : Syrinx (1978)

14. Delia Der­byshire : Rest­less Relays (1969)

15. Mag­gi Payne : Flights Of Fan­cy (1986)

16. Else Marie Pade : Syv Cirkler (1958)

17. Daniela Casa : Ricer­ca Del­la Mate­ria (1975)

18. The Space Lady : Domine, Libra Nos (1990)

19. Johan­na Bey­er : Music Of The Spheres [1938]

20. Mad­dale­na Fagan­di­ni : Inter­val Sig­nal (1960)

21. Eliane Radigue : Chryp­tus I (1970)

22. Ruth White : Owls (1969)

23. Ursu­la Bogn­er : Spe­ichen (1979)

24. Beat­riz Fer­reyra — Demeures Aqua­tiques (1967)

25. Doris Nor­ton : War Mania Analy­sis (1983)

26. Tera De Marez Oyens : Safed (1967)

27. Daphne Oram : Rhyth­mic Vari­a­tion II (1962)

28. Mireille Chamass-Kyrou : Etude 1 (1960)

29. Lau­rie Spiegel : Drums (1983)

30. Tere­sa Ram­pazzi : Stom­a­co 2 (1972)

31. Tere­sa Ram­pazzi : Esofa­go 1 (1972)

32. Suzanne Ciani : Fourth Voice: Sound Of Wet­ness (1970)

33. Ursu­la Bogn­er : Expan­sion (1979)

34. Alice Shields : Sac­ri­fice (1993)

35. Megan Roberts and Ray­mond Ghi­rar­do : ATVO II (1987)

36. Lau­rie Ander­son : Drums (1981)

37. Doris Hays : Som­er­sault Beat (1971)

38. Lily Green­ham : Tillid (1973)

39. Ruth Ander­son : Points (1973–74)

40. Pril Smi­ley : Kolyosa (1970)

41. Cather­ine Chris­ter Hen­nix : The Elec­tric Harp­si­chord (1976)

42. Joan La Bar­bara : Solo for Voice 45 (from Song­books) (1977)

43. Sla­va Tsuk­er­man, Bren­da Hutchin­son & Clive Smith : Night Club 1 (1983)

44. Monique Rollin : Motet (Etude Vocale) (1952)

45. Sofia Gubaiduli­na : Vivente – Non Vivente (1970)

46. Ruth White : Spleen (1967)

47. Doris Hays : Scared Trip (1971)

48. Daphne Oram : Pulse Perse­phone (Alter­nate Parts For Mix­ing)

49. Mag­gi Payne : Game­lan (1984)

50. Lau­rie Spiegel : The Unques­tioned Answer (1980)

51. Ursu­la Bogn­er : Homöo­stat (1985)

52. Wendy Car­los : Sum­mer (1972)

53. Suzanne Ciani : Princess With Orange Feet

54. Pauline Oliveiros : Poem Of Change (1993)

55. Suzanne Ciani : Thir­teenth Voice: And All Dreams Are Not For Sale (1970)

via Elec­tron­ic Beats

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Hear Sev­en Hours of Women Mak­ing Elec­tron­ic Music (1938- 2014)

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

1200 Years of Women Com­posers: A Free 78-Hour Music Playlist That Takes You From Medieval Times to Now

The His­to­ry of Elec­tron­ic Music in 476 Tracks (1937–2001)

The His­to­ry of Elec­tron­ic Music, 1800–2015: Free Web Project Cat­a­logues the Theremin, Fairlight & Oth­er Instru­ments That Rev­o­lu­tion­ized Music

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, the video series The City in Cin­e­ma, the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future?, and the Los Ange­les Review of Books’ Korea Blog. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Rufus Wainwright and 1,500 Singers Sing Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah”

We’ve seen 1999 mem­bers of Choir! Choir! Choir! per­form “When Doves Cry,” a mov­ing, mass trib­ute to Prince. And they’re now back, 1500 strong, with Rufus Wain­wright at the helm, singing Leonard Cohen’s beloved and oft-cov­ered song, Hal­lelu­jah.” Per­formed at the Hearn Gen­er­at­ing Sta­tion in Toron­to, it must have been a won­der­ful thing to expe­ri­ence live in per­son.

