Inside the Rhapsody: A Short Documentary on the Making of Queen’s Classic Song, ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ (2002)

“Bohemi­an Rhap­sody” by Queen is one of the most auda­cious pop songs ever made. Part bal­lad, part opera, part heavy met­al orgasm, the song has six dis­tinct sec­tions and took over a month to record.  At just under six min­utes, “Bohemi­an Rhap­sody” was con­sid­ered too long for pop radio. “The record com­pa­ny, in their infi­nite igno­rance, of course imme­di­ate­ly sug­gest­ed that we cut it down,” said Queen drum­mer Roger Tay­lor, who stood by his band­mates and refused to let the song be cut. “It real­ly was hit or miss. It was either going to be mas­sive or it was going to be noth­ing.”

“Bohemi­an Rhap­sody,” of course, went on to become one of the most pop­u­lar songs in music his­to­ry. It spent nine weeks at num­ber one in the UK fol­low­ing its release in the fall of 1975, and went back to num­ber one after the death of singer Fred­die Mer­cury in 1991. In Amer­i­ca the song peaked at num­ber nine in 1976 and re-entered the charts at num­ber two in 1992, when it was fea­tured in the movie Wayne’s World. Last year, an ITV poll in Great Britain list­ed “Bohemi­an Rhap­sody” as “The Nation’s Favorite Num­ber One” song in 60 years of music.

Above, in the 3‑part mini doc­u­men­tary Inside the Rhap­sody, Queen takes you inside the mak­ing of the song. And, along the way, gui­tarist Bri­an May goes back to the mix­ing board to explain the com­plex­i­ty of lay­ers that went into real­iz­ing Mer­cury’s vision for the song. The orig­i­nal 24-track ana­logue record­ing sys­tem was far too lim­it­ed, so the band used the ping-pong tech­nique to “bounce” lit­er­al­ly hun­dreds of over­dubs into the mix. May explains how the oper­at­ic vocal lay­ers were inspired by the “cas­cad­ing strings” effect made famous by Annun­zio Pao­lo Man­to­vani, a tech­nique May first tried out in 1974 with the gui­tar solo on “Killer Queen.”

For more on the mak­ing of “Bohemi­an Rhap­sody,” please see our post, “Lis­ten to Fred­die Mer­cury’s Won­drous Piano and Vocal Tracks for ‘Bohemi­an Rhap­sody’ (1975).” And for a reminder of how it all came togeth­er, here’s the offi­cial video:

Inside the Rhap­sody has been added to our col­lec­tion, 285 Free Doc­u­men­taries Online.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Fred­die Mer­cury at Live Aid

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

Lis­ten to Fred­die Mer­cury and David Bowie on the Iso­lat­ed Vocal Track for the Queen Hit ‘Under Pres­sure,’ 1981

“The Lost Paris Tapes” Preserves Jim Morrison’s Final Poetry Recordings from 1971

Billed and sold as the ninth and final stu­dio album by The Doors, An Amer­i­can Prayer tends to divide Jim Mor­ri­son fans. On the one hand, it’s a cap­ti­vat­ing doc­u­ment of the late singer read­ing his free-asso­cia­tive poet­ry: dark, weird­ly beau­ti­ful psy­che­del­ic lyri­cal fugues. On the oth­er hand, it’s only a “Doors album” in that the three remain­ing mem­bers con­vened in 1978 to record orig­i­nal music over the deceased Morrison’s solo read­ings. While the result­ing prod­uct is both a haunt­ing trib­ute and an immer­sive late-night lis­ten, many have felt that the band’s ren­der­ing did vio­lence to the depart­ed singer’s orig­i­nal inten­tions. (Lis­ten to and down­load it here for free.)

An Amer­i­can Prayer’s read­ings were record­ed unac­com­pa­nied in March 1969 and Decem­ber 1970. In 1971, Mor­ri­son joined his long-time lover Pamela Cour­son in Paris. That same year, Jim Mor­ri­son died, under some rather mys­te­ri­ous cir­cum­stances, at the age of 27.

