Watch a New Music Video Shot Entirely Within an MRI Machine

It’s not as poignant as The Love Com­pe­ti­tion, a short film that used an MRI machine to visu­al­ize the human brain in love. Nor is it quite as tan­ta­liz­ing as anoth­er clip doc­u­ment­ing brain activ­i­ty when peo­ple expe­ri­ence the highs of sex­u­al inter­course and divine rev­e­la­tion. We’ll give you that. But, per­haps you’ll find it fas­ci­nat­ing to watch British singer Sivu per­form his song “Bet­ter Than He” through the prism of mag­net­ic res­o­nance imag­ing. Or, if you’ve ever spent time enveloped in an MRI machine, you’ll say the oper­a­tive word is “anx­i­ety-pro­duc­ing.” If the reports are true, Sivu spent three hours record­ing the three-minute song. Just imag­ine the amount of Ati­van and com­mit­ment that got him through…

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John Coltrane’s Naval Reserve Enlistment Mugshot (1945)

450px-U.S._Naval_Reserve_portrait_of_Johnny_Coltrane

Do you ever have déjà vu? Last week we post­ed Jack Ker­ouac’s U.S. Naval Reserve enlist­ment mugshot from 1943 and the response was enthu­si­as­tic. Many of you were fas­ci­nat­ed to see the great Beat writer at such a ten­der age and in such an atyp­i­cal, unlib­er­at­ed con­text. Today we offer an eeri­ly sim­i­lar pho­to of anoth­er free­wheel­ing icon of 20th cen­tu­ry art: John Coltrane, when he was 18 years old.

Coltrane entered the Navy on the same day the Unit­ed States dropped the atom­ic bomb on Hiroshi­ma (August 6, 1945) and was assigned reserve sta­tus, as were many African-Amer­i­cans at that time. Accord­ing to Lewis Porter in John Coltrane: His Life and Music, only lim­it­ed num­bers of black men served as sea­man after 1942. Pri­or to that, they were only allowed to work as kitchen help. The Navy was seg­re­gat­ed, and Coltrane was sent to boot camp at the black sec­tion of Samp­son Naval Train­ing Cen­ter in upstate New York. By the time he fin­ished train­ing, World War II was over.

In late Novem­ber of 1945, after a tran­si­tion­al month at Camp Shoe­mak­er near San Fran­cis­co, sea­man sec­ond class Coltrane was assigned to active duty in Hawaii. Sta­tioned on the island of Oahu, Coltrane played clar­inet and alto sax­o­phone in a black Navy band called the Melody Mas­ters. He made his first record­ings with some of the musi­cians from the band in the sum­mer of 1946. But all the while Coltrane was serv­ing, the Navy was in the process of down­siz­ing. With the war over, bands were no longer need­ed to boost morale. So on August 11, 1946–just over a year after his enlistment–Coltrane was dis­charged from the Navy and sent home.

Relat­ed con­tent:

John Coltrane and His Great Quin­tet Play ‘My Favorite Things’

John Coltrane Plays Only Live Per­for­mance of A Love Supreme

John Coltrane: Three Great Euro­pean Per­for­mances, 1969, 1961 and 1965

Coen Brothers’ Inside Llewyn Davis Draws from the Life of Greenwich Village Icon Dave Van Ronk

If you care about the folk revival of the six­ties, or about most any­thing that went on in Green­wich Vil­lage back then, Dave Van Ronk lived just the life you’ll want to learn about. Known as “the May­or of Mac­Dou­gal Street,” he not only became a neigh­bor­hood fix­ture but backed up his for­mi­da­bly large, eccen­tri­cal­ly rum­pled pres­ence with such a set of acoustic gui­tar and vocal skills that no less a future super­star than Bob Dylan looked to him as a guru. (Even Joni Mitchell deemed Van Ronk’s inter­pre­ta­tion of her “Both Sides Now” the finest ever record­ed.) Only toward the end did this musi­cal­ly eclec­tic, tech­ni­cal­ly pro­fi­cient lover of jazz and blues get around to telling the sto­ries of his life in folk; a mem­oir, put down on paper by gui­tarist-his­to­ri­an Eli­jah Wald, appeared three years after his death. Now, eight years after that, Van Ronk’s words, deeds, and songs have inspired Inside Llewyn Davis, the lat­est film from Joel and Ethan Coen, whose trail­er you can watch above.

