Two Guitar Effects That Revolutionized Rock: The Invention of the Wah-Wah & Fuzz Pedals


In the late 50s, a fear­ful, racist back­lash against rock and roll, cou­pled with mon­ey-grub­bing cor­po­rate pay­ola, pushed out the blues and R&B that drove rock­’s sound. In its place came easy lis­ten­ing orches­tra­tion more palat­able to con­ser­v­a­tive white audi­ences. As sexy elec­tric gui­tars gave way to string and horn sec­tions, the com­par­a­tive­ly aggres­sive sound of rock and roll seemed so much a pass­ing fad that Decca’s senior A&R man reject­ed the Bea­t­les’ demo in 1962, telling Bri­an Epstein, “gui­tar groups are on their way out.”

But it wasn’t only the blues, R&B, and doo wop revival­ism of British Inva­sion bands that saved the Amer­i­can art form. It was also the often unin­ten­tion­al influ­ence of audio engi­neers who—with their inces­sant tin­ker­ing and a num­ber of hap­py accidents—created new sounds that defined the coun­ter­cul­tur­al rock and roll of the 60s and 70s. Iron­i­cal­ly, the two tech­ni­cal devel­op­ments that most char­ac­ter­ized those decades’ rock gui­tar sounds—the wah-wah and fuzz pedals—were orig­i­nal­ly mar­ket­ed as ways to imi­tate strings, horns, and oth­er non-rock and roll instru­ments.

As you’ll learn in the doc­u­men­tary above, Cry Baby: The Ped­al that Rocks the World, the wah-wah ped­al, with its “waka-waka” sound so famil­iar from “Shaft” and 70s porn sound­tracks, offi­cial­ly came into being in 1967, when the Thomas Organ com­pa­ny released the first incar­na­tion of the effect. But before it acquired the brand name “Cry Baby” (still the name of the wah-wah ped­al man­u­fac­tured by Jim Dun­lop), it went by the name “Clyde McCoy,” a back­ward-look­ing bit of brand­ing that attempt­ed to mar­ket the effect through nos­tal­gia for pre-rock and roll music. Clyde McCoy was a jazz trum­pet play­er known for his “wah-wah” mut­ing tech­nique on songs like “Sug­ar Blues” in the 20s, and the ped­al was thought to mim­ic McCoy’s jazz-age effects. (McCoy him­self had noth­ing to do with the mar­ket­ing.)

Crybaby

Nonethe­less the devel­op­ment of the wah-wah ped­al came right out of the most cur­rent six­ties’ tech­nol­o­gy made for the most cur­rent of acts, the Bea­t­les. Increas­ing­ly drowned out by scream­ing crowds in larg­er and larg­er venues, the band required loud­er and loud­er ampli­fiers, and British amp com­pa­ny Vox oblig­ed, cre­at­ing the 100-watt “Super Bea­t­le” amp in 1964 for their first U.S. tour. As Priceo­nom­ics details, when Thomas Organ scored a con­tract to man­u­fac­ture the amps state­side, a young engi­neer named Brad Plun­kett was giv­en the task of learn­ing how to make them for less. While exper­i­ment­ing with the smooth dial of a rotary poten­tiome­ter in place of an expen­sive switch, he dis­cov­ered the wah-wah effect, then had the bright idea to com­bine the dial—which swept a res­o­nant peak across the upper mid-range frequency—with the foot ped­al of an organ.

The rest, as the cliché goes, is history—a fas­ci­nat­ing his­to­ry at that, one that leads from Elvis Pres­ley stu­dio gui­tarist Del Cash­er, to Frank Zap­pa, Clap­ton and Hen­drix, and to dozens of 70s funk gui­tarists and beyond.

Art Thomp­son, edi­tor of Gui­tar Play­er Mag­a­zine, notes in the star-stud­ded Cry Baby doc­u­men­tary that pri­or to the inven­tion of the wah-wah ped­al, gui­tarists had a lim­it­ed range of effects—tape delay, tremo­lo, spring reverb, and fuzz. Only one of these effects, how­ev­er, was then avail­able in ped­al form, and that ped­al, Gibson’s Mae­stro Fuzz-Tone, would also rev­o­lu­tion­ize the sound of six­ties rock. But as you can hear in the short 1962 demon­stra­tion record above for the Mae­stro Fuzz-Tone, the fuzz effect was also mar­ket­ed as a way of sim­u­lat­ing oth­er instru­ments: “Organ-like tones, mel­low wood­winds, and whis­per­ing reeds,” says the announc­er, “boom­ing brass, and bell-clear horns.”

Gibson_maestro_fuzz_tone_1_752

In fact, Kei­th Richards, in the Stones’ “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction”—the song cred­it­ed with intro­duc­ing the Maestro’s sound to rock and roll in 1965—orig­i­nal­ly record­ed his fuzzed-out gui­tar part as a place­hold­er for a horn sec­tion. “But we didn’t have any horns,” he wrote in his auto­bi­og­ra­phy, Life; “the fuzz tone had nev­er been heard before any­where, and that’s the sound that caught everybody’s atten­tion.”