Before his death, how­ev­er, he made what is said to be his final stu­dio record­ing, a poet­ry reading/performance with a cou­ple of unknown Parisian street musi­cians. Although Doors key­boardist Ray Man­zarek alleged­ly dis­missed this record­ing as “drunk­en gib­ber­ish,” Doors fans have cir­cu­lat­ed it since 1994—combined with a 37-minute poet­ry read­ing from 1968—as a boot­leg called The Lost Paris Tapes.

While it’s true that An Amer­i­can Prayer is a pow­er­ful and haunt­ing album, it’s also true that The Lost Paris Tapes rep­re­sents the unadorned, unedit­ed Mor­ri­son, in full con­trol of how his voice sounds, and with­out his famous band. I can­not help you find a copy of The Lost Paris Tapes, but many of the tracks are on Youtube, such as “Orange Coun­ty Suite” (top), an affect­ing piece writ­ten for Pamela Cour­son. Oth­er excerpts from the boot­leg, such as “Hitler Poem” (above) show Mor­ri­son in a very strange mood indeed, and show off his unset­ting sense of humor. While the work on The Lost Paris Tapes ranges in qual­i­ty, all of it pre­serves the seduc­tive voice and cryp­tic imag­i­na­tion that Jim Mor­ri­son nev­er lost, even as he began to slip away into alco­holism.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Doors Key­boardist Ray Man­zarek (1939–2013) Tells the Sto­ry of the Clas­sic Song, ‘Rid­ers on the Storm’

A Young, Clean Cut Jim Mor­ri­son Appears in a 1962 Flori­da State Uni­ver­si­ty Pro­mo Film

Ani­ma­tions Revive Lost Inter­views with David Fos­ter Wal­lace, Jim Mor­ri­son & Dave Brubeck

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

CBGB’s: The Roots of Punk Lets You Watch Vintage Footage from the Heyday of NYC’s Great Music Scene

There’s a new film com­ing out about the rise of CBGB as the pre­mier site of New York punk, new wave, and art rock. And I have to agree with Dan­ger­ous Minds, it looks like this might just be “AWFUL.” But then again, maybe not. Who am I to make a crit­i­cal appraisal of a work I haven’t seen yet? Watch the trail­er and make your own pre-judg­ments.

No mat­ter how this fic­tion­al­ized ver­sion of the CBGB sto­ry turns out, we are lucky to have copi­ous footage from the real hey­day of the dirty Bow­ery club that made the careers of The Ramones, Pat­ti Smith, Tele­vi­sion, Blondie, the Talk­ing Heads and count­less oth­er New York bands who rose to semi-star­dom, or local noto­ri­ety, from CBGB’s famous, filthy bow­els. Although Alan Rick­man must sure­ly do a fine job as CBGB’s own­er Hil­lel Kristal, there’s noth­ing like hear­ing from the real thing, and you can, in the doc­u­men­tary CBGB’s: The Roots of Punk (part one above, part two below).

Kristal, who intend­ed to cre­ate a space for “Coun­try, Blue­Grass, and Blues,” end­ed up man­ag­ing a very dif­fer­ent beast when he real­ized that no one in low­er Man­hat­tan cared about his tastes. Instead, to keep the lights on, he was forced to let the lowlifes in, the “dere­licts, lost souls… hook­ers and pimps and junkies,” who came from the flop­hous­es and ten­e­ments to hear music that spoke to them.

Some­times they got it, some­times they didn’t, but for the musi­cians who used Kristal’s dive bar as a live rehearsal space, the oppor­tu­ni­ty to play, night after night, and cre­ate their own sounds and iden­ti­ties, the CBGB’s expe­ri­ence was invalu­able. You’ll hear a few of them reflect on those heady times in the film, but most­ly, CBGB’s: The Roots of Punk is a car­ni­val of vin­tage per­for­mances from New York’s sem­i­nal punk bands. Maybe the Hol­ly­wood ver­sion won’t be so bad, eh? Even so, I’d rather watch, and lis­ten to, the real thing.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Deb­bie Har­ry Turns 68 Today. Watch Blondie Play CBGB in the Mid-70s in Two Vin­tage Clips