Giv­en that the pro­duc­tion offi­cial­ly optioned Van Ronk’s mem­oir, you might expect a thin­ly veiled biopic, but the Coen broth­ers had oth­er ideas — as, to their fans’ delight, they usu­al­ly do. The New York Times’ Michael Cieply describes mem­oirist Wald’s cau­tion­ing that “the world of Inside Llewyn Davis, hav­ing been devised by the Coens, is ‘less inno­cent’ than one inhab­it­ed by Van Ronk, Mr. Dylan, Paul Clay­ton, the Rev. Rev­erend Gary Davis, Joni Mitchell, Tom Pax­ton and the myr­i­ad oth­er singers who are invoked in the film.” In mak­ing the movie as musi­cal as pos­si­ble with­out actu­al­ly mak­ing it a musi­cal, the Coens enlist­ed pro­duc­er T Bone Bur­nett to recre­ate the con­ver­gence of “influ­ences from Appalachia, the Deep South, the Far West [and] New Eng­land” that stoked the folk revival that attract­ed so many young New York­ers. “It was that cul­tur­al dis­con­nect” between those worlds, Cieply quotes Coen as say­ing, “that lured him and his broth­er — long fans of folk music — to look for the movie in all of it.”

Relat­ed con­tent:

The Coen Broth­ers Make a TV Com­mer­cial — Ridi­cul­ing “Clean Coal”

Tui­leries: A Short, Slight­ly Twist­ed Film by Joel and Ethan Coen

World Cin­e­ma: Joel and Ethan Coen’s Play­ful Homage to Cin­e­ma His­to­ry

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 Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Watch John Coltrane and His Great Quintet Play ‘My Favorite Things’ (1961)

Here’s some­thing to get your week start­ed on the right note: John Coltrane in 1961, play­ing his hyp­not­ic, dervish-like modal arrange­ment of the pop­u­lar Rodgers and Ham­mer­stein song, “My Favorite Things.”

The per­for­mance was record­ed by Ger­man pub­lic tele­vi­sion in Baden-Baden on Novem­ber 24, 1961–the same year as the release of Coltrane’s break­through solo album, also named My Favorite Things. The quin­tet includes Coltrane on sopra­no sax­o­phone, Eric Dol­phy on flute, McCoy Tyn­er on piano, Reg­gie Work­man on bass and Elvin Jones on drums. You can see the com­plete TV broad­cast, along with two oth­ers, in our Novem­ber 21 post, “John Coltrane: Three Great Euro­pean Per­for­mances, 1960, 1961 and 1965.”

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Relat­ed con­tent:

John Coltrane’s ‘Giant Steps’ Ani­mat­ed

John Coltrane’s Naval Reserve Enlist­ment Mugshot (1945)

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

Tom Waits and Keith Richards Sing Sea Song “Shenandoah” for New Pirate-Themed CD: Listen Online

In 2006, Anti- Records, home of Tom Waits, Nick Cave, Neko Case, Kate Bush (and so many more favorites of mine, this list is already too long), pub­lished the tons-of-fun com­pi­la­tion Rogue’s Gallery, a selec­tion of sea shanties and pirate songs as inter­pret­ed by an ensem­ble of lumi­nar­ies from the pop, indie, and folk worlds. The two-CD, forty-three track release is avail­able on YouTube (I’d rec­om­mend Nick Cave’s “Fire Down Below,” but he’s an old hand at this kind of thing).

