Regina Spektor Live in L.A. — A Free 30 Minute Set with Songs from Her New Album

Regi­na Spek­tor’s sixth stu­dio album, What We Saw From The Cheap Seats, is out. That means we’re hear­ing a lot more from the singer-song­writer whose music took form in the East Vil­lage of New York City. Sev­er­al weeks back, Spek­tor gave a thought­ful inter­view on NPR’s Fresh Air, where, among oth­er things, she recalled the dis­crim­i­na­tion her fam­i­ly faced in the Sovi­et Union and her child­hood immi­gra­tion to the Unit­ed States. Now, we’re catch­ing up with her in South­ern Cal­i­for­nia — at Apogee’s Berke­ley St. Stu­dios in L.A., to be pre­cise — where Spek­tor played an inti­mate con­cert fea­tur­ing songs from the new album. Catch one song, “The Par­ty,” right above, and the com­plete 30-minute ses­sion here. If you have a decent inter­net con­nec­tion, I’d skip to the HD ver­sion and enjoy. Kudos to KCRW for mak­ing this avail­able.

h/t @opedr

Johnny Cash: The Man, His World, His Music

John­ny Cash once called 1968 the hap­pi­est year of his life. It was the year his mas­ter­piece At Fol­som Prison came out, the year he was named the Coun­try Music Asso­ci­a­tion’s Enter­tain­er of the Year, and the year he mar­ried the love of his life, June Carter. So it was a for­tu­nate time for a young film­mak­er named Robert Elf­strom to meet up with Cash for the mak­ing of a doc­u­men­tary.

Elf­strom trav­eled with Cash for sev­er­al months in late 1968 and ear­ly 1969. The result­ing film, John­ny Cash: The Man, His World, His Music, is a reveal­ing look at Cash, his cre­ative process and his ties to fam­i­ly. Elf­strom fol­lowed along on a tour that took Cash and his group (includ­ing, at dif­fer­ent times, Chet Atkins and the Carter Fam­i­ly singers) to a wide range of places, includ­ing a prison, an Indi­an reser­va­tion and Cash’s own native soil in the Amer­i­can South. Cash and Carter vis­it his par­ents and oth­er fam­i­ly mem­bers, and in one mov­ing scene Cash returns to his aban­doned child­hood home in Dyess, Arkansas, a cot­ton farm­ing town that was cre­at­ed under Pres­i­dent Franklin D. Roo­sevelt’s New Deal pro­gram in the 1930s to give poor fam­i­lies a chance to start over.

The film gives some sense of the com­plex­i­ty of Cash’s per­son­al­i­ty. There is one scene near the begin­ning, for exam­ple, in which Cash goes hunt­ing and wounds a crow. He then cra­dles the injured bird in his hands and talks friend­ly to it. “That scene, to me, says a lot about who John­ny Cash is,” Elf­strom told PBS in a 2008 inter­view. “John was not always warm and fuzzy like a pan­da bear all the time. He’s like that part of the time, but he also has a sharp edge and stee­li­ness to him.” Elf­strom went on to describe the sit­u­a­tion:

One day, we were hang­ing out in his house, and he said, “I want to go hunt­ing.” He grabbed his shot­gun and was walk­ing through the land around his house when he spied a crow and whipped off a shot. John was a dead shot, so he wound­ed the crow, and the bird hit the ground. When he picked up the crow, you could feel that some­thing was going through John’s head; he’d almost killed some­thing that maybe he should­n’t have, and he felt bad­ly about it, but that instinct to hunt and wound was a part of him too. So John car­ried the crow and sat down in the shade, and I could see he was kind of pissed off at him­self. I kept some dis­tance from him, and the next thing I knew, he was writ­ing a song to the crow.

