Watch 50 David Bowie Music Videos Spanning Five Decades of Reinvention: “Space Oddity,” “Life on Mars?” “ ‘Heroes’,” “Let’s Dance” & More

Each of us has a dif­fer­ent idea of when, exact­ly, the six­ties end­ed, not as a decade, but as a dis­tinct cul­tur­al peri­od. Some have a notion of the “long six­ties” that extends well into the sev­en­ties; if pressed for a spe­cif­ic final year, they could do worse than point­ing to 1972, when David Bowie made his epoch-shift­ing appear­ance as Zig­gy Star­dust, backed by the Spi­ders from Mars, on the BBC’s Top of the Pops. It was also the year he released music videos for “Space Odd­i­ty,” the sin­gle that had begun to make his name at the time of the moon land­ing in 1969, and “Jean Genie,” the first sin­gle from Aladdin Sane, an album inspired in part by the debauch­ery of the Amer­i­can Zig­gy tour he under­took after blast­ing off into star­dom.


Hav­ing strug­gled in the six­ties to find a suit­able iden­ti­ty and audi­ence, the young Bowie devel­oped an unusu­al­ly strong under­stand­ing of not just the music indus­try, but also the cul­ture itself. One era was giv­ing way to anoth­er, and nobody knew it bet­ter than he did. When all those hir­sute fig­ures in beards and den­im, singing with osten­ta­tious earnest­ness about love and free­dom, dis­ap­peared, who would replace them?

In Bowie’s vision, the next phase belonged to clean-shaven, made-up androg­y­nes in flam­boy­ant design­er cos­tumes work­ing grand, some­times sci­ence fic­tion­al, and often inscrutable themes into what would strike con­cert­go­ers as almost com­plete the­atri­cal expe­ri­ences — and he would be the first and fore­most among them.

Bowie, in oth­er words, made the sev­en­ties his own, oper­at­ing on his knowl­edge of and instincts about the media envi­ron­ment of that decade and how images would be made in it. By that time, he’d seen too many flash­es in the pan of pop music to get com­pla­cent about his own prospects for endurance. The recep­tion of “Space Odd­i­ty” as a nov­el­ty song did its part to moti­vate him to come up with his bisex­u­al space-alien rock-star alter ego — and to moti­vate him to ter­mi­nate that per­sona on stage in 1973. A cou­ple of years before that, he had already sung of the impor­tance of changes, a kind of man­i­festo that would guide his career through all the decades that remained. Nev­er would Bowie adhere to a par­tic­u­lar musi­cal or aes­thet­ic style for very long, an abid­ing ten­den­cy vivid­ly on dis­play in this playlist of 50 music videos on his offi­cial YouTube chan­nel.

The expe­ri­ence of putting out music videos in the sev­en­ties placed Bowie well, espe­cial­ly com­pared to oth­er artists of his gen­er­a­tion, to make his mark on MTV in the eight­ies with a sta­di­um-ready hit like “Let’s Dance.” The nineties found him tak­ing the form in new direc­tions, as with the cinephili­cal­ly astute video for “Jump They Say” and the dar­ing­ly action-free visu­al treat­ment of the reflec­tive “Thurs­day’s Child” (from the album Hours…, which began as the sound­track to the com­put­er game Omikron: The Nomad Soul). Apart from this playlist, his chan­nel also con­tains music videos for his lat­er songs from the two-thou­sands and twen­ty-tens, from “New Killer Star” to “The Stars (Are Out Tonight)” to “Black­star” — the nature of star­dom hav­ing been a pre­oc­cu­pa­tion since the begin­ning, even though he kept on chang­ing to the very end.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch David Bowie Star in His First Film Role, a Short Hor­ror Flick Called The Image (1967)

Watch David Bowie Per­form “Star­man” on Top of the Pops: Vot­ed the Great­est Music Per­for­mance Ever on the BBC (1972)

David Bowie Per­forms “Life on Mars?” and “Ash­es to Ash­es” on John­ny Carson’s “Tonight Show” (1980)

David Bowie’s Music Video “Jump They Say” Pays Trib­ute to Marker’s La Jetée, Godard’s Alphav­ille, Welles’ The Tri­al & Kubrick’s 2001

Watch David Bowie’s New Video for “The Stars (Are Out Tonight)” With Til­da Swin­ton

When Bowie & Jagger’s “Danc­ing in the Street” Music Video Becomes a Silent Film

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

The Groundbreaking Animation That Defined Pink Floyd’s Psychedelic Visual Style: Watch “French Windows” (1972)