The asser­tion isn’t strict­ly true. While “Sat­is­fac­tion” brought fuzz to the fore­front, the effect first appeared, by acci­dent, in 1961, with “a faulty con­nec­tion in a mix­ing board,” writes William Weir in a his­to­ry of fuzz for The Atlantic. Fuzz, “a term of art… came to define the sound of rock gui­tar,” but it first appeared in “the bass solo of coun­try singer Mar­ty Rob­bins on ‘Don’t Wor­ry,’” an “oth­er­wise sweet and most­ly acoustic tune.” At the time, engi­neers argued over whether to leave the mis­tak­en dis­tor­tion in the mix. Luck­i­ly, they opt­ed to keep it, and lis­ten­ers loved it. When Nan­cy Sina­tra asked engi­neer Glen Snod­dy to repli­cate the sound, he recre­at­ed it in the form of the Mae­stro.

Gui­tarists had exper­i­ment­ed delib­er­ate­ly with sim­i­lar dis­tor­tion effects since the very begin­nings of rock and roll, cut­ting through their amp’s speakers—like Link Wray in his men­ac­ing clas­sic instru­men­tal “Rumble”—or push­ing small, tube-pow­ered ampli­fiers past their lim­its. But none of these exper­i­ments, nor the ped­als that lat­er emu­lat­ed them, sound like the fuzz ped­al, which achieves its buzzing effect by severe­ly clip­ping the gui­tar’s sig­nal. Lat­er iter­a­tions from oth­er manufacturers—the Tone Ben­der, Big Muff, and Fuzz Face—have acquired their own cache, in large part because of Jimi Hendrix’s heavy use of var­i­ous fuzz ped­als through­out his career. “Like the shop talk of wine enthu­si­asts,” writes Weir, “dis­cus­sions among dis­tor­tion cognoscen­ti on nuances of tone can baf­fle out­siders.”

Indeed. Those ear­ly exper­i­ments with effects ped­als now fetch upwards of sev­er­al thou­sand dol­lars on the vin­tage mar­ket. And a recent boom in bou­tique ped­als has sent prices for hand­craft­ed repli­cas of those orig­i­nal models—along with sev­er­al inno­v­a­tive new designs—into the hun­dreds of dol­lars for a sin­gle ped­al. (One hand­made over­drive, the Klon Cen­taur, has become the most imi­tat­ed of mod­ern ped­als; orig­i­nals can go for up to two thou­sand dol­lars.) The spe­cial­iza­tion of effects ped­al tech­nol­o­gy, and the hefty pric­ing for vin­tage and con­tem­po­rary effects alike, can be daunt­ing for begin­ning gui­tarists who want to sound like their favorite play­ers. But what ear­ly play­ers and engi­neers fig­ured out still holds true—musical inno­va­tion is all about cre­at­ing orig­i­nal sounds by exper­i­ment­ing with what­ev­er you have at hand.

Cry Baby: The Ped­al that Rocks the World has been added to our list of Free Doc­u­men­taries, a sub­set of our col­lec­tion 4,000+ Free Movies Online: Great Clas­sics, Indies, Noir, West­erns, Doc­u­men­taries & More

via Priceo­nom­ics

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Rick Wake­man Tells the Sto­ry of the Mel­lotron, the Odd­ball Pro­to-Syn­the­siz­er Pio­neered by the Bea­t­les

The “Amen Break”: The Most Famous 6‑Second Drum Loop & How It Spawned a Sam­pling Rev­o­lu­tion

All Hail the Beat: How the 1980 Roland TR-808 Drum Machine Changed Pop Music

A Brief His­to­ry of Sam­pling: From the Bea­t­les to the Beast­ie Boys

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

The Night John Lennon & Yoko Ono Jammed with Frank Zappa at the Fillmore East (1971)

It’s unfor­tu­nate, I think, that legions of Bea­t­les fans turned on Yoko Ono with such fero­cious ani­mos­i­ty after the breakup of the band. Most fans still absolute­ly despise Yoko. (See the legion of often crude­ly misog­y­nist com­ments under every Youtube video in which she appears.) Sure, her voice and music is cer­tain­ly not to everyone’s taste, but with­out her artis­tic and con­cep­tu­al influ­ence on John Lennon post-Bea­t­les, it’s unlike­ly his amaz­ing solo albums John Lennon/Plastic Ono Band (1970) and Imag­ine (1971) would sound the way they do. Yoko, in fact, more or less gave Lennon the seeds of “Imag­ine,” the song, in her quirky 1964 self-pub­lished book, Grape­fruit: A Book of Instruc­tions and Draw­ings, though she nev­er took the cred­it for it.

