2,000-Year-Old Manuscript of the Ten Commandments Gets Digitized: See/Download “Nash Papyrus” in High Resolution

How old is the Torah, the first five books of the Hebrew Bible? As with most such ques­tions about dis­put­ed reli­gious texts, it depends on whom you ask. Many con­ser­v­a­tive Jew­ish and Chris­t­ian scholars—or “maximalists”—have long accept­ed the text as con­tain­ing gen­uine his­tor­i­cal records, and dat­ed them as ear­ly as pos­si­ble. Mod­ern crit­i­cal schol­ars, the “min­i­mal­ists,” informed by arche­ol­o­gy, have made strong empir­i­cal cas­es against his­toric­i­ty, and date the texts much lat­er.

These debates can become high­ly spec­u­la­tive the fur­ther back schol­ars attempt to push the Bib­li­cal ori­gins. One has to take cer­tain claims on faith. As far as the tex­tu­al evi­dence goes, the ear­li­est com­plete man­u­scripts we have are the so-called “Masoret­ic Text,” copied, edit­ed, and dis­sem­i­nat­ed between the 7th and 10th cen­turies CE. But we have frag­ments that date back over two thou­sand years, dis­cov­ered in the Qum­ran Caves among the Dead Sea Scrolls in the mid-twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry. Pri­or to their dis­cov­ery, the old­est known frag­ment was known as the “Nash Papyrus,” which dates from the sec­ond cen­tu­ry, BCE.

Pur­chased from an Egypt­ian antiq­ui­ties deal­er in 1902 by Egyp­tol­o­gist Dr. Wal­ter Llewl­lyn Nash and donat­ed to the Cam­bridge Uni­ver­si­ty Library the fol­low­ing year, the papyrus con­tains a com­pos­ite of the two dif­fer­ent ver­sions of the Ten Com­mand­ments, from Exo­dus 20 and Deuteron­o­my 5, and the She­ma, a prayer from Deuteron­o­my 6. In 2012, the Nash Papyrus was dig­i­tized, “one of the lat­est trea­sures of human­i­ty,” report­ed Reuters, “to join Isaac Newton’s note­books, the Nurem­berg Chron­i­cle and oth­er rare texts as part of the Cam­bridge Dig­i­tal Library.”

“It has been sug­gest­ed,” notes the Cam­bridge descrip­tion of the ancient man­u­script, “that it is, in fact, from a phy­lac­tery (tefill­in, used in dai­ly prayer).” But the papyrus’ actu­al ori­gins are uncer­tain, though it “was said to have come from the Fayyum,” a city near Cairo. And while the Nash Papyrus may not resolve any debates about the Torah’s ori­gins, its open acces­si­bil­i­ty is a boon for schol­ars grap­pling with the ques­tions. As uni­ver­si­ty librar­i­an Anne Jarvis said upon its dig­i­tal release, the “age and del­i­ca­cy” of the man­u­script make it “sel­dom able to be viewed” in per­son. The leaf papyrus is, as the Cam­bridge Dig­i­tal Library notes, full of holes, “bare­ly leg­i­ble” and com­posed of “four sep­a­rate pieces fixed togeth­er.”

At the library site, users can see it in high res­o­lu­tion, zoom­ing in very close­ly to any area they choose. You can also down­load the image, embed it, or share it on social media. And if that gets your ancient Bib­li­cal engines run­ning, you can then see dig­i­tal Dead Sea Scroll man­u­scripts of the Ten Com­mand­ments here and get an up close look at many oth­er texts from that ancient trea­sure trove—as well as learn about them in a free online Rut­gers course—here.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Google Dig­i­tizes Ancient Copies of the Ten Com­mand­ments and Gen­e­sis

Google Puts The Dead Sea Scrolls Online (in Super High Res­o­lu­tion)

Har­vard Presents Two Free Online Cours­es on the Old Tes­ta­ment

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

Carl Sagan Sent Music & Photos Into Space So That Aliens Could Understand Human Civilization (Even After We’re Gone)

A pop­u­lar thought exper­i­ment asks us to imag­ine an advanced alien species arriv­ing on Earth, not in an H.G. Wells-style inva­sion, but as advanced, bemused, and benev­o­lent observers. “Wouldn’t they be appalled,” we won­der, “shocked, con­fused at how back­ward we are?” It’s a pure­ly rhetor­i­cal device—the sec­u­lar equiv­a­lent of tak­ing a “god’s eye view” of human fol­ly. Few peo­ple seri­ous­ly enter­tain the pos­si­bil­i­ty in polite com­pa­ny. Unless they work at NASA or the SETI pro­gram.

In 1977, upon the launch­ing of Voy­ager 1 and Voy­ager 2, a com­mit­tee work­ing under Carl Sagan pro­duced the so-called “Gold­en Records,” actu­al phono­graph­ic LPs made of cop­per con­tain­ing “a col­lec­tion of sounds and images,” writes Joss Fong at Vox, “that will prob­a­bly out­last all human arti­facts on Earth.” While they weren’t prepar­ing for a vis­i­ta­tion on Earth, they did—relying not on wish­ful think­ing but on the con­tro­ver­sial Drake Equa­tion—ful­ly expect that oth­er tech­no­log­i­cal civ­i­liza­tions might well exist in the cos­mos, and assumed a like­li­hood we might encounter one, at least via remote.

