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.

Every Filmed and Televised Performance by Joy Division (1978–79)

Bri­an Eno once said of the Vel­vet Under­ground that their first album sold only 30,000 copies, but every­one who bought one start­ed a band. Joy Divi­sion’s debut Unknown Plea­sures sold only 20,000 copies in its ini­tial peri­od of release, but the T‑shirt embla­zoned with its cov­er art — an image of radio waves ema­nat­ing from a pul­sar tak­en from an astron­o­my ency­clo­pe­dia — has long since con­sti­tut­ed a com­mer­cial-semi­otic empire unto itself. That speaks to the vast sub­cul­tur­al influ­ence of the band, despite their only hav­ing been active from 1976 to 1980. When we speak of the genre of post-punk, we speak, in large part, of Joy Divi­sion and the artists they influ­enced.

Less than a year after the 1979 release of Unknown Plea­sures, Joy Divi­sion’s lead singer Ian Cur­tis com­mit­ted sui­cide. The band had already record­ed Clos­er, their sec­ond and last album (at least before the sub­se­quent, more suc­cess­ful ref­or­ma­tion as New Order). Scant though it may be, their stu­dio discog­ra­phy has only drawn more and more crit­i­cal acclaim over the decades.

Still, fans who weren’t around to wit­ness the rise of Joy Divi­sion first-hand will sus­pect they’ve missed out on some­thing essen­tial. “Live, Joy Divi­sion were heavy,” remem­bers band his­to­ri­an Jon Sav­age. “Per­form­ers — and David Bowie is a good exam­ple – know exact­ly what to give and what to with­hold, but Ian Cur­tis didn’t have that stage­craft. He just came on and gave every­thing.”

That sort of inten­si­ty, Sav­age adds, is “not infi­nite­ly repro­ducible”; even at the time, it seems that those who wit­nessed Joy Divi­sion in con­cert under­stood that their pecu­liar­ly com­pelling ener­gy was dri­ving toward some kind of final com­bus­tion. You can get a taste of it in the col­lec­tion of the group’s every tele­vised per­for­mance, orig­i­nal­ly aired on BBC2 and Grana­da TV in 1978 and 1979, at the top of the post; just above, we have a 70-minute com­pi­la­tion of all their filmed live shows. Much of it con­sists of footage shot over two nights at the Apol­lo The­atre in 1979, which the uploader describes as of poor qual­i­ty — but “accord­ing to peo­ple who were there, the gig’s qual­i­ty was poor in per­son too.” As much as gen­er­a­tions of fans have done to mythol­o­gize the band’s brief exis­tence over the past 45 years, here is evi­dence that even Joy Divi­sion had an off night once in a while.

Relat­ed con­tent:

75 Post-Punk and Hard­core Con­certs from the 1980s Have Been Dig­i­tized & Put Online: Fugazi, GWAR, Lemon­heads, Dain Bra­m­age (with Dave Grohl) & More

The His­to­ry of Rock n Roll in 10 Songs: A List Cre­at­ed by Leg­endary Rock Crit­ic Greil Mar­cus

Radio­head Cov­ers The Smiths & New Order (2007)

Hear the 50 Best Post-Punk Albums of All Time: A Nos­tal­gia-Induc­ing Playlist Curat­ed by Paste Mag­a­zine

Hear a 9‑Hour Trib­ute to John Peel: A Col­lec­tion of His Best “Peel Ses­sions”

An Ani­mat­ed His­to­ry of Goth

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.

When David Bowie Starred in—and Created Music for—a Dystopian Cyberpunk Video Game: Discover Omikron: The Nomad Soul (1999)

When it was announced that SARS-CoV­‑2, the virus at the cen­ter of the COVID-19 pan­dem­ic, had evolved into an even more con­ta­gious vari­ant called Omi­cron, pub­lic reac­tions var­ied. For those of us with long mem­o­ries of com­put­er and video gam­ing, it brought to mind a title we had­n’t thought about in quite some time: Omikron: The Nomad Soul, released for Win­dows in 1999 and the Sega Dream­cast in 2000. More than a few gamers know it as the debut of con­tro­ver­sial design­er David Cage, whose stu­dio Quan­tic Dream has gone on to pro­duce var­i­ous games of con­sid­er­able cin­e­mat­ic and emo­tion­al ambit (if also an often frus­trat­ing eccen­tric­i­ty). But it made a wider cul­tur­al impact at the time by incor­po­rat­ing the per­for­mance of none oth­er than David Bowie.