Like it or not, if we love solo Lennon, we have no choice but to take the more tra­di­tion­al­ly great song­writ­ing with the messy, exper­i­men­tal, and some­times unlis­ten­able. They can­not be com­plete­ly untan­gled, to the dis­may of a great many peo­ple. As Dami­an Fanel­li at Gui­tar World com­ments on Lennon and the Plas­tic Ono Band’s impromp­tu performance/jam with Eric Clap­ton in Toron­to in 1969, “Yoko screams—very loudly—during the entire oth­er­wise-decent per­for­mance.” This is not an exag­ger­at­ed or espe­cial­ly biased char­ac­ter­i­za­tion. “Some­day,” Fanel­li then goes on, “I’ll vent about how ter­ri­ble and depress­ing this is.” Fine, but whether we think of her singing as chal­leng­ing per­for­mance art or “depress­ing” cat­er­waul­ing, we’re stuck with it. But do the dynam­ics of John and Yoko onstage change when we add anoth­er polar­iz­ing weirdo—Frank Zappa—to the mix? See for your­self in the videos here, from an onstage jam ses­sion the two did with Zap­pa and the Moth­ers of Inven­tion at the Fill­more East in 1971.

See Zap­pa, Lennon, et al. do Wal­ter Ward’s “Well (Baby Please Don’t Go),” which Fanel­li declares “the high­light of the jam, for sure.” Zap­pa announces to the band the key and “not stan­dard blues changes,” then Lennon intro­duces the tune as “a song I used to sing while I was in the Cav­ern in Liv­er­pool. I haven’t done it since.” Zap­pa rips out a fan­tas­tic solo and the band—though seem­ing­ly in the dark at first—lays down a right­eous groove. And Yoko? Well, it’s true, as Fanel­li notes, “all she did was scream her head off.” In this straight-ahead blues num­ber, I have to say, it’s pret­ty obnox­ious. But her vocal tics play much bet­ter in more freeform, odd­ball, Zap­pa-lead jams like “Jam­rag” and “King Kong,” and the shouty, repet­i­tive “Scum­bag,” which sounds almost like a Can out­take.

Zap­pa and band, as always, are in top form. Lennon at times looks out of place and uncer­tain in their impro­visato­ry envi­ron­ment, but he game­ly keeps up. Yoko… Yoko does her usu­al lot of scream­ing, howl­ing, yodel­ing, etc. But before you gin up to tear her to pieces in yet anoth­er nasty online com­ment, bear in mind, for what it’s worth, no Yoko, no “Imag­ine.”

As Fanel­li notes, “the per­for­mance was released as part of Lennon and Ono’s poor­ly received (and not very good at all) 1972 studio/live album, Some­time in New York City.” See Allmusic’s review for a much more thor­ough, fair-mind­ed assess­ment of that record­ing, which “found the Lennons in an explic­it­ly polit­i­cal phase.”

via Gui­tar World

Relat­ed Con­tent:  

The Night Frank Zap­pa Jammed With Pink Floyd … and Cap­tain Beef­heart Too (Bel­gium, 1969)

Down­load the John Lennon/Yoko Ono “War is Over (If You Want It)” Poster in 100+ Lan­guages

Hear John Lennon’s Final Inter­view, Taped on the Last Day of His Life (Decem­ber 8, 1980)

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

Musician Plays Signature Drum Parts of 71 Beatles Songs in 5 Minutes: A Whirlwind Tribute to Ringo Starr

Kye Smith, a drum­mer based in New­cas­tle, Aus­tralia, recent­ly hauled his drum kit to a near­by rooftop (an homage to The Bea­t­les’ 1969 rooftop gig?) and start­ed bang­ing out a pret­ty won­der­ful trib­ute to Ringo Starr, play­ing drum parts from 71 Bea­t­les songs in 5 quick min­utes. Smith moves chrono­log­i­cal­ly, play­ing the songs in the order they were released (not record­ed). We start in 1962, move through 1969, and even momen­tar­i­ly vis­it 1995. On his Face­book page, Smith had this to say:

Way before I found out about punk rock or even knew what a snare drum was I spent my child­hood play­ing vinyl records at my grand­par­ents place spin­ning artists such as Slim Dusty, ELVIS PRESLEY and The Bea­t­les.

This chronol­o­gy called for some spe­cial treat­ment and got me out of the stu­dio and onto the rooftop of The Great North­ern Hotel — New­cas­tle, Aus­tralia for a pret­ty stun­ning view of New­cas­tle, New South Wales in the back­ground.

Thanks to every­one at The Great North­ern for let­ting me make some noise up there and to Elu­mi­nate for help­ing me shoot it and lug heaps of gear up 7 storeys of stairs!

Below the jump, you can find the list of songs that appear in the video, com­plete with cor­re­spond­ing time stamps. And keep in mind that Smith, as he men­tions on Youtube, is “avail­able for stu­dio and live work and will be open­ing up some slots for drum lessons short­ly.” Con­tact him here.

PS: If you can name one of the drum parts that was orig­i­nal­ly played by Paul McCart­ney, you get bonus points.

Fol­low Open Cul­ture on Face­book and Twit­ter and share intel­li­gent media with your friends. Or bet­ter yet, sign up for our dai­ly email and get a dai­ly dose of Open Cul­ture in your inbox. And if you want to make sure that our posts def­i­nite­ly appear in your Face­book news­feed, just fol­low these sim­ple steps.