Sagan tasked him­self with com­pil­ing what he called a “bot­tle” in “the cos­mic ocean,” and some­thing of a time cap­sule of human­i­ty. Over a year’s time, Sagan and his team col­lect­ed 116 images and dia­grams, nat­ur­al sounds, spo­ken greet­ings in 55 lan­guages, print­ed mes­sages, and musi­cal selec­tions from around the world–things that would com­mu­ni­cate to aliens what our human civ­i­liza­tion is essen­tial­ly all about. The images were encod­ed onto the records in black and white (you can see them all in the Vox video above in col­or). The audio, which you can play in its entire­ty below, was etched into the sur­face of the record. On the cov­er were etched a series of pic­to­graph­ic instruc­tions for how to play and decode its con­tents. (Scroll over the inter­ac­tive image at the top to see each sym­bol explained.)

Fong out­lines those con­tents, writ­ing, “any aliens who come across the Gold­en Record are in for a treat.” That is, if they are able to make sense of it and don’t find us hor­ri­bly back­ward. Among the audio selec­tions are greet­ings from then-UN Sec­re­tary Gen­er­al Kurt Wald­heim, whale songs, Bach’s Bran­den­berg Con­cer­to No. 2 in F, Sene­galese per­cus­sion, Abo­rig­ine songs, Peru­vian pan­pipes and drums, Nava­jo chant, Blind Willie Johnson’s “Dark Was the Night” (play­ing in the Vox video), more Bach, Beethoven, and “John­ny B. Goode.” Chal­lenged over includ­ing “ado­les­cent” rock and roll, Sagan replied, “there are a lot of ado­les­cents on the plan­et.” The Bea­t­les report­ed­ly want­ed to con­tribute “Here Comes the Sun,” but their record com­pa­ny wouldn’t allow it, pre­sum­ably fear­ing copy­right infringe­ment from aliens.

Also con­tained in the space­far­ing archive is a mes­sage from then-pres­i­dent Jim­my Carter, who writes opti­misti­cal­ly, “We are a com­mu­ni­ty of 240 mil­lion human beings among the more than 4 bil­lion who inhab­it plan­et Earth. We human beings are still divid­ed into nation states, but these states are rapid­ly becom­ing a sin­gle glob­al civ­i­liza­tion.” The mes­sages on Voy­agers 1 and 2, Carter fore­casts, are “like­ly to sur­vive a bil­lion years into our future, when our civ­i­liza­tion is pro­found­ly altered and the sur­face of the Earth may be vast­ly changed.” The team chose not to include images of war and human cru­el­ty.

We only have a few years left to find out whether either Voy­ager will encounter oth­er beings. “Incred­i­bly,” writes Fong, the probes “are still com­mu­ni­cat­ing with Earth—they aren’t expect­ed to lose pow­er until the 2020s.” It seems even more incred­i­ble, forty years lat­er, when we con­sid­er their prim­i­tive tech­nol­o­gy: “an 8‑track mem­o­ry sys­tem and onboard com­put­ers that are thou­sands of times weak­er than the phone in your pock­et.”

The Voy­agers were not the first probes sent to inter­stel­lar space. Pio­neer 10 and 11 were launched in 1972 and 1973, each con­tain­ing a Sagan-designed alu­minum plaque with a few sim­ple mes­sages and depic­tions of a nude man and woman, an addi­tion that scan­dal­ized some puri­tan­i­cal crit­ics. NASA has since lost touch with both Pio­neers, but you may recall that in 2006, the agency launched the New Hori­zons probe, which passed by Plu­to in 2015 and should reach inter­stel­lar space in anoth­er thir­ty years.

Per­haps due to the lack of the depart­ed Sagan’s involve­ment, the lat­est “bot­tle” con­tains no intro­duc­tions. But there is time to upload some, and one of the Gold­en Record team mem­bers, Jon Lomberg, wants to do just that, send­ing a crowd­sourced “mes­sage to the stars.” Lomberg’s New Horizon’s Mes­sage Ini­tia­tive is a “glob­al project that brings the peo­ple of the world togeth­er to speak as one.” The lim­i­ta­tions of ana­log tech­nol­o­gy have made the Gold­en Record selec­tions seem quite nar­row from our data-sat­u­rat­ed point of view. The new mes­sage might con­tain almost any­thing we can imag­ine. Vis­it the pro­jec­t’s site to sign the peti­tion, donate, and con­sid­er, just what would you want an alien civ­i­liza­tion to hear, see, and under­stand about the best of human­i­ty cir­ca 2017?

via Ezra Klein/Vox

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Carl Sagan Presents a Mini-Course on Earth, Mars & What’s Beyond Our Solar Sys­tem: For Kids and Adults (1977)

NASA Releas­es a Mas­sive Online Archive: 140,000 Pho­tos, Videos & Audio Files Free to Search and Down­load

NASA’s New Online Archive Puts a Wealth of Free Sci­ence Arti­cles Online

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

London in Vivid Color 125 Years Ago: See Trafalgar Square, the British Museum, Tower Bridge & Other Famous Landmarks in Photocrom Prints

“When a man is tired of Lon­don,” Samuel John­son so famous­ly said, “he is tired of life.” Of course, P.J. O’Rourke lat­er added that “he might just be tired of shab­by, sad crowds, low-income hous­ing that looks worse than the weath­er, and tat­too-faced, spike-haired pea brains on the dole,” but then, every­one expe­ri­ences the Eng­lish cap­i­tal a bit dif­fer­ent­ly. John­son’s Lon­don, the Lon­don of the eigh­teenth cen­tu­ry, looks to some like a city at its zenith; oth­ers might even think the same about the Lon­don O’Rourke made fun of in the 1980s. Every era in Lon­don is a gold­en age to some­one.