Both CDs are pro­duced by Hal Will­ner and curat­ed by Will­ner and Pirates of the Caribbean star John­ny Depp and direc­tor Gore Verbin­s­ki; Son of Rogue’s Gallery: Pirate Bal­lads, Sea Songs, and Chanteys is set for release on Feb­ru­ary 19th. Will­ner told Rolling Stone in Decem­ber that this new release “seems happier—not as much about tor­ture, sodomy and death.” Hard to imag­ine a sea song with­out those three things, but here we are, with “Shenan­doah” (above), a nos­tal­gic hymn to old Vir­ginia, sup­pos­ed­ly sung by Mis­souri Riv­er flat­boat­men in the ear­ly 19th cen­tu­ry, then export­ed ‘round the world on clip­per ships. The ver­sion above by Tom Waits and Kei­th Richards turns the maudlin bal­lad into a drunk­en funer­al dirge. A com­menter on the video puts it per­fect­ly: “If a song could smell like whiskey….” Richards’ spare elec­tric gui­tar work near the end adds a clean, melod­ic coun­ter­point to Waits’ down-and-out growl. Won­der­ful stuff.

The song has long been a favorite of clean-shaven choral and vocal groups like the Statler Broth­ers and Mor­mon Taber­na­cle Choir and was the title theme of the 1965 Civ­il War film Shenan­doah, with Jim­my Stew­art. Waits and Richards do the song a much-need­ed service—they reclaim it for the drunk­en, dirty boat­men and rum-soaked, lone­ly sailors who sang it at sea.

* Cor­rec­tion: a pre­vi­ous ver­sion of this post stat­ed that Rogue’s Gallery and Son of Rogue’s Gallery were asso­ci­at­ed with the Walt Dis­ney com­pa­ny and part of the Pirates of the Caribbean pro­mo­tion­al cam­paign. As you can see from pro­duc­er Hal Will­ner’s com­ment below, nei­ther project is asso­ci­at­ed with Dis­ney or the mar­ket­ing of the Pirates films. We apol­o­gize for the mis­take. 

Relat­ed Con­tent

Tom Waits Reads Charles Bukows­ki

A Brief His­to­ry of John Baldessari, Nar­rat­ed by Tom Waits

Tom Waits’ Clas­sic Appear­ance on Aus­tralian TV, 1979

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

The Time Neil Young Met Charles Manson, Liked His Music, and Tried to Score Him a Record Deal

Wag­ing Heavy Peace — it’s not your aver­age rock star biog­ra­phy. There’s not much sex and drugs. There’s some rock ’n’ roll. But most­ly, there’s a lot of Neil Young being an ordi­nary guy, hang­ing out with fam­i­ly and friends, tin­ker­ing with toy trains, and refur­bish­ing old cars. It’s a decid­ed­ly down-to-earth auto­bi­og­ra­phy, so far as auto­bi­ogra­phies go. But it’s not entire­ly devoid of fan­tas­ti­cal sto­ries. Like the time when, dur­ing the late 1960s, Young stopped by the Los Ange­les home of Den­nis Wil­son, the drum­mer of The Beach Boys. There, Wil­son was liv­ing with three or four girls who had an “intense vibe” and a “detached qual­i­ty about them.” Young con­tin­ues:

After a while, a guy showed up, picked up my gui­tar, and start­ed play­ing a lot of songs on it. His name was Char­lie. He was a friend of the girls and now of Den­nis. His songs were off-the-cuff things he made up as he went along, and they were nev­er the same twice in a row. Kind of like Dylan, but dif­fer­ent because it was hard to glimpse a true mes­sage in them, but the songs were fas­ci­nat­ing. He was quite good.

Young then adds:

I asked him if he had a record­ing con­tract. He told me he did­n’t yet, but he want­ed to make records. I told Mo Ostin at Reprise about him, and rec­om­mend­ed that Reprise check him out.… Short­ly after­ward, the Sharon Tate-La Bian­ca mur­ders hap­pened, and Char­lie Man­son’s name was known around the world.