Or rather, it incor­po­rat­ed per­for­mances, plur­al, by David Bowie: in the game, he used motion cap­ture tech­nol­o­gy to play both Boz, the whol­ly dig­i­tal leader of an ancient reli­gious order, and the lead singer of the band The Dream­ers, whose con­certs (shown in the video above) the play­er can view here and there around the dystopi­an cyber­punk city of Omikron.

Orig­i­nal­ly, the devel­op­ers had only gone to Bowie in order to license his songs for the game’s sound­track, but, as explained in the mrixrt video below, the project so appealed to his technophil­ia that he pro­posed a much deep­er involve­ment. That includ­ed record­ing a set of orig­i­nal songs, lat­er includ­ed on his album Hours… (which is itself notable in the his­to­ry of tech­nol­o­gy and cul­ture for being one of the first down­load­able releas­es by a major artist).

Among its many nov­el qual­i­ties, includ­ing pio­neer­ing the “open world” envi­ron­ment now stan­dard in big-bud­get games, Omikron grants the play­er — as the tit­u­lar “nomad soul” — the abil­i­ty to inhab­it the bod­ies of a host of oth­er char­ac­ters (includ­ing one played by Bowie’s wife Iman). It isn’t hard to imag­ine the con­cep­t’s appeal for a per­former who made his name with fre­quent changes of iden­ti­ty — and who even sug­gest­ed, at one point, that he leave that name behind in the real­i­ty of the game, re-emerg­ing into pub­lic life as David Jones. By the time he died, the bet­ter part of two decades lat­er, his role in gam­ing was most­ly for­got­ten, but one of the many trib­utes paid to him includ­ed a free re-release of Omikron. Those who took the chance to revis­it the game would have remem­bered the feel­ing it first gave them that its dig­i­tal world con­tin­ued even when they weren’t play­ing — accom­pa­nied by a sense that, some­how, Bowie con­tin­ues to live with­in it.

Relat­ed con­tent:

When David Bowie Launched His Own Inter­net Ser­vice Provider: The Rise and Fall of BowieNet (1998)

A Tour of the New David Bowie Archive Fea­tur­ing 90,000 Arti­facts from His Life & Career

How David Bowie Used William S. Bur­roughs’ Cut-Up Method to Write His Unfor­get­table Lyrics

David Bowie Pre­dicts the Good & Bad of the Inter­net in 1999: “We’re on the Cusp of Some­thing Exhil­a­rat­ing and Ter­ri­fy­ing”

The David Bowie Monop­oly Game Is Here: Advance to GO and Col­lect 200 Hunky Dorys!

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 Fascinating Story of How the Electric Music Pioneer Delia Derbyshire Created the Original Doctor Who Theme (1963)

We’ve focused a fair bit here on the work of Delia Der­byshire, pio­neer­ing elec­tron­ic com­pos­er of the mid-twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry—fea­tur­ing two doc­u­men­taries on her and dis­cussing her role in almost cre­at­ing an elec­tron­ic back­ing track for Paul McCartney’s “Yes­ter­day.” There’s good rea­son to devote so much atten­tion to her: Derbyshire’s work with the BBC’s Radio­phon­ic Work­shop laid the bedrock for a good deal of the sound design we hear on TV and radio today.

And, as we point­ed out pre­vi­ous­ly, her elec­tron­ic music, record­ed under her own name and with the band White Noise, influ­enced “most every cur­rent leg­end in the business—from Aphex Twin and the Chem­i­cal Broth­ers to Paul Hart­noll of Orbital.”