Today, we offer a vivid glimpse into anoth­er dis­tinct peri­od in Lon­don his­to­ry, the late nine­teenth cen­tu­ry, by way of the Library of Con­gress’ col­lec­tion of pho­tocrom prints. A few years ago we fea­tured images of Venice cap­tured with the same col­orized-pho­tog­ra­phy process, which pro­duced what the Library of Con­gress describes as ink-based images made with “the direct pho­to­graph­ic trans­fer of an orig­i­nal neg­a­tive onto litho and chro­mo­graph­ic print­ing plates.”

They may “look decep­tive­ly like col­or pho­tographs,” but “when viewed with a mag­ni­fy­ing glass the small dots that com­prise the ink-based pho­to­me­chan­i­cal image are vis­i­ble. The pho­to­me­chan­i­cal process per­mit­ted mass pro­duc­tion of the vivid col­or prints.”

The late nine­teenth and ear­ly twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry saw the emer­gence of a robust mar­ket for pho­tocrom prints, “sold at tourist sites and through mail order cat­a­logs to globe trot­ters, arm­chair trav­el­ers, edu­ca­tors, and oth­ers to pre­serve in albums or put on dis­play.” Hence, per­haps, the focus on Lon­don sites of touris­tic appeal: Tow­er Bridge, Trafal­gar Square, the British Muse­um, and even the ful­ly out­fit­ted “Yeo­man of the Guard” you see just above. But print also (and by appear­ances more cor­rect­ly) describes him as a “Beefeater,” the pop­u­lar name for the dif­fer­ent body of cer­e­mo­ni­al tow­er guardians the Yeomen Warders of Her Majesty’s Roy­al Palace and Fortress the Tow­er of Lon­don, and Mem­bers of the Sov­er­eign’s Body Guard of the Yeo­man Guard Extra­or­di­nary. (Got that?)

You can browse, and in var­i­ous for­mats down­load, the 33 images in the Library of Con­gress’ Lon­don pho­tocrom print col­lec­tion here. They all date from between 1890 and 1900, as do the near­ly 1000 images in their Eng­land pho­tocrom print col­lec­tion, whose loca­tions extend far beyond Lon­don. Go to Eng­land today and you’ll notice how much has changed in the past 125 or so years, of course, but how much has­n’t. Grum­bling being some­thing of a nation­al sport over there, espe­cial­ly in Lon­don, the trav­el­er hears no end of com­plaints about how the city and coun­try have gone to the dogs, but can also take some com­fort in the fact that, even back in the pic­turesque pho­tocrom era, peo­ple were air­ing all the same gripes.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Prize-Win­ning Ani­ma­tion Lets You Fly Through 17th Cen­tu­ry Lon­don

1927 Lon­don Shown in Mov­ing Col­or

Lon­don Mashed Up: Footage of the City from 1924 Lay­ered Onto Footage from 2013

2,000 Years of London’s His­tor­i­cal Devel­op­ment, Ani­mat­ed in 7 Min­utes

Venice in Beau­ti­ful Col­or Images 125 Years Ago: The Rial­to Bridge, St. Mark’s Basil­i­ca, Doge’s Palace & More

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. He’s at work on the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les, the video series The City in Cin­e­ma, the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future?, and the Los Ange­les Review of Books’ Korea Blog. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

The Illustrated Guide to a PhD: 12 Simple Pictures That Will Put the Daunting Degree into Perspective

Matthew Might, a com­put­er sci­ence pro­fes­sor at the Uni­ver­si­ty of Utah, writes: “Every fall, I explain to a fresh batch of Ph.D. stu­dents what a Ph.D. is. It’s hard to describe it in words. So, I use pic­tures.” In his Illus­trat­ed Guide to the PhD, Pro­fes­sor Might cre­ates a visu­al nar­ra­tive that puts the daunt­ing degree into per­spec­tive. Any­one who has already pur­sued a Ph.D. will see the wis­dom in it. (Or at least I did.) And young, aspir­ing aca­d­e­mics would be wise to pay it heed.

You can see a con­densed ver­sion of the the illus­trat­ed guide above. Or fol­low it in a larg­er for­mat below.

Imag­ine a cir­cle that con­tains all of human knowl­edge:

By the time you fin­ish ele­men­tary school, you know a lit­tle:

By the time you fin­ish high school, you know a bit more:

With a bach­e­lor’s degree, you gain a spe­cial­ty:

A mas­ter’s degree deep­ens that spe­cial­ty:

Read­ing research papers takes you to the edge of human knowl­edge:

Once you’re at the bound­ary, you focus:

You push at the bound­ary for a few years:

Until one day, the bound­ary gives way:

And, that dent you’ve made is called a Ph.D.:

Of course, the world looks dif­fer­ent to you now:

So, don’t for­get the big­ger pic­ture:

Keep push­ing.

You can find Mat­t’s Illus­trat­ed Guide host­ed on his web site. This guide/reality check is pub­lished under a Cre­ative Com­mons License. You can also buy a print ver­sion for $6.50. The mon­ey goes to char­i­ty.

This guide first appeared on our site in 2012. But, with all of the wis­dom it packs into a small space, it seemed worth bring­ing back.

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A Crash Course on Soviet Montage, the Russian Approach to Filmmaking That Revolutionized Cinema

It would have scan­dal­ized many an Amer­i­can film­go­er of the mid-twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry to learn that the movies they watched — even the most whole­some Hol­ly­wood fare of the era — made exten­sive use of a Sovi­et inven­tion. What’s more, that inven­tion came out of the very rev­o­lu­tion that put the Com­mu­nists in pow­er, after which the Sovi­et gov­ern­ment “took a strong inter­est in film, because it rec­og­nized cin­e­ma for what it was — a pow­er­ful tool for social and polit­i­cal influ­ence.” So says Craig Ben­zine, host of Crash Course Film His­to­ry, in the series’ eighth self-con­tained episode, “Sovi­et Mon­tage,” which tells the sto­ry of that cin­e­ma-chang­ing edit­ing tech­nique.