You could argue that, of all rock bands, that Pink Floyd had the least need for visu­al accom­pa­ni­ment. Son­i­cal­ly rich and evoca­tive­ly struc­tured, their albums evolved to offer lis­ten­ing expe­ri­ences that verge on the cin­e­mat­ic in them­selves. Yet from fair­ly ear­ly in the Floy­d’s his­to­ry, their artis­tic ambi­tions extend­ed to that which could not be heard. Can you real­ly under­stand their enter­prise, it’s fair to ask, if you remain mere­ly one of their lis­ten­ers, nev­er enter­ing the visu­al dimen­sion — not just their album cov­ers, repro­duc­tions of which still grace many a dorm room wall, but also their elab­o­rate stage shows, music videos (which they were mak­ing before that form had a name), and films? One man had more respon­si­bil­i­ty for the devel­op­ment of the Floy­d’s visu­al style than any oth­er: Ian Emes.

In 1972, Emes took it upon him­self to ani­mate their song “One of These Days” from the pre­vi­ous year’s album Med­dle. When the fin­ished work, “French Win­dows,” aired on the BBC music show The Old Grey Whis­tle Test, it caught the eye of the Floy­d’s key­board play­er Rick Wright. The group then got in touch with Emes, ask­ing to use “French Win­dows” as a pro­jec­tion behind their con­certs.

They went on to com­mis­sion fur­ther work from him, for songs like “Speak to Me,” Time,” and “On the Run” from The Dark Side of the Moon. This pro­fes­sion­al con­nec­tion endured for decades. When Roger Waters put on his own per­for­mances of The Wall — includ­ing the enor­mous­ly scaled show in Berlin in 1990 — he had Emes direct its ani­mat­ed sequences. The post-Waters ver­sion of Pink Floyd even called up Emes in 2015 to ask him to make a film to accom­pa­ny their final album The End­less Riv­er.

It was, in a way, the com­ple­tion of a cir­cle: “One of These Days” is a most­ly instru­men­tal song, and The End­less Riv­er is a most­ly instru­men­tal album; “French Win­dows” uses roto­scop­ing, which involves trac­ing over live action footage to make more real­is­ti­cal­ly smooth ani­ma­tion, and the End­less Riv­er film presents its own live action footage in a man­ner that some­times verges on the abstract. Both works cre­ate their own visu­al envi­ron­ments, which dove­tails with what Emes, who died two years ago, once described as the appeal for him of the Floyd: “They went to archi­tec­ture col­lege and so I think their music cre­ates spaces. It cre­ates envi­ron­ments of sound and I was so stim­u­lat­ed that my mind would soar, and so I would see images that were stim­u­lat­ed by the music.” Their music takes a dif­fer­ent form before the mind’s eye of each fan, but it was Emes who made his visions a part of their lega­cy.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Psy­che­del­ic Scenes of Pink Floyd’s Ear­ly Days with Syd Bar­rett, 1967

Pink Floyd Films a Con­cert in an Emp­ty Audi­to­ri­um, Still Try­ing to Break Into the U.S. Charts (1970)

Pink Floyd’s First Mas­ter­piece: An Audio/Video Explo­ration of the 23-Minute Track, “Echoes” (1971)

Down­load Pink Floyd’s 1975 Com­ic Book Pro­gram for The Dark Side of the Moon Tour

The First Pro­fes­sion­al Footage of Pink Floyd Gets Cap­tured in a 1967 Doc­u­men­tary (and the Band Also Pro­vides the Sound­track)

How Pink Floyd Built The Wall: The Album, Tour & Film

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Celebrate Halloween with Michael Jackson’s Horrifically Entertaining “Thriller” Music Video—and a Behind-the-Scenes Documentary

Michael Jack­son’s Thriller is the best-sell­ing album of all time, and not by a par­tic­u­lar­ly slim mar­gin. The most recent fig­ures have it reg­is­tered at 51.3 mil­lion copies, as against the 31.2 mil­lion notched by the run­ner up, AC/DC’s Back in Black. But it would sure­ly be a clos­er call with­out the title song’s cel­e­brat­ed music video, thir­teen John Lan­dis-direct­ed min­utes full of not just singing and danc­ing, but also clas­sic-style Hol­ly­wood mon­sters, some of them doing that singing and danc­ing them­selves. Hal­loween night is, of course, the best time to revis­it Michael Jack­son’s Thriller, as it’s offi­cial­ly titled. This year, why not chase it with the behind-the-scenes doc­u­men­tary below, Mak­ing Michael Jack­son’s Thriller?

Younger fans may not know that “Thriller” was­n’t even released as a sin­gle until Novem­ber of 1983: about a year after the album itself, which had already spun off six songs, includ­ing enor­mous hits like “Bil­lie Jean” and “Beat It.” In fact, Jack­son’s unprece­dent­ed vision for the album had been that every song could be a hit, with no filler in between.

