Martin Scorsese Captures Levon Helm and The Band Performing “The Weight” in The Last Waltz


Born in Arkansas in 1940, Lev­on Helm grew up lis­ten­ing Elvis Pres­ley, Lit­tle Richard, John­ny Cash and Jer­ry Lee Lewis. By the 1960s, he began putting his per­son­al stamp on rock ’n’ roll. Dur­ing those years, Helm and gui­tarist Rob­bie Robert­son joined Bob Dylan’s ever-so-con­tro­ver­sial elec­tric band and played togeth­er dur­ing the infa­mous­ly tumul­tuous 1966 tour. Then, Helm and Robert­son decid­ed to form their own band — The Band. Robert­son wrote or co-wrote most of their songs, while Helm often gave voice to them. And so things went until they did­n’t.

In 1976, The Band broke up, but not before they played an epic final con­cert that Mar­tin Scors­ese doc­u­ment­ed for pos­ter­i­ty in his film, The Last Waltz. Decades lat­er, many crit­ics con­sid­er it “the great­est rock con­cert movie ever made.” And although the film con­sist­ed most­ly of live footage from their farewell con­cert in San Fran­cis­co, Scors­ese filmed one of The Band’s mem­o­rable songs, “The Weight,” on an MGM sound­stage. You can find the per­for­mance above, and Lev­on Helm singing soul­ful­ly on drums. The scene also fea­tures a guest appear­ance by Mavis Sta­ples, along with her father and sis­ters in The Sta­ple Singers.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Jean-Luc Godard Films The Rolling Stones Record­ing “Sym­pa­thy for the Dev­il” (1968)

Mar­tin Scorsese’s Very First Films: Three Imag­i­na­tive Short Works

The Geometry of Sound Waves Visualized

Turn down your speak­ers …  but not all of the way off. Now see what sound waves look like when they’re visu­al­ized and the geo­met­ric pat­terns they make. They’re called Chlad­ni pat­terns, and they get their name from Ernst Chlad­ni (1756–1827), a Ger­man physi­cist and musi­cian whose work earned him the title, “The Father of Acoustics.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Visu­al­iz­ing WiFi Sig­nals with Light

Mag­net­ic Fields Made Vis­i­ble

Futur­ist Arthur C. Clarke on Mandelbrot’s Frac­tals

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Roger McGuinn, Frontman of The Byrds, Curates Folk Den, Lets You Download Free Folk Music

Roger McGuinn of the Byrds was one of the most influ­en­tial singers and gui­tarists of the 1960s. Although his own influ­ences range from Ravi Shankar to John Coltrane, McGuin­n’s roots are in folk music. The Byrds were among the first to fuse folk with rock and roll. “I’ve always con­sid­ered myself a folksinger,” McGuinn told Neal Conan this week on NPR’s Talk of the Nation, “even though we strapped on Rick­en­backer gui­tars and played pret­ty loud. But I was a folksinger at heart because we always loved folk music. I loved the melodies and the sto­ries.”

In the mid 1990s McGuinn was lis­ten­ing to a Smith­son­ian Folk­ways record when it occurred to him that he was­n’t hear­ing tra­di­tion­al songs played any­more, even in folk clubs. “So I thought, ‘What’s going to hap­pen when Odet­ta dies?’ Well, as you know, she just passed away. And Pete Seeger’s, what, he’s 92, 93. He’s get­ting up there. So I thought I’d do some­thing about it.”

McGuinn had always been an ear­ly adopter of new tech­nolo­gies. He owned a mobile tele­phone in the ear­ly 1970s and bought his first per­son­al com­put­er in 1981. So in 1995 he got the idea of estab­lish­ing Folk Den, a web­site ded­i­cat­ed to pre­serv­ing the tra­di­tion­al folk music that he loves. On the first day of each month, McGuinn posts a new song.  There are now almost 200 MP3 files online, avail­able for free down­load. In some of the record­ings McGuinn is joined by his wife, Camil­la. To get the fla­vor of what’s avail­able, here are three quick exam­ples:

But you real­ly must vis­it the Folk Den Web site, which includes lyrics, chords, visu­al mate­r­i­al and a lit­tle intro­duc­tion to each song writ­ten by McGuinn. And to hear McGuin­n’s Talk of the Nation inter­view, which includes musi­cal per­for­mances, vis­it the NPR Web site.