If you would like to sign up for Open Culture’s free email newslet­ter, please find it here. It’s a great way to see our new posts, all bun­dled in one email, each day.

If you would like to sup­port the mis­sion of Open Cul­ture, con­sid­er mak­ing a dona­tion to our site. It’s hard to rely 100% on ads, and your con­tri­bu­tions will help us con­tin­ue pro­vid­ing the best free cul­tur­al and edu­ca­tion­al mate­ri­als to learn­ers every­where. You can con­tribute through Pay­Pal, Patre­on, and Ven­mo (@openculture). Thanks!

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The Fight to Liberate the “Happy Birthday” Song, Told in a Short Documentary

You may have fol­lowed the sto­ry in the news lately–the song, “Hap­py Birth­day to You,” has offi­cial­ly entered the pub­lic domain, thanks to a court bat­tle fought by the doc­u­men­tary film­mak­er Jen­nifer Nel­son. The bat­tle start­ed years ago when Nel­son was billed $1,500 to use “Hap­py Birth­day to You” in a doc­u­men­tary–the price of licens­ing a song still under copy­right. Wait, what? Flab­ber­gast­ed that “the world’s most pop­u­lar song,” which could be traced back to 1893, could still be under copy­right, Nel­son filed a class action suit against Warner/Chappell Music, the group claim­ing rights to “Hap­py Birth­day.” And won.

In this new short doc­u­men­tary from The Guardian, Nel­son tells the sto­ry of the song and her four-year strug­gle to give “Hap­py Birth­day” back to the world. With a lit­tle luck, “This Land is Your Land,” will be next.

If you would like to sign up for Open Culture’s free email newslet­ter, please find it here. It’s a great way to see our new posts, all bun­dled in one email, each day.

If you would like to sup­port the mis­sion of Open Cul­ture, con­sid­er mak­ing a dona­tion to our site. It’s hard to rely 100% on ads, and your con­tri­bu­tions will help us con­tin­ue pro­vid­ing the best free cul­tur­al and edu­ca­tion­al mate­ri­als to learn­ers every­where. You can con­tribute through Pay­Pal, Patre­on, and Ven­mo (@openculture). Thanks!

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

Reg­u­lar read­ers of Open Cul­ture know us to gush over our favorite celebri­ty cou­ples now and then: John and Yoko, Jean-Paul and Simone, Fri­da and Diego…. Not your usu­al tabloid fare, but the juicy details of these amorous part­ners’ lives also hap­pen to inter­sect with some of our favorite art, music and lit­er­a­ture. One cul­tur­al pow­er cou­ple we haven’t cov­ered much, sur­pris­ing­ly, well deserves the “pow­er” adjec­tive: Lou Reed and Lau­rie Ander­son, two per­son­al­i­ties whose influ­ence on the art and music of the last sev­er­al decades can hard­ly be over­stat­ed.

Has Reed’s rep­u­ta­tion at times been inflat­ed, and Anderson’s under­played? Maybe. She doesn’t get near­ly enough cred­it for the wit­ty, pro­found, mov­ing work she’s done, year after year (with one lengthy hia­tus) since the 70s. Reed’s career since the 70s con­sist­ed of more miss­es than hits. But put them togeth­er (in 1992) and you get a har­mo­nious meet­ing of Reed’s raw, gut-lev­el asser­tions and Anderson’s curi­ous, play­ful con­cepts.