The high­er-ups at Epic Records felt that its pop­u­lar­i­ty, how­ev­er sen­sa­tion­al to that point, had just about run its course. That made them unwill­ing, at first, to put out “Thriller” on its own, as did the song’s campy scary-movie lyrics, sound effects, and “rap” by none oth­er than Vin­cent Price, the embod­i­ment of old-Hol­ly­wood hor­ror. (This sort of thing was­n’t with­out prece­dent: with his sib­lings, Jack­son had cre­at­ed a sim­i­lar spooky atmos­phere in “This Place Hotel,” from 1980.)

Still, at that point in his rise to the kind of fame no cul­tur­al fig­ure may ever know again, Jack­son under­stood much that the old guard did­n’t. He knew that “Thriller” could suc­ceed, not just as a song on the radio, but a mul­ti­me­dia cul­tur­al phe­nom­e­non. It would, of course, need a music video, but not one that mere­ly met the (still fair­ly lax) stan­dards of MTV. Impressed by the hor­ror, com­e­dy, and visu­al effects of John Lan­dis’ An Amer­i­can Were­wolf in Lon­don, Jack­son called up Lan­dis and asked him to direct what he’d been envi­sion­ing for “Thriller” at fea­ture-film pro­duc­tion val­ues. The $500,000 bud­get came from tele­vi­sion net­works like MTV and Show­time, offi­cial­ly for broad­cast­ing rights to Mak­ing Michael Jack­son’s Thriller.

The doc­u­men­tary cap­tures var­i­ous aspects of the video’s cre­ation, from cast­ing to chore­og­ra­phy to shoot­ing to make­up, that last being an espe­cial­ly painstak­ing process over­seen by indus­try mas­ter Rick Bak­er. What­ev­er the rig­ors of the pro­duc­tion, Jack­son dis­plays undis­guised enjoy­ment of it all in this footage, per­haps fore­see­ing that it would cul­mi­nate in the kind of expres­sion that could come from no oth­er artist. Though an intense­ly col­lab­o­ra­tive effort, Michael Jack­son’s Thriller is true to its name in ulti­mate­ly being the prod­uct of a sin­gle, guid­ing per­for­ma­tive sen­si­bil­i­ty, some­how both uni­ver­sal­ly appeal­ing and high­ly idio­syn­crat­ic at the same time. Jack­son’s insis­tence on call­ing his music videos “short films” may have been regard­ed as a typ­i­cal eccen­tric­i­ty, but nev­er was the label more appro­pri­ate than when he brought back the old-school mon­ster movie one last, funky time.

Relat­ed con­tent:

How Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” Video Changed Pop Cul­ture For­ev­er: Revis­it the 13-Minute Short Film Direct­ed by John Lan­dis

Hear “Starlight,” Michael Jackson’s Ear­ly Demo of “Thriller”: A Ver­sion Before the Lyrics Were Rad­i­cal­ly Changed

When Mar­tin Scors­ese Direct­ed Michael Jack­son in the 18-Minute “Bad” Music Video & Paid Cin­e­mat­ic Trib­ute to West Side Sto­ry (1986)

How Michael Jack­son Wrote a Song: A Close Look at How the King of Pop Craft­ed “Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough”

John Lan­dis Decon­structs Trail­ers of Great 20th Cen­tu­ry Films: Cit­i­zen Kane, Sun­set Boule­vard, 2001 & More

Where Zom­bies Come From: A Video Essay on the Ori­gin of the Hor­ri­fy­ing, Satir­i­cal Mon­sters

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Roger Waters Reflects on the Haunting Psychological Decline of Pink Floyd’s Syd Barrett

To many long­time fans, there are — at the very least — two Pink Floyds. The first is the rock band that in 1965 took the name the Pink Floyd Sound, an inven­tion of its newest mem­ber Syd Bar­rett. A gui­tar-play­ing singer-song­writer, the young Bar­rett soon became the group’s guid­ing cre­ative intel­li­gence, albeit of a cracked kind. It was under his influ­ence that, two years lat­er, the Floyd released their first two hit singles,“Arnold Layne” and “See Emi­ly Play,” as well as their debut stu­dio album The Piper at the Gates of Dawn. This ear­ly mate­r­i­al exhibits a kind of dark­ly whim­si­cal Eng­lish eccen­tric­i­ty that turned out to fit neat­ly indeed with the psy­che­delia of the music-dri­ven late-six­ties coun­ter­cul­ture.