Alfred Hitchcock Adapts Joseph Conrad’s Novel of Terrorism in Sabotage (1936)

Just like most of you Open Cul­ture read­ers, I’m a suck­er for cul­tur­al inter­sec­tions, the places where music meets paint­ing, poet­ry meets com­put­ing, lan­guage meets archi­tec­ture, and so on. I feel an even greater thrill when two respect­ed cre­ators team up to accom­plish this; the more unlike­ly and inad­ver­tent the com­bi­na­tion, the bet­ter. The film above, which you can watch free on YouTube, rep­re­sents not just the inter­sec­tion of cin­e­ma and lit­er­a­ture, but the inter­sec­tion of Alfred Hitch­cock and Joseph Con­rad, titans of their respec­tive forms whose lives only briefly over­lapped. In 1907, Con­rad pub­lished The Secret Agent, a polit­i­cal nov­el of late nine­teenth-cen­tu­ry Lon­don. (Find it in our Free eBooks col­lec­tion) In 1936, Hitch­cock turned it into the pic­ture Sab­o­tage, also known as The Woman Alone (but not, I should note, Secret Agent, an entire­ly dif­fer­ent Hitch­cock-direct­ed film of that year). Con­rad’s book, a tale of ide­ol­o­gy and ter­ror­ism, saw very fre­quent cita­tion in the after­math of Sep­tem­ber 11, 2001. Lat­er that decade, Quentin Taran­ti­no cit­ed Hitch­cock­’s film to illus­trate a vital plot point in his own Inglou­ri­ous Bas­ter­ds. Both works, it seems, have retained a cer­tain rel­e­vance.

While Hitch­cock and com­pa­ny tai­lored Con­rad’s source mate­r­i­al to fit their sen­si­bil­i­ty, their times, and their medi­um, both the movie and the nov­el cen­ter on a busi­ness­man named Ver­loc. (Spoil­er alert, we talk about the plot here.) Caught in the unen­vi­able posi­tion of belong­ing to a bomb-chuck­ing anar­chist soci­ety and work­ing as an agent provo­ca­teur for a coun­try some­where in shad­owy East­ern Europe, Ver­loc uses his unsus­pect­ing young broth­er-in-law Ste­vie to car­ry out an attack meant to osten­si­bly fur­ther the anar­chist agen­da but to secret­ly strike a blow for the nation that employs him. When the bomb­ing goes awry and takes Ste­vie with it — a death that Hitch­cock report­ed­ly regret­ted includ­ing, though the inevitabil­i­ty with which his plot deliv­ers it strikes me as entire­ly Hitch­cock­ian — Ver­loc finds him­self not at the mer­cy of the anar­chists, nor of the spies, nor of Scot­land Yard, but of his own enraged wife. Even after hav­ing under­gone cin­e­mat­ic sim­pli­fi­ca­tion, Con­rad’s tale eludes almost any posi­tions or mes­sages read­ers would ascribe to it. “Con­rad dis­trust­ed gov­ern­ments as much as he scorned those who sought as a mat­ter of abstract prin­ci­ple to over­throw them,” writes Judith Shule­vitz in a Slate piece on the nov­el­’s post‑9/11 pop­u­lar­i­ty. “He nei­ther advo­cat­ed one kind of state over anoth­er nor proph­e­sied the ongo­ing war against ter­ror­ism, except inso­far as he saw indus­tri­al­ized soci­ety as for­ev­er at odds with the anar­chic human heart.”