The gov­ern­ment under­stood, in oth­er words, the pow­er of cin­e­ma as pro­pa­gan­da, and swift­ly cen­tral­ized the film indus­try. But after the Russ­ian Rev­o­lu­tion, which put an end to the impor­ta­tion of film stock, Russ­ian film­mak­ers could­n’t shoot a frame. So while the nation built up the indus­tri­al capac­i­ty to pro­duce film stock domes­ti­cal­ly, these film­mak­ers — much like the video essay­ists on the inter­net today — stud­ied exist­ing films, break­ing them down, reassem­bling them, and fig­ur­ing out how they worked.

In this way, film­mak­er Lev Kuleshov defined the “Kuleshov effect,” explained by Ben­zine as the phe­nom­e­non where­by “view­ers draw more mean­ing from two shots cut togeth­er than either shot on its own,” and dif­fer­ent com­bi­na­tions of shots pro­duce vast­ly dif­fer­ent intel­lec­tu­al and emo­tion­al effects in those view­ers.

When they final­ly got some film stock, Sovi­et mon­tage film­mak­ers, who had come to believe that “for film to reach its true poten­tial, the cuts them­selves should be vis­i­ble, the audi­ence should be aware of them, the illu­sion should be obvi­ous­ly con­struct­ed and not hid­den,” got to work mak­ing movies that demon­strat­ed their ideas. They saw them­selves as engi­neers, “join­ing shots the way a brick­lay­er builds a wall or a fac­to­ry work­er assem­bles a vehicle,“and Ben­zine exam­ines sequences from two of the best-known fruits of these labors, Sergei Eisen­stein’s Bat­tle­ship Potemkin and Dzi­ga Ver­tov’s A Man with a Movie Cam­era (both of which you can watch free online by fol­low­ing those links).

Ben­zine also looks to more recent exam­ples of Sovi­et mon­tage the­o­ry in prac­tice in every­thing from Dum­b­le­dore’s death in the Har­ry Pot­ter movies to the show­er scene in Psy­cho (a film by an avowed fan of the Kuleshov effect) to the final stand­off in The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. For more on the mechan­ics of Sovi­et mon­tage, have a look at the fif­teen-minute explain­er from Film­mak­er IQ above — or pay close atten­tion to most any movie or tele­vi­sion show or music video made over the past eighty years. The ide­o­log­i­cal cli­mate that gave rise to Sovi­et mon­tage the­o­ry may have changed, but the artis­tic prin­ci­ples its film­mak­ers dis­cov­ered will, for the fore­see­able future, hold true, under­scor­ing the reli­able effec­tive­ness and sur­pris­ing pow­er of the sim­ple cut.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

A Visu­al Intro­duc­tion to Sovi­et Mon­tage The­o­ry: A Rev­o­lu­tion in Film­mak­ing

Hitch­cock on the Filmmaker’s Essen­tial Tool: The Kuleshov Effect

Watch Bat­tle­ship Potemkin and Oth­er Free Sergei Eisen­stein Films

Free: Dzi­ga Vertov’s A Man with a Movie Cam­era, the 8th Best Film Ever Made

Take a 16-Week Crash Course on the His­to­ry of Movies: From the First Mov­ing Pic­tures to the Rise of Mul­ti­plex­es & Net­flix

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. He’s at work on the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les, the video series The City in Cin­e­ma, the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future?, and the Los Ange­les Review of Books’ Korea Blog. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

The 10 Most Depressing Radiohead Songs According to Data Science: Hear the Songs That Ranked Highest in a Researcher’s “Gloom Index”

One of my favorite music-themed com­e­dy sketch­es of recent years fea­tures a sup­port group of Radio­head fans flum­moxed and dis­ap­point­ed by the band’s post-Ok Com­put­er out­put. The sce­nario trades on the per­plex­i­ty that met Radio­head­’s abrupt change of musi­cal direc­tion with the rev­o­lu­tion­ary Kid A as well as on the fact that Radio­head fans tend toward, well… if not PTSD or severe mood dis­or­ders, at least a height­ened propen­si­ty for gen­er­al­ized depres­sion.

“Much of Radiohead’s music is unde­ni­ably sad,” writes Ana­lyt­ics Spe­cial­ist and Radio­head fan Char­lie Thomp­son. Rather than play some­thing “less depress­ing,” how­ev­er, as many an acquain­tance has asked him over the years, Thomp­son decid­ed “to quan­ti­fy that sad­ness, con­clud­ing in a data-dri­ven deter­mi­na­tion of their most depress­ing song.”

Now, pure­ly sub­jec­tive­ly, I’d place “How to Dis­ap­pear Com­plete­ly” in the top spot, fol­lowed close­ly by Amne­sia’s “Pyra­mid Song.” But my own asso­ci­a­tions with these songs are per­son­al and per­haps some­what arbi­trary. I might make a case for them based on lyri­cal inter­pre­ta­tions, musi­cal arrange­ment, and instru­men­ta­tion. But the argu­ment would still large­ly depend on mat­ters of taste and accul­tur­a­tion.

Thomp­son, on the oth­er hand, believes in “quan­ti­fy­ing sen­ti­ment.” To that end, he cre­at­ed a “gloom index,” which he used to mea­sure each song in the band’s cat­a­log. Rather than lis­ten­ing to them all, one after anoth­er, he relied on data from two online ser­vices, first pulling “detailed audio sta­tis­tics” from Spotify’s Web API. One met­ric in par­tic­u­lar, called “valence,” mea­sures a song’s “pos­i­tiv­i­ty.” These scores pro­vide an index “of how sad a song sounds from a musi­cal per­spec­tive.” (It’s not entire­ly clear what the cri­te­ria are for these scores).