This first Pink Floyd last­ed until part­way through the pro­duc­tion of their sec­ond album, A Saucer­ful of Secrets. Up to that point, Bar­ret­t’s behav­ior had been turn­ing ever stranger and less man­age­able; even­tu­al­ly, he passed entire con­certs in a state of near cata­to­nia onstage (with the occa­sion­al spasm of a deep-seat­ed ten­den­cy to prac­ti­cal jokes).

After con­sid­er­ing and find­ing unfea­si­ble the option to retain him as a non-tour­ing con­trib­u­tor, the oth­er mem­bers decid­ed sim­ply to eject him from the band. Thus began the Floy­d’s sec­ond iter­a­tion, which, despite the loss of the man who’d been writ­ing 90 per­cent of their songs, did nev­er­the­less man­age to come up with albums like Atom Heart Moth­erThe Dark Side of the Moon, Wish You Were Here, and The Wall.

When Bar­rett died in 2006, after decades of life as a recluse (and, ever the Eng­lish­man, an enthu­si­as­tic gar­den­er), he was wide­ly remem­bered as a casu­al­ty of the psy­che­del­ic drug wave. But accord­ing to Roger Waters, who took the band’s reins, “LSD was not sole­ly respon­si­ble for Syd’s ill­ness.” He says so in the video above, a com­pi­la­tion of his rec­ol­lec­tions of Bar­ret­t’s decline. “It felt to me at the time that Syd was drift­ing off the rails, and when you’re drift­ing off the rails, the worst thing you could do is start mess­ing around with hal­lu­cino­gen­ics.” There was “no doubt that Syd was schiz­o­phrenic, and that he was tak­ing those drugs at the same time.” It could well have been that Bar­ret­t’s state of mind allowed him to voy­age into realms that the Floyd could oth­er­wise nev­er have accessed. But what­ev­er the causal fac­tors and their pro­por­tions, he even­tu­al­ly found him­self unable to come back home.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Psy­che­del­ic Scenes of Pink Floyd’s Ear­ly Days with Syd Bar­rett, 1967

Under­stand­ing Pink Floyd’s Wish You Were Here, Their Trib­ute to Depart­ed Band­mate Syd Bar­rett

Short Film “Syd Barrett’s First Trip” Reveals the Pink Floyd Founder’s Psy­che­del­ic Exper­i­men­ta­tion (1967)

Watch David Gilmour Play the Songs of Syd Bar­rett, with the Help of David Bowie & Richard Wright

An Hour-Long Col­lec­tion of Live Footage Doc­u­ments the Ear­ly Days of Pink Floyd (1967–1972)

The Inven­tive Art­work of Pink Floyd’s Syd Bar­rett

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Leck Mich Im Arsch (“Kiss My Ass”): Listen to Mozart’s Scatological Canon in B Flat (1782)

We all know the man­child Mozart of Milos Forman’s 1984 biopic Amadeus. As embod­ied by a man­ic, bray­ing Thomas Hulce, the pre­co­cious and haunt­ed com­pos­er sup­pos­ed­ly loved noth­ing more than scan­dal­iz­ing, amus­ing, or exas­per­at­ing friends and ene­mies alike with juve­nile pranks and scat­o­log­i­cal humor. Sure­ly a fic­tion, eh? Gross exag­ger­a­tion, no? Undoubt­ed­ly Mozart com­port­ed him­self with more dig­ni­ty? Those famil­iar with the composer’s biog­ra­phy know oth­er­wise.

We have, for exam­ple, a ridicu­lous­ly dirty let­ter that the 21-year-old “poop-lov­ing musi­cal genius” wrote to his 19-year-old cousin Marianne—a mis­sive Let­ters of Note pref­aces with the dis­claimer “if you’re eas­i­ly offend­ed, please do not read any fur­ther” (oh, but how can you resist?). This piece of cor­re­spon­dence is but one of many “shock­ing­ly crude let­ters” Mozart wrote to his fam­i­ly. And if these slight­ly insane doc­u­ments don’t con­vince you, we offer as fur­ther evi­dence of Mozart’s exu­ber­ant­ly child­ish sen­si­bil­i­ty the above canon in B flat for six voic­es, Leck Mich Im Arsch, which trans­lates rough­ly to “Kiss My Ass.”

One of three naughty canons com­posed in 1782 with lyrics like “Good night, sleep tight, / And stick your ass to your mouth,” this piece was dis­cov­ered in 1991 at Har­vard Uni­ver­si­ty. Har­vard librar­i­an Michael Ochs, with a clear pen­chant for under­state­ment, said at the time: “These are minor works. They’re not the Requiem, or ‘Don Gio­van­ni.’ They were writ­ten for the amuse­ment of Mozart and his friends, and they show anoth­er side of him.” The first edi­tion of Mozart’s com­plete works, pub­lished in 1804, bowd­ler­ized the texts and removed the racy humor, chang­ing the title of Leck Mich Im Arsch to “Let us be glad!”—likely, writes Lucas Reil­ly at Men­tal Floss, “the com­plete oppo­site of what this tune means.”

