Django Reinhardt Demonstrates His Guitar Genius in Rare Footage From the 1930s, 40s & 50s

In one of my favorite Woody Allen films, Sweet and Low­down, Sean Penn plays Emmett Ray, a fic­tion­al jazz gui­tarist who embod­ies the tit­u­lar qual­i­ties in equal­ly great mea­sure. “Already con­sid­ered peer­less among Amer­i­can jazz gui­tarists,” Ray admits of only one rival—Parisian gyp­sy gui­tarist Djan­go Rein­hardt, whom Emmett wor­ships, obvi­ous­ly pat­terns him­self after, and can’t stand to see in per­son with­out faint­ing dead away. Where Ray is a tremen­dous­ly con­vinc­ing cre­ation of Allen and Penn, Rein­hardt was very much a real musi­cian, and was indeed the reign­ing king of jazz gui­tar from the 1930s to the 50s. Reinhardt’s incred­i­ble skill is all the more impres­sive con­sid­er­ing he only had use of three fin­gers on his left hand due to injuries sus­tained in a car­a­van fire in 1928.

Rein­hardt and jazz vio­lin­ist Stéphane Grap­pel­li found­ed the Quin­tette du Hot Club de France in 1934, and in the for­ties, Rein­hardt began com­pos­ing, and toured Eng­land, Switzer­land, and the U.S. as a soloist with Duke Ellington’s band. He record­ed his final album, Djan­gol­o­gy in 1949, retired in 51, and died in 53, already a leg­end, “one of the few Euro­pean musi­cians to exert a seri­ous influ­ence on the Amer­i­can art form of jazz,” writes an NPR “Week­end Edi­tion” pro­file. Django’s play­ing, “at times joy­ous, fierce and lyri­cal,” draws heav­i­ly on his Roma roots while mas­ter­ing the vocab­u­lary of swing—a lan­guage, it seems, still new to many audi­ences in 1938, when the film at the top of the post, Jazz “Hot,” was made.

In a pre­vi­ous post, Mike Springer points out the “didac­tic tone” of the first cou­ple min­utes of the doc­u­men­tary, cre­at­ed by Reinhardt’s man­ag­er Lew Grade in order to famil­iar­ize the British pub­lic with jazz in advance of the quintet’s first UK tour. The film “real­ly comes alive when Djan­go arrives on the screen,” play­ing an arrange­ment of the pop­u­lar French song “J’attendrai.” Pri­or to the UK tour, the Quin­tet du Hot Club trav­eled to the Nether­lands and played The Hague. See them in the Dutch film clip above, begin­ning at 0:34. Grap­pel­li solos while Djan­go holds down the rhythm.

By 1944, Rein­hardt was well known to jazz lovers and musi­cians alike, appear­ing at the upscale Paris cabaret Bal Tabarin in the footage above at 2:54, fol­low­ing a clip of Mar­lene Diet­rich look­ing on from the audi­ence.

In 1952, the year before his death, Rein­hardt was famous enough to be cast along­side Louis Arm­strong and Sid­ney Bechet in the French-Ital­ian film La Route de Bon­heur (titled Salu­ti e baci in Italy). In this clip, Rein­hardt enter­tains a packed train car. The song dubbed over the footage is Nuits de St. Ger­main des Pres.

See much more film and pho­tog­ra­phy of Djan­go Rein­hardt and his famous quin­tet in this bio­graph­i­cal doc­u­men­tary, The Genius of Djan­go Rein­hardt. Described as an unsta­ble and child­like man capa­ble of the most unusu­al whims, the por­trait of Rein­hardt, prac­ti­cal­ly the inven­tor of jazz gui­tar, traces his life from birth in a Roma encamp­ment in Bel­gium to his final years in semi-retire­ment. And for even more Djan­go, don’t miss this French doc­u­men­tary film, Trois doigts de genie.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Jazz ‘Hot’: The Rare 1938 Short Film With Jazz Leg­end Djan­go Rein­hardt

Djan­go Rein­hardt and the Inspir­ing Sto­ry Behind His Gui­tar Tech­nique

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

Swedish Scientists Sneak Bob Dylan Lyrics Into Their Academic Publications For Last 17 Years

Sci­en­tists who study and write about intesti­nal gases—just like the rest of us, I guess—find it hard to resist the occa­sion­al fart joke. And when they’re John Jund­berg and Eddie Weitzberg, two pro­fes­sors at the Karolin­s­ka Insti­tute in Stock­holm, they can’t resist couch­ing their occa­sion­al fart joke in a Bob Dylan lyric, part of a now sev­en­teen-year tra­di­tion among five Swedish sci­en­tists who’ve been slip­ping Dylan lyrics into their pub­li­ca­tions, wager­ing on who can fit the most in before retire­ment.