The Talk­ing Heads Play CBGB, the New York Club that Shaped Their Sound (1975)

The Ramones in Their Hey­day, Filmed “Live at CBGB,” 1977

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

 

 

Documentary Viva Joe Strummer: The Story of the Clash Surveys the Career of Rock’s Beloved Frontman

I vivid­ly remem­ber learn­ing the first song my high school garage band cov­ered, The Clash’s “Clash City Rock­ers.” We spent hours deci­pher­ing the lyrics, and nev­er got them right. This was, if you can believe it, a pre-Google age. While the exer­cise was frus­trat­ing, I nev­er resent­ed Joe Strummer’s slurred, grav­el­ly vocals for mak­ing us work hard at get­ting his mean­ing. For one thing, I loved his voice, and as a stu­dent of the blues and Dylan, nev­er real­ly cared if rock singers could actu­al­ly sing. For anoth­er, Strum­mer nev­er seemed to care much him­self if you could under­stand him, though his lyrics blast­ed through moun­tains of BS. This is not because he was an ego­tist but quite the oppo­site: he pas­sion­ate­ly hat­ed rock clichés and wasn’t mak­ing pop records.

The first scene in the doc­u­men­tary above, Viva Joe Strum­mer (lat­er released as Get Up, Stand Up), gives us The Clash front­man decon­struct­ing the genre. “Well, hi every­body, ain’t it groovy,” he says to a cheer­ing crowd, fol­lowed by, “ain’t you sick of hear­ing that for the last 150 years?” The documentary’s nar­ra­tor describes Strum­mer as “the man who put cred­i­ble rock and roll into the bas­tard cul­tur­al orphan that was called punk,” but this seems an inac­cu­rate descrip­tion.

For one thing, rock and roll is itself a bas­tard genre, some­thing Strum­mer always rec­og­nized, and for anoth­er The Clash, fueled by Strummer’s ecu­meni­cal inter­est in world cul­tures, drew lib­er­al­ly from oth­er kinds of music and stuck their mid­dle fin­gers up at estab­lish­ment rock and every­thing it came to rep­re­sent.

Viva Joe Strum­mer gives us loads of con­cert footage and inter­views with band mem­bers and close friends like the Sex Pis­tols’ Glen Mat­lock. The focus remains on Strum­mer, a front­man with tremen­dous charis­ma but also, para­dox­i­cal­ly, with a tremen­dous amount of humil­i­ty. One review­er of the film says as much:

Joe Strum­mer always pro­ject­ed him­self as a hum­ble man. Even at the height of The Clash‘s mega­lo­ma­nia, when he fired gui­tarist Mick Jones, Strum­mer came across like a bet­ter read, more world­ly Bruce Spring­steen. The every­man image has made eulo­giz­ing the singer dif­fi­cult.

This sug­gests that Strummer’s every­man per­sona may have been part of his show­man­ship, but even so, he was respect­ed and admired by near­ly every­one who knew him. And his pro­le­tar­i­an pol­i­tics were gen­uine. As one inter­vie­wee says above, “he always had a cor­ner to fight in. He always had some­one to stick up for.”

The orig­i­nal DVD includ­ed a CD with inter­view clips from 1979 to 2001, such as the 1981 Tom Sny­der Show inter­view above. Viva Joe Strum­mer lacks the pow­er­ful dra­mat­ic arc and tight direc­tion of Julian Temple’s 2007 The Future is Unwrit­ten, but it’s still well worth watch­ing for inter­view footage you won’t see any­where else. Despite the film’s orig­i­nal sub­ti­tle, The Sto­ry of The Clash, the doc­u­men­tary fol­lows Strummer’s career all the way through the dis­so­lu­tion of the band that made him famous and through his suc­ces­sive musi­cal endeav­ors with Joe Strum­mer and the Mescaleros. And it doc­u­ments the reac­tions to his sud­den, trag­ic death in 2002. I still remem­ber get­ting the news. I hap­pened, odd­ly enough, to be drink­ing at the bar where the Joe Strum­mer mur­al would go up in New York’s East Vil­lage in 2003. I walked out­side and lit a cig­a­rette, put on my head­phones, cued up “Clash City Rock­ers,” and shed a tear for the punk rock every­man who every­body loved.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