Reil­ly also points out that Mozart’s “pot­ty mouth” was prob­a­bly not, as some have sup­posed, evi­dence of Tourette’s syn­drome, but rather of an espe­cial­ly strong cur­rent in Ger­man humor, shared by Johannes Guten­berg, Mar­tin Luther, and Mozart’s equal­ly bril­liant con­tem­po­rary, Johann Wolf­gang von Goethe. In fact, Leck Mich Im Arsch alludes to Goethe’s seri­ous dra­mat­ic work, Götz Von Berlichin­gen. The cho­rus reads as fol­lows in Eng­lish:

Kiss my arse!
Goethe, Goethe!
Götz von Berlichin­gen! Sec­ond act;
You know the scene too well!
Let’s sing out now sum­mar­i­ly:
Here is Mozart lit­er­ary!

Hear two addi­tion­al dirty choral pieces—Bona Nox and Dif­fi­cile Lec­tu—at Men­tal Floss. Some oth­er scat­o­log­i­cal canons thought to be Mozart’s, such as Leck mir den Arsch fein recht schön sauber (“Lick my ass right well and clean”), have since been attrib­uted to ama­teur com­pos­er and physi­cian Wen­zel Trn­ka, yet it appears that the three fea­tured at Men­tal Floss are gen­uine.

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2014.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Hear the Pieces Mozart Com­posed When He Was Only 5 Years Old

Watch the First Per­for­mance of a Mozart Com­po­si­tion That Had Been Lost for Cen­turies

See Mozart Played on Mozart’s Own Fortepi­ano, the Instru­ment That Most Authen­ti­cal­ly Cap­tures the Sound of His Music

Hear the Sounds of the Actu­al Instru­ments for Which Mozart, Beethoven, Haydn, and Han­del Orig­i­nal­ly Com­posed Their Music

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. 

The First Electric Guitar: Behold the 1931 “Frying Pan”

Frying Pan Schematic

The names Leo Fend­er and Les Paul will be for­ev­er asso­ci­at­ed with the explo­sion of the elec­tric gui­tar into pop­u­lar cul­ture. And right­ly so. With­out engi­neer Fend­er and musi­cian and stu­dio wiz Paul’s time­less designs, it’s hard to imag­ine what the most icon­ic instru­ments of decades of pop­u­lar music would look like.

They just might look like fry­ing pans.

Though Fend­er and Paul (and the Gib­son com­pa­ny) get all the glo­ry, it’s two men named George who should right­ly get much of the cred­it for invent­ing the elec­tric gui­tar. The first, naval offi­cer George Breed, has a sta­tus vis-à-vis the elec­tric gui­tar sim­i­lar to Leonar­do da Vinci’s to the heli­copter.

In 1890, Breed sub­mit­ted a patent for a one-of-a-kind design, uti­liz­ing the two basic ele­ments that would even­tu­al­ly make their way into Stra­to­cast­ers and Les Pauls—a mag­net­ic pick­up and wire strings. Unfor­tu­nate­ly for Breed, his design also includ­ed some very imprac­ti­cal cir­cuit­ry and required bat­tery oper­a­tion, “result­ing in a small but extreme­ly heavy gui­tar with an uncon­ven­tion­al play­ing tech­nique,” writes the Inter­na­tion­al Reper­to­ry of Music Lit­er­a­ture, “that pro­duced an excep­tion­al­ly unusu­al and ungui­tar­like, con­tin­u­ous­ly sus­tained sound.”

Like a Renais­sance fly­ing machine, the design went nowhere. That is, until George Beauchamp, a “musi­cian and tin­ker­er” from Texas, came up with a design for an elec­tric gui­tar pick­up that worked beau­ti­ful­ly. The first “Fry­ing Pan Hawai­ian” lap steel gui­tar, whose schemat­ic you can see at the top of the post, “now sits in a case in a muse­um,” writes Andre Mil­lard in his his­to­ry of the elec­tric gui­tar, “look­ing every inch the his­toric arti­fact but not much like a gui­tar.” Giz­mo­do quotes gui­tar his­to­ri­an Richard Smith, who dis­cuss­es the need in the 20s and 30s for an elec­tric gui­tar to be heard over the rhythm instru­ments in jazz and in Beauchamp’s pre­ferred style, Hawai­ian music, “where… the gui­tar was the melody instru­ment. So the real push to make the gui­tar elec­tric came from the Hawai­ian musi­cians.”

