The Earliest Footage of Elvis Presley, Buddy Holly and Johnny Cash (1955)

Here are some rare home movies from the ear­li­est days of rock and roll. Although accounts dif­fer, this is appar­ent­ly the old­est footage of four leg­endary per­form­ers: Elvis Pres­ley, Bud­dy Hol­ly, John­ny Cash and Carl Perkins. The film was shot in 1955 with an 8mm cam­era in Hol­ly’s home­town of Lub­bock, Texas, by his friend Ben Hall, a local disc jock­ey and musi­cian who would lat­er write the song “Blue Days, Black Nights” from Hol­ly’s That’ll Be The Day album. The silent footage is wide­ly report­ed to have been tak­en at one of Pres­ley’s April 29, 1955 shows at the Cot­ton Club in Lub­bock. But that may not be entire­ly true, because Hol­ly, Cash and Perkins were not on the adver­tised bill for those shows.

Pres­ley per­formed in Lub­bock sev­er­al times that year. He first met Hol­ly at a show at the Fair Park Col­i­se­um on Feb­ru­ary 13, when Hol­ly and his friend Bob Mont­gomery appeared at the bot­tom of the bill as the coun­try duo Bud­dy & Bob. Hol­ly was 18 years old and still a senior in high school. The charis­mat­ic Pres­ley, though still unknown in most parts of the coun­try in 1955, was already treat­ed as a star in the South, where he was mobbed by fans.

Accord­ing to the Scot­ty Moore Web site, the footage of Pres­ley was tak­en on April 29 and the oth­ers were filmed lat­er in the year. Pres­ley is shown onstage and off with his orig­i­nal band, the Blue Moon Boys, with Scot­ty Moore on gui­tar and Bill Black on bass. Perkins appears in an orange jack­et, Cash is wear­ing a white string tie over a black shirt, and Hol­ly, who turned 19 around that time, is eas­i­ly rec­og­niz­able in his trade­mark eye­glass­es.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Bud­dy Hol­ly at Age 12: His First Record­ing

Library Card Signed by 13-Year-Old Elvis Pres­ley, the Ear­li­est Known Sig­na­ture of the King

Jim­my Page, 13, Plays Gui­tar on BBC Tal­ent Show (1957)

Two Prison Con­certs That Defined an Out­law Singer: John­ny Cash at San Quentin and Fol­som (1968–69)

The Bea­t­les as Teens (1957)

Deconstructing The Master Track of The Beatles’ “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band”

There are sev­er­al ver­sions of the sto­ry of how The Bea­t­les’ most high­ly-acclaimed album Sgt. Pep­per’s Lone­ly Hearts Club came to be. In one, John gives the full cred­it to Paul, who, inspired by “Amer­i­ca and the whole West Coast, long-named group thing”—of bands like Quick­sil­ver Mes­sen­ger Ser­vice and Big Broth­er and the Hold­ing Company—came up with the con­cept. Accord­ing to Lennon, Paul “was try­ing to put some dis­tance between the Bea­t­les and the pub­lic”:

And so there was this iden­ti­ty of Sgt. Pep­per…. Sgt. Pep­per is called the first con­cept album, but it doesn’t go any­where. All my con­tri­bu­tions to the album have absolute­ly noth­ing to do with the idea of Sgt. Pep­per and his band; but it works ‘cause we said it worked, and that’s how the album appeared. But it was not as put togeth­er as it sounds, except for Sgt. Pep­per intro­duc­ing Bil­ly Shears and the so-called reprise. Every oth­er song could have been on any oth­er album.

Lennon’s typ­i­cal mix of grandios­i­ty and self-dep­re­ca­tion prob­a­bly sells the album short in any fan’s esti­ma­tion (cer­tain­ly in mine), but I  believe that Paul cooked up the goofy per­sonas and march­ing-band look. It is, after all, as Lennon says, “his way of work­ing.” Paul him­self has said of Sgt. Pepper’s: “I thought it would be nice to lose our iden­ti­ties, to sub­merge our­selves in the per­sona of a fake group. We could make up all the cul­ture around it and col­lect all our heroes in one place.”

