Bob Dylan and Van Morrison Sing ‘Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door,’ 1998

Recent­ly we post­ed a remark­able pair of videos fea­tur­ing Bob Dylan and Van Mor­ri­son singing togeth­er on a hill­top in Athens. Today we’re back with anoth­er rare duet from the leg­endary singer-song­writ­ers, this one record­ed nine years after the jam ses­sion in Greece.

The per­for­mance took place on June 24, 1998 at the Nation­al Exhi­bi­tion Cen­tre in Birm­ing­ham, Eng­land. Dylan was on a world tour to sup­port his Time Out of Mind album, which was released the pre­vi­ous fall. Mor­ri­son shared the bill at some parts of the tour, includ­ing shows in North Amer­i­ca, North­ern Ire­land, Eng­land, Scot­land and France. Mor­ri­son usu­al­ly opened for Dylan, but on at least two occa­sions Mor­ri­son closed the show: in his native Belfast, and in Birm­ing­ham.

Near the end of Dylan’s Birm­ing­ham set, the audi­ence was sur­prised when Mor­ri­son walked onstage in his sun­glass­es and pork pie hat. The two sang a duet of “Knockin’ on Heav­en’s Door,” with Dylan play­ing acoustic gui­tar and Mor­ri­son the har­mon­i­ca. It was a rare event: With only a cou­ple of brief excep­tions ear­li­er in the tour, the two super­stars kept their appear­ances sep­a­rate. For­tu­nate­ly, some­one with a video cam­era was there to cap­ture the moment.

h/t Paul Jones

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Won­drous Night When Glen Hansard Met Van Mor­ri­son

Bob Dylan and The Grate­ful Dead Rehearse Togeth­er in Sum­mer 1987. Lis­ten to 74 Tracks.

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

David Bowie Releases 36 Music Videos of His Classic Songs from the 1970s and 1980s

Last month, David Bowie released The Next Dayhis first new album in a decade. That’s a long time to go with­out an album — long enough that fans could per­haps use a refresh­er, a reminder of why they should splurge for the new mate­r­i­al. So, in con­junc­tion with the release of The Next Day, Bowie has opened the vaults and put online a won­der­ful set of videos record­ed dur­ing his gold­en years. It’s a visu­al and aur­al treat. Today, I’ve pulled togeth­er my per­son­al favorites, all from the 1970s. That’s how I roll. But, if you’re an 80s Bowie fan, there’s some­thing there for you too. Fash­ion, Ash­es to Ash­esChi­na Girl, a duet with Mick Jag­ger record­ed for Live Aid in 85 — they’re all includ­ed in the col­lec­tion of 36 videos.

Now watch a few of these clips — we’re start­ing you off above with “Life on Mars?” — and then ask your­self: Are you ready to down­load The Next Day?

Space Odd­i­ty (1972)

Star­man (1972)

The Jean Genie (1972)

Heroes (1977)

Relat­ed Con­tent:

How “Space Odd­i­ty” Launched David Bowie to Star­dom: Watch the Orig­i­nal Music Video From 1969

The Sto­ry of Zig­gy Star­dust: How David Bowie Cre­at­ed the Char­ac­ter that Made Him Famous

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

David Bowie & Bing Cros­by Sing “The Lit­tle Drum­mer Boy” (1977)

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

Here’s a weird one: weirdo Doors front­man Jim Mor­ri­son, native of Flori­da, the weird­est state in the Union (well, it is!), stars in a pro­mo film for Flori­da State Uni­ver­si­ty. Morrison’s char­ac­ter gets a bum­mer of a let­ter inform­ing him that he has been reject­ed from FSU, and lat­er meets with an admin­is­tra­tor who gives him the low­down. Of course, as one YouTube com­menter quips, “when one door clos­es, The Doors open” (heh). So, fine, Mor­ri­son didn’t need Flori­da State—he lived fast, died young, and left the most famous grave in his­to­ry.

Morrison mug_shot

But as his fans know, the well-read Mor­ri­son was no intel­lec­tu­al slouch; he start­ed the Doors while study­ing film at UCLA, to which he’d trans­ferred from Flori­da State, where he enrolled in 1962. In addi­tion to get­ting cast in the pro­mo above, while at FSU Mor­ri­son got arrest­ed for a school prank (see his ’63 mugshot at left), made some short films, and did his share of carous­ing. One fel­low stu­dent, Ger­ry McClain, remem­bers Mor­ri­son from his FSU days in an inter­view with the site Amer­i­can Leg­ends:

He hung around with a bohemi­an crowd: peo­ple who liked to wear pants with holes in them. Jim posed as a mod­el for the art depart­ment, and they would all sell blood to the Red Cross to get a few bucks. Once, I saw Jim go around the col­lege cof­fee shop eat­ing scraps off tables. I felt he–and the others–were liv­ing an image–the starv­ing young artist.