Beauchamp devel­oped the gui­tar after he was fired as gen­er­al man­ag­er of the Nation­al String Instru­ment Cor­po­ra­tion. Need­ing a new project, he and anoth­er Nation­al employ­ee, Paul Barth, began exper­i­ment­ing with Breed’s ideas. After build­ing a work­ing pick­up, they called on anoth­er Nation­al employ­ee, writes Rickenbacker.com, “to make a wood­en neck and body for it. In sev­er­al hours, carv­ing with small hand tools, a rasp, and a file, the first ful­ly elec­tric gui­tar took form.” (An ear­li­er elec­tro-acoustic gui­tar—the Stromberg Elec­tro—con­tributed to ampli­fi­er tech­nol­o­gy but its awk­ward pick­up design didn’t catch on.)

Need­ing cap­i­tal, man­u­fac­tur­ing, and dis­tri­b­u­tion, Beauchamp con­tract­ed with tool­mak­er Adolph Rick­en­backer, who mass pro­duced the Fry­ing Pan as “The Rick­en­bach­er A‑22″ under the com­pa­ny name “Elec­tro String.” (The com­pa­ny became Rick­en­backer Gui­tars after its own­er sold it in the 50s.) Although the nov­el­ty of the instru­ment and its cost dur­ing the Great Depres­sion inhib­it­ed sales, Beauchamp and Rick­en­backer still pro­duced sev­er­al ver­sions of the Fry­ing Pan, with cast alu­minum bod­ies rather than wood. (See an ear­ly mod­el here.) Soon, the Fry­ing Pan became inte­grat­ed into live jazz bands (see it at the 3:34 mark above in a 1936 Adolph Zukor short film) and record­ings.

How does the Fry­ing Pan sound? Aston­ish­ing­ly good, as you can hear for your­self in the demon­stra­tion videos above. Although Rick­en­backer and oth­er gui­tar mak­ers moved on to installing pick­ups in so-called “Span­ish” guitars—hollow-bodied jazz box­es with their famil­iar f‑holes—the Fry­ing Pan lap steel con­tin­ues to have a par­tic­u­lar mys­tique in gui­tar his­to­ry, and was man­u­fac­tured and sold into the ear­ly 1950s.

The next leap for­ward in elec­tric gui­tar design? After the Fry­ing Pan came Les Paul’s first ful­ly solid­body elec­tric: The Log.

Learn More about the inven­tion of the elec­tric gui­tar in the short Smith­son­ian video just above.

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2013.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Evo­lu­tion of the Elec­tric Gui­tar: An Intro­duc­tion to Every Major Vari­ety of the Instru­ment That Made Rock-and-Roll

The His­to­ry of the Elec­tric Gui­tar Solo: A Sev­en-Part Series

Oxford Sci­en­tist Explains the Physics of Play­ing Elec­tric Gui­tar Solos

Hear the Bril­liant Gui­tar Work of Char­lie Chris­t­ian, Inven­tor of the Elec­tric Gui­tar Solo (1939)

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

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The Night When Bob Dylan Went Electric: Watch Him Play “Maggie’s Farm” at the Newport Folk Festival in 1965

The phrase “when Dylan went elec­tric” once car­ried as much weight in pop cul­ture his­to­ry as “the fall of the Berlin Wall” car­ries in, well, his­to­ry. Both events have reced­ed into what feels like the dis­tant past, but in the ear­ly 1960s, they like­ly seemed equal­ly unlike­ly to many a seri­ous Bob Dylan fan in the folk scene. They also seemed equal­ly con­se­quen­tial. To under­stand the cul­ture of the decade, we must under­stand the import of Dylan’s appear­ance at the New­port Folk Fes­ti­val in 1965, backed by Mike Bloom­field and oth­er mem­bers of the Paul But­ter­field Blues Band.

The death of rock and roll in the 50s is often told through the lens of tragedy, but there was also anger, dis­gust, and mass dis­af­fec­tion. The Pay­ola scan­dal had an impact, as did Elvis join­ing the army and Lit­tle Richard’s return to reli­gion. Rock and roll was bro­ken, tamed, and turned into com­mer­cial fod­der. Sim­ply put, it wasn’t cool at all, man, and even the Bea­t­les couldn’t save it sin­gle­hand­ed­ly. Their arrival on U.S. shores is mythol­o­gized as music his­to­ry Normandy—and has been cred­it­ed with inspir­ing count­less num­bers of musicians—but with­out Dylan and the blues artists he imi­tat­ed, things would very much have gone oth­er­wise.