Relat­ed con­tent:

21 Free Hitch­cock Movies Online

We Were Wan­der­ers on a Pre­his­toric Earth: A Short Film Inspired by Joseph Con­rad

Truffaut’s Big Inter­view with Hitch­cock (MP3s)

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

The Art of the Book Cover Explained at TED

Give this one a minute to get going, to get beyond the schtick. And then you’ll enter the world of Chip Kidd, asso­ciate art direc­tor at Knopf, who has designed cov­ers for many famous books. As he will tell you, his job comes down to ask­ing: What do sto­ries look like, and how can he give them a face, if not write a short visu­al haiku for them? In the remain­ing min­utes of his TED Talk, Kidd takes you through his work, reveal­ing the aes­thet­ic choic­es that went into design­ing cov­ers for books by Michael Crich­ton, John Updike, David Sedaris, Haru­ki Muraka­mi, and oth­ers.

When you’re done, we rec­om­mend check­ing out these relat­ed items:

Vladimir Nabokov Mar­vels Over Dif­fer­ent “Loli­ta” Book Cov­ers

Spike Jonze Presents a Stop Motion Film for Book Lovers

Books Come to Life in Clas­sic Car­toons from 1930s and 1940s

Coursera Adds Humanities Courses, Raises $16 Million, Strikes Deal with 3 Universities

Dur­ing the past two months, two ven­tures offer­ing free MOOCS (Mas­sive Open Online Cours­es) have spun out of Stan­ford. One is Udac­i­ty run by Sebas­t­ian Thrun. And the oth­er is Cours­era, which announced a slew of big news today.

To start with, it raised $16 mil­lion in fund­ing from ven­ture cap­i­tal firms Klein­er Perkins Cau­field & Byers and New Enter­prise Asso­ciates.

Next it announced agree­ments to offer cours­es by Prince­ton, the Uni­ver­si­ty of Penn­syl­va­nia, and the Uni­ver­si­ty of Michi­gan (in addi­tion to Stan­ford).

And final­ly it has added human­i­ties cours­es to its upcom­ing fall cur­ricu­lum — a depar­ture from the MOOC norm of only offer­ing cours­es in com­put­er sci­ence & engi­neer­ing. Cours­es include:

The cours­es will get start­ed in the Fall. In the mean­time, don’t miss our col­lec­tion of 450 Free Cours­es from top uni­ver­si­ties, includ­ing Stan­ford, MIT, Yale, Har­vard, Oxford and beyond.

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Frankenweenie: Tim Burton Turns Frankenstein Tale into Disney Kids Film (1984)

When Tim Bur­ton was 25 years old The Walt Dis­ney Com­pa­ny gave him a bud­get of almost a mil­lion dol­lars to make a movie about a boy and his dog. It’s the usu­al sto­ry, except that the dog is run over by a car and the boy’s name is Vic­tor Franken­stein.

We don’t want to give away too much of the plot. Let’s just say that jumper cables are involved.

Bur­ton had been recruit­ed by Dis­ney in 1979, when he grad­u­at­ed from art school. In cer­tain ways it was a dream job, but there was fric­tion right from the begin­ning. Bur­ton and Dis­ney were a strange match. He start­ed out as an ani­ma­tor on The Fox and the Hound. “It was like Chi­nese water tor­ture,” he says in Bur­ton on Bur­ton. “Imag­ine draw­ing a cute fox with Sandy Dun­can’s voice for three years.”

After his time in cute-fox pur­ga­to­ry, Bur­ton got a chance to express his goth­ic imag­i­na­tion in Vin­cent, a six-minute ani­mat­ed film nar­rat­ed by his boy­hood idol, Vin­cent Price. The film impressed peo­ple, but the stu­dio did­n’t quite know what to do with it. “I felt very hap­py to have made it,” Bur­ton says in the book. “It was a lit­tle odd, though, because Dis­ney seemed to be pleased with it, but at the same time kind of ashamed.”