Despite the com­plex of per­son­al­i­ties (both real and imag­ined) in the writ­ing and record­ing of what many con­sid­er the band’s mas­ter­piece, the record­ing process was incred­i­bly sim­ple, at least by today’s stan­dards. Today’s dig­i­tal record­ing enables bands to record an unlim­it­ed num­ber of tracks—either live or, more often, in lay­ers upon lay­ers of overdubs—leaving mix­ing engi­neers with some­times hun­dreds of indi­vid­ual tracks to inte­grate into a coher­ent whole. In 1967, dur­ing the age of tape and the track­ing of Sgt. Pepper’s, engi­neers were lim­it­ed to four tracks at a time, which they could then “bounce,” or merge togeth­er, to free up room for addi­tion­al record­ing.

This is how the title song “Sgt. Pepper’s Lone­ly Heart’s Club Band” was made, and you can hear the four final mas­ter tracks “decon­struct­ed” above. First, in green, you’ll hear the orig­i­nal rhythm tracks, with drums, bass, and two gui­tars, all record­ed on two tracks. The red line rep­re­sents tracks 3 and 4—all of the vocals. The blue por­tion is the horns and lead gui­tar, and yel­low is the audi­ence sounds. You’ll hear each track indi­vid­u­al­ly, then hear them all come togeth­er, so to speak. The descrip­tion below of the record­ing process comes from that inerrant (so I’ve heard) source, The Bea­t­les Bible:

The song was record­ed over four days. On 1 Feb­ru­ary 1967 The Bea­t­les taped nine takes of the rhythm track, though only the first and last of these were com­plete. They record­ed drums, bass and two gui­tars — the lat­ter played by McCart­ney and Har­ri­son.

The next day McCart­ney record­ed his lead vocals, and he, Lennon and Har­ri­son taped their har­monies. The song was then left for over a month, until the French horns were over­dubbed on 3 March. McCart­ney also record­ed a lead gui­tar solo, leav­ing the song almost com­plete.

On 6 March they added the sounds of the imag­i­nary audi­ence and the noise of an orches­tra tun­ing up, a com­bi­na­tion of crowd noise from a 1961 record­ing of the com­e­dy show Beyond The Fringe and out-takes from the 10 Feb­ru­ary orches­tral over­dub ses­sion for A Day In The Life.

For the segue into With A Lit­tle Help From My Friends, mean­while, they insert­ed screams of Beat­le­ma­ni­acs from the record­ings of The Bea­t­les live at the Hol­ly­wood Bowl.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

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

The Bea­t­les: Unplugged Col­lects Acoustic Demos of White Album Songs (1968)

Hear the 1962 Bea­t­les Demo that Dec­ca Reject­ed: “Gui­tar Groups are on Their Way Out, Mr. Epstein”

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

Jump Start Your Creative Process with Brian Eno’s “Oblique Strategies” Deck of Cards (1975)

Image by Bas­ti­aan Ter­horst, via Flickr Com­mons

The likes of U2, Cold­play, and David Bowie can afford to hire pro­duc­er, artist, and thinker Bri­an Eno to shake up their cre­ative process­es. You and I, alas, prob­a­bly can’t. We can, how­ev­er, afford to con­sult the Oblique Strate­gies, a deck of cards invent­ed by Eno and painter Peter Schmidt in 1975. Each card offers, in its own oblique fash­ion, a strat­e­gy you can fol­low when you find your­self at an impasse in your own work, be it music, paint­ing, or any form at all: “Hon­or thy error as a hid­den inten­tion.” “State the prob­lem in words as clear­ly as pos­si­ble.” “Remem­ber those qui­et evenings.” “Once the search is in progress, some­thing will be found.” “Work at a dif­fer­ent speed.” “Look close­ly at the most embar­rass­ing details and ampli­fy them.”