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Stream the Complete Works of Bach & Beethoven: 250 Free Hours of Music

Beethoven_Bach

Has the end­less dis­trac­tion of mod­ern life destroyed our abil­i­ty to sit with the sym­phonies of Beethoven and Bach? Do we no longer have the atten­tion span to read nov­els? These are the kinds of ques­tions schol­ar Alan Jacobs asks in books like The Plea­sures of Read­ing in an Age of Dis­trac­tion, and they’re ques­tions he admits—on his blog Text Pat­terns—may obtain dif­fer­ent answers depend­ing on the age of whom you ask. In a post from this past August, Jacobs wrote of his need to coun­ter­act social media with “the more peace­able and order­ly music of Bach and Mozart and Han­del,” and pon­dered the emo­tion­al resilience of younger peo­ple exposed pret­ty much dai­ly to videos of real-life vio­lence online. “It occurs to me,” he con­cludes, “maybe Twitter—maybe social media more generally—really is a young person’s thing after all. Intrin­si­cal­ly, not just acci­den­tal­ly.”

I admit, Jacobs’ post res­onat­ed with me because of the dif­fi­cul­ty I some­times have as I get old­er in dis­con­nect­ing from the con­stant stream of hor­ror and triv­i­al­i­ty on social media—and of get­ting lost in a good book or a mov­ing piece of music after wit­ness­ing spec­ta­cle after spec­ta­cle online. Per­haps it is a func­tion of age, as Jacobs sur­mis­es, and the young are bet­ter equipped to bounce right back. Or per­haps our dai­ly expo­sure to end­less con­flict has all of our ner­vous sys­tems frayed raw, leav­ing us unable to appre­ci­ate the “coun­ter­vail­ing forces” of music and lit­er­a­ture that demands sus­tained atten­tion. The Spo­ti­fy Clas­si­cal Playlist blog seems to sug­gest as much in quot­ing Pol­ish com­pos­er Witold Lutoslaws­ki’s claim, “peo­ple whose sen­si­bil­i­ty is destroyed by music in trains, air­ports, lifts, can­not con­cen­trate on a Beethoven Quar­tet.” Sub­sti­tute “Twit­ter tsuna­mi” and “24-hour cable news” for “music in trains, air­ports, lifts” and the point may apply to our cur­rent cul­tur­al con­di­tion.

So you may think of the Spo­ti­fy Clas­si­cal Playlists of all of Beethoven and all of Bach fea­tured here as exer­cis­es in increas­ing your men­tal sta­mi­na, or as ther­a­peu­tic “cop­ing mech­a­nisms” as Jacobs writes, to keep “emo­tion­al bal­ance.” You may think of them as ways to con­nect ful­ly with com­posers who lived in a world very dif­fer­ent from ours, one that moved much more slow­ly and demand­ed much less of our over­taxed sens­es.

Or you can choose not to apply any kind of frame­work, and sim­ply rev­el in the fact that thanks to the internet—be it over­all a scourge or a boon to human life—you can now enjoy all of the works of Beethoven and Bach, each in chrono­log­i­cal order; 250 hours of enthralling clas­si­cal music, for free. So enjoy. And learn more about how these playlists were com­piled at the the Spo­ti­fy Clas­si­cal blog. And if you need Spo­ti­fy soft­ware, get it here.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Hear All of Mozart in a Free 127-Hour Playlist

All of Bach Is Putting Videos of 1,080 Bach Per­for­mances Online

Down­load the Com­plete Organ Works of J.S. Bach for Free

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

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

Watch Behind-the-Scenes Footage From Freddie Mercury’s Final Video Performance

How­ev­er you feel about Bri­an May and Roger Tay­lor of Queen reform­ing recent­ly under the band’s name with Amer­i­can Idol run­ner-up Adam Lam­bert on vocals, the band has stat­ed on sev­er­al occa­sions that they nev­er intend­ed to replace Fred­die Mer­cury. “[Lam­bert] inter­prets the songs the way he inter­prets them which is won­der­ful,” May has remarked, “We want­ed him to be him­self.” Fair enough. But even if Queen had want­ed to replace Mer­cury after his death from AIDS com­pli­ca­tions in 1991, the task would have proved impos­si­ble. No one sounds like Fred­die Mer­cury, no one com­mands a stage like he did, and no one writes like him either, with his unique mix of raunchy, fun­ny, quirky, can­did, and deeply heart­felt lyri­cism.

Moth­er Love,” the last song Mer­cury record­ed—at the band’s Mon­treux stu­dio—con­tains some of the most painful of Mercury’s lyrics, an expres­sion of his desire “for peace before I die.” In what we can’t help but hear in hind­sight as a direct ref­er­ence to his ill­ness, Mer­cury sings, “My body’s aching, but I can’t sleep… I’m com­ing home to my sweet / Moth­er love.” The inher­ent pathos of “Moth­er Love,” per­vades the posthu­mous­ly-released 1995 album Made in Heav­en, but the song that most seemed to define Fred­die Mer­cury imme­di­ate­ly after his death is also a rumi­na­tion on mor­tal­i­ty. Shot through with nos­tal­gia, remorse, and expres­sions of the brevi­ty of life, “These Are the Days of Our Lives”—from Innu­en­do, the last album the band released dur­ing Mercury’s lifetime—laments, “you can’t turn back the clock, you can turn back the tide.” Long­ing for child­hood lost, Mer­cury sings, “the rest of my life’s been just a show.” Maybe so, but what a show it was, even in the band’s final video, above, shot in black-and-white to hide Mercury’s frail con­di­tion.