At about that time the com­pa­ny was devel­op­ing a project for tele­vi­sion called The Dis­ney Chan­nel, which fea­tured a series on fairy tales. Bur­ton’s idea was to do a ver­sion of Hansel and Gre­tel with an all-Japan­ese cast and a big kung-fu fight at the end. Some­how he man­aged to receive a green light for the project, and it became his first live-action film. “I had a room filled with draw­ings,” he says, “and I think that was the thing that made them feel com­fort­able about me, to some degree. Even though, visu­al­ly, the draw­ings aren’t easy to imag­ine in three dimen­sions, or in any oth­er form than those draw­ings, I think it made them feel I was­n’t com­plete­ly insane, and that I could actu­al­ly do some­thing.”

Hansel and Gre­tel was an impor­tant step­ping stone for the project that had been per­co­lat­ing in Bur­ton’s sub­con­scious since he was a hor­ror film-obsessed child grow­ing up in Bur­bank, Cal­i­for­nia. The idea of tak­ing the clas­sic Franken­stein tale and trans­form­ing it into a chil­dren’s sto­ry about an Amer­i­can boy and his beloved dog some­how seemed nat­ur­al to Bur­ton. He saw echoes of James Whale’s clas­sic film, and its sequels, all around him. He says:

What was great was that you almost did­n’t even have to think about it, because grow­ing up in sub­ur­bia there were these minia­ture golf cours­es with wind­mills which were just like the one in Franken­stein. These images just hap­pened to coin­cide, because that was your life. There were poo­dles that always remind­ed you of the bride of Franken­stein with the big hair. All those things were just there. That’s why it felt so right or easy for me to do–those images were already there in Bur­bank.

Although the film would even­tu­al­ly get Bur­ton into hot water with Dis­ney, Franken­wee­nie marks a mile­stone in his devel­op­ment as a film­mak­er. As Aurélien Fer­enczi writes in Mas­ters of Cin­e­ma: Tim Bur­ton, “the seeds of Edward Scis­sorhands are already vis­i­ble in Franken­wee­nie.” The 30-minute film, which can be viewed above in its entire­ty, stars Bar­ret Oliv­er as the young Vic­tor Franken­stein and Daniel Stern and Shel­ley Duvall as his par­ents. The sto­ry was writ­ten in col­lab­o­ra­tion with Leonard Ripps, based on Bur­ton’s sketch­es and their shared emo­tion­al respons­es to the 1931 Franken­stein. Says Bur­ton:

Some­thing that’s always been very impor­tant to me is not to make a direct link­age. If I was to sit down with some­body, and we were to look at a scene from Franken­stein and say ‘Let’s do that’, I would­n’t do it, even if it’s a homage or an inspired-by kind of thing. In fact, if I ever use a direct link to some­thing, I try to make sure in my own mind that it’s not a case of ‘Let’s copy that’. Instead it’s, ‘Why do I like that, what’s the emo­tion­al con­text in this new for­mat?’ That’s why I always try to gauge if peo­ple get me and are on a sim­i­lar wave­length. The writer Lenny Ripps was that way. he got it. He did­n’t want to sit there and go over Franken­stein; he knew it well enough. It’s more like it’s being fil­tered through some sort of remem­brance.

The film was com­plet­ed in 1984, and was intend­ed to be screened with a re-release of Pinoc­chio, but dis­as­ter struck. The Motion Pic­ture Asso­ci­a­tion of Amer­i­ca gave Franken­wee­nie a PG rat­ing. Dis­ney could­n’t show a PG film with the G‑rated Pinoc­chio. The stu­dio exec­u­tives were furi­ous. “I was a lit­tle shocked,” Bur­ton says, “because I don’t see what’s PG about the film: there’s no bad lan­guage, there’s only one bit of vio­lence, and the vio­lence hap­pens off-cam­era. So I said to the MPAA, ‘What do I need to get a G rat­ing?’ and they basi­cal­ly said, ‘Thre’s noth­ing you can cut, it’s just the tone.’ I think it was the fact that it was in black and white that freaked them out. There’s noth­ing bad in the movie.”