Wit­ness their per­son­al strength togeth­er in the Char­lie Rose excerpt at the top of the post. Reed, who was often a dif­fi­cult inter­view sub­ject, to put it mild­ly, and who gained a rep­u­ta­tion as a bru­tal­ly unpleas­ant, abu­sive rock and roll diva (immor­tal­ized lov­ing­ly in Bowie’s “Queen Bitch”), comes off in this sit-down with Ander­son as almost warm and fuzzy. Did she make him want to be a bet­ter per­son? I don’t know. But Anderson’s short obit­u­ary after his 2013 death remem­bered Reed as a “prince and fight­er,” her longer obit as a “gen­er­ous” soul who enjoyed but­ter­fly hunt­ing, med­i­ta­tion, and kayak­ing. No rea­son he wasn’t all those things too.

When it came to music, Reed could pull his part­ner into the orbit of his sweet R&B songcraft, as in their duet of “Hang on to Your Emo­tions,” fur­ther up, and she could pull him out of it—like John Cale and Nico had done in the Vel­vet Underground—and into the avant-garde drone of her exper­i­men­tal scene (as above in the pair’s col­lab­o­ra­tion with com­pos­er and sax­o­phon­ist John Zorn). Just this past Spring, in one of the most touch­ing musi­cal trib­utes I’ve ever seen, Ander­son recre­at­ed Reed’s abra­sive screw-you to his record label, Met­al Machine Music, as a con­cep­tu­al art piece called Drones, lean­ing sev­er­al of his gui­tars against sev­er­al ful­ly-cranked vin­tage amps, let­ting the feed­back ring out for five days straight.

None of us can be Lou Reed and Lau­rie Ander­son; every cou­ple is hap­py, or unhap­py, in their own way. But what, in the grand tra­di­tion of min­ing celebri­ty cou­ple’s lives for advice, can we learn from them? I guess the over­all message—as Ander­son her­self sug­gest­ed in her Rock & Roll Hall of Fame accep­tance speech for Reed (above, in shaky audi­ence video)—is this: keep it sim­ple. Kansas State Eng­lish Pro­fes­sor Philip Nel points out Anderson’s “wise… thought­ful” words on the sub­ject of liv­ing well, deliv­ered in her speech at the 8:55 mark:

I’m remind­ed also of the three rules we came up with, rules to live by. And I’m just going to tell you what they are because they come in real­ly handy. Because things hap­pen so fast, it’s always good to have a few, like, watch­words to fall back on.

And the first one is: One. Don’t be afraid of any­one. Now, can you imag­ine liv­ing your life afraid of no one? Two. Get a real­ly good bull­shit detec­tor. And three. Three is be real­ly, real­ly ten­der. And with those three things, you don’t need any­thing else.

Can you imag­ine Lou Reed as “real­ly, real­ly ten­der”? He cer­tain­ly was in song, if not always in per­son. In any case, these three rules seem to me to encap­su­late a per­son­al phi­los­o­phy built solid­ly on fear­less integri­ty and com­pas­sion. Dif­fi­cult to live by, but well worth the effort. And because I’m now feel­ing super warm and fuzzy about Lou and Lau­rie, I’ll leave you with the short WNYC inter­view clip below, in which she reveals her favorite Lou Reed song, which he hap­pened to write about her.

via Nine Kinds of Pie

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Lau­rie Anderson’s Top 10 Books to Take to a Desert Island      

An Ani­mat­ed Lou Reed Explains The Vel­vet Underground’s Artis­tic Goals, and Why The Bea­t­les Were “Garbage”

Lou Reed, John Cale & Nico Reunite, Play Acoustic Vel­vet Under­ground Songs on French TV, 1972

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

Betty Davis’ Legendary and Long-Lost Recording Sessions, Produced by Miles Davis, Finally Released (1968–1969)

Bring­ing her down-home North Car­oli­na back­ground to the world of funk, Bet­ty Mabry spent a bet­ter part of the six­ties try­ing to make it big in the music scene, while also mod­el­ing to pay the rent. She ran in the same crowds as Jimi Hen­drix, Eric Clap­ton, and Hugh Masekela (who she dat­ed), and she wrote her own songs, sell­ing one to the Cham­bers Broth­ers, and then got a cou­ple of sin­gles on Capi­tol Records.