At the top of the post, you can see behind-the-scenes footage of Mer­cury from the “These Are the Days of Our Lives” video shoot, dis­cov­ered, writes The Inde­pen­dent, “dur­ing a five-year trawl through the Queen archives by Rhys Thomas, the com­e­dy actor,” who co-pro­duced the BBC Two doc­u­men­tary, Queen: Days of Our Lives. “The footage of Fred­die in his final video,” says Thomas, “is shock­ing. He is so frail, he needs two hands to hold a cham­pagne glass. But he knows he is being filmed and wants to show peo­ple what he was going through.” Bri­an May remem­bers Mer­cury spend­ing “hours and hours in make-up sort­ing him­self out so it’d be OK. He actu­al­ly says a kind of good­bye in the video.”

A con­sum­mate per­former to the end, Mer­cury was deter­mined to work until he couldn’t, record­ing new mate­r­i­al until days before his death. In the full-col­or film from the “These Are the Days of Our Lives” shoot, we see him study­ing and cri­tiquing footage of him­self, ful­ly engaged in the cre­ation of what he like­ly knew would be his final per­for­mance. He had cer­tain­ly come a long way from the shy school­boy he was before Queen brought him inter­na­tion­al celebri­ty and acclaim. In the poignant video above, we see what is like­ly the first footage of the young man then known as Fred­die Bul­sara. The film shows Mer­cury in 1964—the year his fam­i­ly migrat­ed to Eng­land from Zanzibar—with school mates at Isle­worth Poly­tech­nic (new West Thames Col­lege). It would be anoth­er six years before Mer­cury would meet May and Tay­lor and form the band that defined the rest of the days of his life.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Fred­die Mer­cury, Live Aid (1985)

Queen Doc­u­men­tary Pays Trib­ute to the Rock Band That Con­quered the World

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

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

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

Fender Marcus Miller Jazz Bass with authentic Marcus Miller signature under the pickguard. Serial no. Q074671 Made in Japan Features: - Natural - Maple fingerboard - 3 pick guards: original 3-ply black, white and chrome - Two-band active EQ - Badass® Bass II™ bridge More information: http://www.fender.com/en-NL/series/artist/marcus-miller-jazz-bass-maple-fingerboard-natural-3-ply-black-pickguard

Pho­to by Sebas­ti­aan term Burg via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

At the low­er range of hear­ing, it’s said humans can hear sound down to about 20 Hz, beneath which we encounter a murky son­ic realm called “infra­sound,” the world of ele­phant and mole hear­ing. But while we may not hear those low­est fre­quen­cies, we feel them in our bod­ies, as we do many sounds in the low­er fre­quen­cy ranges—those that tend to dis­ap­pear when pumped through tin­ny ear­buds or shop­ping mall speak­ers. Since bass sounds don’t reach our ears with the same excit­ed ener­gy as the high fre­quen­cy sounds of, say, trum­pets or wail­ing gui­tars, we’ve tend­ed to dis­miss the instruments—and players—who hold down the low end (know any famous tuba play­ers?).

In most pop­u­lar music, bass play­ers don’t get near­ly enough credit—even when the bass pro­vides a song’s essen­tial hook. As Led Zeppelin’s John Paul Jones joked at his Rock and Roll Hall of Fame induc­tion cer­e­mo­ny in 1995, “thank you to my friends for remem­ber­ing my phone num­ber.” And yet, writes Tom Barnes at Mic, “there’s sci­en­tif­ic proof that bassists are actu­al­ly one of the most vital mem­bers of any band…. It’s time we start­ed treat­ing bassists with the respect they deserve.” Research into the crit­i­cal impor­tance of low fre­quen­cy sound explains why bass instru­ments most­ly play rhythm parts and leave the fan­cy melod­ic noodling to instru­ments in the upper range. The phe­nom­e­non is not spe­cif­ic to rock, funk, jazz, dance, or hip hop. “Music in diverse cul­tures is com­posed this way,” says psy­chol­o­gist Lau­rel Train­or, direc­tor of the McMas­ter Uni­ver­si­ty Insti­tute for Music and the Mind, “from clas­si­cal East Indi­an music to Game­lan music of Java and Bali, sug­gest­ing an innate ori­gin.”