But Mor­ri­son was­n’t exact­ly a starv­ing artist. He was, in fact, the son of Rear Admi­ral George Stephen Mor­ri­son, com­man­der of the U.S. Naval forces in the inci­dent that sparked the Viet­nam War. Weird, right? Watch the elder Mor­ri­son and Jim’s sis­ter Anne in inter­view remem­brances of Jim in the video below.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

See Jimi Hendrix’s First TV Appear­ance, and His Last as a Back­ing Musi­cian (1965)

A Young Frank Zap­pa Plays the Bicy­cle on The Steve Allen Show (1963)

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

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

Nico Sings “Chelsea Girls” in the Famous Chelsea Hotel

Ah, the Hotel Chelsea: home, in its hey­day, to all man­ner of New York City writ­ers, artists, rock­ers, and rogues. You can’t move in anymore—the man­age­ment insti­tut­ed a short stay-only pol­i­cy even before clos­ing for ren­o­va­tions in 2011—but even if you could, sure­ly the lega­cy of so many 20th-cen­tu­ry artis­tic lumi­nar­ies would weigh heav­i­ly indeed. Read up on Bob Dylan, Charles Bukows­ki, Janis Joplin, Leonard Cohen, Iggy Pop, Dylan Thomas, or Arthur C. Clarke, and you’ll find out about their extend­ed stays at the Chelsea. Read Pat­ti Smith’s mem­oir Just Kids, and you’ll learn even more about the place from Smith’s remem­brance of her days there with pho­tog­ra­ph­er Robert Map­plethor­pe. Watch Andy Warhol’s Chelsea Girls and you’ll glimpse the lives of the askew ingénues Warhol housed at the hotel, includ­ing Vel­vet Under­ground singer Nico.

Dig into Nico’s solo career, and you’ll soon hear her album Chelsea Girl. The clip above comes from a doc­u­men­tary includ­ing Warhol’s Chelsea Girls, and fea­tures Nico singing the almost-title track “Chelsea Girls” from that album. The film, Nico’s record, and the sem­i­nal Vel­vet Under­ground & Nico all appeared in the coun­ter­cul­tur­al­ly pro­duc­tive year of 1967. Rid­ing the wave of fame gen­er­at­ed by her time as a Warhol “Super­star,” Nico would spend the next twen­ty years record­ing five more solo albums, act­ing in sev­en pic­tures by film­mak­er Philippe Gar­rel, mak­ing her musi­cal come­back onstage at CBGB, and get­ting hooked on and sub­se­quent­ly kick­ing hero­in before pass­ing away in 1988. A bit lat­er in the video, an inter­view­er asks if she con­sid­ers her­self the one who made the Hotel Chelsea famous. “I am one of the per­sons,” replies the Ger­man-born Nico. “Aside from the peo­ple that are now in heav­en… or in hell, or… not stay­ing here.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Warhol’s Screen Tests: Lou Reed, Den­nis Hop­per, Nico, and More

Hear New­ly-Released Mate­r­i­al from the Lost Acetate Ver­sion of The Vel­vet Under­ground & Nico (1966)

Andy Warhol Quits Paint­ing, Man­ages The Vel­vet Under­ground (1965)

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.

Anne Bancroft and Mel Brooks Sing “Sweet Georgia Brown” Live…and in Polish

The Cap­tain and Tenille. 

Son­ny and Cher.

Shields and Yarnell.

Ban­croft and Brooks?

Not exact­ly, but one thing’s cer­tain. Had mar­ried cou­ple Anne Ban­croft and Mel Brooks under­tak­en to co-host a tele­vi­sion vari­ety show in the 70’s or 80’s, they would’ve mopped up the era’s com­pe­ti­tion faster than you can say Mr Clean Sun­shine Fresh.

Our best evi­dence is this clip from the 1983 Brooks-host­ed episode of the BBC vari­ety hour, An Audi­ence with…  All the tropes of the once pop­u­lar form—the celebri­ty ‘as audi­ence plant, the staged spon­tane­ity, the audi­ence eager­ly fol­low­ing direction—are on dis­play in the lead up to the big pay off, a light-foot­ed live ren­di­tion of Sweet Geor­gia Brown…in heav­i­ly accent­ed Pol­ish.