It all began with Jund­berg and Weitzberg’s “Nitric oxide and inflam­ma­tion: the answer is blow­ing in the wind,” pub­lished in the jour­nal Nature Med­i­cine in 1997. (See Dylan play the paper’s inspi­ra­tion above in 1963.) Next came arti­cles like “Blood on the tracks: a sim­ple twist of fate” by Kon­stan­ti­nos Meletis and Jonas Frisen and “Tan­gled up in blue: Mol­e­c­u­lar car­di­ol­o­gy in the post­mol­e­c­u­lar era” by Ken­neth Chien.

The five aren’t the only sci­en­tists who try to spice up dry research pub­li­ca­tions with word­play. “If you read oth­er sci­en­tif­ic arti­cles,” ways Weitzberg, “you’ll find peo­ple try­ing to be clever in dif­fer­ent ways.” But they don’t do so at the expense of the sci­ence, or their careers: “We’re not talk­ing about sci­en­tif­ic papers—we could have got in trou­ble for that-but rather arti­cles we have writ­ten about research by oth­ers, book intro­duc­tions, edi­to­ri­als and things like that.”

The writer with the most Dylan ref­er­ences gets lunch in a restau­rant in Sol­na, a town north of Stock­holm. But thanks to inter­est from out­lets like the Wash­ing­ton Post, he may also get a few extra min­utes of fame. Weitzberg’s response? “I would much rather become famous for my sci­en­tif­ic work than for my Bob Dylan quotes, but yes, I am enjoy­ing this!”

via The Local

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Phys­i­cal Attrac­tion: Mar­riage Pro­pos­al Comes in the Form of a Physics Paper

Fake Bob Dylan Sings Real Dr. Seuss

Stu­dent Rick­rolls Teacher By Sneak­ing Rick Ast­ley Lyrics into Quan­tum Physics Paper

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

Hear the Album Björk Recorded as an 11-Year-Old: Features Cover Art Provided By Her Mom (1977)

bjork 11

Iceland’s biggest export, aside from vol­canic ash, is that pixy­ish pop singer, Björk. Or at least that’s how it seems in the Amer­i­can pop­u­lar imag­i­na­tion. Björk’s first three of albums were pret­ty much required lis­ten­ing in cer­tain cir­cles dur­ing the ‘90s.  Since then, her stature in the indie world has only grown.

Yet before she had a run of beau­ti­ful and strange mas­ter­pieces; before she was sys­tem­at­i­cal­ly tor­tured in front of the cam­era by Lars Von Tri­er in Dancer in the Dark; and before she was singing about birth­days with her break­out band The Sug­ar­cubes, Björk cut her very first album. It was 1977, and Björk was only eleven.

Björk, whose name rhymes with “work” not “pork,” land­ed the record deal after a tape of her singing Tina Charles’ 1976 dis­co hit “I Love to Love” played on Iceland’s one and only radio sta­tion. The album, called sim­ply Björk, was some­thing of a fam­i­ly affair. While Björk sang and played the flute, her step­fa­ther Sævar Árna­son played gui­tar while her mom, Hildur Hauks­dót­tir, designed the album cov­er. (See above.) Over­all, the record sounds exact­ly like what you might expect an Ice­landic album from the ‘70s sung by a tweenaged chanteuse might sound like – part Abba, part King Crim­son and part ear­ly Miley Cyrus. Björk does pret­ty groovy cov­ers of The Bea­t­les’ “Fool on the Hill” (top) and Syree­ta Wright’s “Your Kiss is Sweet (mid­dle),” both sung in Ice­landic. There’s also an equal­ly groovy psy­che­del­ic instru­men­tal track ded­i­cat­ed to painter Jóhannes Kjar­val, (below) whose work is on Ice­landic cur­ren­cy. Björk report­ed­ly went plat­inum in Ice­land. You can lis­ten to more tracks from that album on WFMU.

via WFMU

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Björk and Sir David Atten­bor­ough Team Up in a New Doc­u­men­tary About Music and Tech­nol­o­gy

Ice­land in the Mid­night Sun

Jonathan Crow is a Los Ange­les-based writer and film­mak­er whose work has appeared in Yahoo!, The Hol­ly­wood Reporter, and oth­er pub­li­ca­tions. You can fol­low him at @jonccrow. And check out his blog Veep­to­pus, fea­tur­ing one new draw­ing of a vice pres­i­dent with an octo­pus on his head dai­ly.  The Veep­to­pus store is here.