One of the most strik­ing things about Elf­strom’s film is the way it man­ages, despite the con­straints of the ciné­ma vérité form, to con­nect the events of Cash’s life to his music. For exam­ple, at one point Cash is walk­ing through the bar­ren vil­lage of Wound­ed Knee in South Dako­ta, lis­ten­ing to the sto­ry of the mas­sacre of 1890 from one of the descen­dants of the vic­tims, and in the next scene he is singing “Big Foot,” his song about the tragedy. The film shows Cash’s gen­eros­i­ty toward unknown musi­cians. It also offers a glimpse of his close friend­ship with the young Bob Dylan. When Cash and Dylan got togeth­er in Feb­ru­ary of 1969 for a record­ing ses­sion in Nashville, Elf­strom was there. He doc­u­ment­ed the scene as the two men record­ed Dylan’s “One Too Many Morn­ings.”  Elf­strom told PBS:

John and Bob had got­ten close at that point. John was say­ing, “Gee, I wish Bob would move down here to Ten­nessee. I’ve got a lot of land, and we could be neigh­bors!” So that was fas­ci­nat­ing. We record­ed the two of them very late at night, and they were doing a duet of one of Dylan’s songs. In the mid­dle of the song, both John and Bob for­got the lyrics. So the record­ing ses­sion stopped while peo­ple scam­pered around the Colum­bia Records build­ing try­ing to find the lyrics to a Bob Dylan song. When the lyrics were final­ly found, the two of them got togeth­er again and did some great record­ing. It was real­ly an amus­ing ses­sion because John and Bob were teas­ing each oth­er all the time.

The film was orig­i­nal­ly named Cash, and was slight­ly longer than the ver­sion above. In 2008 it was re-edit­ed and renamed John­ny Cash: The Man, His World, His Music for broad­cast on PBS. It’s a reveal­ing por­trait of the coun­try music leg­end, but Elf­strom allowed his sub­ject cer­tain areas of pri­va­cy. In par­tic­u­lar he avoid­ed doc­u­ment­ing Cash’s well-known addic­tion to drugs. “Even back then, the pow­ers-that-be want­ed me to empha­size the sub­stance abuse stuff, and I had to fight the entire time to stay clear of that,” said Elf­strom. “I did­n’t want that pol­lu­tion to con­fuse the mes­sage of what John was doing. I was total­ly will­ing to take John at face val­ue, and I think he him­self rec­og­nized that ear­ly on and trust­ed me. He was a man strug­gling through life like all of us, doing his best, try­ing to come out on top.”

John­ny Cash: The Man, His World, His Music will be added to our col­lec­tion of 500 Free Movies Online.

Hand Lettering Bob Dylan’s Lyrics to “Subterranean Homesick Blues”

If you’ve ever seen D.A. Pen­nebak­er’s clas­sic 1967 doc­u­men­tary Don’t Look Back (or even if you haven’t), you know the famous scene — Bob Dylan flip­ing through cue cards as the dizzy­ing lyrics of “Sub­ter­ranean Home­sick Blues” flow by, all while poet Allen Gins­berg and singer Bob Neuwirth make cameo appear­ances in the back­ground. (Watch it below.) This inno­v­a­tive clip has since inspired count­less trib­ute videos by the likes of Steve Ear­le, the rap­per Evi­dence“Weird Al” Yankovic, Google, and the 1992 film Bob Roberts. Now comes the lat­est riff on the icon­ic footage by designer/illustrator Lean­dro Sen­na. He gives us “Bob Dylan’s Hand Let­ter­ing Expe­ri­ence,” a video that stitch­es togeth­er 66 hand-designed cards, each made with only pen­cil, black tint pens and brush­es. No tech­no­log­i­cal enhance­ments or retouch­ing were allowed. On Sen­na’s web site, you can see each and every card in a larg­er for­mat.

via Boing­Bo­ing

Watch Simon & Garfunkel Play Their Big Central Park Concert (1981)

On Sep­tem­ber 19, 1981, Paul Simon and Art Gar­funkel got up in front of 500,000 peo­ple in New York City and played a show. That in itself sounds per­haps not ter­ri­bly unusu­al, but bear in mind that they put on the con­cert in Cen­tral Park. Even that might not strike you as notable these days, but the ear­ly eight­ies found major Amer­i­can cities on the ropes. Their pub­lic spaces had reached an espe­cial­ly advanced state of dete­ri­o­ra­tion, and com­men­ta­tors often sin­gled out New York as a drea­ry bell­wether of just this sort of aggres­sive urban decay. Look­ing back, to name just one exam­ple, we think of sub­way cars cov­ered, every exposed sur­face both inte­ri­or and exte­ri­or, with a palimpsest of graf­fi­ti. But Man­hat­tan’s Cen­tral Park had only fared a shade bet­ter, and the city found itself lack­ing the three mil­lion dol­lars need­ed to repair and main­tain the now-beloved vast green space. Parks Com­mis­sion­er Gor­don Davis recruit­ed the Queens-raised and New York-root­ed Simon and Gar­funkel to per­form the free ben­e­fit show that would become the album and movie The Con­cert in Cen­tral Park, ded­i­cat­ing the rev­enue from mer­chan­dis­ing and licens­ing to ren­o­va­tion.