It def­i­nite­ly leaves one want­i­ng more. (In which case, you could try your luck with Brooks’ remake of To Be or Not to Be, in which he and Ban­croft play roles orig­i­nat­ed by Jack Ben­ny and Car­ole Lom­bard).

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Crit­ic: Hilar­i­ous Oscar-Win­ning Film Nar­rat­ed by Mel Brooks (1963)

John­ny Cash: Singer, Out­law, and, Briefly, Tele­vi­sion Host

Woody Allen Box­es a Kan­ga­roo, 1966

Ayun Hal­l­i­day’s will be per­form­ing live in Brook­lyn Brain Frame lat­er this month.  Fol­low her @AyunHalliday

A Look Back at Jim Carroll: How the Poet and Basketball Diaries Author Finally Finished His First Novel

Like so many denizens of the New York that pro­duced Warhol and The Vel­vet Under­ground, then grit­ty punk rock, hip-hop, and no wave, poet Jim Car­roll didn’t fare so well into Bloomberg-era NYC, a developer’s par­adise and des­ti­na­tion for urban pro­fes­sion­als and tourists, but not so much a haven for strug­gling artists. As the city changed, its cre­ative char­ac­ters either rose above its shift­ing demo­graph­ics, moved away, or—as Car­roll did—retreated. Car­roll, who died in 2009 at 60, spent his last years in the upper Man­hat­tan neigh­bor­hood of Inwood—once a bustling Irish-Catholic enclave—living in the same build­ing where he’d grown up and writ­ing against time to fin­ish his first and only nov­el, The Pet­ting Zoo. His last years were by no means trag­ic, how­ev­er. Giv­en the tumult of his ear­ly years as an addict, and the long list of friends from the down­town New York scene that Car­roll lost along the way—to over­dos­es, AIDS, can­cer, suicide—I’d say he was a lit­er­ary sur­vivor, who died (at his writ­ing desk, it’s said) doing what he loved most.

Car­roll came to main­stream con­scious­ness with the release of a 1995 film star­ring Leonar­do DiCaprio, based on the book Carroll’s most known for: the 1978 mem­oir The Bas­ket­ball Diaries, a col­lec­tion of teenage jour­nal entries from his dou­ble life as a high school bas­ket­ball star and junkie hus­tler. But even with that movie’s nods to Carroll’s mature years as a poet and musi­cian, it’s doubt­ful that few peo­ple came away with much more than a vague sense of what the street-wise Catholic school­boy DiCaprio char­ac­ter had gone on to do. Which is a shame, because Car­roll real­ly was a ter­rif­ic writer, from his debut poet­ry pub­li­ca­tions in the 60s and on through­out the next three decades. Even in the obscu­ri­ty and semi-seclu­sion of his lat­er years, he wrote wise, inci­sive essays and crit­i­cism (such as this 2002 review of Kurt Cobain’s pub­lished Jour­nals for the Los Ange­les Times). And despite the mem­oir and film’s pop­u­lar­i­ty, Car­roll con­sid­ered him­self pri­mar­i­ly a poet, in the sym­bol­ist tra­di­tion of his lit­er­ary heroes Rilke, Rim­baud, and Ash­bery. (See Car­roll at top, in his harsh New York accent, read from his 1986 col­lec­tion of poems, The Book of Nods.)

In a man­ner of speak­ing, Car­roll suf­fered the curse of one-hit-won­derism, except in his case, he was lucky enough to have two hits—the mem­oir (and lat­er film) and the song, “Peo­ple Who Died,” from Catholic Boy, his debut album with the Jim Car­roll Band (video above), which even made it onto the E.T. sound­track (giv­ing Car­roll roy­al­ties for life). The band came about with the encour­age­ment of Carroll’s fel­low poet and for­mer room­mate Pat­ti Smith, after Car­roll kicked hero­in and moved to Cal­i­for­nia. Car­roll wrote songs for Blue Oys­ter Cult and Boz Scaggs and col­lab­o­rat­ed with Ran­cid, Son­ic Youth’s Lee Ranal­do, Pat­ti Smith gui­tarist Lenny Kaye, and gui­tarist Anton Sanko (on his 1998 return to music, Pools of Mer­cury). His years in rock and roll trans­mut­ed through most of the nineties into dra­mat­ic read­ings, spo­ken word per­for­mances, and live­ly mono­logues, such as those col­lect­ed on the 1991 release Pray­ing Man­tis. In the track below, “The Loss of Amer­i­can Inno­cence,” Car­roll deliv­ers some sham­bling, and pret­ty fun­ny, sto­ries about the char­ac­ters in his nov­el-in-progress.