After the mur­ders, Man­son kind of got a record deal. His record­ings were com­mer­cial­ly released on the album Lie: The Love and Ter­ror CultAbove, we have one bizarrely upbeat song from the col­lec­tion, “Home Is Where You’re Hap­py.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Neil Young Reveals the New Killer Gad­get That Will Save Music

Neil Young Busk­ing in Glas­gow, 1976: The Sto­ry Behind the Footage

‘The Nee­dle and the Dam­age Done’: Neil Young Plays Two Songs on The John­ny Cash Show, 1971

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

It may seem odd to con­tem­plate, but rock titan David Bowie’s rise to fame was a long, frus­trat­ing, stop-and-start affair until he burst onto the inter­na­tion­al scene as Zig­gy Star­dust (though he had some suc­cess with his two pri­or albums, the excel­lent The Man Who Sold the World and Hunky Dory). This is part­ly due to poor man­age­ment, and part­ly due to Bowie’s own dif­fi­cul­ty in find­ing a style that fit his ambi­tions. His first hit, “Space Odd­i­ty,” from his sec­ond, 1969, album of the same name, promised great things. (That record, orig­i­nal­ly called, like his first, just David Bowie, was renamed after the song did the Sev­en­ties equiv­a­lent of viral.) Most peo­ple who grew up with Bowie would tell you the song is a water­shed moment in their dis­cov­ery of pop music’s poten­tial. I recall dis­cov­er­ing Bowie at a young age through “Space Odd­i­ty,” and being giv­en the album on cas­sette as a birth­day present. Like many peo­ple, I was a lit­tle flum­moxed by the record. None of it resem­bles the sin­gle, which isn’t nec­es­sar­i­ly a bad qual­i­ty in gen­er­al, but in this case, it’s hard to know what to make of that strange col­lec­tion of some­times com­ic, Bea­t­les-esque pop frag­ments (“Don’t Sit Down”), some­times cool pro­gres­sive rock (“Janine”), and some­times almost medieval, Judy Collins-like hip­py folk (“Mem­o­ry of a Free Fes­ti­val,” “Wild Eyed Boy from Freecloud”). I grew to love it, but the album’s eclec­ti­cism did­n’t win many over.

Still, near­ly every­one knows and loves the album ver­sion of “Space Odd­i­ty.” But like a great deal of Bowie’s ear­ly work, the song exists in an ear­li­er, more ten­ta­tive ver­sion. Ini­tial­ly record­ed short­ly after his first album, 1967’s David Bowie—which Bowie biog­ra­ph­er David Buck­ley called “the vinyl equiv­a­lent of the mad­woman in the attic”—the song end­ed up on an abortive pro­mo­tion­al film com­mis­sioned by Bowie’s pro­duc­er, Ken­neth Pitt. Called Love You Till Tues­day, after the sin­gle from the first album, the film fin­ished shoot­ing in 1969, but didn’t see the light of day until 1984, long after Bowie hit it big.

The film ver­sion of “Space Odd­i­ty” (first video) dif­fers sig­nif­i­cant­ly in sound and vision from the one right above. For one thing, Bowie, who wore a wig for the extent of film­ing because he’d shorn off his hair to audi­tion for a role, looks decid­ed­ly less, well, like a rock star. As “Ground Con­trol,” his Janis Joplin glass­es clash odd­ly with an arty t‑shirt and what looks like a child’s base­ball cap perched atop his wig, both embla­zoned with “GC.” He stands cross-armed and awk­ward, lip synch­ing between space sequences. Of the lat­ter, “Major Tom” parts, one YouTube com­menter quips, “We have no bud­get, no props, only bak­ing foil and corn­flake pack­ets.… Oh well make the video any­way.” Sums things up pret­ty well.