Glenn Gould Gives Us a Tour of Toronto, His Beloved Hometown (1979)

I write this from Toron­to, hav­ing come to explore, record inter­views in, write about, and gen­er­al­ly try to under­stand this big, busy, famous­ly diverse, and some­times form­less-seem­ing metrop­o­lis Cana­di­ans appre­ci­ate and resent in equal mea­sure. Despite the dif­fi­cul­ty of defin­ing or even describ­ing it, the city has nur­tured impres­sive minds. If not Cana­di­an your­self, you might strug­gle to come up with a list of notable Toron­to­ni­ans, but sure­ly names like Mar­garet Atwood, David Cro­nen­berg, Frank Gehry, Joni Mitchell, and Mar­shall McLuhan ring bells. Despite hav­ing passed in 1982, pianist-com­pos­er Glenn Gould may still rank as the city’s best-known cul­tur­al ambas­sador. “I’m not real­ly cut out for city liv­ing, and giv­en my druthers I’d prob­a­bly avoid all cities and live in the coun­try,” he said in 1979. “Toron­to, how­ev­er, belongs on a very short list of cities which I’ve vis­it­ed and which seem to offer to me, at any rate, peace of mind — cities which, for want of a bet­ter def­i­n­i­tion, do not oppose their city­ness upon you.”

He says it at the very begin­ning of Glenn Gould’s Toron­to, which spends the rest of its 50 min­utes explor­ing not just the city itself but Gould’s ideas of its nature. The doc­u­men­tary, which orig­i­nal­ly aired as an episode of the CBC series Cities, fol­lows him from the CN Tow­er which looms over Toron­to to the water­front (on what he calls “the least great of the Great Lakes”) to the grounds of the Cana­di­an Nation­al Exhi­bi­tion (a siz­able event with a “spir­it out of a small-town fall fair”) to the then-new city hall. Along the way, his mono­logue touch­es on the peace and qui­et Toron­to offers him, the reflex­ive dis­taste it can inspire in oth­ers, the “cul­tur­al mosa­ic” to which it plays host (some­times insis­tent­ly), the way it sur­vived the 1960s with­out endur­ing the dis­as­trous hol­low­ing-out Amer­i­can cities did, and the friend­ly rival­ry it enjoys with Mon­tre­al. Gould’s clear, ana­lyt­i­cal man­ner of speech deliv­ers a stream of point­ed obser­va­tions, dry jokes, and child­hood mem­o­ries, reveal­ing his nuanced life­long rela­tion­ship with the city: not the sim­ple one of a boost­er, nor the even sim­pler one of a detrac­tor. But then, Gould nev­er had any­thing sim­ple about him — nor, as I’ve come to find out this past week, does Toron­to.

You can find Glenn Gould’s Toron­to in our col­lec­tion of Free Doc­u­men­taries.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch Glenn Gould Per­form His Last Great Stu­dio Record­ing of Bach’s Gold­berg Vari­a­tions (1981)

Glenn Gould Explains the Genius of Johann Sebas­t­ian Bach (1962)

Glenn Gould Offers a Strik­ing­ly Uncon­ven­tion­al Inter­pre­ta­tion of 1806 Beethoven Com­po­si­tion

The Art of Fugue: Gould Plays Bach

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture and writes essays on cities, lan­guage, Asia, and men’s style. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

A 1932 Illustrated Map of Harlem’s Night Clubs: From the Cotton Club to the Savoy Ballroom

32 Harlem Map

Harlem’s under­go­ing anoth­er Renais­sance of late. Crime’s down, real estate prices are up, and throngs of pale-faced hip­sters are descend­ing to check the area out.

Sure, something’s gained, but some­thing’s lost, too.