Yet for all her influ­ence among dance music com­posers and sound effects wiz­ards, Der­byshire and her music remain pret­ty obscure—that is except for one com­po­si­tion, instant­ly rec­og­niz­able as the orig­i­nal theme to the BBC’s sci-fi hit Doc­tor Who (hear it at the top), “the best-known work of a rag­tag group of tech­ni­cians,” writes The Atlantic, “who unwit­ting­ly helped shape the course of 20th-cen­tu­ry music.” Writ­ten by com­pos­er Ron Grain­er, the song was actu­al­ly brought into being by the Radio­phon­ic Work­shop, and by Der­byshire espe­cial­ly. The sto­ry of the Doc­tor Who theme’s cre­ation is almost as inter­est­ing as the tune itself, with its “swoop­ing, hiss­ing and puls­ing” that “man­ages to be at once haunt­ing, goofy and ethe­re­al.” Just above, you can see Der­byshire and her assis­tant Dick Mills tell it in brief.

What we learn from them is fas­ci­nat­ing, con­sid­er­ing that com­po­si­tions like this are now cre­at­ed in pow­er­ful com­put­er sys­tems with dozens of sep­a­rate tracks and dig­i­tal effects. The Doc­tor Who theme, on the oth­er hand, record­ed in 1963, was made even before basic ana­log syn­the­siz­ers came into use. “There are no musi­cians,” says Mills, “there are no syn­the­siz­ers, and in those days, we didn’t even have a 2‑track or a stereo machine, it was always mono.” (Despite pop­u­lar mis­con­cep­tions, the theme does not fea­ture a Theremin.) Der­byshire con­firms; each and every part of the song “was con­struct­ed on quar­ter-inch mono tape,” she says, “inch by inch by inch,” using such record­ing tech­niques as “fil­tered white noise” and some­thing called a “wob­bu­la­tor.” How were all of these painstak­ing­ly con­struct­ed indi­vid­ual parts com­bined with­out mul­ti­track tech­nol­o­gy? “We cre­at­ed three sep­a­rate tapes,” Der­byshire explains, “put them onto three machines and stood next to them and said “Ready, steady, go!” and pushed all the ‘start’ but­tons at once. It seemed to work.”

The theme came about when Grain­er received a com­mis­sion from the BBC after his well-received work on oth­er series. He “com­posed the theme on a sin­gle sheet of A4 man­u­script,” writes Mark Ayres in an exten­sive online his­to­ry, “and sent it over from his home in Por­tu­gal, leav­ing the Work­shop to get on with it.” Aware that the musique con­crète tech­niques Der­byshire and her team used “were very time-con­sum­ing, Grain­er pro­vid­ed a very sim­ple com­po­si­tion, in essence just the famous bass line and a swoop­ing melody,” as well as vague­ly evoca­tive instruc­tions for orches­tra­tion like “wind bub­ble” and “cloud.” Ayres writes, “To an inven­tive radio­phon­ic com­pos­er such as Delia Der­byshire, this was a gift.” Indeed “upon hear­ing it,” The Atlantic notes, “a very impressed Grain­er bare­ly rec­og­nized it as his com­po­si­tion. Due to BBC poli­cies at the time, Grainer—against his objections—is still offi­cial­ly cred­it­ed as the sole writer.” But the cred­it for this futur­is­tic work—which sounds absolute­ly like noth­ing else of the time and “which brought to a wide audi­ence meth­ods once exclu­sive to the high mod­ernism of exper­i­men­tal composition”—should equal­ly go to Der­byshire and her team. You can con­trast that ahead-of-its-time orig­i­nal theme with all of the iter­a­tions to fol­low in the video just above.