There are dif­fer­ing accounts on whether Bur­ton was fired or quit, but in any case Franken­wee­nie marked the end of Bur­ton’s employ­ment at Dis­ney. But enough peo­ple saw the film and rec­og­nized Bur­ton’s bril­liance that he was able to move on to the next phase of his career. One of those peo­ple was Stephen King, who gave a tape of Franken­wee­nie to an exec­u­tive at Warn­er Bros. who was look­ing for a fresh tal­ent to direct a movie star­ring Pee-wee Her­man. This Fall, Bur­ton will have his tri­umphal revenge when Dis­ney brings out an IMAX 3D ani­mat­ed remake of Franken­wee­nie. You can watch the trail­er below:

John Cage Unbound: A New Digital Archive Presented by The New York Public Library

John Cage enthu­si­asts have sure­ly rejoiced at the New York Pub­lic Library’s open­ing of John Cage Unbound: A Liv­ing Archive, which offers vis­i­tors a chance to expe­ri­ence how the unique­ly inno­v­a­tive com­poser’s life and work con­tin­ue to affect the per­for­mance of music today. But if you don’t hap­pen to live in New York, no need to book a trip; you can browse the archive online when­ev­er and from wher­ev­er you please. One won­ders what Cage, who died the year before the debut of the World Wide Web as we know it, would have made of all the artis­tic inven­tion, son­ic and oth­er­wise, that the inter­net has enabled. I like to think he’d gaze with great fas­ci­na­tion at this site’s con­tin­u­al­ly updat­ed col­lec­tion of not only vin­tage John Cage footage — him play­ing ampli­fied cac­ti and plant mate­ri­als with a feath­er with Take­hisa Kosu­gi, him speak­ing in 1978 — but recent mate­r­i­al as well, such as Paul Schuet­te’s inter­pre­ta­tion of the piece “Water Walk,” and The Anta Project per­form­ing Cage’s famous “4’33”,” the piece that involves no play­ing, at the U.S.-Mexico bor­der.

Bridg­ing the gap between the old and the new, the video above col­lects per­son­al impres­sions of John Cage from those who par­tic­i­pat­ed in his 1970 per­for­mance at Carlisle, Penn­syl­va­ni­a’s Dick­in­son Col­lege. “Intense, obser­vant, focused,” says the col­lege’s Pres­i­dent William Dur­den. “Not nec­es­sar­i­ly a per­son who took up space, but a per­son who real­ly… chis­eled space.” Think­ing about the nature of the con­cert, Joe Sobel, a musi­cian who built an instru­ment out of junked car horns espe­cial­ly for it, remem­bers that “if you approached it in a dour, seri­ous way, you weren’t going to be able to make any sense of it. In order to enjoy it, you had to be open and will­ing to get the joke.” He could say the same about every­thing John Cage ever did. Hear­ing these reflec­tions and then, lat­er in the video, see­ing a group of Dick­in­son stu­dents grap­ple with putting on Cage’s “Radio Music” — a piece played not with tra­di­tion­al instru­ments, but lit­er­al radios — even view­ers who aren’t yet John Cage enthu­si­asts may find them­selves intrigued. Spend­ing an evening at John Cage Unbound will get them up to speed on the com­poser’s endur­ing rel­e­vance; pair it with a read­ing of Cage’s famous book/manifesto Silence, and you’ll nev­er think about music in quite the same way again.