Train­or and her col­leagues have recent­ly pub­lished a study in the Pro­ceed­ings of the Nation­al Acad­e­my of Sci­ences sug­gest­ing that per­cep­tions of time are much more acute at low­er reg­is­ters, while our abil­i­ty to dis­tin­guish changes in pitch gets much bet­ter in the upper ranges, which is why, writes Nature, “sax­o­phon­ists and lead gui­tarists often have solos at a squeal­ing reg­is­ter,” and why bassists tend to play few­er notes. (These find­ings seem con­sis­tent with the physics of sound waves.) To reach their con­clu­sions, Train­er and her team “played peo­ple high and low pitched notes at the same time.” Par­tic­i­pants were hooked up to an elec­troen­cephalo­gram that mea­sured brain activ­i­ty in response to the sounds. The psy­chol­o­gists “found that the brain was bet­ter at detect­ing when the low­er tone occurred 50 MS too soon com­pared to when the high­er tone occurred 50 MS too soon.”

The study’s title per­fect­ly sum­ma­rizes the team’s find­ings: “Supe­ri­or time per­cep­tion for low­er musi­cal pitch explains why bass-ranged instru­ments lay down musi­cal rhythms.” In oth­er words, “there is a psy­cho­log­i­cal basis,” says Train­or, “for why we cre­ate music the way we do. Vir­tu­al­ly all peo­ple will respond more to the beat when it is car­ried by low­er-pitched instru­ments.” Uni­ver­si­ty of Vien­na cog­ni­tive sci­en­tist Tecum­seh Fitch has pro­nounced Train­or and her co-authors’ study a “plau­si­ble hypoth­e­sis for why bass parts play such a cru­cial role in rhythm per­cep­tion.” He also adds, writes Nature:

For loud­er, deep­er bass notes than those used in these tests, peo­ple might also feel the res­o­nance in their bod­ies, not just hear it in their ears, help­ing us to keep rhythm. For exam­ple, when deaf peo­ple dance they might turn up the bass and play it very loud, he says, so that “they can lit­er­al­ly ‘feel the beat’ via tor­so-based res­o­nance.”

Painful­ly awk­ward rev­el­ers at wed­dings, on cruise ships, at high school reunions—they just can’t help it. Maybe even this danc­ing owl can’t help it. Some of us keep time bet­ter than oth­ers, but most of us feel and respond phys­i­cal­ly to low-fre­quen­cy rhythms.

Bass instru­ments don’t only keep time; they also play a key role in a song’s har­mon­ic and melod­ic struc­ture. In 1880, an aca­d­e­m­ic music text­book informed its read­ers that “the bass part… is, in fact, the foun­da­tion upon which the melody rests and with­out which there could be no melody.” As true as this was at the time—-when acoustic pre­cur­sors to elec­tric bass, syn­the­siz­ers, and sub-bass ampli­fi­ca­tion pro­vid­ed the low end—it’s just as true now. And bass parts often define the root note of a chord, regard­less of what oth­er instru­ments are doing. As a bass play­er, notes Sting, “you con­trol the har­mo­ny,” as well as anchor­ing the melody. It seems the impor­tance of rhythm play­ers, though over­looked in much pop­u­lar appre­ci­a­tion of music, can­not be over­stat­ed.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

How Drums & Bass Make the Song: Iso­lat­ed Tracks from Led Zep­pelin, Rush, The Pix­ies, The Bea­t­les to Roy­al Blood

Hear Iso­lat­ed Tracks From Five Great Rock Bassists: McCart­ney, Sting, Dea­con, Jones & Lee

The Sto­ry of the Bass: New Video Gives Us 500 Years of Music His­to­ry in 8 Min­utes

7 Female Bass Play­ers Who Helped Shape Mod­ern Music: Kim Gor­don, Tina Wey­mouth, Kim Deal & More

The Neu­ro­science of Drum­ming: Researchers Dis­cov­er the Secrets of Drum­ming & The Human Brain

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

 

 

Hear the World’s Oldest Surviving Written Song (200 BC), Originally Composed by Euripides, the Ancient Greek Playwright

Imag­ine if you will that it is the year 4515, and future peo­ple slow­ly begin exca­vat­ing the musi­cal remains of mil­len­nia past. Now add the fol­low­ing wrin­kle to this sce­nario, cour­tesy of clas­sics schol­ar Armand D’Angour: “all that sur­vived of the Bea­t­les songs were a few of the lyrics, and all that remained of Mozart and Verdi’s operas were the words and not the music.” Would it be pos­si­ble to recov­er the rhythms and melodies from these scraps? Wouldn’t this music be for­ev­er lost to his­to­ry?

Not nec­es­sar­i­ly, D’Angour tells us; we could “recon­struct the music, redis­cov­er the instru­ments that played them, and hear the words once again in their prop­er set­ting.” Giv­en the inex­act, spec­u­la­tive nature of much ancient his­to­ry, I imag­ine the recon­struct­ed Bea­t­les might end up sound­ing noth­ing like them­selves, but then again, now that schol­ars have begun to recov­er the music of ancient Greek tragedy from a few frag­ments of text, sure­ly those future his­to­ri­ans could remake “Love Me Do”

Recon­struct­ing Don Gio­vani might be a lit­tle trick­i­er, and that’s often the scale aca­d­e­mics like D’Angour are work­ing with, since not only the love-poems of Sap­pho, but also “the epics of Homer” and “the tragedies of Sopho­cles and Euripides—were all, orig­i­nal­ly, music. Dat­ing from around 750 to 400 BC, they were com­posed to be sung in whole or part to the accom­pa­ni­ment of the lyre, reed-pipes, and per­cus­sion instru­ments.” This much we all like­ly know to some extent.