Car­roll had been telling these sto­ries about Bil­ly the down­town painter and a cer­tain chat­ty raven since the late 80s. As the mono­logues crys­tal­lized into short prose pieces, he slow­ly, painstak­ing­ly assem­bled them into The Pet­ting Zoo, which saw pub­li­ca­tion in 2010. It took him twen­ty years, and he didn’t live to see it pub­lished, but he left a final lega­cy behind, and it’s a flawed but seri­ous work worth read­ing. In 2010, Carroll’s long­time friends Pat­ti Smith and Lenny Kaye cel­e­brat­ed the novel’s pub­li­ca­tion with read­ings and per­for­mances at the Barnes and Noble in Union Square. Below, see Smith read an excerpt from The Pet­ting Zoo. The sound’s a bit tin­ny and the cam­era shakes, but it’s worth it to see liv­ing leg­end Smith read from Carroll’s leg­endary final song.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Pat­ti Smith Reads Her Final Words to Robert Map­plethor­pe

The Life and Con­tro­ver­sial Work of Pho­tog­ra­ph­er Robert Map­plethor­pe Pro­filed in 1988 Doc­u­men­tary

Rock and Roll Heart, 1998 Doc­u­men­tary Retraces the Remark­able Career of Lou Reed

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

Revisit The Life & Music of Sister Rosetta Tharpe: ‘The Godmother of Rock and Roll’

Sure, Kei­th Richards bor­rowed some of his best licks from Chuck Berry. But do you know who Chuck Berry bor­rowed from? Sis­ter Roset­ta Tharpe. Tharpe was one of the pio­neers of 20th cen­tu­ry music, a flam­boy­ant, larg­er-than-life fig­ure who fused gospel and blues into some­thing new. “Lis­ten to her record­ings,” said singer-song­writer Joan Osborne, “and you can hear all the build­ing blocks of rock and roll.” Lit­tle Richard, Elvis Pres­ley and John­ny Cash each named Tharpe as one of their fond­est child­hood influ­ences. “Sis­ter Roset­ta Tharpe was any­thing but ordi­nary and plain,” said Bob Dylan on his radio pro­gram. “She was a big, good-look­ing woman and divine, not to men­tion sub­lime and splen­did. She was a pow­er­ful force of nature–a gui­tar-play­ing, singing evan­ge­list.”

Yet despite the enor­mi­ty of her influ­ence, Tharpe has been vir­tu­al­ly for­got­ten by the main­stream cul­ture. For many years fol­low­ing her death in 1973, she lay in an unmarked grave. In the last decade, though, there has been a slow resur­gence of appre­ci­a­tion for Tharpe. In 2004 Osborne, Maria Mul­daur, Bon­nie Rait and oth­er artists joined togeth­er for a trib­ute album called Shout, Sis­ter, Shout! A biog­ra­phy of the same name, by Gayle Wald, was pub­lished in 2007. And in 2011–the same year Tharpe’s grave final­ly received a head­stone, thanks to a fundrais­ing con­cert– film­mak­er Mike Csaky direct­ed a doc­u­men­tary called The God­moth­er of Rock & Roll: Sis­ter Roset­ta Tharpe, which aired this Feb­ru­ary on PBS as part of the Amer­i­can Mas­ters series. You can watch the full 53-minute film below.

And for a quick exam­ple of Tharpe’s stun­ning artistry and stage pres­ence, you can start by watch­ing the short clip above, from a 1960s Sun­day-morn­ing tele­vi­sion pro­gram pro­duced in Chica­go and dis­trib­uted by NBC called TV Gospel Time, in which Tharpe sings the gospel stan­dard “Up Above My Head.” Sources dif­fer on the exact year of the per­for­mance (TV Gospel Time was broad­cast from late 1962 until 1966.) but PBS gives it as 1964–1965. Two-thirds of the way into the song is the famous elec­tric gui­tar solo that was fea­tured in the French film Amelie. “Tharpe did­n’t just play the gui­tar,” writes her biog­ra­ph­er Wald, “she owned it. Like a snake-charmer, she coaxed sounds out of the instru­ments, turn­ing wood and met­al into lome­thing alive yet com­plete­ly under her con­trol. her con­tem­po­raries referred to this as mak­ing a gui­tar ‘talk.’ Some­times, too, they said she played ‘like a man,’ as though a woman was­n’t capa­ble of pro­ject­ing such command–or a woman-in-gospel con­vey­ing such pal­pa­ble eroti­cism.”