Relat­ed con­tent:

John Cage Per­forms Water Walk on “I’ve Got a Secret” (1960)

The Con­tro­ver­sial Sounds of Silence: John Cage’s 4’33″ Per­formed by the BBC Sym­pho­ny Orches­tra

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

Growing Up in the Universe: Richard Dawkins Presents Captivating Science Course for Kids (1991)

Back in 1825, Michael Fara­day, the ven­er­at­ed Eng­lish sci­en­tist, estab­lished The Roy­al Insti­tu­tion Christ­mas Lec­tures for Chil­dren. Fara­day gave the inau­gur­al lec­ture him­self, hop­ing to get a younger gen­er­a­tion inter­est­ed in sci­ence, and the tra­di­tion has car­ried on ever since. Above, we’re skip­ping for­ward 166 years to 1991, when Richard Dawkins, one of the world’s best known evo­lu­tion­ary biol­o­gists, pre­sent­ed a five part lec­ture series called Grow­ing Up in the Uni­verse. It’s a rather bril­liant look at life, the uni­verse, and our place in it. And while it’s geared toward a younger crowd, adults will enjoy it too. Orig­i­nal­ly tele­vised by the BBC, the lec­tures now appear on YouTube, cour­tesy of The Richard Dawkins Foun­da­tion for Rea­son and Sci­ence.

All of the lec­tures, whose titles are list­ed below, can be viewed in the playlist above. More RI Christ­mas Lec­tures for Chil­dren can be viewed online here. This series will be added to our col­lec­tion. 1,700 Free Online Cours­es from Top Uni­ver­si­ties.

Lec­ture 1: Wak­ing Up in the Uni­verse

Lec­ture 2:  Designed and Desig­noid Objects

Lec­ture 3:  Climb­ing Mount Improb­a­ble

Lec­ture 4: The Ultra­vi­o­let Gar­den

Lec­ture 5: The Gen­e­sis of Pur­pose

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.

If you would like to sup­port the mis­sion of Open Cul­ture, con­sid­er mak­ing a dona­tion to our site. It’s hard to rely 100% on ads, and your con­tri­bu­tions will help us con­tin­ue pro­vid­ing the best free cul­tur­al and edu­ca­tion­al mate­ri­als to learn­ers every­where. You can con­tribute through Pay­Pal, Patre­on, and Ven­mo (@openculture). Thanks!

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‘The Ballad of the Skeletons’: Allen Ginsberg’s 1996 Collaboration with Philip Glass and Paul McCartney

Allen Gins­berg was an unlike­ly MTV star. In late 1996 the Beat poet was 70 years old and in declin­ing health. He had less than a year to live. But Gins­berg man­aged to stay cul­tur­al­ly and polit­i­cal­ly rel­e­vant, right up to the end. His last major project was a col­lab­o­ra­tion with Paul McCart­ney and Philip Glass, among oth­ers, on a musi­cal adap­ta­tion of his poem, “The Bal­lad of the Skele­tons.”

The poem was first pub­lished in 1995. The Amer­i­can polit­i­cal cli­mate from which it arose bears a strik­ing resem­blance to the one we’re liv­ing in today. “I start­ed it,” Gins­berg told Har­vey Kubernik of The Los Ange­les Times in 1996, “because [of] all that inflat­ed bull about the fam­i­ly val­ues, the ‘con­tract with Amer­i­ca,’ Newt Gin­grich and all the loud­mouth stuff on talk radio, and Rush Lim­baugh and all those oth­er guys. It seemed obnox­ious and stu­pid and kind of sub-con­tra­dic­to­ry, so I fig­ured I’d write a poem to knock it out of the ring.”

The skele­tal imagery was inspired by the Mex­i­can hol­i­day, the Day of the Dead, and takes a play­ful poke at the van­i­ty of human desires. “It’s an old trick,” Gins­berg told Steve Sil­ber­man in a 1996 inter­view for HotWired, “to dress up arche­typ­al char­ac­ters as skele­tons: the bish­op, the Pope, the Pres­i­dent, the police chief. There’s a Mex­i­can painter–Posa­da–who does exact­ly that.”