“The Oblique Strate­gies evolved from me being in a num­ber of work­ing sit­u­a­tions when pan­ic, par­tic­u­lar­ly in stu­dios, tend­ed to make me quick­ly for­get that there were oth­ers ways of work­ing,” said Eno in a 1980 radio inter­view, “and that there were tan­gen­tial ways of attack­ing prob­lems that were in many sens­es more inter­est­ing than the direct head-on approach.”

Should you feel the need for just such a break with the obvi­ous approach, you can track down one of the offi­cial phys­i­cal edi­tions of the Oblique Strate­gies deck. Or you can con­sult one of  its many vir­tu­al ver­sions avail­able on the inter­net. Eno talks about how the deck of cards came into being. Vin­tage sets can be found on Ama­zon here.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Bri­an Eno on Cre­at­ing Music and Art As Imag­i­nary Land­scapes (1989)

Watch Bri­an Eno’s “Video Paint­ings,” Where 1980s TV Tech­nol­o­gy Meets Visu­al Art

Day of Light: A Crowd­sourced Film by Mul­ti­me­dia Genius Bri­an Eno

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture and writes essays on lit­er­a­ture, film, cities, Asia, and aes­thet­ics. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­lesA Los Ange­les Primer. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Blondie Plays CBGB in the Mid-70s in Two Vintage Clips

In hon­or of Deb­bie Harry’s 68th birth­day today, we bring you some very ear­ly clips of Blondie at CBGB. Above, the band plays “A Girl Should Know Bet­ter” in 1975, an unre­leased track that’s got all the garage rock, girl-group sound the band rode in on before going new wave in the 80s. Gui­tarist Chris Stein looks and sounds like John­ny Thun­ders and Har­ry per­forms the almost-whole­some, semi-vacant sex­u­al­i­ty of her Play­boy bun­ny past. While this track didn’t make it onto their first album, 1976’s Blondie, it’s a fun lit­tle num­ber all the same.

Down below watch the band play “Rip Her to Shreds” in 1977, look­ing a lit­tle less trash-rock but still sound­ing hard­er than they would in lat­er, slick­er years. For more vin­tage Har­ry moments, pop on over to Dan­ger­ous Minds to see her arm wres­tle Andy Kauf­man, recount a run-in with Ted Bundy, and intro­duce Amer­i­cans to the pogo dance on Glenn O’Brien’s local New York show TV Par­ty.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

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

Andy Warhol Dig­i­tal­ly Paints Deb­bie Har­ry with the Ami­ga 1000 Com­put­er (1985)

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

Watch a Surprisingly Moving Performance of John Cage’s 1948 “Suite for Toy Piano”

At some point dur­ing his 1948 mania for the Rube Gold­berg pieces of pre­pared pianos, John Cage, inspired by min­i­mal­ist French com­pos­er Erik Satie, decid­ed to turn back to melody for a moment. Still build­ing with a dull per­cus­sive tonal palate, he wrote sole­ly for the key­board this time… of a toy piano. “Suite for Toy Piano” con­sists of five short move­ments, none over two min­utes. Cage liked the abra­sive chim­ing and lim­it­ed range of the instru­ment.

The piece can be mechan­i­cal or struc­tural­ly immer­sive, depend­ing on the play­er. In the per­for­mance above, Por­tuguese pianist Joana Gama achieves the lat­ter effect, imbu­ing the com­po­si­tion with dynam­ic ener­gy many oth­er ren­di­tions lack, though I do not know whether Cage intend­ed a flat affect. In any case, he tend­ed to appre­ci­ate impro­visato­ry takes on his work at all times, so he wouldn’t have been both­ered.

The sur­round­ing audience—shuffling, whis­per­ing, wheezing—only add to Gama’s inten­si­ty. The event marked the 2011 open­ing of the Cen­tre for Art and Archi­tec­ture Affairs in Guimarães, Por­tu­gal.