Next, Thomp­son used the Genius Lyrics API to exam­ine “lyri­cal den­si­ty,” specif­i­cal­ly the con­cen­tra­tion of “sad words” in any giv­en song. To com­bine these two mea­sures, he leaned on an analy­sis by a fel­low data sci­en­tist and blog­ger, Myles Har­ri­son. You can see his result­ing for­mu­la for the “Gloom Index” above, and if you under­stand the pro­gram­ing lan­guage R, you can see exam­ples of his analy­sis at his blog, RChar­lie. (Read a less data-laden sum­ma­ry of Thompson’s study at the ana­lyt­ics blog Rev­o­lu­tions.) Thomp­son also plot­ted sad­ness by album, in the inter­ac­tive graph fur­ther up.

So, which song rat­ed high­est on the “Gloom Scale”? Well, it’s “True Love Waits” from their most recent album A Moon Shaped Pool (hear a live acoustic ver­sion up above.). It’s a damned sad song, I’ll grant, as are the nine run­ners-up, all of which you can hear in the YouTube and Spo­ti­fy playlists above). “Pyra­mid Song” appears at num­ber 5, but “How to Dis­ap­pear Com­plete­ly” doesn’t even rank in the top ten. From a pure­ly sub­jec­tive stand­point, this makes me sus­pi­cious of the whole oper­a­tion. But you tell us, read­ers, what do you think of Thomp­son’s exper­i­ment in “quan­ti­fy­ing sen­ti­ment” in music?

Here’s the top 10:

1. True Love Waits
2. Give Up The Ghost
3. Motion Pic­ture Sound­track
4. Let Down
5. Pyra­mid Song
6. Exit Music (For a Film)
7. Dol­lars & Cents
8. High And Dry
9. Tin­ker Tai­lor Sol­dier …
10. Video­tape

via Kot­tke

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Radiohead’s “Creep” Played on the Gayageum, a Kore­an Instru­ment Dat­ing Back to the 6th Cen­tu­ry

A His­to­ry of Alter­na­tive Music Bril­liant­ly Mapped Out on a Tran­sis­tor Radio Cir­cuit Dia­gram: 300 Punk, Alt & Indie Artists

A Free Course on Machine Learn­ing & Data Sci­ence from Cal­tech

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

When Jazz Legend Ornette Coleman Joined the Grateful Dead Onstage for Some Epic Improvisational Jams: Hear a 1993 Recording

The influ­ence of mod­ern jazz on clas­sic rock extends far beyond too-cool pos­es and too many drugs. In the 1960s, writes Jeff Fitzger­ald at All About Jazz, “a few play­ers were ven­tur­ing beyond the sacred three-chord trin­i­ty and devel­op­ing some seri­ous chops.” John Coltrane’s “extend­ed impro­vi­sa­tions on his unlike­ly top-forty hit ver­sion of ‘My Favorite Things’” gets cred­it for inspir­ing “not only long-form rock hits like The Doors’ sev­en-minute ‘Light My Fire’ and CCR’s eleven-minute “I Heard It Through the Grapevine,’ but lat­er jam bands from the Grate­ful Dead to Phish.” But of course, the “break­through moment for Rock-Jazz rela­tions” arrived when Miles Davis “devel­oped a Jazz/Rock hybrid called Fusion.”

Davis’ Bitch­es Brew had much crossover appeal, espe­cial­ly to one of those afore­men­tioned jam bands, the Dead, who—a month after the album’s release—invited Davis and his elec­tric band to open for them at the Fill­more West. (Read about, and lis­ten to, that unique event here.)

The pair­ing made sense not only because Davis’ long-form grooves hit many of the same psy­che­del­ic musi­cal recep­tors as the Dead’s extend­ed free-form ses­sions, but also because Jer­ry Gar­cia was some­thing of a jazz-head. Espe­cial­ly when it came to free jazz pio­neer and inven­tor of “Har­molod­ics,” Ornette Cole­man.

“The gui­tarist had been a long time devo­tee” of Cole­man, writes Ben Djarum at Ulti­mate Clas­sic Rock, and con­tributed his dis­tinc­tive play­ing to three tracks on Coleman’s 1988 album Vir­gin Beau­ty (hear them togeth­er on “Desert Play­ers” above). Garcia’s devo­tion marks him as a true rock con­nois­seur of avant-garde jazz. (Per­haps the only oth­er Cole­man fans in the rock world as indebt­ed to his influ­ence are the also-leg­en­dar­i­ly-drug-fueled indie exper­i­men­tal­ists Roy­al Trux.) It turns out the appre­ci­a­tion was mutu­al. “Cole­man him­self was aware of musi­cal sim­i­lar­i­ties between the Dead and his own group, Prime Time,” which also had two drum­mers.

“Each empha­sizes both melody and look-Ma-no-lim­its impro­vi­sa­tion,” wrote David Fricke in a 1989 Rolling Stone arti­cle about “jazz’s eter­nal icon­o­clast find­ing a new audi­ence” through his asso­ci­a­tion with Gar­cia and com­pa­ny.  Upon wit­ness­ing the Dead play Madi­son Square Gar­den in 1987, and awed by the fans’ ulti­mate ded­i­ca­tion, Cole­man found him­self think­ing, “’Well, we could be friends here.’ Because if these peo­ple here could be into this, they could dig what we’re doing.” It would take six more years, but Cole­man final­ly played with the Dead in 1993 at their annu­al Mar­di Gras cel­e­bra­tion at the Oak­land Col­i­se­um. Where the Davis/Dead match-up 26 years ear­li­er had been a dip­tych, show­cas­ing the strengths of each artist by con­trast with the oth­er, the Coleman/Dead pair­ing was a true col­lab­o­ra­tion.