In Octo­ber of 1995, Gins­berg vis­it­ed Paul McCart­ney and his fam­i­ly at their home in Eng­land. He recit­ed “The Bal­lad of the Skele­tons while one of McCart­ney’s daugh­ters filmed it. As Gins­berg recalled to Sil­ber­man, he men­tioned that he had to give a read­ing with Anne Wald­man and oth­er poets at the Roy­al Albert Hall, and was look­ing for a gui­tarist to accom­pa­ny him. “Why don’t you try me,” McCart­ney said. “I love the poem.” Gins­berg con­tin­ued the sto­ry:

He showed up at 5 p.m. for the sound check, and he bought a box for his fam­i­ly. Got all his kids togeth­er, four of them, and his wife, and he sat through the whole evening of poet­ry, and we did­n’t say who my accom­pa­nist was going to be. We intro­duced him at the end of the evening, and then the roar went up on the floor of the Albert Hall, and we knocked out the song. He said if I ever got around to record­ing it, let him know. So he vol­un­teered, and we made a basic track, and sent it to him, on 24 tracks, and he added mara­cas and drums, which it need­ed. It gave it a skele­ton, gave it a shape. And also organ, he was try­ing to get that effect of Al Koop­er on the ear­ly Dylan. And gui­tar, so he put a lot of work in on that. And then we got it back just in time for Philip Glass to fill in his arpeg­gios on piano.

The record­ing was pro­duced by Lenny Kaye, gui­tarist for the Pat­ti Smith Group, who had put togeth­er a group of musi­cians for a per­for­mance of the song at a Tibet House ben­e­fit in April of 1996. One mem­ber of the audi­ence that night was Dan­ny Gold­berg, pres­i­dent of Mer­cury Records and a fan of Gins­berg. He invit­ed the poet to record the song, and it all came togeth­er quick­ly. In a 1997 arti­cle in Tikkun, Gold­berg remem­bered Gins­berg’s gid­di­ness over the project: “He loved that Paul McCart­ney had over­dubbed drums on ‘Skele­tons.’ He said, ‘It’s the clos­est I’m going to ever come to being in the Bea­t­les,’ and gig­gled like a teenag­er.”

The record­ing fea­tures Gins­berg on vocals, Glass on key­boards, McCart­ney on gui­tar, drums, Ham­mond organ and mara­cas, Kaye on bass, Marc Ribot on gui­tar and David Mans­field on Gui­tar. Mer­cury released the song as a CD sin­gle in two ver­sions, includ­ing one with the lan­guage san­i­tized for radio and tele­vi­sion. The “B side” was a record­ing of Gins­berg’s “New Stan­zas for Amaz­ing Grace that did not include McCart­ney or Glass. The next step was to cre­ate a video. As Gold­berg recalled, Gins­berg knew an oppor­tu­ni­ty when he saw one:

When Tom Fre­ston, the CEO of MTV, bought five of Allen’s pho­tos, Gins­berg prompt­ly called me, not too sub­tly imply­ing that if Mer­cury would fund pro­duc­tion of a video, we might be able to get on MTV. Allen had an unerr­ing instinct of how to mobi­lize his mys­tique for those who were inter­est­ed. He regaled Fre­ston with sto­ries of the beat­niks one night at our house, which made it almost impos­si­ble for MTV to reject his video despite the fact that he was decades old­er than typ­i­cal MTV artists and audi­ence mem­bers. A polit­i­cal satire of both gen­er­a­tions, “Skele­tons” received high­ly pubi­cized and much-cov­et­ed “buzz bin” rota­tion on MTV in the weeks before the last election–to the con­ster­na­tion of oth­er record com­pa­nies who were sub­mit­ting artists with more con­ven­tion­al cre­den­tials. This made Allen the only sev­en­ty-year-old besides Tony Ben­nett to ever be played on MTV.