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

Relat­ed Con­tent:

John Cage Plays Ampli­fied Cac­ti and Plant Mate­ri­als with a Feath­er (1984)

John Cage Unbound: A New Dig­i­tal Archive Pre­sent­ed by The New York Pub­lic Library

John Cage Per­forms Water Walk on “I’ve Got a Secret” (1960)

The Con­tro­ver­sial Sounds of Silence: John Cage’s 4’33″ Per­formed by the BBC Sym­pho­ny Orches­tra

The Art of Punk Presents a New Documentary on The Dead Kennedys and Their Gritty Aesthetics

Last week, Col­in Mar­shall told you all about The Art of Punk, the new doc­u­men­tary series from the Muse­um of Con­tem­po­rary Art in Los Ange­les. This week, the series con­tin­ues with a new video look­ing at The Dead Kennedys and the artist behind their strik­ing art­work, Win­ston Smith. A “punk art sur­re­al­ist” known for his “hand-carved” col­lages, Smith is per­haps best known for cre­at­ing The Dead Kennedys’ icon­ic logo and oth­er arrest­ing images (see a slideshow here). The new MOCA video cov­ers all of that, and then some, above.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Punk Meets High Fash­ion in Met­ro­pol­i­tan Muse­um of Art Exhi­bi­tion PUNK: Chaos to Cou­ture

Hen­ry Rollins Remem­bers the Life-Chang­ing Deci­sion That Brought Him From Häa­gen-Dazs to Black Flag

Mal­colm McLaren: The Quest for Authen­tic Cre­ativ­i­ty

The His­to­ry of Punk Rock

Louis Armstrong’s 1964 Interview with a Pair of Intrepid Kid Reporters

In the sum­mer of 1964, two young boys from the North Shore sub­urbs of Chica­go took a tape recorder and set out to inter­view jazz leg­end Louis Arm­strong for their high school radio sta­tion. Arm­strong was play­ing a con­cert at the Ravinia Fes­ti­val in High­land Park, not far from the boys’ school in Win­net­ka. He agreed to an inter­view, and as a group of pro­fes­sion­al reporters from the city’s major news out­lets wait­ed impa­tient­ly out­side his dress­ing room door, Arm­strong spent 20 min­utes answer­ing ques­tions for a lit­tle 10-watt FM radio sta­tion.

The sto­ry is told above, in the lat­est install­ment of PBS’s ongo­ing ani­ma­tion project with Blank on Blank, a group that brings unheard inter­views back to life. Michael Ais­ner, who was 15 when he met Arm­strong, and his friend James R. Stein, who was 14, recount their adven­ture and play a few high­lights from the inter­view. Arm­strong explains how he got the nick­name “Satch­mo” and talks a lit­tle about his Dick­en­sian child­hood and how he learned to play the coro­net in the Home for Col­ored Waifs in New Orleans. He talks about the need for prac­tic­ing hard every day, and about the tal­ent that was his tick­et out of the slums. “You’ve got to be good,” Arm­strong says, “or bad as the dev­il.”

Relat­ed con­tent:

Louis Arm­strong and His All Stars Live in Bel­gium, 1959

Watch the Ear­li­est Known Footage of Louis Arm­strong Per­form­ing Live in Con­cert (Copen­hagen, 1933)

Muham­mad Ali Plans to Fight on Mars in Lost 1966 Inter­view with Child Reporter

The Musical Mind of Albert Einstein: Great Physicist, Amateur Violinist and Devotee of Mozart

einst_fid

At the height of Albert Einstein’s pop­u­lar­i­ty, the pub­lic knew him not only as the world’s fore­most the­o­ret­i­cal physi­cist, but also as an enthu­si­as­tic some­time vio­lin­ist. As a pub­li­ca­tion for the 2005 “World Year of Physics” puts it: “to the press of his time… Ein­stein was two parts renowned sci­en­tist, one jig­ger paci­fist and Zion­ist fundrais­er, and a dash ama­teur musi­cian.” While this descrip­tion may get at the pub­lic per­cep­tion of his com­po­si­tion, Ein­stein him­self seems to have favored the musi­cian over all of his oth­er “parts.” “Life with­out play­ing music is incon­ceiv­able for me,” he once said, “I live my day­dreams in music. I see my life in terms of music… I get most joy in life out of music.”