And then Miles Davis stepped in the pic­ture. First as a whirl­wind romance and mar­riage, then as a pro­duc­er who was going to launch Bet­ty Davis as the queen of funk (and refur­bish his image in the process.) He had already ded­i­cat­ed two songs to her and put her on the cov­er of his 1968 album Filles de Kil­i­man­jaroAnd now he was set to pro­duce her solo debut.

That album is final­ly being released. Bet­ty Davis: The Colum­bia Years 1968–1969 drops tomor­rowTo hear Light in the Attic’s video press release above breath­less­ly tell it, “music fans have long debat­ed the truth about one leg­endary ses­sion record­ed in 1969 at Columbia’s 52nd Street Stu­dios.” Per­son­al­ly I don’t know what was actu­al­ly debat­ed, but yes, Bet­ty Davis record­ed tracks for a funk album using mem­bers of Jimi Hendrix’s Expe­ri­ence band (Mitch Mitchell, drums) and his Band of Gyp­sies (Bil­ly Cox, bass), along with gui­tarist John McLaugh­lin, key­boardist Her­bie Han­cock, Har­vey Brooks on bass, Wayne Short­er on sax, and Lar­ry Young on organ. Teo Macero co-pro­duced with Miles Davis.

If this sounds like most of the band that went on to make Miles’ Bitch­es Brew (a record title sug­gest­ed by Bet­ty), then you’re right. It could be seen as a ses­sion that got the wheels spin­ning in Miles’ mind about a new direc­tion to take his own work. And it’s that moment that so fas­ci­nates music fans.

Colum­bia passed on the Bet­ty Davis album and buried it in its vaults. It would take four years until Bet­ty Davis was able to get a solo album out on her own terms. That epony­mous 1973 album and the two that fol­lowed were poor sell­ers, but earned cult sta­tus due to Bet­ty Davis’ unabashed and unapolo­getic sex­u­al­i­ty, fem­i­nism, and feroc­i­ty on stage—the same fac­tors that scared radio oper­a­tors and con­cert venues.

“She was the first Madon­na, but Madon­na was like Don­ny Osmond by com­par­i­son,” Car­los San­tana once quipped about her.

The Light in the Attic site has very brief clips from the songs on the new release, but since they are all from the open­ings of the tracks, they give lit­tle indi­ca­tion of the funky stew to fol­low, from the Cream and Cree­dence Clear­wa­ter Revival cov­ers (“Politi­cian Man,” “Born on the Bay­ou”) to her own songs. The CD and LP pack­age looks gor­geous of course, with lin­er notes and pho­tos.

Davis retired from music after her fourth album went nowhere but she is still around, and, accord­ing to the Light in the Attic web­site, a doc­u­men­tary is in the works on this influ­en­tial funky icon who needs redis­cov­er­ing.

via Boing Boing

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Miles Davis’ Entire Discog­ra­phy Pre­sent­ed in a Styl­ish Inter­ac­tive Visu­al­iza­tion

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

Rare Miles Davis Live Record­ings Cap­ture the Jazz Musi­cian at the Height of His Pow­ers

Ted Mills is a free­lance writer on the arts who cur­rent­ly hosts the FunkZone Pod­cast. You can also fol­low him on Twit­ter at @tedmills, read his oth­er arts writ­ing at tedmills.com and/or watch his films here.

Laurie Anderson’s Top 10 Books to Take to a Desert Island

Her avant-garde per­for­mance art endeared her to the New York art world long before she dat­ed, then mar­ried, one of the most influ­en­tial men in rock and roll. Her work has at times been over­shad­owed by her more con­ven­tion­al­ly famous part­ner and col­lab­o­ra­tor, but after his death, she con­tin­ues to make chal­leng­ing, far ahead-of-its-time work and rede­fine her­self as a cre­ative force.