You can watch the nine­ty-minute con­cert film above. Orig­i­nal­ly  broad­cast on HBO, it comes direct­ed by New York native Michael Lind­sey-Hogg, direc­tor of many clips for the Bea­t­les and the Rolling Stones (not to men­tion the son of Orson Welles). Simon and Gar­funkel’s per­for­mance, which runs two songs and twelve min­utes longer than The Con­cert in Cen­tral Park the album, includes much of what you’d expect — “Mrs. Robin­son,” “Scar­bor­ough Fair,” “Still Crazy After All These Years,” “Bridge Over Trou­bled Water,” “The Sounds of Silence” — and a bit of what you would­n’t. It also offers a look back to a time when nobody quite knew whether New York City would get out of its slump, a time when Simon’s lyric about “Cen­tral Park, where they say you should not wan­der after dark” made more sense. Despite false starts since, it now seems safe to say that the recov­ery has hap­pened. By the same token, the con­cert itself, despite its suc­cess, proved a false start for an expect­ed long-term Simon and Gar­funkel reunion. But they would come togeth­er again to tour in the ear­ly 2000s, and rumors of pos­si­ble future live shows con­tin­ue to swirl.

via Men­tal Floss

Relat­ed con­tent:

Paul Simon, Then and Now: Cel­e­brat­ing His 70th Birth­day

A Paul Simon Feelin’-Very-Groovy Moment

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

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Jazz Legend Jaco Pastorius Gives a 90 Minute Bass Lesson and Plays Live in Montreal (1982)

jaco

Image by Pino Alpino, via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

Of this video—an hour and a half long bass les­son and inter­view with the late, great jazz bassist Jaco Pas­to­rius—one youtube com­menter writes, “this isn’t a bass les­son… this is a bass humil­i­a­tion!” It’s an apt description—for the aspir­ing play­er of any instru­ment, watch­ing Pas­to­rius at work is a hum­bling expe­ri­ence. Even Jer­ry Jem­mott, no slouch on the instru­ment, seems a lit­tle over­whelmed as he inter­views Jaco. But the articulate—and per­son­al­ly troubled—bassist was a hum­ble guy, more than will­ing to share his skills and knowl­edge. As a play­er, com­pos­er, and pro­duc­er, Pas­to­rius tow­ered over oth­er pro­gres­sive jazz play­ers in the 70s and 80s, accom­pa­ny­ing names like Pat Methe­ny and Wayne Short­er. He was also a mem­ber of fusion pow­er­house Weath­er Report, a solo artist, and one of the most in-demand ses­sion play­ers and pro­duc­ers of his time.

While bass play­ers get too lit­tle recog­ni­tion in rock, in jazz, the instru­ment has always com­mand­ed a degree of respect. But Pas­to­rius took elec­tric jazz bass to a place that belongs entire­ly to him, play­ing bass and melody parts at once on the instru­ment and incor­po­rat­ing mind-blow­ing­ly nim­ble solos and high runs into orig­i­nal com­po­si­tions and stan­dards alike. I came to Pas­to­rius late in my musi­cal edu­ca­tion thanks to his influ­ence on Eng­lish bassist and elec­tron­ic pro­duc­er Square­push­er (Tom Jenk­in­son), who, since the mid-nineties, has fused his own fre­net­ic Pas­to­rius-like bass licks with the stut­ter and clat­ter of drum-and-bass. In 2009, Square­push­er had the effron­tery to release a live solo album con­sist­ing only of elec­tric bass com­po­si­tions, a move that would have been impos­si­ble with­out Pas­to­rius’ prece­dent-set­ting solo work. Pas­to­rius turned the elec­tric bass into a lead instru­ment. His first solo album, the self-titled Jaco Pas­to­rius (1976), broke ground with orig­i­nal com­po­si­tions for bass gui­tar and bass tran­scrip­tions of songs like Char­lie Parker’s “Don­na Lee.” At that time, no one had heard any­thing like it.