Also fea­tur­ing Sis­ter Roset­ta Tharpe:

“Mud­dy Waters and Friends on the Blues and Gospel Train, 1964”

James Brown Gives You Danc­ing Lessons: From The Funky Chick­en to The Booga­loo

The Alan Lomax Sound Archive Now Online: Fea­tures 17,000 Record­ings

Rock and Roll Heart, 1998 Documentary Retraces the Remarkable Career of Lou Reed

From the album that launched a mil­lion bands to pos­si­bly the worst rap song of all time—from per­fect, career-reviv­ing col­lab­o­ra­tions to abysmal career-killing onesLou Reed’s rock and roll run has seen its share of highs and rock-bot­tom lows. Reed war­rants com­par­i­son with Neil Young for his longevi­ty, hit-and-miss pro­lif­ic out­put, and gad­fly abil­i­ty to flit from project to project, sound to sound, while still sound­ing dis­tinc­tive­ly him­self. And like Young, there are too many phas­es, too many albums, great and ter­ri­ble, to real­ly do the life’s work jus­tice in any one ret­ro­spec­tive.

But the 1998 doc­u­men­tary above, from the PBS Amer­i­can Master’s series, makes an admirable attempt. Called Rock and Roll Heart after Reed’s 1976 album and sin­gle of the same name, the film lets Reed tell much of his own sto­ry: his teenage years as a devo­tee of 50s rock and doo wop, his col­lege-days asso­ci­a­tion with poet Del­more Schwartz, episodes in his life that very much came to define his art, which mar­ries a fine­ly-tuned lit­er­ary sen­si­bil­i­ty to the sim­plic­i­ty and tune­ful­ness of clas­sic rock and roll. Reed’s warped, lyri­cal takes on streetlife psy­chodra­ma and his love for drone notes and feed­back, how­ev­er, took rock song­writ­ing places it had nev­er been before. At the open­ing of the film, Reed deliv­ers an epi­gram­mat­ic gem about him­self: “I dis­liked groups, dis­liked author­i­ty. Uh… I was made for rock and roll.”

Reed’s dis­like of groups trans­lates through­out his career into a rep­u­ta­tion for dif­fi­cul­ty that sent col­lab­o­ra­tors run­ning from him, either because he fired them (as he most famous­ly did to the bril­liant John Cale) or because they’d had enough of his ego­tism. Nonethe­less, many of those same people—Cale included—came back to work with Reed again. Cale shows up above, telling sto­ries of the gen­e­sis of The Vel­vet Underground—of him and Reed play­ing “Wait­ing for the Man” and “Hero­in” on a Harlem street­corner on vio­la and acoustic gui­tar. Oth­er con­fr­eres of Reed’s genius also appear in inter­views: Velvet’s drum­mer Mau­reen Tuck­er, David Bowie, Pat­ti Smith, Jim Car­roll, Philip Glass, and of course the man Reed cred­its most for his suc­cess, Andy Warhol, in archival footage from 1966.

The love/hate pair­ing of The Vel­vets and Nico gets an air­ing, and there’s loads of film of Lou per­form­ing, but at 73 min­utes, Rock and Roll Heart feels a lit­tle thin, and its tone is almost entire­ly cel­e­bra­to­ry, elid­ing the musi­cal low points (like the stab at rap) and end­ing with Reed’s for­ays into the­ater with Time Rock­er. But these are for­giv­able flaws. There’s no way to cov­er all the ground Reed’s bro­ken (he’s released an album rough­ly every year since 1972). And at 71 (if he can recov­er from that Metal­li­ca mash-up), he’s still at it—as he says in an inter­view above, until he dies.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Hear New­ly-Released Mate­r­i­al from the Lost Acetate Ver­sion of The Vel­vet Under­ground & Nico (1966)

Philip Glass & Lou Reed at Occu­py Lin­coln Cen­ter: An Art­ful View

Andy Warhol Quits Paint­ing, Man­ages The Vel­vet Under­ground (1965)

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

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