Even more so than those who bought Space Odd­i­ty after hear­ing its name­sake sin­gle, any­one who heard this ear­ly ver­sion, then went and bought Bowie’s first album would have been thor­ough­ly per­plexed. ‘67’s David Bowie is a very strange, though some­times very intrigu­ing, record, large­ly influ­enced by the musi­cal com­e­dy of pop­u­lar Eng­lish enter­tain­er Antho­ny New­ley. Watch the film’s title track (and open­ing sequence), “Love You Till Tues­day” below, with Bowie, in wig and frilly Austin Pow­ers suit, doing some weird Tom Jones thing that just real­ly does­n’t work.

Had Bowie fol­lowed this tra­jec­to­ry, instead of find­ing his voice in the space­rock of his first big sin­gle, it’s pret­ty like­ly no one would have heard from him again. Lucky for us, the young pop star was noth­ing if not per­sis­tent.  And lucky for us, he still is. The 66-year-old Bowie just released his first sin­gle in a decade, the con­tem­pla­tive “Where Are We Now?” with an album, The Next Day, com­ing in March.

Relat­ed Con­tent

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

David Bowie Cel­e­brates 66th Birth­day with First New Song in a Decade, Plus Vin­tage Videos

David Bowie’s First Amer­i­can Fan Let­ter And His Evolv­ing Views of the U.S. (1967–1997)

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

Gimme Shelter: Watch the Classic Documentary of the Rolling Stones’ Disastrous Concert at Altamont

It’s often remem­bered as the day the Six­ties died. On Decem­ber 6, 1969, the Rolling Stones and a group of West Coast bands put on a free con­cert at the Alta­mont Race­way near San Fran­cis­co. The con­cert was billed as “Wood­stock West,” but instead of being anoth­er gath­er­ing of peace, love and music, it was more like a bad trip.

The event was hasti­ly put togeth­er by the Stones to cel­e­brate the end of their Amer­i­can tour, their first with gui­tarist Mick Tay­lor. The stage at the venue was unusu­al­ly low and was sit­u­at­ed at the bot­tom of a hill. To keep the audi­ence of 300,000 peo­ple from engulf­ing the stage, some­one had the bright idea of enlist­ing the Hells Angels motor­cy­cle gang to form a secu­ri­ty cor­don around the stage in exchange for (essen­tial­ly) all the beer they could drink.

As the con­cert descend­ed into chaos, the Hells Angels beat peo­ple with pool cues and motor­cy­cle chains. A gui­tarist and singer for the Jef­fer­son Air­plane, Mar­ty Balin, was knocked uncon­scious. When a man in the audi­ence bran­dished a pis­tol dur­ing an alter­ca­tion while the Stones were onstage, he was stabbed and beat­en to death by mem­bers of the gang.

The whole sor­ry episode is cap­tured in Gimme Shel­ter, the clas­sic doc­u­men­tary by the broth­ers Albert and David Maysles and Char­lotte Zwerin. The film was released in 1970 and can be seen above in its entire­ty. Gimme Shel­ter con­tains ele­ments of a typ­i­cal rock and roll doc­u­men­tary, with footage of the Stones on the road and play­ing a con­cert at Madi­son Square Gar­den in New York. But the main focus is Alta­mont. The Maysles broth­ers hired a large team of cam­era­men for the event, includ­ing film­mak­er Robert Elf­strom, Mag­num pho­tog­ra­ph­er Elliott Erwitt and a young George Lucas.

Gimme Shel­ter is a fas­ci­nat­ing record of the Six­ties coun­ter­cul­ture as it was falling apart. The last third of the pic­ture is painful to watch but dif­fi­cult to turn away from. The hubris and naiveté of the time are cap­tured in a scene before the event, when Mick Jag­ger tells a group of reporters what Alta­mont is all about: “It’s cre­at­ing a sort of micro­cos­mic soci­ety, which sets an exam­ple to the rest of Amer­i­ca as to how one can behave in large gath­er­ings.”

Relat­ed Con­tent

The Rolling Stones Jam With Their Idol, Mud­dy Waters

The Rolling Stones at 50: Mick, Kei­th, Char­lie & Ron­nie Revis­it Their Favorite Songs

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