Pas­to­rius, who suf­fered from bipo­lar dis­or­der, died of wounds sus­tained in a bar fight on Sep­tem­ber 21st, 1987. In hon­or of the 25th anniver­sary of his death, revis­it the man and his method in the video above, and geek out to Jaco’s live per­for­mance at the 1982 Mon­tre­al Jazz Fes­ti­val.

Josh Jones is a doc­tor­al can­di­date in Eng­lish at Ford­ham Uni­ver­si­ty and a co-founder and for­mer man­ag­ing edi­tor of Guer­ni­ca / A Mag­a­zine of Arts and Pol­i­tics.

Thelonious Monk Creates a List of Tips for Playing a Gig: “Don’t Listen to Me, I Am Supposed to Be Accompanying You!”

We’re fas­ci­nat­ed by lists. Oth­er people’s lists. Even the ones left behind in shop­ping carts are inter­est­ing (Jarls­burg, Gruyere and Swiss? Must be mak­ing fon­due.) But it’s the lists made by famous peo­ple that are the real­ly good stuff.

It’s fun to peek into the pri­vate mus­ings of peo­ple we admire. John­ny Cash’s “To Do” list sold for $6,400 at auc­tion a cou­ple of years ago and inspired the launch of Lists of Note, an affec­tion­ate repos­i­to­ry of per­son­al reminders, com­mand­ments and advice jot­ted by celebri­ties and oth­er nota­bles.

Most of the site’s best lists are in the “memo to self” cat­e­go­ry, some with tongue in cheek and oth­ers in earnest. But a few offer advice to oth­ers. Tran­scribed by sopra­no sax play­er Steve Lacy in a spi­ral-bound note­book, Thelo­nious Monk cre­at­ed a primer of do’s and don’ts for club musi­cians. For the green­horns, Monk pre­sent­ed a syl­labus for Band Eti­quette 101 titled “1. Monk’s Advice (1960).” For the rest of us, it’s a view into one of the great­est, quirki­est minds of Amer­i­can music.

Some high­lights:

“Don’t play the piano part. I’m play­ing that. Don’t lis­ten to me. I’m sup­posed to be accom­pa­ny­ing you!”

Monk him­self was famous for his eccentricity—some say he was men­tal­ly ill and oth­ers blame bad psy­chi­atric med­ica­tions. He was known to stop play­ing piano, stand up and dance a bit while the band played on. But through his advice he reveals his fine sense of restraint.

“Don’t play every­thing (or every time); let some things go by. Some music just imag­ined. What you don’t play can be more impor­tant than what you do.”

Monk was evi­dent­ly a stick­ler for band pro­to­col. He leads his list with “Just because you’re not a drum­mer doesn’t mean that you don’t have to keep time!”

What should play­ers wear to a gig? Defin­i­tive­ly cool, Monk replies “Sharp as pos­si­ble!” Read that as rings on your fin­gers, a hat, sun­glass­es and your best suit coat.

Here’s a tran­script of the text:

  • Just because you’re not a drum­mer, doesn’t mean that you don’t have to keep time.
  • Pat your foot and sing the melody in your head when you play.
  • Stop play­ing all that bull­shit, those weird notes, play the melody!
  • Make the drum­mer sound good.
  • Dis­crim­i­na­tion is impor­tant.
  • You’ve got to dig it to dig it, you dig?
  • All reet!
  • Always know
  • It must be always night, oth­er­wise they wouldn’t need the lights.
  • Let’s lift the band stand!!
  • I want to avoid the heck­lers.
  • Don’t play the piano part, I am play­ing that. Don’t lis­ten to me, I am sup­posed to be accom­pa­ny­ing you!
  • The inside of the tune (the bridge) is the part that makes the out­side sound good.
  • Don’t play every­thing (or every­time); let some things go by. Some music just imag­ined.
  • What you don’t play can be more impor­tant than what you do play.
  • A note can be small as a pin or as big as the world, it depends on your imag­i­na­tion.
  • Stay in shape! Some­times a musi­cian waits for a gig & when it comes, he’s out of shape & can’t make it.
  • When you are swing­ing, swing some more!
  • (What should we wear tonight?) Sharp as pos­si­ble!
  • Always leave them want­i­ng more.
  • Don’t sound any­body for a gig, just be on the scene.
  • Those pieces were writ­ten so as to have some­thing to play & to get cats inter­est­ed enough to come to rehearsal!
  • You’ve got it! If you don’t want to play, tell a joke or dance, but in any case, you got it! (to a drum­mer who didn’t want to solo).
  • What­ev­er you think can’t be done, some­body will come along & do it. A genius is the one most like him­self.
  • They tried to get me to hate white peo­ple, but some­one would always come along & spoil it.

Kate Rix is an Oak­land-based free­lancer. Find more of her work at .

Eric Clapton and Steve Winwood Join Forces at the Historic Blind Faith Concert in Hyde Park, 1969

On a swel­ter­ing sum­mer day in 1969, over 100,000 peo­ple crammed into Hyde Park in cen­tral Lon­don for a first look at what promised to be the next great thing in rock and roll: Blind Faith.

It was an amaz­ing line­up. The band was made up of two-thirds of Cream (gui­tarist Eric Clap­ton and drum­mer Gin­ger Bak­er) along with the front­man of Traf­fic (key­boardist and vocal­ist Steve Win­wood) and the bassist from the pro­gres­sive group Fam­i­ly (Ric Grech). The free con­cert on June 7, 1969 (see here) was pro­mot­ed with a great deal of fan­fare and hyper­bole. Expec­ta­tions were high, so per­haps dis­ap­point­ment was inevitable. In any case the band came off sound­ing hes­i­tant and unsteady. For a “super­group,” they seemed sur­pris­ing­ly unsure of them­selves.

“It was our first gig,” Win­wood said lat­er, “and to do that in front of 100,000 peo­ple was not the best sit­u­a­tion to be in. Nerves were show­ing and it was very daunt­ing. We could­n’t relax like you can on tour.” The band showed none of the verve or audac­i­ty of Cream.  Clap­ton stood behind the drums and seemed reluc­tant to let loose. “In rehearsals and dur­ing record­ing,” said Bak­er, “Eric had been doing amaz­ing stuff, but in Hyde Park I kept won­der­ing when he was going to start play­ing. It was­n’t a bril­liant start, obvi­ous­ly.”

The band avoid­ed play­ing any­thing by Cream. The set list includ­ed one Traf­fic song (“Means to an End”) and anoth­er by the Rolling Stones (“Under My Thumb”), but was oth­er­wise made up entire­ly of orig­i­nal songs writ­ten for their yet-to-be-released album, Blind Faith:

  1. Well All Right
  2. Sea of Joy
  3. Sleep­ing in the Ground
  4. Under My Thumb
  5. Can’t Find My Way Home
  6. Do What You Like
  7. Pres­ence of the Lord
  8. Means to an End
  9. Had to Cry Today

Lat­er that year the band toured Scan­di­navia and Amer­i­ca, and their debut album was a com­mer­cial suc­cess despite con­sid­er­able con­tro­ver­sy over its strange cov­er image of a top­less pubes­cent-look­ing girl hold­ing a toy air­plane. But it was clear from the start that Blind Faith would­n’t last. Clap­ton’s heart, in par­tic­u­lar, was­n’t into it. “I’d left The Yard­birds because of suc­cess,” he said lat­er, “and Cream end­ed as a direct result of its false suc­cess. So with Blind Faith I want­ed no more to do with suc­cess. I want­ed to be accept­ed as a musi­cian.” At the end of Blind Faith’s Amer­i­can tour Clap­ton made the unusu­al career move of quit­ting a super­group to become a side­man for its sup­port­ing act, the rel­a­tive­ly obscure Delaney & Bon­nie. In a 1996 Mojo arti­cle on Blind Faith called “Born Under a Bad Sign,” rock jour­nal­ist John­ny Black sums things up:

In ret­ro­spect, Blind Faith was cursed almost from the out­set. This was a band whose mem­bers rarely seemed to tell each oth­er any­thing. A band at log­ger­heads with its man­age­ment. A man­age­ment at log­ger­heads with itself. A hero­in addict­ed drum­mer. A gui­tarist who want­ed out almost from the word go. A sta­di­um tour that the key­board play­er did­n’t want to be on. A record cov­er scan­dal. Worst of all, though, they were mind-numb­ing­ly suc­cess­ful when they did­n’t want to be.