No, I don’t mean Yoko Ono, but the for­mi­da­ble Lau­rie Ander­son. In addi­tion to her exper­i­men­tal art, Ander­son is a film­mak­er, sculp­tor, pho­tog­ra­ph­er, writer, com­pos­er, and musi­cian. Her sur­prise elec­tron­ic hit “O Super­man” (above) from her debut 1982 album Big Sci­ence, “warns of ever-present death from the air in an era of jin­go­ism,” writes David Gra­ham at The Atlantic.

Ander­son her­self explains the song as based on a “beau­ti­ful 19th-cen­tu­ry aria by Massenet… a prayer to author­i­ty. The lyrics are a one-sided con­ver­sa­tion, like a prayer to God. It sounds sinister—but it is sin­is­ter when you start talk­ing to pow­er.”

“O Super­man” speaks, mock­ing­ly, to Amer­i­can mil­i­tary hege­mo­ny and to a par­tic­u­lar his­tor­i­cal event, the Iran hostage cri­sis. As such, it is rep­re­sen­ta­tive of much of her work, meld­ing clas­si­cal instincts and musi­cian­ship with elec­tron­ic exper­i­men­ta­tion and a dark­ly com­ic sen­si­bil­i­ty that she often wields like a crit­i­cal scalpel on U.S. polit­i­cal attitudes—from her huge, five-record 1984 live album Unit­ed States (with songs like “Yan­kee See” and “Demo­c­ra­t­ic Way”) to her 2010 project Home­land.

One of Anderson’s most recent pieces, Dirt­day, “responds,” she says above, to “a very trag­ic sit­u­a­tion… a decade after 9/11… so much fear. Dirt­day was real­ly inspired by try­ing to look at that fear… almost from a point of view of ‘what is it when a whole nation gets hyp­no­tized?’” Her art may be polit­i­cal­ly oppo­si­tion­al, but she also admits, that “as a sto­ry­teller, I find my ‘col­leagues’ in pol­i­tics, you know, a lit­tle bit clos­er than I thought.” The admis­sion belies Anderson’s abil­i­ty to incor­po­rate mul­ti­ple per­spec­tives into her com­plex nar­ra­tives, as all great writ­ers do. And great writ­ers begin as read­ers, their work in dia­logue with the books that move and shape them.

So what does Lau­rie Ander­son read? Below, you’ll find a list of her top ten books, curat­ed by One Grand, a “book­store in which cel­e­brat­ed thinkers, writ­ers, artists, and oth­er cre­ative minds share the ten books they would take to their metaphor­i­cal desert island.” Her choic­es include great com­ic sto­ry­tellers, like Lau­rence Sterne, and chron­i­clers of the lum­ber­ing beast that is the U.S., like Her­man Melville. Oth­er well-known nov­el­ists, like Nabokov and Annie Dil­lard, sit next to Bud­dhist texts and cre­ative non­fic­tion. It’s a fas­ci­nat­ing list, and if you’re as intrigued and inspired by Ander­son­’s work as I am, you’ll want to read, or re-read, every­thing on it.

Skip on over to One Grand to read Anderson’s com­plete, wit­ty com­men­taries on each of her choic­es.

Also check out, UBUweb, which has a nice col­lec­tion of Lau­rie Ander­son­’s ear­ly video work.

via The New York Times Mag­a­zine

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Pat­ti Smith’s List of Favorite Books: From Rim­baud to Susan Son­tag

David Fos­ter Wallace’s Sur­pris­ing List of His 10 Favorite Books, from C.S. Lewis to Tom Clan­cy

David Bowie’s Top 100 Books

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

Hear Young Bob Dylan, Before Releasing His First Album, Tell Amazing Tales About Growing Up in a Carnival