For today’s hol­i­day in Harlem, we’re going to climb in the Way­back Machine. Set the dial for 1932. Don’t for­get your map. (Click the image above to view a larg­er ver­sion.)

This deliri­ous arti­fact comes cour­tesy of Elmer Simms Camp­bell (1906–1971), an artist whose race proved an imped­i­ment to career advance­ment in his native Mid­west. Not long after relo­cat­ing to New York City, he had the good for­tune to be befriend­ed by the great Cab Cal­loway, star of the Cot­ton Club. Hi-de-hi-de-hi-de-ho! Check the low­er left cor­ner of your map.

You may notice that the com­pass rose devi­ates rather dras­ti­cal­ly from estab­lished norms. As you’ve no doubt heard, the Bronx is up, and the Battery’s down, but not in this case. Were you to choose those trees in the upper left cor­ner as your start­ing point, you’d be at the top of Cen­tral Park, basi­cal­ly equidis­tant from the east and west sides. (Take the 2 or the 3 to 110th St…)

But keep in mind that this map is not drawn to scale. I know it looks like the joints are jump­ing from the sec­ond you step off the curb, but in real­i­ty, you’ll need to hoof it 21 blocks from the top of Cen­tral Park to 131st street for things to start cookin’. Hope­ful­ly, this geo­graph­i­cal lib­er­ty won’t get you too hot under the col­lar. And if it does, well, it may be Pro­hi­bi­tion, but stress-reliev­ing bev­er­ages await you in every loca­tion list­ed, as well as in some 500 speakeasies Camp­bell allowed to remain on the down low.

If that does­n’t do it for you, there’s a guy sell­ing reefer across the street from Earl “Snake­hips” Tuck­er.

As you stag­ger back and forth between Sev­enth Avenue to Lenox (now referred to as Adam Clay­ton Pow­ell Jr. Boule­vard and Mal­colm X), bear in mind that Camp­bell was the first African-Amer­i­can car­toon­ist to be nation­al­ly pub­lished in the New York­er, Play­boy, and Esquire, whose bug-eyed, now retired mas­cot, Esky, was a Camp­bell cre­ation.

In the end, he was an extreme­ly suc­cess­ful illus­tra­tor, though few of his cre­ations are reflec­tive of his race.

The map above, which did dou­ble duty as end­pa­pers for Calloway’s auto­bi­og­ra­phy, Of Min­nie the Moocher and Me, is far clos­er to home.

Right above, see Cab Cal­loway per­form “Hotcha Razz Ma Tazz” at the famous Cot­ton Club, in Harlem, 1935.

via Big Think

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch Langston Hugh­es Read Poet­ry from His First Col­lec­tion, The Weary Blues (1958)

Duke Ellington’s Sym­pho­ny in Black, Star­ring a 19-Year-old Bil­lie Hol­i­day

Rare Record­ing of Con­tro­ver­sial­ist, Jour­nal­ist and Amer­i­can Lit­er­ary & Social Crit­ic, H.L. Menck­en

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, Hoos-York­er, home­school­er, and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine. Fol­low her @AyunHalliday

Rare Footage of the “Human Be-In,” the Landmark Counter-Culture Event Held in Golden Gate Park, 1967

Inves­tiga­tive reporter Steve Sil­ber­man awe­some­ly flagged this video for us today. He writes:

This seems to have just sur­faced: the most com­plete record­ing of the Human Be-In in Gold­en Gate Park in 1967 that I have ever seen, by far. It opens with Allen Gins­berg and Gary Sny­der chant­i­ng, Michael McClure fol­lows, and the Grate­ful Dead (with adorable footage of Allen danc­ing) pop up at about 14:00. At 18:00, Dizzy Gille­spie is smil­ing in the audi­ence. So much myth­i­cal noumenon has piled up around these events over the decades it’s almost inevitable that the real thing seems a lit­tle banal com­pared to one’s imag­i­na­tion, but it’s still cool.

If you’re not quite famil­iar with what the Human Be-In, held on Jan­u­ary 14, 1967, was all about, let me refer you to this suc­cinct descrip­tion by a web site called Mag­ic Bus San Fran­cis­co: “Announced on the cov­er of the first edi­tion of the counter-cul­ture zine San Fran­cis­co Ora­cle, the ‘Gath­er­ing of the Tribes’ or ‘Human Be-In’ as it came to be known, was the pro­to­type of all 1960s counter cul­ture cel­e­bra­tions. The Human Be-In pre­cip­i­tat­ed the leg­endary Sum­mer of Love, and made San Francisco’s Haight-Ash­bury the epi­cen­ter of the bur­geon­ing hip­pie move­ment.