“Joe Strummer’s Lon­don Call­ing”: All Eight Episodes of Strummer’s UK Radio Show Free Online

Remem­ber­ing The Clash’s Front­man Joe Strum­mer on His 60th Birth­day

The Clash Live in Tokyo, 1982: Watch the Com­plete Con­cert

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

Eric Clapton’s Favorite Guitar Solo: Duane Allman on Wilson Pickett’s 1968 Cover of the Beatles’ ‘Hey Jude’

Ask a group of gui­tarists to name their favorite gui­tar solo, and there’s a pret­ty good chance some­one will men­tion Eric Clap­ton’s solo on the live record­ing of “Cross­roads,” from Cream’s 1968 Wheel’s of Fire album. So then, whose solo does Eric Clap­ton like? On more than one occa­sion he has sin­gled out Duane All­man’s break­through per­for­mance on Wil­son Pick­et­t’s R & B cov­er of the Bea­t­les’ “Hey Jude.”

In late 1968 All­man was about 22 years old and had not yet formed the All­man Broth­ers Band. Eager to make a name for him­self, he showed up at Rick Hal­l’s now-leg­endary FAME Stu­dios in Mus­cle Shoals, Alaba­ma, to offer his ser­vices as a ses­sion gui­tarist. Hall told All­man he already had more gui­tar play­ers than he could use. All­man asked if he could just hang around the stu­dio and help out if the need should ever arise. “I mean, this was Duane,” Hall said to All­man’s biog­ra­ph­er Randy Poe. “He was hell-bent for star­dom and noth­ing was going to stop him.”

Hall let the young gui­tarist hang around, and before long he was play­ing on a few ses­sions with Clarence Carter.  Hall liked what he heard, and All­man’s cru­cial moment arrived short­ly after­ward, when the for­mer Stax record­ing artist Wil­son Pick­ett showed up at the stu­dio unex­pect­ed­ly. As Poe writes in his book Sky­dog: The Duane All­man Sto­ry,

“Pick­ett came into the stu­dio,” says Hall, “and I said, ‘We don’t have any­thing to cut.’ We did­n’t have a song. Duane was there, and he came up with an idea. By this time he’d kind of bro­ken the ice and become my guy. So Duane said, ‘Why don’t we cut “Hey Jude”?’ I said, ‘That’s the most pre­pos­ter­ous thing I ever heard. It’s insan­i­ty. We’re gonna cov­er the Bea­t­les? That’s crazy!’ And Pick­ett said, ‘No, we’re not gonna do it.’ I said, ‘Their sin­gle’s gonna be Num­ber 1. I mean, this is the biggest group in the world!’ And Duane said, ‘That’s exact­ly why we should do it — because [the Bea­t­les sin­gle] will be Num­ber 1 and they’re so big. The fact that we would cut the song with a black artist will get so much atten­tion, it’ll be an auto­mat­ic smash.’ That made all the sense in the world to me. So I said, ‘Well, okay. Let’s do it.’

The orig­i­nal Bea­t­les ver­sion of “Hey Jude” is over sev­en min­utes long. Pick­ett was deter­mined to keep his ver­sion short­er, to make it suit­able for radio play. At four min­utes long, it was still more than a minute longer than the aver­age pop­u­lar song from that era. Most of the extra time is tak­en up by All­man’s explo­sive rock and roll-style gui­tar solo. “From the moment Duane plays the first lick ten sec­onds into the coda,” writes Poe, “until the song fades out over a minute lat­er, it is entire­ly his show. The back­ground vocal­ists are singing those famil­iar ‘na-na-na-na’s’ — but it’s all for naught. Rick Hall has pushed them so far down in the mix, they are mere­ly ambiance. Absolute­ly noth­ing mat­ters but Duane’s gui­tar.” When it was over, every­one rushed to hear the play­back. Hall was so excit­ed he picked up the tele­phone and called Atlantic Records pro­duc­er and exec­u­tive Jer­ry Wexler, who had sent Pick­ett to Mus­cle Shoals. Writes Poe:

Hall cranked up the vol­ume, held the receiv­er near the speak­ers, and played the record­ing all the way through. The gui­tar play­er, nat­u­ral­ly, blew Jer­ry Wexler away. “Who is he?” Wexler asked. Hall told Wexler that Pick­ett called him Sky Man. He said that Sky Man was a hip­pie from Flori­da who had talked Pick­ett into cut­ting the tune. Wexler per­sist­ed. “Who the hell is he?” “Name’s Duane All­man,” Rick replied.

Before Pick­ett chris­tened All­man “Sky Man,” the gui­tarist already had a nick­name he was fond of: “Dog.” In keep­ing with it, he always wore a dog col­lar wrapped around his right boot, like a spur. So the two nick­names were com­bined, and All­man was known there­after as “Sky­dog.”

Although Pick­ett record­ed “Hey Jude” against his will, he liked the result so much he made it the title song of his next album. And right about the time the Bea­t­les’ ver­sion was com­ing down after nine weeks at num­ber one on the Amer­i­can charts, Pick­et­t’s ver­sion start­ed going up. It peaked at num­ber 15 on the R & B chart and num­ber 23 on the pop chart. When Clap­ton first heard All­man’s solo on his car radio, he report­ed­ly pulled over to the side of the road to lis­ten. “I drove home and called Atlantic Records imme­di­ate­ly,” Clap­ton said. “I had to know who that was play­ing gui­tar and I had to know now.”

Lis­ten to the full song:

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Here Comes The Sun: The Lost Gui­tar Solo by George Har­ri­son

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

Gui­tar Sto­ries: Mark Knopfler on the Six Gui­tars That Shaped His Career

Flashmob Performs The Beatles’ ‘Here Comes the Sun’ in Madrid Unemployment Office

One of my favorite songs comes from the Qui­et Bea­t­le, George Har­ri­son. A tune that can rival any­thing from the Lennon/McCartney song­book, Here Comes the Sun was writ­ten in 1969, dur­ing a fair­ly bleak time. Har­ri­son sets the scene is his 1980 book, I, Me, Mine. He recalls:

“Here Comes the Sun” was writ­ten at the time when Apple [the Bea­t­les’ record label] was get­ting like school, where we had to go and be busi­ness­men: ‘Sign this’ and ‘sign that’. Any­way, it seems as if win­ter in Eng­land goes on for­ev­er, by the time spring comes you real­ly deserve it. So one day I decid­ed I was going to sag off Apple and I went over to Eric Clap­ton’s house. The relief of not hav­ing to go see all those dopey accoun­tants was won­der­ful, and I walked around the gar­den with one of Eric’s acoustic gui­tars and wrote “Here Comes the Sun.”

It’s a song about get­ting through the dark­ness — per­son­al, pro­fes­sion­al, sea­son­al, etc. And it’s sim­ply a per­fect pick for the flash­mob per­for­mance you’ll wit­ness above. Unlike so many oth­er feel-good flash­mob per­for­mances staged in Europe (see below), this one takes place in a drea­ry unem­ploy­ment office in Spain (Madrid, to be pre­cise) where unem­ploy­ment hov­ers around 26% and home­less­ness is on the rise. It does­n’t try to sug­ar­coat life in Spain. It just pro­vides a lit­tle ray of hope.

This video was shot back in Jan­u­ary. Accord­ing to a recent IMF report, con­di­tions will remain dif­fi­cult in Spain for years to come, but some new data hints that the worst may be over. Or so we hope.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Here Comes The Sun: The Lost Gui­tar Solo by George Har­ri­son

Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy” Mov­ing­ly Flash­mobbed in Spain

Copen­hagen Phil­har­mon­ic Plays Ravel’s Bolero at Train Sta­tion

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

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Dueling Divas: Aretha Franklin and Dionne Warwick Sing Two Classic Versions of ‘I Say a Little Prayer’

Dionne War­wick:

Aretha Franklin and Dionne War­wick are two of the high­est chart­ing women in music his­to­ry. Between them, they’ve made 129 appear­ances in the Bill­board Hot 100. Two of those were with the same song: the 1966 Burt Bacharach and Hal David com­po­si­tion, “I Say a Lit­tle Prayer.”