D’Angour goes on to describe in detail how schol­ars like him­self use “pat­terns of long and short syl­la­bles” in the sur­viv­ing verse to deter­mine musi­cal rhythm, and new rev­e­la­tions about ancient Greek vocal nota­tion and tun­ing to recon­struct ancient melody.

Orestes

The ear­li­est sur­viv­ing musi­cal doc­u­ment “pre­serves a few bars of sung music” from fifth-cen­tu­ry trage­di­an Euripi­des’ play Orestes. A “noto­ri­ous­ly avant-garde com­pos­er,” Euripides—scholars presume—“violated the long-held norms of Greek folk-singing by neglect­ing word-pitch.” You can see the papyrus frag­ment above, writ­ten around 200 BC in Egypt and called “Katolo­phy­ro­mai” after the first word in the “stasi­mon,” or choral song. Above the words, notice the vocal and instru­men­tal nota­tion schol­ars have used to recon­struct the music. The lines describe Orestes’ guilt after mur­der­ing his moth­er:

I cry, I cry, your mother’s blood that dri­ves you mad, great hap­pi­ness in mor­tals nev­er last­ing, but like a sail of swift ship, which a god shook up and plunged it with ter­ri­ble trou­bles into the greedy and dead­ly waves of the sea.

This trans­la­tion comes from “Greek Recon­struc­tion­ist Pagan­ism” site Bar­ing the Aegis, who also describe the song’s rhythm, Dochmius, and mode, Lydi­an, with a help­ful expla­na­tion for non-spe­cial­ists of what these terms mean. They also fea­ture the live per­for­mance of the stasi­mon at the top of the post, just one inter­pre­ta­tion by Spy­ros Giasafakis and Evi Ster­giou of neo­folk band Dae­mo­nia Nymphe. Below it, hear anoth­er inter­pre­ta­tion by Pet­ros Tabouris and Nikos Kon­stan­tinopou­los. And just below and at the bot­tom of the post are two more ver­sions of the ancient song.

Giv­en Euripi­des’ exper­i­men­tal­ism, we can’t expect that this recon­struct­ed song would be rep­re­sen­ta­tive of most ancient Greek music. “How­ev­er, we can rec­og­nize that Euripi­des adopt­ed anoth­er prin­ci­ple,” set­ting words to falling and ris­ing cadences accord­ing to their emo­tion­al import. As D’Angour puts it, “this was ancient Greek sound­track music,” and it was appar­ent­ly so well-received that his­to­ri­an Plutarch tells a sto­ry about “thou­sands of Athen­ian sol­diers held pris­on­er” in Syra­cuse: “those few who were able to sing Euripi­des’ lat­est songs were able to earn some food and drink.”

As for “the great­est of ancient poet-singers,” Homer, it seems accord­ing to recon­struc­tions by the late Pro­fes­sor Mar­tin West of Oxford that Home­r­ic tunes were “fair­ly monot­o­nous,” explain­ing per­haps why “the tra­di­tion of Home­r­ic recita­tion with­out melody emerged from what was orig­i­nal­ly a sung com­po­si­tion.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Hear the “Seik­i­los Epi­taph,” the Old­est Com­plete Song in the World: An Inspir­ing Tune from 100 BC

Lis­ten to the Old­est Song in the World: A Sumer­ian Hymn Writ­ten 3,400 Years Ago

Hear the World’s Old­est Instru­ment, the “Nean­derthal Flute,” Dat­ing Back Over 43,000 Years

Free Cours­es in Ancient His­to­ry, Lit­er­a­ture & Phi­los­o­phy

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

Hear a Playlist of 300 Songs That Influenced Elvis Costello, Drawn From His New Memoir, Unfaithful Music & Disappearing Ink

Elvis_Costello_15_June_2005

Image via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

Every­one in the spot­light has at least one damn­ing inci­dent to live down, and some­times a whole damn­ing peri­od. There’s David Bowie’s brief fas­cism con­tro­ver­sy, for exam­ple, or Eric Clapton’s more sub­stan­tive, and much more dis­turb­ing, far-right polit­i­cal views, which he broad­cast from the stage in 1976, then repeat­ed to the mag­a­zines short­ly after. Clapton’s racist invec­tive and sup­port for Enoch Pow­ell and the Nation­al Front was par­tic­u­lar­ly appalling giv­en that he rode in on the shoul­ders of blues artists and scored a huge hit just two years ear­li­er with his ver­sion of Bob Marley’s “I Shot the Sher­iff.” As pho­tog­ra­ph­er Red Saun­ders would write in a pub­lished let­ter to Clap­ton after the gui­tar god’s bizarre onstage rant: “Half your music is black. You’re rock music’s biggest colonist.” At least for a time, Clap­ton fell decid­ed­ly on the wrong side of a dichoto­my Eric Lott called “Love and Theft.” 