The Be-In fea­tured all the lumi­nar­ies of psy­che­del­ic counter-cul­ture, includ­ing Tim­o­thy Leary, Allen Gins­berg, Gary Sny­der, Richard Alpert (Ram Dass), Dick Gre­go­ry, Lenore Kan­del, and Jer­ry Ruben.  Many of the Haight’s best musi­cal acts also per­formed, includ­ing the Grate­ful Dead and Quick­sil­ver Mes­sen­ger Ser­vice.” As a curi­ous side note, the Dead did­n’t get a men­tion in the poster pro­mot­ing the event. Is that because they were a late addi­tion? I’m not sure.

Human_be-in_poster

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The His­toric LSD Debate at MIT: Tim­o­thy Leary v. Pro­fes­sor Jerome Lettvin (1967)

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

8,976 Free Grate­ful Dead Con­cert Record­ings in the Inter­net Archive

The Acid Test Reels: Ken Kesey & The Grate­ful Dead’s Sound­track for the 1960s Famous LSD Par­ties

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Philosopher Jacques Derrida Interviews Jazz Legend Ornette Coleman: Talk Improvisation, Language & Racism (1997)

Images of Der­ri­da and Cole­man, via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

This most cer­tain­ly ranks as one of my favorite things on the inter­net, and I dear­ly wish we had audio to share with you, though I doubt any exists. What we do have is an Eng­lish trans­la­tion from the French of an inter­view that orig­i­nal­ly took place in Eng­lish between philoso­pher Jacques Der­ri­da and jazz great Ornette Cole­man.

Now there are those who dis­miss Der­ri­da—who con­sid­er his meth­ods fraud­u­lent. If you’re one of them, this is obvi­ous­ly not for you. For those who appre­ci­ate the turns of his thought, and the fas­ci­nat­ing pos­si­bil­i­ties inher­ent in a Der­rid­i­an approach to jazz impro­vi­sa­tion, not to men­tion the con­ver­gences and points of con­flict between these two dis­parate cul­tur­al fig­ures, read on.

The inter­view took place in 1997, “before and dur­ing Coleman’s three con­certs at La Vil­lette, a muse­um and per­form­ing arts com­plex north of Paris that hous­es, among oth­er things, the world-renowned Paris Con­ser­va­to­ry.” As I men­tioned, the two spoke in Eng­lish but, as trans­la­tor Tim­o­thy S. Murphy—who worked with a ver­sion pub­lished in the French mag­a­zine Les Inrock­upt­ibles—notes, “orig­i­nal tran­scripts could not be locat­ed.” Curi­ous­ly, at the heart of the con­ver­sa­tion is a dis­cus­sion about lan­guage, par­tic­u­lar­ly “lan­guages of ori­gin.” In answer to Derrida’s first ques­tion about a pro­gram Cole­man would present lat­er that year in New York called Civ­i­liza­tion, the sax­o­phon­ist replies, “I’m try­ing to express a con­cept accord­ing to which you can trans­late one thing into anoth­er. I think that sound has a much more demo­c­ra­t­ic rela­tion­ship to infor­ma­tion, because you don’t need the alpha­bet to under­stand music.”

As one exam­ple of this “demo­c­ra­t­ic rela­tion­ship,” Cole­man cites the rela­tion­ship between the jazz musi­cian and the composer—or his text: “the jazz musi­cian is prob­a­bly the only per­son for whom the com­pos­er is not a very inter­est­ing indi­vid­ual, in the sense that he prefers to destroy what the com­pos­er writes or says.” Cole­man goes on lat­er in the inter­view to clar­i­fy his ideas about impro­vi­sa­tion as demo­c­ra­t­ic com­mu­ni­ca­tion:

[T]he idea is that two or three peo­ple can have a con­ver­sa­tion with sounds, with­out try­ing to dom­i­nate or lead it. What I mean is that you have to be… intel­li­gent, I sup­pose that’s the word. In impro­vised music I think the musi­cians are try­ing to reassem­ble an emo­tion­al or intel­lec­tu­al puz­zle in which the instru­ments give the tone. It’s pri­mar­i­ly the piano that has served at all times as the frame­work in music, but it’s no longer indis­pens­able and, in fact, the com­mer­cial aspect of music is very uncer­tain. Com­mer­cial music is not nec­es­sar­i­ly more acces­si­ble, but it is lim­it­ed.