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2016.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Hear Sev­en Hours of Women Mak­ing Elec­tron­ic Music (1938- 2014)

Two Doc­u­men­taries Intro­duce Delia Der­byshire, the Pio­neer in Elec­tron­ic Music

Meet Four Women Who Pio­neered Elec­tron­ic Music: Daphne Oram, Lau­rie Spiegel, Éliane Radigue & Pauline Oliv­eros

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

See Beethoven’s Entire 9th Symphony Visualized in Colorful Animations

While report­ing on the Euro­vi­sion Song Con­test, the New York­er’s Antho­ny Lane “asked a man named Sep­po, from the sev­en-hun­dred-strong Euro­vi­sion Fan Club of Nor­way, what he loved about Euro­vi­sion. ‘Broth­er­hood of man,’ he said — a slight­ly ambigu­ous answer, because that was the name of a British group that entered, and won, the con­test in 1976.” And the con­cept has a longer his­to­ry in Euro­pean music than that: Friedrich Schiller claimed to be cel­e­brat­ing it when he wrote his poem “An die Freude,” or “To Joy,” which Lud­wig van Beethoven adapt­ed a few decades there­after into the final move­ment of his Sym­pho­ny No. 9. Lat­er still, in 1972, that piece of music was adopt­ed by the Coun­cil of Europe as the con­ti­nen­t’s anthem; in 1985, the Euro­pean Union made it offi­cial as well.

In a sense, “Ode to Joy” is a nat­ur­al choice for a musi­cal rep­re­sen­ta­tion of Europe, not just for its explic­it themes, but also for the obvi­ous ambi­tion of the sym­pho­ny that includes it to cap­ture an entire civ­i­liza­tion in musi­cal form.

Its com­plex­i­ty and con­tra­dic­tion may be eas­i­er to appre­ci­ate through these videos, which con­sti­tute a visu­al­iza­tion by Stephen Mali­nows­ki, cre­ator of the Music Ani­ma­tion Machine, pre­vi­ous­ly fea­tured here on Open Cul­ture for his ani­mat­ed scores of every­thing from Vivaldi’s Four Sea­sons to Bach’s Bran­den­burg Con­cer­to no. 4 to Debussy’s Clair de lune. As one of the most fre­quent­ly per­formed sym­phonies in the world, Beethoven’s 9th comes to us laden with a fair amount of cul­tur­al bag­gage, but Mali­nowski’s spar­e­ly ele­gant ren­der­ing lets us lis­ten while keep­ing our mind on the essen­tials of its struc­ture.

That struc­ture, as the view­ing expe­ri­ence empha­sizes, is not a par­tic­u­lar­ly sim­ple one. Though already deaf, Beethoven nev­er­the­less com­posed this final com­plete sym­pho­ny with lay­er after ever-chang­ing yet inter­lock­ing lay­er, draw­ing from a vari­ety of musi­cal tra­di­tions as well as pieces he’d already writ­ten for oth­er pur­pos­es. At its 1824 pre­miere in Vien­na, Sym­pho­ny No. 9 received no few­er than five stand­ing ova­tions, though over the cen­turies since, even cer­tain of its appre­ci­a­tors ques­tion whether the final move­ment real­ly fits in with the rest. Indeed, some even regard “Ode to Joy” as kitschy, an exer­cise unbe­com­ing of the sym­pho­ny as a whole, to say noth­ing of the man who com­posed it. But then, it’s unde­ni­able that Euro­pean cul­ture has since achieved heights of kitsch unimag­in­able in Beethoven’s day.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Slavoj Žižek Exam­ines the Per­verse Ide­ol­o­gy of Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy”

The Sto­ry of How Beethoven Helped Make It So That CDs Could Play 74 Min­utes of Music

“A Glo­ri­ous Hour”: Helen Keller Describes The Ecsta­sy of Feel­ing Beethoven’s Ninth Played on the Radio (1924)

Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy” Mov­ing­ly Flash­mobbed in Spain

Watch Clas­si­cal Music Come to Life in Art­ful­ly Ani­mat­ed Scores: Stravin­sky, Debussy, Bach, Beethoven, Mozart & More

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.