Back in 2012, we fea­tured a young Bob Dylan talk­ing and play­ing on The Studs Terkel radio show in 1963. Open Cul­ture’s Mike Springer pref­aced the inter­view with these words, “Dylan had just fin­ished record­ing the songs for his sec­ond album, The Free­wheel­in’ Bob Dylan, when he trav­eled from New York to Chica­go to play a gig at a lit­tle place part­ly owned by his man­ag­er, Albert Gross­man, called The Bear Club. The next day he went to the WFMT stu­dios for the hour-long appear­ance on The Studs Terkel Pro­gram. Most sources give the date of the inter­view as April 26, 1963, though Dylan schol­ar Michael Krogs­gaard has giv­en it as May 3.” In talk­ing with Studs, Dylan told some tall tales (schol­ars say) about his youth, ones that would have made Huck­le­ber­ry Finn proud. And that ten­den­cy to cre­ate an alter­na­tive biog­ra­phy is on dis­play again in an even ear­li­er inter­view, dat­ing back to March 11, 1962.

Ani­mat­ed by Blank on Blank above, the (excerpt­ed) inter­view lets us hear Dylan, only 20 years old, before the release of his epony­mous debut album, and before achiev­ing any kind of fame. Young Dylan tells Cyn­thia Good­ing, host of the “Folksinger’s Choice” radio pro­gram in NYC, about the six years he spent with the car­ni­val.

I was with the car­ni­val off and on for about six years… I was clean-up boy, I used to be on the main line, on the fer­ris wheel, uh, do just run rides. I used to do all kinds of stuff like that… And I did­n’t go to school a bunch of years and I skipped this and I skipped that.

Lat­er he con­tin­ued:

I wrote a song once. I’m try­ing to find, a real good song I wrote. An’ it’s about this lady I knew in the car­ni­val. An’ er, they had a side show, I only, I was, this was, Thomas show, Roy B Thomas shows, and there was, they had a freak show in it, you know, and all the midgets and all that kind of stuff. An’ there was one lady in there real­ly bad shape. Like her skin had been all burned when she was a lit­tle baby, you know, and it did­n’t grow right, and so she was like a freak. An’ all these peo­ple would pay mon­ey, you know, to come and see and … er … that real­ly sort of got to me, you know. They’d come and see, and I mean, she was very, she did­n’t real­ly look like nor­mal, she had this fun­ny kind of skin and they passed her of as the ele­phant lady. And, er, like she was just burned com­plete­ly since she was a lit­tle baby, er.

You can hear a near­ly com­plete audio record­ing of the inter­view (55 min­utes) below, and read a tran­script of the full inter­view on Expect­ing Rain.

Over on Spo­ti­fy, you can hear the 11 songs that Dylan played for Good­ing that day.

They include sev­er­al that Dylan wrote, along with some old folk and blues songs:

  1. “(I Heard That) Lone­some Whis­tle” (Hank Williams/Jimmie Davis)
  2. “Fix­in’ to Die” (Buk­ka White)
  3. “Smoke­stack Ligh­n­ing” (Howl­in’ Wolf)
  4. “Hard Trav­elin’ ” (Woody Guthrie)
  5. “The Death of Emmett Till”  (Bob Dylan)
  6. “Stand­ing on the High­way” (Bob Dylan)
  7. “Roll on John” (Rufus Crisp)
  8. “Stealin’ ” (tra­di­tion­al)
  9. “It Makes a Long Time Man Feel Bad” (tra­di­tion­al)
  10. “Baby, Please Don’t Go” (Big Joe Williams)
  11. “Hard Times in New York Town” (Bob Dylan)

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Relat­ed Con­tent:

Two Leg­ends Togeth­er: A Young Bob Dylan Talks and Plays on The Studs Terkel Pro­gram, 1963

Bob Dylan Reads From T.S. Eliot’s Great Mod­ernist PoemThe Waste Land

Bob Dylan & The Grate­ful Dead Rehearse Togeth­er in Sum­mer 1987: Hear 74 Tracks

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