Trans­lat­ing Coleman’s tech­nique into “a domain that I know bet­ter, that of writ­ten lan­guage,” Der­ri­da ven­tures to com­pare impro­vi­sa­tion to read­ing, since it “doesn’t exclude the pre-writ­ten frame­work that makes it pos­si­ble.” For him, the exis­tence of a framework—a writ­ten composition—even if only loose­ly ref­er­enced in a jazz per­for­mance, “com­pro­mis­es or com­pli­cates the con­cept of impro­vi­sa­tion.” As Der­ri­da and Cole­man try to work through the pos­si­bil­i­ty of true impro­vi­sa­tion, the exchange becomes a fas­ci­nat­ing decon­struc­tive take on the rela­tion­ships between jazz and writ­ing. (For more on this aspect of their dis­cus­sion, see “Deconstructin(g) Jazz Impro­vi­sa­tion,” an arti­cle in the open access jour­nal Crit­i­cal Stud­ies in Impro­vi­sa­tion.)

The inter­view isn’t all phi­los­o­phy. It ranges all over the place, from Coleman’s ear­ly days in Texas, then New York, to the impact of tech­nol­o­gy on music, to Coleman’s com­plete­ly orig­i­nal the­o­ry of music, which he calls “har­molod­ics.” They also dis­cuss glob­al­iza­tion and the expe­ri­ence of grow­ing up as a racial minority—an expe­ri­ence Der­ri­da relates to very much. At one point, Cole­man observes, “being black and a descen­dent of slaves, I have no idea what my lan­guage of ori­gin was.” Der­ri­da responds in kind, ref­er­enc­ing one of his sem­i­nal texts, Mono­lin­gual­ism of the Oth­er:

JD: If we were here to talk about me, which is not the case, I would tell you that, in a dif­fer­ent but anal­o­gous man­ner, it’s the same thing for me. I was born into a fam­i­ly of Alger­ian Jews who spoke French, but that was not real­ly their lan­guage of ori­gin [… ] I have no con­tact of any sort with my lan­guage of ori­gin, or rather that of my sup­posed ances­tors.

OC: Do you ever ask your­self if the lan­guage that you speak now inter­feres with your actu­al thoughts? Can a lan­guage of ori­gin influ­ence your thoughts?

JD: It is an enig­ma for me.

Indeed. Der­ri­da then recalls his first vis­it to the Unit­ed States, in 1956, where there were “ ‘Reserved for Whites’ signs every­where.” “You expe­ri­enced all that?” he asks Cole­man, who replies:

Yes. In any case, what I like about Paris is the fact that you can’t be a snob and a racist at the same time here, because that won’t do. Paris is the only city I know where racism nev­er exists in your pres­ence, it’s some­thing you hear spo­ken of.

“That does­n’t mean there is no racism,” says Der­ri­da, “but one is oblig­ed to con­ceal it to the extent pos­si­ble.”

You real­ly should read the whole inter­view. The Eng­lish trans­la­tion was pub­lished in the jour­nal Genre and comes to us via Ubuweb, who host a pdf. For more excerpts, see posts at The New York­er and The Lib­er­a­tor Mag­a­zine. As inter­est­ing a read as this dou­bly-trans­lat­ed inter­view is, the live expe­ri­ence itself was a painful one for Der­ri­da. Though he had been invit­ed by the sax­o­phon­ist, Coleman’s impa­tient Parisian fans booed him, even­tu­al­ly forc­ing him off the stage. In a Time mag­a­zine inter­view, the self-con­scious philoso­pher recalled it as “a very unhap­py event.” But, he says, “it was in the paper the next day, so it was a hap­py end­ing.”

Hear more of Coleman’s thoughts on lan­guage, sound, and tech­nol­o­gy in the 2008 inter­view above (see here for Part 2). The year pre­vi­ous, in anoth­er con­junc­tion of the worlds of lan­guage and music, Cole­man was award­ed the Pulitzer Prize in music for his live album Sound Gram­mar, a title that suc­cinct­ly express­es Coleman’s belief in music as a uni­ver­sal lan­guage.