Discover the Oldest, Weirdest Instrument On Earth: The Lithophone

Sta­lac­tites hang tight to the ceil­ing, and sta­lag­mites push up with might from the floor: this is a mnemon­ic device you may once have learned, but chances are you haven’t had much occa­sion to remem­ber it since. Still, it would sure­ly be called to mind by a vis­it to Luray Cav­erns in the Amer­i­can state of Vir­ginia, home of the Great Sta­lacpipe Organ. As its name sug­gests, that attrac­tion is an organ made out of sta­lac­tites, the geo­log­i­cal for­ma­tions that grow from cave ceil­ings. Not long after the dis­cov­ery of Luray Cav­erns itself in 1878, its sta­lac­tites were found to res­onate through the under­ground space in an almost musi­cal fash­ion when struck — a prop­er­ty Leland W. Sprin­kle took to its log­i­cal con­clu­sion in the mid-nine­teen fifties.

“Dur­ing a tour of this world-famous nat­ur­al won­der, Mr. Sprin­kle watched in awe, which was still cus­tom­ary at the time, as a tour guide tapped the ancient stone for­ma­tions with a small mal­let, pro­duc­ing a musi­cal tone,” says Luray Cav­erns’ offi­cial site. “Mr. Sprin­kle was great­ly inspired by this demon­stra­tion and the idea for a most unique instru­ment was con­ceived.”

Con­cep­tion was one thing, but exe­cu­tion quite anoth­er: it took him three years to locate just the right sta­lac­tites, shave them down to ring out at just the right fre­quen­cy, and rig them up with elec­tron­i­cal­ly acti­vat­ed, key­board-con­trolled mal­lets. For the tech­ni­cal­ly mind­ed Sprin­kle, who worked at the Pen­ta­gon as a math­e­mati­cian and elec­tron­ics sci­en­tist, this must not have been quite as tedious a labor as it sounds.

The result was the biggest, the old­est (at least accord­ing to the age of the cave itself), and arguably the weird­est musi­cal instru­ment on Earth, a litho­phone for the mid-twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry’s hero­ic age of engi­neer­ing. You can see the Great Sta­lacpipe Organ in the video from Ver­i­ta­si­um at the top of the post, and hear a record­ing of Sprin­kle him­self play­ing it below that. In the video just above, YouTu­ber and musi­cian Rob Scal­lon gets a chance to take it for a spin. View­ers of his chan­nel know how much expe­ri­ence he has with exot­ic instru­ments (includ­ing the glass armon­i­ca, orig­i­nal­ly invent­ed by Ben Franklin, which we’ve fea­tured here on Open Cul­ture), but even so, the oppor­tu­ni­ty to play a cave — and to make use of its sur­round sound avant la let­tre — hard­ly comes every day. Here we have proof that the old, weird Amer­i­ca endures, and that the Great Sta­lacpipe Organ is its ide­al sound­track.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch an Archae­ol­o­gist Play the “Litho­phone,” a Pre­his­toric Instru­ment That Let Ancient Musi­cians Play Real Clas­sic Rock

Nick Cave Nar­rates an Ani­mat­ed Film about the Cat Piano, the Twist­ed 18th Cen­tu­ry Musi­cal Instru­ment Designed to Treat Men­tal Ill­ness

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 Night John Belushi Booked the Punk Band Fear on Saturday Night Live & They Got Banned from the Show (1981)

Punk rock has a robust tra­di­tion of gross-out, offen­sive comedy—one car­ried into the present by bands like Fat White Fam­i­ly and Diar­rhea Plan­et, who may not exist were it not for Fear, an unsta­ble L.A. band led by an obnox­ious provo­ca­teur who goes by the name Lee Ving. Like fel­low L.A. punks the Germs, Cir­cle Jerks, and Black Flag, Fear gets cred­it for pio­neer­ing a Cal­i­for­nia punk sound known for ado­les­cent brat­ti­ness and a total lack of pre­ten­sion to any kind of art­ful­ness or cool.