The famous sci­en­tist nev­er trav­elled with­out his beloved vio­lin, “Lina.” His affair with music began with vio­lin lessons in Munich at the age of 5. How­ev­er, his ear­ly expe­ri­ences with the instru­ment seem at best per­func­to­ry and, at worst, antag­o­nis­tic (one anec­dote has him throw­ing a chair at his teacher, who left the house in tears).

He did not tru­ly fall in love until dis­cov­er­ing Mozart at age 13. A high school friend report­ed to biog­ra­ph­er Carl Seel­ing that at this time, when the young Einstein’s “vio­lin began to sing, the walls of the room seemed to recede—for the first time, Mozart in all his puri­ty appeared before me, bathed in Hel­lenic beau­ty with its pure lines, rogu­ish­ly play­ful, might­i­ly sub­lime.”

This gush­ing rec­ol­lec­tion must inevitably prompt the ques­tion, raised in every account of Ein­stein and music—was he real­ly any good? Since he played most­ly for his own enjoy­ment, the answer seems irrel­e­vant; yet, as par­ti­cle physi­cist Bri­an Fos­ter says in the video above, Ein­stein was “com­pe­tent.” In his Berlin years, he played with renowned musi­cians like Aus­tri­an vio­lin­ist Fritz Kreisler and pianist Artur Schn­abel (as well as with founder of quan­tum the­o­ry, Max Planck). His sci­en­tif­ic noto­ri­ety gar­nered invi­ta­tions to per­form at ben­e­fit con­certs. One crit­ic remarked, “Ein­stein plays excel­lent­ly. How­ev­er… there are many vio­lin­ists who are just as good.” Anoth­er con­cert-goer quipped, “I sup­pose now Fritz Kreisler is going to start giv­ing physics lec­tures.” Accounts of his abil­i­ties do dif­fer.

Bri­an Foster’s inter­est in Ein­stein the musi­cian tran­scends the man’s vir­tu­os­i­ty, or lack there­of. Since 2005—the 100th anniver­sary of Einstein’s “mir­a­cle year,” dur­ing which he pub­lished his most influ­en­tial papers—Foster has teamed up with British vio­lin­ist Jack Liebeck and oth­er clas­si­cal musi­cians to present lec­tures and con­certs on the role of music in Einstein’s life and work. Einstein’s devo­tion to Mozart may be of par­tic­u­lar inter­est to his­to­ri­ans of sci­ence. Fos­ter describes Einstein’s tastes as “con­ser­v­a­tive”; he found Beethoven too “cre­ative,” but Mozart, on the oth­er hand, revealed to him a uni­ver­sal har­mo­ny he believed exist­ed in the uni­verse. As anoth­er author puts it:

Ein­stein rel­ished Mozart, not­ing to a friend that it was as if the great Wolf­gang Amadeus did not “cre­ate” his beau­ti­ful­ly clear music at all, but sim­ply dis­cov­ered it already made. This per­spec­tive par­al­lels, remark­ably, Einstein’s views on the ulti­mate sim­plic­i­ty of nature and its expla­na­tion and state­ment via essen­tial­ly sim­ple math­e­mat­i­cal expres­sions.

While the inter­pre­ta­tion of Ein­stein as a “real­ist” has its detrac­tors, his insis­tence on the beau­ty and sim­plic­i­ty of sci­en­tif­ic the­o­ries is not in dis­pute. Fos­ter points out above that part of Einstein’s lega­cy is his push for beau­ty, uni­fi­ca­tion, and har­mo­ny in our phys­i­cal under­stand­ing of real­i­ty, a push that Fos­ter cred­its to the scientist’s musi­cal mind.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Lis­ten as Albert Ein­stein Reads ‘The Com­mon Lan­guage of Sci­ence’ (1941)

James Joyce Plays the Gui­tar, 1915

Albert Ein­stein on Indi­vid­ual Lib­er­ty, With­out Which There Would Be ‘No Shake­speare, No Goethe, No New­ton’

Albert Ein­stein Express­es His Admi­ra­tion for Mahat­ma Gand­hi, in Let­ter and Audio

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

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