Image of Ornette Cole­man by Geert Van­de­poele

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Charles Min­gus Explains in His Gram­my-Win­ning Essay “What is a Jazz Com­pos­er?”

Der­ri­da: A 2002 Doc­u­men­tary on the Abstract Philoso­pher and the Every­day Man

1959: The Year that Changed Jazz

How to Pot­ty Train Your Cat: A Handy Man­u­al by Charles Min­gus

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

Art Garfunkel Lists 1195 Books He Read Over 45 Years, Plus His 157 Favorites (Many Free)

Image by Nation­aal Archief, via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

If you’ve been won­der­ing what Art Gar­funkel has been up to late­ly, the answer is that it seems that he’s been read­ing. A lot.

The lanky, curly-haired num­ber two guy for the sem­i­nal folk-rock band Simon & Gar­funkel has been keep­ing track of every sin­gle thing he has read from June 1968 until Octo­ber 2013 and he’s post­ed all of them  — 1,195 texts — on his web­site. The first item on his list is Jean-Jacques Rousseau’s Con­fes­sions and the last is Witold Gom­brow­icz’s Cos­mos. In between, Gar­funkel has knocked through some seri­ous­ly daunt­ing tomes –War and Peace, Ulysses, Mid­dle­march, Remem­brance of Things Past and Immanuel Kant’s Foun­da­tions of the Meta­physics of Morals. He even report­ed­ly read the entire Ran­dom House Dic­tio­nary.

His tastes gen­er­al­ly run towards the greats of the West­ern Canon with some more pulpy works thrown in along the way. J.K. Rowl­ing, Anne Rice and Dan Brown make appear­ances, as does E. L. James’s Fifty Shades of Grey. For those who find it daunt­ing to look at a list of 1,1195 books, Gar­funkel also pro­vides a list of his 157 favorites, which includes many great pub­lic domain works found in our Free eBooks and Free Audio Books col­lec­tions. You can 15 of Art’s favorites here:

“I read for the read­ing plea­sure, not for the gold star,” Gar­funkel told Nick Paum­garten of the New York­er in an inter­view a few years back. “Read­ing is a way to take down­time and make it stim­u­lat­ing. If you’re in the wait­ing room of a dentist’s office and don’t want to twid­dle your thumbs, you turn to Tol­stoy.”
Garfunkel’s list, or “library” as his web­site calls it, cre­ates an expec­tant­ly inti­mate por­trait of the artist. In the win­ter 1970, when Simon & Gar­funkel released their biggest sell­ing album, Like a Bridge Over Trou­bled Water, just as the duo was break­ing up, Gar­funkel blew through Moby Dick and Goethe’s The Sor­rows of Young Werther before mov­ing on to Jean-Paul Sartre’s Nau­sea and then lat­er Bertrand Russell’s The Con­quest of Hap­pi­ness. When the duo reunit­ed to play their famous con­cert in Cen­tral Park in 1981, Gar­funkel pol­ished off Dick­ens’ Nicholas Nick­le­by. And when Simon & Gar­funkel was induct­ed into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Jan­u­ary 1990, he was read­ing Antho­ny Trollope’s An Auto­bi­og­ra­phy.

The one type of book he doesn’t read is post­mod­ern lit­er­a­ture. His list of some 1195 books con­tains no men­tion of the likes of Don DeLil­lo, Don­ald Barthelme or Thomas Pyn­chon. “I tried Gravity’s Rain­bow, and I thought it was fraud­u­lent,” Gar­funkel said.

Image above tak­en by Eddie Mallin.

via @pickover

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

Steven Soder­bergh Posts a List of Every­thing He Watched and Read in 2009

Joseph Brodsky’s Read­ing List For Hav­ing an Intel­li­gent Con­ver­sa­tion

Carl Sagan’s Under­grad Read­ing List: 40 Essen­tial Texts for a Well-Round­ed Thinker

David Bowie’s Top 100 Books

Jonathan Crow is a Los Ange­les-based writer and film­mak­er whose work has appeared in Yahoo!, The Hol­ly­wood Reporter, and oth­er pub­li­ca­tions. You can fol­low him at @jonccrowAnd check out his blog Veep­to­pus, fea­tur­ing one new draw­ing of a vice pres­i­dent with an octo­pus on his head dai­ly.  The Veep­to­pus store is here.

 

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