In the ear­ly 60s, Dylan and the Bea­t­les’ “respec­tive musi­cal con­stituen­cies were indeed per­ceived as inhab­it­ing two sep­a­rate sub­cul­tur­al worlds,” writes Jonathan Gould in Can’t Buy Me Love: The Bea­t­les, Britain, and Amer­i­ca. “Dylan’s core audi­ence was com­prised of young peo­ple emerg­ing from adolescence—college kids with artis­tic or intel­lec­tu­al lean­ings, a dawn­ing polit­i­cal and social ide­al­ism, and a mild­ly bohemi­an style…. The Bea­t­les’ core audi­ence, by con­trast, was com­prised of ver­i­ta­ble ‘teenyboppers’—kids in high school or grade school whose lives were total­ly wrapped up in the com­mer­cial­ized pop­u­lar cul­ture of tele­vi­sion, radio, pop records, fan mag­a­zines, and teen fash­ion. They were seen as idol­aters, not ide­al­ists.”

To evoke any­thing resem­bling the com­mer­cial pablum of Beat­le­ma­nia, and at New­port, no less, spoke of trea­son to folk authen­tic­i­ty. Some called out “Where’s Ringo?” Oth­ers called him “Judas.” Dylan’s set “would go down as one of the most divi­sive con­certs ever”—(and that’s say­ing a lot)—“putting the worlds of both folk and rock in tem­po­rary iden­ti­ty cri­sis,” Michael Mad­den writes at Con­se­quence of Sound. The for­mer folk hero accom­plished this in all of three songs, “Maggie’s Farm,” “Like a Rolling Stone,” and “Phan­tom Engi­neer,” an ear­ly take on “It Takes a Lot to Laugh, It Takes a Train to Cry.” Pete Seeger famous­ly “threw a furi­ous tantrum” upon hear­ing the first few bars of “Maggie’s Farm,” above, though he’s since said he was upset at the sound qual­i­ty.

The moment was defining—and Dylan appar­ent­ly decid­ed to do it on a whim after hear­ing Alan Lomax insult the Paul But­ter­field Band, who were giv­ing a work­shop at the fes­ti­val. He came back onstage after­ward to play two acoustic songs for the appre­cia­tive audi­ence who remained, unfazed by the vehe­mence of half the crowd’s reac­tion to his ear­li­er set. Yet the rev­o­lu­tion to return rock to its folk and blues roots was already under­way. With­in six months of meet­ing Dylan in 1964, Gould writes, “John Lennon would be mak­ing records on which he open­ly imi­tat­ed Dylan’s nasal drone, brit­tle strum, and intro­spec­tive vocal per­sona.” (Dylan also intro­duced him to cannabis.)

In 1965, “the dis­tinc­tions between the folk and rock audi­ences would have near­ly evap­o­rat­ed.” The two met in the mid­dle. “The Bea­t­les’ audi­ence, in keep­ing with the way of the world, would be show­ing signs of grow­ing up,” while Dylan’s fans showed signs of “grow­ing down, as hun­dreds of thou­sands of folkies in their late teens and ear­ly twen­ties” redis­cov­ered “the ethos of their ado­les­cent years.” They also dis­cov­ered elec­tric blues. New­port shows Dylan accel­er­at­ing the tran­si­tion, and also sig­ni­fied the arrival of the great elec­tric blues-rock gui­tarists, in the form of the inim­itable Mike Bloom­field, an invad­ing force all his own, who inspired a gen­er­a­tion with his licks on “Like a Rolling Stone” and on the absolute clas­sic Paul But­ter­field Blues Band debut album, released in The Year Dylan Went Elec­tric.

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2020.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch Bob Dylan Play “Mr. Tam­bourine Man” in Col­or at the 1964 New­port Folk Fes­ti­val

Bob Dylan Explains Why Music Has Been Get­ting Worse

Tan­gled Up in Blue: Deci­pher­ing a Bob Dylan Mas­ter­piece

How Bob Dylan Kept Rein­vent­ing His Song­writ­ing Process, Breath­ing New Life Into His Music

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. 