The song was writ­ten espe­cial­ly for War­wick. David’s lyrics are about a wom­an’s dai­ly thoughts of her man, who is away in Viet­nam. Bacharach arranged and pro­duced the orig­i­nal record­ing in April of 1966, but was unhap­py with the result. “I thought I blew it,” he told the Los Ange­les Times in 1998. “The tem­po seemed too fast. I nev­er want­ed the record to come out. So what hap­pens? They put out the record and it was a huge hit. I was wrong.” The song was released over Bacharach’s objec­tions in Octo­ber, 1967 and rose to num­ber 4 on the Bill­board Hot 100 and num­ber 8 on the Bill­board R & B charts.

Aretha Franklin:

A few months after War­wick­’s sin­gle came out, Aretha Franklin and The Sweet Inspi­ra­tions were singing “I Say a Lit­tle Prayer” for fun dur­ing a break in record­ing ses­sions for Aretha Now. Pro­duc­er Jer­ry Wexler liked what he heard, and decid­ed to record the song. With Franklin on piano and the Mus­cle Shoals Rhythm Sec­tion behind her, it was record­ed in one take. Franklin’s ver­sion has more of a gospel and rhythm & blues feel, with a flu­id call-and-response inter­play between the lead and back­up singers.

Released in July of 1968, the sin­gle was less of a crossover hit than War­wick­’s ver­sion — it peaked at num­ber 10 on the Hot 100 chart — but rose all the way to num­ber 3 on the R & B chart. Over­shad­owed at first, Franklin’s record­ing has grown in stature over the years. Even Bacharach likes it bet­ter than the one he made with War­wick. As he told Mitch Albom ear­li­er this year, “Aretha just made a far bet­ter record.”

You can lis­ten above, as War­wick per­forms “I Say a Lit­tle Prayer” in an uniden­ti­fied tele­vi­sion broad­cast and Franklin sings it with the Sweet­hearts of Soul on the August 31, 1970 Cliff Richard Show. Tell us: Which ver­sion do you think is bet­ter?

Relat­ed con­tent:

Aretha Franklin Per­forms ‘Respect’ Live in the South of France, 1970

The Queen of Soul Con­quers Europe: Aretha Franklin in Ams­ter­dam, 1968

The Breaking Bad Theme Played with Meth Lab Equipment

Last night marked the begin­ning of the final sea­son of Break­ing Bad, the AMC tele­vi­sion series that chron­i­cles the life and times of Wal­ter White, the chem­istry teacher-turned-meth king­pin. To get in the spir­it of things, Andrew Huang decid­ed to record the Break­ing Bad theme song with a gui­tar and some meth lab equip­ment. On his YouTube page he writes:

I don’t know any­thing about mak­ing meth but a lit­tle Googling let me know that if you come across a meth lab you might find, among oth­er things:

- propane cylin­ders
— rub­ber tub­ing
— paper tow­els
— cof­fee fil­ters
— lab­o­ra­to­ry beakers
— mea­sur­ing cups
— buck­ets
— plas­tic bot­tles
— fry­ing pans

Oth­er than the gui­tar, all of the sounds in this piece were pro­duced using the items above, with min­i­mal effects and some speed adjust­ments to change pitch­es.

via Devour

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch the Orig­i­nal Audi­tion Tapes for Break­ing Bad Before the Final Sea­son Debuts

Inside Break­ing Bad: Watch Conan O’Brien’s Extend­ed Inter­view with the Show’s Cast and Cre­ator

Bryan Cranston Reads Shelley’s Son­net “Ozy­man­dias” in Omi­nous Teas­er for Break­ing Bad’s Last Sea­son

Inside Break­ing Bad: Watch Conan O’Brien’s Extend­ed Inter­view with the Show’s Cast and Cre­ator

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