Not only did Coleman’s Prime Time open the show, but the sax­o­phon­ist joined the Dead onstage dur­ing their sec­ond set—in the midst of an open jam called “Space” (see in playlist below). His horn became a promi­nent­ly inte­grat­ed fea­ture of what one fan remem­bered as “sin­gu­lar­ly the most intense thing I ever wit­nessed.” Such exag­ger­a­tion from Dead­heads seems rou­tine, and sad­ly we have no video, nor could it ever repli­cate the expe­ri­ence. But some pret­ty spec­tac­u­lar live record­ings of the entire Dead set may bear out the extreme­ly high praise. “The Oth­er One,” at the top of the post, first stretch­es out into very Cole­man-like ter­ri­to­ry, and the band keeps up beau­ti­ful­ly. After the verse kicks in halfway through, the song soon erupts into “walls of sound, screams, melt­downs, explo­sions….”

“The Oth­er One,” was “a wise choice,” writes Oliv­er Trager in his The Amer­i­can Book of the Dead, “as its rhythm-based pow­er allowed Cole­man to con­tin­ue his broad brush strokes.” After a “lan­guorous” ren­di­tion of “Stel­la Blue,” the penul­ti­mate tune, “Turn on Your Love Light,” above, “pro­vid­ed Cole­man with the per­fect show-end­ing rave­up to let loose in the fash­ion of an old­time, down-home Texas horn honker.” In an inter­view lat­er that same year, Gar­cia called Cole­man “a won­der­ful mod­el for a guy who’s done what we did, in the sense of cre­at­ing his own real­i­ty of what music is and how you sur­vive with­in it. He’s a high-integri­ty kind of per­son and just a won­der­ful man.” As for the night itself, Gar­cia remarked:

It was such a hoot to hear him play total­ly Ornette and total­ly Grate­ful Dead with­out com­pro­mis­ing either one of them. Pret­ty incred­i­ble. Good musi­cians don’t do that kind of char­ac­ter­iz­ing music. like this is this kind of music and that is that kind of thing.

Cole­man should be remem­bered as one of the most refined exam­ples of such a musi­cian for his cham­pi­oning what he called “Har­molod­ic Democ­ra­cy.” You can hear the full Grate­ful Dead set from that Feb­ru­ary, 1993 Mar­di Gras con­cert at Archive.org. The night went so well, notes Trager, that “the musi­cians repeat­ed the for­mu­la with sim­i­lar results in Decem­ber 1993 run­ning through a near­ly iden­ti­cal song list at the Sports Are­na in Los Ange­les.” One can only imag­ine the  audi­ence was equal­ly mes­mer­ized.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Night When Miles Davis Opened for the Grate­ful Dead in 1970: Hear the Com­plete Record­ings

Jer­ry Gar­cia Talks About the Birth of the Grate­ful Dead & Play­ing Kesey’s Acid Tests in New Ani­mat­ed Video

Hear Ornette Cole­man Col­lab­o­rate with Lou Reed, Which Lou Called “One of My Great­est Moments”

Philoso­pher Jacques Der­ri­da Inter­views Jazz Leg­end Ornette Cole­man: Talk Impro­vi­sa­tion, Lan­guage & Racism (1997)

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

Behold The Paintings of David Bowie: Neo-Expressionist Self Portraits, Illustrations of Iggy Pop, and Much More

Would you believe that David Bowie, era-tran­scend­ing pop star, actor, and avid read­er, found not just the time to build a for­mi­da­ble art col­lec­tion (auc­tioned off for $41 mil­lion last year at Sothe­by’s), but to do quite a few paint­ings of his own? Even Bowie fans who know only his music will have seen one of those paint­ings, a self-por­trait which made the cov­er of his 1995 album Out­side. That same year he had his first show as a painter, “New Afro/Pagan and Work: 1975–1995,” at The Gallery, Cork Street.

“David Bowie paint­ings show a knowl­edge­able approach to art, influ­enced by Frank Auer­bach, David Bomberg, Fran­cis Bacon, Fran­cis Picabia…” says Very Pri­vate Gallery in a post on 25 of those works of art, adding that his style “also shows a touch of post-mod­ernism, more pre­cise­ly neo-expres­sion­ism move­ment.”

Com­pris­ing can­vas­es paint­ed between 1976 and 1996, the selec­tions include not just Bowie’s self-por­traits but depic­tions of such friends and asso­ciates as Iggy Pop, paint­ed in Berlin in 1978 just above, and pianist Mike Gar­son.

Bowieol­o­gists rec­og­nize his “Berlin era” in the late 1970s, which pro­duced the albums LowLodger, and “Heroes” (all to vary­ing degrees involv­ing the col­lab­o­ra­tion of Bri­an Eno) as an espe­cial­ly fruit­ful peri­od of his musi­cal career. But the gal­leries and muse­ums of the Ger­man cap­i­tal also wit­nessed Bowie’s first immer­sion into the world of visu­al art, both as an enthu­si­ast and as a cre­ator. The city even found its way into some of his paint­ings, such as 1977’s Child in Berlin above. “Heroes”, the final album of Bowie’s “Berlin tril­o­gy,” even inspired a bit of Bowie art­work, the self-por­trait sketch below mod­eled on the record’s famous cov­er pho­to by Masayoshi Suki­ta, itself inspired by Erich Heck­el’s 1917 paint­ing Roquairol.