The video was direct­ed by Gus Van Sant, who had ties to sur­viv­ing mem­bers of the Beat gen­er­a­tion. Van Sant had direct­ed William S. Bur­roughs in the film Drug­store Cow­boy, and had made short films–Thanks­giv­ing Prayer and The Dis­ci­pline of DE– based on writ­ing by Bur­roughs. Gins­berg was hap­py with Van San­t’s work, despite a tight film­ing bud­get. “It’s a great col­lage,” Gins­berg told Sil­ber­man. “He went back to old Pathé, Satan skele­tons, and mixed them up with Rush Lim­baugh, and Dole, and the local politi­cians, Newt Gin­grich, and the Pres­i­dent. And mixed those up with the atom bomb, when I talk about the elec­tric chair– ‘Hey, what’s cookin?’–you got Satan set­ting off an atom bomb, and I’m trem­bling with a USA hat on, the Uncle Sam hat on. So it’s quite a pro­duc­tion, it’s fun.”

via @WFMU

Art Critic Robert Hughes Demystifies Modern Art in The Shock of the New

With the aid of YouTube, you can watch an episode of Robert Hugh­es’ doc­u­men­tary series The Shock of the New each week, just as it first aired on the BBC and PBS in 1980. But I defy you to watch “The Mechan­i­cal Par­adise,” the first of its eight install­ments, and not plow through the rest in a day. Hugh­es, a pro­lif­ic art crit­ic who has writ­ten books on every­thing from Fran­cis­co Goya to America’s cul­ture of com­plaint to the city of Barcelona to the his­to­ry of his native Aus­tralia, has also host­ed tele­vi­sion pro­grams about every­thing from Car­avag­gio to Utopi­an archi­tec­ture to the Mona Lisa. The Shock of the New, a project which found expres­sion as a book as well as these broad­casts, takes on the ambi­tious task of trac­ing the progress of mod­ernism through visu­al art. But the roots of the move­ment run deep­er into his­to­ry, and so this first episode begins at the base of the Eif­fel Tow­er, a mon­u­ment to the accel­er­at­ing sci­en­tif­ic and tech­no­log­i­cal progress of the late nine­teenth cen­tu­ry that would so dis­rupt the aes­thet­ics of the twen­ti­eth.

As a read­er of art crit­i­cism, I’ve long trust­ed Hugh­es’ writ­ing on these sub­jects more than I do any­one else’s. Clear, bold, con­crete, and always, in a blunt­ly stealthy way, more nuanced than it seems, Hugh­es’ tex­tu­al per­sona stands against what, in his auto­bi­og­ra­phy, he calls the “airy-fairy, metaphor-rid­den kind of pseu­do-poet­ry” that he sees as hav­ing flood­ed the field. As a guide through the his­to­ry of artis­tic mod­ernism, he proves as no-non­sense yet dry­ly enter­tain­ing on film as he is on the page. Whether turn­ing our atten­tion toward spe­cial details of Braque and Picasso’s can­vass­es or zip­ping around in a 1900s road­ster, Hugh­es presents with the assur­ance of author­i­ty but not its intel­lec­tu­al over­reach, pulling you along to Fer­nand Léger, the Futur­ists, and Mar­cel Duchamp. And as a view­er of tele­vi­sion doc­u­men­taries, I’ve long trust­ed the late sev­en­ties and ear­ly eight­ies as the form’s gold­en age. In this episode and beyond, The Shock of the New show­cas­es what the pro­duc­tions of that era did best: a moody elec­tron­ic score, archival clips cre­ative­ly used, and extend­ed sequences that give us time to real­ly look. (Voiceover work by Judi Dench and Mar­tin Jarvis doesn’t lose this chap­ter any points, either.)

The Shock of the New con­sists of the fol­low­ing episodes: “The Mechan­i­cal Par­adise,” “The Pow­ers That Be,” “The Land­scape of Plea­sure,” “Trou­ble in Utopia,” “The Thresh­old of Lib­er­ty,” “The View From the Edge,” “Cul­ture as Nature,” “The Future That Was”

You can watch them on YouTube.

Relat­ed con­tent:

The Guggen­heim Puts 65 Mod­ern Art Books Online

Pow­er of Art: Renais­sance to Mod­ern

John Waters: The Point of Con­tem­po­rary Art

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


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