Like many of their peers, Fear rose to promi­nence when Pene­lope Spheeris fea­tured them in her 1981 punk doc­u­men­tary The Decline of West­ern Civ­i­liza­tion, Part I. But before that sem­i­nal film’s release, Fear was dis­cov­ered by John Belushi, who first caught the band on a local L.A. music show called New Wave The­atre in 1980. He tracked down Ving, who tells Rolling Stone, “we had a cou­ple of beers and became fast friends.” At the time, Belushi was at work on his com­e­dy Neigh­bors with Dan Aykroyd and con­tract­ed the band to record a song for the film (his last before his death in 1982).

The film’s pro­duc­ers, Rolling Stone writes, “were appalled” by the song “and refused to use it,” so to make it up to Ving and com­pa­ny, Belushi pushed to have the band booked on Sat­ur­day Night Live on Hal­loween, 1981. The result­ing per­for­mance has become leg­endary for what hap­pened, and what didn’t, and led to Fear becom­ing, says Ving, “one of the esteemed mem­bers of the per­ma­nent­ly banned.” You can watch a clip above of the band play­ing “Beef Boloney” and “New York’s Alright if You Like Sax­o­phones” (intro­duced by Don­ald Pleas­ance), and just below see Ving in a clip from an inter­view show dis­cussing the ill-fat­ed gig.

Belushi stage-man­aged the band’s appear­ance, striv­ing for authen­tic­i­ty by bring­ing into the stu­dio what Ving calls “an actu­al punk rock audi­ence rather than just Mr. and Mrs. Mis­souri.” (That audi­ence includ­ed now-leg­ends Ian MacK­aye of Minor Threat and Fugazi, mem­bers of New York hard­core band the Cro-Mags, and Tesco Vee of the Meat­men.)  The result­ing mosh pit was noth­ing out of the ordi­nary for the typ­i­cal punk show. But, unsur­pris­ing­ly, “the real audi­ence at Sat­ur­day Night Live was scared to death,” says Ving, “They didn’t know what was hap­pen­ing with all the may­hem.”

Dur­ing the riotous pro­ceed­ings, SNL pro­duc­er Dick Eber­sol “got hit in the chest with a pump­kin,” some equip­ment was dam­aged, and dur­ing the final song, “Let’s Have a War,” an audi­ence mem­ber grabbed the micro­phone and yelled out “F*ck New York!” The pro­fan­i­ty freaked out NBC, who cut the broad­cast short and shelved the footage for sev­er­al years. The New York Post lat­er quot­ed an unnamed NBC tech­ni­cian as say­ing, “This was a life-threat­en­ing sit­u­a­tion. They went crazy. It’s amaz­ing no one got killed.” The paper also quot­ed a fig­ure of $400,000 for dam­ages to the Rock­e­feller Cen­ter set.

But as Bill­board report­ed two weeks lat­er, the fig­ure was total­ly erro­neous (sup­plied to the Post by Ving as a prac­ti­cal joke, as he says above). “We had to pay $40 in labor penal­ties. That was the extent of it,” said SNL spokesman Peter Hamil­ton. As for the shock to view­ers, it seems the net­work received “all of 12 com­plaints” after the broad­cast. Ving him­self found the over­re­ac­tion ridicu­lous, and NBC’s long shelv­ing of the footage—only recent­ly made avail­able in a trun­cat­ed version—a humor­less mis­take. “They seem to be… los­ing the sense of humor about the whole idea,” he told Rolling Stone, “I had a sense of humor at the whole idea of start­ing Fear. It was extreme­ly humor­ous to me, and I think John saw that humor.”

Indeed he did, but Belushi’s appre­ci­a­tion for Fear’s antics was ahead of its time. Now we can see, at least in part, what all the fuss was about. And we can also final­ly hear the long-shelved sin­gle for Neigh­bors that Belushi record­ed with the band.

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2016.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Stunt That Got Elvis Costel­lo Banned From Sat­ur­day Night Live (1977)

The Birth of the Blues Broth­ers: How Dan Aykroyd & John Belushi Start­ed Intro­duc­ing a New Gen­er­a­tion to the Blues

Sat­ur­day Night Live’s Very First Sketch: Watch John Belushi Launch SNL in Octo­ber, 1975

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

 

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