But just as Bowie the musi­cian and per­former could­n’t stop seek­ing out and incor­po­rat­ing new influ­ences, so did Bowie the painter’s atten­tion con­tin­u­al­ly turn to new sub­ject mat­ter, includ­ing the mythol­o­gy of the tribes inhab­it­ing present-day South Africa. At Very Pri­vate Gallery you can see not just more of his fin­ished work but more of his sketch­es, includ­ing stud­ies of Hunger City, the the­mat­ic set­ting of his elab­o­rate Dia­mond Dogs tour as well as for a film planned, but nev­er actu­al­ly shot, in the mid-1970s. Despite the con­sid­er­able dif­fer­ence in medi­um between music and images, Bowie’s visu­al work still comes across clear­ly as Bowie’s work — espe­cial­ly a face drawn, true to ele­gant­ly nos­tal­gic form, on a pack of Gitanes.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

96 Draw­ings of David Bowie by the “World’s Best Com­ic Artists”: Michel Gondry, Kate Beat­on & More

The Art from David Bowie’s Final Album, Black­star, is Now Free for Fans to Down­load and Reuse

David Bowie’s Top 100 Books

David Bowie Lists His 25 Favorite LPs in His Record Col­lec­tion: Stream Most of Them Free Online

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

David Bowie Offers Advice for Aspir­ing Artists: “Go a Lit­tle Out of Your Depth,” “Nev­er Ful­fill Oth­er People’s Expec­ta­tions”

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. He’s at work on the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les, the video series The City in Cin­e­ma, the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future?, and the Los Ange­les Review of Books’ Korea Blog. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Watch a Star Get Devoured by a Supermassive Black Hole

Like­ly, in a moment of qui­et down­time, you’ve won­dered: Just what would hap­pen if a star, burn­ing bright in the sky, wan­dered by a black hole? What would that meet­ing look like? What kinds of cos­mic things would go down?

Now, thanks to an artis­tic ren­der­ing made avail­able by NASA, you don’t have to leave much to imag­i­na­tion. Above, watch a star stray a lit­tle too close to a black hole and get shred­ded apart by “tidal dis­rup­tions,” caus­ing some stel­lar debris to get “flung out­ward at high speed while the rest falls toward the black hole.”

This ren­der­ing isn’t the­o­ret­i­cal. It’s based on obser­va­tions gleaned from “an opti­cal search by the All-Sky Auto­mat­ed Sur­vey for Super­novae (ASAS-SN) in Novem­ber 2014.” The “tidal dis­rup­tions” wit­nessed above, writes NASA, “occurred near a super­mas­sive black hole esti­mat­ed to weigh a few mil­lion times the mass of the sun in the cen­ter of PGC 043234, a galaxy that lies about 290 mil­lion light-years away.” It’s a sight to behold.

If you would like to sign up for Open Culture’s free email newslet­ter, please find it here. Or fol­low our posts on Threads, Face­book, BlueSky or Mastodon.

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!

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Free Online Astron­o­my Cours­es

NASA Puts Online a Big Col­lec­tion of Space Sounds, and They’re Free to Down­load and Use

Free NASA eBook The­o­rizes How We Will Com­mu­ni­cate with Aliens

NASA Archive Col­lects Great Time-Lapse Videos of our Plan­et

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Andy Warhol Hosts Frank Zappa on His Cable TV Show, and Later Recalls, “I Hated Him More Than Ever” After the Show

Had Andy Warhol lived to see the internet–especially social networking–he would have loved it, though it may not have loved him. Though Warhol did see the very begin­nings of the PC rev­o­lu­tion, and made com­put­er art near the end of his life on a Com­modore Ami­ga 1000, he was most­ly enam­ored, unsur­pris­ing­ly, of TV. “I love tele­vi­sion,” he once remarked, “It is the medi­um I’d most like to shine in. I’m real­ly jeal­ous of every­body who’s got their own show on tele­vi­sion. I want a show of my own.”

Warhol real­ized his dream in 1979, though in a venue that may not have lived up to his fan­tasies: a New York pub­lic-access chan­nel called Man­hat­tan Cable, “which showed local sports match­es and agreed to sell 30-minute slots to Warhol for around $75 a pop,” notes The Tele­graph. Warhol made a total of 42 episodes of his odd inter­view show. The pop art impre­sario “wasn’t exact­ly a nat­ur­al… when it came to the del­i­cate art of chat-show host­ing,” but “he didn’t let that stop him.” By 1983, one might have thought he’d have got­ten the hang of it, yet he seems espe­cial­ly awk­ward when cranky prog genius Frank Zap­pa appeared on his show that year.

Luck­i­ly for Warhol, he is joined by Zap­pa fan Richard Berlin, who serves as a buffer between the two super­stars. (Berlin is prob­a­bly the son of William Ran­dolph Hearst’s hand­picked suc­ces­sor, whose daugh­ter, Brigid, was one of Warhol’s film stars.) At least in the excerpt above, Berlin does all of the work while Warhol looks on, seem­ing­ly stu­pe­fied. But the truth is that Warhol hat­ed Zap­pa, and after the inter­view, he wrote in his Diaries, “I hat­ed Zap­pa even more than when it start­ed.” Part of what the show’s osten­si­ble host found so objec­tion­able was Zappa’s ego­ma­ni­a­cal per­son­al­i­ty. Though Warhol, like Zap­pa, con­trolled his own small inde­pen­dent empire, in tem­pera­ment, the two couldn’t have been more dif­fer­ent.