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The 1976 Synth Album That Promised to Help Your Plants Grow: Discover Mother Earth’s Plantasia

In 1973, Peter Tomp­kins and Christo­pher Bird’s The Secret Life of Plants became a best­seller. Draw­ing from the results of sci­en­tif­ic stud­ies about whose replic­a­bil­i­ty we may now feel cer­tain doubts, the book sug­gest­ed that emo­tion, and indeed sen­tience, belong not just to humans and ani­mals, but also to, say, the pot­ted fern in your liv­ing room. Many of Tomp­kins and Bird’s read­ers must have owned such a plant, and prob­a­bly a vari­ety of oth­ers besides, giv­en the nine­teen-sev­en­ties’ fad for domes­tic veg­e­ta­tion. Though ridiculed in the major media, The Secret Life of Plants proved suf­fi­cient­ly in tune with its time to inspire a fea­ture-length doc­u­men­tary film with a high-tech sound­track by none oth­er than Ste­vie Won­der.

Did Won­der ever hear the album Moth­er Earth­’s Plan­ta­sia? Sub­ti­tled Warm Earth Music for Plants… and the Peo­ple Who Love Them, the album also fea­tures elec­tron­ic com­po­si­tions — exclu­sive­ly elec­tron­ic com­po­si­tions, in fact, per­formed entire­ly with a Moog syn­the­siz­er. Its com­pos­er Mort Gar­son had been a ver­sa­tile pro­fes­sion­al in the world of what was then called “easy lis­ten­ing,” and worked on the writ­ing, arrange­ment, or pro­duc­tion of pop­u­lar songs like Bren­da Lee’s “Dyna­mite,” Ruby & The Roman­tics’ “Our Day Will Come,” The Sand­pipers’ “Guan­tanam­era,” and Bill With­ers’ “Three Nights and a Morn­ing.” Upon meet­ing Robert Moog him­self at a con­ven­tion in 1967, Gar­son seems to have under­gone a con­ver­sion, becom­ing one of the first com­posers to ded­i­cate him­self to explor­ing the musi­cal poten­tial of the then-nov­el syn­the­siz­er tech­nol­o­gy.

The music Gar­son went on to make with his Moog reflects the zeit­geist: there was Elec­tron­ic Hair Pieces, with ver­sions of num­bers from the musi­cal Hair, a series of twelve discs based on the signs of the zodi­ac, and even the score that accom­pa­nied the Apol­lo 11 moon land­ing broad­cast. Of par­tic­u­lar inter­est to ear­ly elec­tron­ic music buffs is Black Mass, for which Gar­son took the pseu­do­nym Lucifer, and which ought to be worth adding to one’s library with Hal­loween com­ing up.

Moth­er Earth­’s Plan­ta­sia was released in 1976, three years before the Secret Life of Plants movie, though released may not be the right word: it could only be obtained free with pur­chase of either a house­plant from a shop called Moth­er Earth on Mel­rose Avenue in Los Ange­les or a Sim­mons mat­tress from Sears. As music YouTu­ber David Hart­ley explains in his lat­est video, Gar­son was asked to cre­ate an album of music con­ducive to plant growth by Moth­er Earth­’s own­ers, Lynn and Joel Rapp.

For decades there­after, Moth­er Earth­’s Plan­ta­sia could pre­sum­ably be encoun­tered by seri­ous crate-dig­gers: the Phar­cyde, for exam­ple, sam­pled one of its tracks on “Guestlist” in 2000. But it was only in the twen­ty-tens, after the estab­lish­ment of YouTube and its obscure-music-upload­ing cul­ture, that the album found an audi­ence appre­cia­tive enough to inspire a prop­er release. (Its redis­cov­ery played out sim­i­lar­ly to that of Mariya Takeuchi’s “Plas­tic Love,” the gold­en tip of the Japan­ese city pop revival.) Its tracks even­tu­al­ly even appeared in ad cam­paigns for Tur­b­o­Tax and the French super­mar­ket chain Inter­marché. To lis­ten­ers today, they may sound uncan­ni­ly like video game music as it would take shape in the eight­ies, albeit with a soft-edged ana­log tex­ture. As far as whether it actu­al­ly helps plants grow, even Joel Rap­p’s lin­er notes can only man­age the promise that “it could­n’t pos­si­bly hurt.” But I can report that it does a decent job putting my infant twins to sleep.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

How the Moog Syn­the­siz­er Changed the Sound of Music

Graph­ic Shows the House Plants That Nat­u­ral­ly Clean the Air in Your Home, Accord­ing to a NASA Study

Moog This!: Hear a Playlist Fea­tur­ing 36 Hours of Music Made with the Leg­endary Ana­log Syn­the­siz­er

Plants Emit High-Pitched Sounds When They Get Cut, or Stressed by Drought, a New Study Shows

Wendy Car­los’ Switched on Bach Turns 50 This Month: Learn How the Clas­si­cal Synth Record Intro­duced the World to the Moog

A Shaz­am for Nature: A New Free App Helps You Iden­ti­fy Plants, Ani­mals & Oth­er Denizens of the Nat­ur­al World

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

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