One might make sim­i­lar accu­sa­tions against punk trou­ba­dour Elvis Costel­lo, who took his look from Bud­dy Hol­ly, his name from The King, and has also drawn heav­i­ly from black music for the bet­ter part of thir­ty years. And Costel­lo once had his own brief racist out­burst in 1979 dur­ing a tour stop in Colum­bus, Ohio, drop­ping a cou­ple n‑bombs in ref­er­ence to James Brown and Ray Charles, and get­ting a beat­ing from one of Stephen Stills’ back­ing singers. Costel­lo main­tained the out­rage was a delib­er­ate­ly nasty way to troll the hat­ed old guard Stills rep­re­sent­ed, but he there­after received death threats and con­tin­ued his tour under armed guard. Iron­i­cal­ly, the pre­vi­ous year he had appeared with The Clash and reg­gae bands Misty in Roots and Aswad at a fes­ti­val con­cert in Lon­don spon­sored by Rock Against Racism, who formed in response to Enoch Pow­ell, the Nation­al Front, and Clapton—and whose Amer­i­can chap­ter pick­et­ed Costel­lo after the Ohio brawl.

Costel­lo address­es the inci­dent in his new mem­oir Unfaith­ful Music & Dis­ap­pear­ing Ink, writ­ing “what­ev­er I did, I did it to pro­voke a bar fight. Sure­ly this was all under­stood. Didn’t they know the love I had for James Brown and Ray Charles, whose record of ‘The Dan­ger Zone’ I pre­ferred to watch­ing men walk on the moon?” (He’s made sev­er­al oth­er com­ments over the years, and even Ray Charles weighed in after­wards with some­thing of a for­giv­ing state­ment.) Stephen Deusner at Vul­ture writes, “you some­how nev­er doubt the sin­cer­i­ty of that love, just as you don’t doubt that Costel­lo could be a rav­ing bas­tard when he’s drunk.” Unlike so many oth­er exam­ples of the genre, Unfaith­ful Music doesn’t ped­dle con­tri­tion or con­tro­ver­sy for their own sake. On the con­trary, The Qui­etus calls the book “with­out doubt, one of the great­est self-penned appraisals of a pop­u­lar entertainer’s life and work.”

That great­ness, Deusner argues, comes in large part from Costello’s “nerdish­ly prodi­gious” knowl­edge of, and love for—mostly American—music: “There are near­ly 400 songs Costel­lo name-checks as influ­ences with­in the pages of Unfaith­ful Music, and hun­dreds more he refers to in pass­ing.” These include songs from James Brown and Ray Charles, and also Bil­lie Hol­i­day, Aretha Franklin, David Bowie, Doc Wat­son, The Drifters, his name­sake Elvis Pres­ley, Fleet­wood Mac, huge help­ings of The Bea­t­les, Burt Bacharach… even CSNY’s “Ohio.” Based on Costello’s ency­clo­pe­dic devo­tion to coun­try, pop, R&B, punk, reg­gae, and near­ly every oth­er genre under the sun, Vul­ture com­piled the 300-song Spo­ti­fy playlist above, “by no means com­plete,” writes Deusner, “due in large part to Spotify’s scarci­ty of Bea­t­les, Bacharach, and Neil Young albums.” (If you need Spo­ti­fy’s soft­ware, down­load it for free here.)

The playlist serves as an audio accom­pa­ni­ment to Costello’s almost 700-page rem­i­nis­cence; tak­en togeth­er, both explain how “the angry young man of the late 70s,” with a “rep­u­ta­tion as one of the smartest and bristli­est fig­ures in the Lon­don punk scene” became “a revered trou­ba­dour crafts­man play­ing the White House, jam­ming with var­i­ous Bea­t­les, and com­pos­ing bal­let scores.” Just above, you can hear Costel­lo him­self read a brief excerpt from the book, a sto­ry about hang­ing out with David Bowie. The Qui­etus has anoth­er exclu­sive extract from Unfaith­ful Music. (Note that you can down­load the entire book, nar­rat­ed by Costel­lo him­self, for free if you join Audible.com’s Free Tri­al pro­gram.) And if you need to hear more about what he now calls that “f***** stu­pid” fra­cas in ’79, see him talk about his angry young man per­sona and tell oth­er “war sto­ries” of his life in music in an inter­view with ?uest­love. Of his fierce devo­tion to so much of the music above, Costel­lo tells The Roots’ drum­mer, “Eng­lish musi­cians have such this weird out­side love for Amer­i­can music, par­tic­u­lar­ly rhythm and blues as we grew up to know it, that we sort of felt we had pos­ses­sion of it in some weird way.”

via Vul­ture

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Elvis Costel­lo Sings “Pen­ny Lane” for Sir Paul

Radio David Byrne: Stream Free Music Playlists Cre­at­ed Every Month by the Front­man of Talk­ing Heads

A 56-Song Playlist of Music in Haru­ki Murakami’s Nov­els: Ray Charles, Glenn Gould, the Beach Boys & More

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

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