Relat­ed con­tent: 

A Young Eric Clap­ton Demon­strates the Ele­ments of His Sound

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

In the spring of 1963 Studs Terkel intro­duced Chica­go radio lis­ten­ers to an up-and-com­ing musi­cian, not yet 22 years old, “a young folk poet who you might say looks like Huck­le­ber­ry Finn, if he lived in the 20th cen­tu­ry. His name is Bob Dylan.” (Lis­ten to the inter­view below.)

Dylan had just fin­ished record­ing the songs for his sec­ond album, The Free­wheel­in’ Bob Dylan, when he trav­eled from New York to Chica­go to play a gig at a lit­tle place part­ly owned by his man­ag­er, Albert Gross­man, called The Bear Club. The next day he went to the WFMT stu­dios for the hour-long appear­ance on The Studs Terkel Pro­gram. Most sources give the date of the inter­view as April 26, 1963, though Dylan schol­ar Michael Krogs­gaard has giv­en it as May 3.

Things were mov­ing fast in Dylan’s life at that time. He was just emerg­ing as a major song­writer. His debut album from the year before, Bob Dylan, was made up most­ly of oth­er peo­ple’s songs. The Free­wheel­in’ Bob Dylan, which was fin­ished but had­n’t yet been released, con­tained almost all orig­i­nal mate­r­i­al, includ­ing sev­er­al songs that would become clas­sics, like “Blowin’ in the Wind,” “Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right” and “A Hard Rain’s a Gonna Fall.” With­in a few months Dylan would make his debut at the New­port Folk Fes­ti­val and per­form at the his­toric March on Wash­ing­ton. But when Dylan vis­it­ed WFMT, it’s like­ly that many of Terkel’s lis­ten­ers had nev­er heard of him. In the record­ed broad­cast he plays the fol­low­ing songs:

  1. Farewell
  2. A Hard Rain’s a‑Gonna Fall
  3. Bob Dylan’s Dream
  4. Boots of Span­ish Leather
  5. John Brown
  6. Who Killed Dav­ey Moore?
  7. Blowin’ In The Wind

Dylan tells Terkel that “A Hard Rain’s a Gonna Fall” is not about atom­ic fall­out, even though he wrote the song in a state of anx­i­ety dur­ing the Cuban mis­sile cri­sis. “No, it’s not atom­ic rain,” Dylan says, “it’s just a hard rain. It isn’t the fall­out rain. I mean some sort of end that’s just got­ta hap­pen.… In the last verse, when I say, ‘the pel­lets of poi­son are flood­ing their waters,’ that means all the lies that peo­ple get told on their radios and in their news­pa­pers.”

But as the con­ver­sa­tion pro­gress­es it becomes clear that the moti­va­tion behind Dylan’s com­ments isn’t to dis­pel myths or to clear up any of the “lies that peo­ple get told on their radios.” Rather, he’s dri­ven by his life-long dread of being pigeon­holed by oth­ers. Dylan is hap­py to spread his own myths. At one point he tells Terkel a “stretch­er” that would have made Huck­le­ber­ry Finn proud: He claims that when he was about ten years old he saw Woody Guthrie per­form in Bur­bank, Cal­i­for­nia. Regard­less of its fac­tu­al­i­ty, the Dylan-Terkel inter­view is an enter­tain­ing hour, a fas­ci­nat­ing win­dow on the young artist as he was enter­ing his prime. You can stream it here.

If you would like to sign up for Open Culture’s free email newslet­ter, please find it here. It’s a great way to see our new posts, all bun­dled in one email, each day.

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