But there was also some per­son­al his­to­ry between them that goes back to the ear­li­est days of the Vel­vet Under­ground. “I remem­ber,” Warhol goes on, “when he was so mean to us when the Moth­ers of Inven­tion played with the Vel­vet Underground—I think both at the trip, in L.A., and at the Fill­more in San Fran­cis­co. I hat­ed him then and I still don’t like him.” Zap­pa wasn’t sim­ply rude, how­ev­er; at a 1967 show in New York, he turned his tal­ent for ridicule into what Kalei­do­scope mag­a­zine writer Chris Dar­row called “one of the great­est pieces of rock’n roll the­ater that I have ever seen.”

The open­ing night was very crowd­ed and Zap­pa and mem­bers of the Moth­ers of Inven­tion showed up to show their sup­port. (…) Nico’s deliv­ery of her mate­r­i­al was very flat, dead­pan, and expres­sion­less, and she played as though all of her songs were dirges. She seemed as though she was try­ing to res­ur­rect the ennui and deca­dence of Weimar, pre-Hitler Ger­many. Her icy, Nordic image also added to the detach­ment of her deliv­ery. (…) The audi­ence was on her side, as she was in her ele­ment and the Warhol con­tin­gent was very promi­nent that night. How­ev­er, what hap­pened next is what sticks in my mind the most from that night. In between sets, Frank Zap­pa got up from his seat and walked up on the stage and sat behind the key­board of Nico’s B‑3 organ. He pro­ceed­ed to place his hands indis­crim­i­nate­ly on the key­board in a total, aton­al fash­ion and screamed at the top of his lungs, doing a car­i­ca­ture of Nico’s set, the one he had just seen. The words to his impromp­tu song were the names of veg­eta­bles like broc­col­li, cab­bage, aspara­gus… This “song” kept going for about a minute or so and then sud­den­ly stopped. He walked off the stage and the show moved on.

What Warhol took per­son­al­ly may have just been the irre­press­ible out­growth of Zappa’s dis­dain for vir­tu­al­ly every­thing, which he express­es to Berlin in the inter­view. Orig­i­nal Moth­ers of Inven­tion drum­mer Jim­my Carl Black spec­u­lat­ed that he may have hat­ed the Vel­vet Under­ground because “they were junkies and Frank just couldn’t tol­er­ate any kind of drugs.” The two bands were also, briefly, com­peti­tors at MGM.

But per­haps Zap­pa just couldn’t tol­er­ate any­one else tak­ing the spot­light, espe­cial­ly a tal­ent­ed female per­former. Warhol remem­bers Zap­pa’s response to a com­pli­ment about his daugh­ter, Moon. “Lis­ten,” he sup­pos­ed­ly told Warhol, “I cre­at­ed her. I invent­ed her.… She’s noth­ing. It’s all me.” In con­trast to the “pecu­liar” reply, Warhol writes “if it were my daugh­ter I would be say­ing ‘Gee, she’s so smart,’ but he’s tak­ing all the cred­it.” Zap­pa may have been a musi­cal genius with a spe­cial entre­pre­neur­ial flair and inci­sive crit­i­cal wit, but the “sex­ist auto­crat… with a scabrous atti­tude,” as Car­lo Wolff describes him, “was not a like­able man.” Cer­tain­ly the mild-man­nered Warhol didn’t think so.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Andy Warhol Dig­i­tal­ly Paints Deb­bie Har­ry with the Ami­ga 1000 Com­put­er (1985)

Andy Warhol’s Lost Com­put­er Art Found on 30-Year-Old Flop­py Disks

Frank Zap­pa Explains the Decline of the Music Busi­ness (1987)

Ani­mat­ed: Frank Zap­pa on Why the Cul­tur­al­ly-Bereft Unit­ed States Is So Sus­cep­ti­ble to Fads (1971)

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

Joni Mitchell Sings an Achingly Pretty Version of “Both Sides Now” on the Mama Cass TV Show (1969)

“Records can be a bad trip. The audi­ence can play your mis­takes over and over. In a tele­vi­sion spe­cial they see you once and you work hard to make sure they’re see­ing you at your best.” 

Mama Cass Elliot, The Argus

It’s hard to imag­ine any­one blessed with Mama Cass’ gold­en pipes being embar­rassed by a record­ed per­for­mance. A live gig, yes, though, celebri­ties of her era were sub­ject­ed to far few­er wit­ness­es.

The Inter­net was an undream­able lit­tle dream in 1969, when the sole episode of The Mama Cass Tele­vi­sion Show aired. The for­mer singer of the Mamas and the Papas died five years lat­er, pre­sum­ably unaware that future gen­er­a­tions would have knowl­edge of, let alone access to, her failed pilot.

She may have described her vari­ety show as “low key” to the Fre­mont, Cal­i­for­nia Argus, but the guest list was padded with high wattage friends, includ­ing come­di­an Bud­dy Hack­ett, and singers Mary Tra­vers and John Sebas­t­ian. Joni Mitchell, above, deliv­ered an above-reproach per­for­mance of “Both Sides Now.”

Lat­er, Mitchell and Tra­vers joined their host­ess for the heart­felt ren­di­tion of “I Shall Be Released” below, a per­for­mance that is only slight­ly marred by Elliot’s insane cos­tume and an unnec­es­sar­i­ly syrupy back­ing arrange­ment of strings and reeds.

Those who can’t live with­out see­ing the com­plete show can pur­chase DVDs online.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Vin­tage Video of Joni Mitchell Per­form­ing in 1965 — Before She Was Even Named Joni Mitchell

James Tay­lor and Joni Mitchell, Live and Togeth­er (1970)

Watch 1970s Ani­ma­tions of Songs by Joni Mitchell, Jim Croce & The Kinks, Aired on The Son­ny & Cher Show

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, the­ater mak­er and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine.  She’ll is appear­ing onstage in New York City through June 26 in Paul David Young’s polit­i­cal satire, Faust 3. Fol­low her @AyunHalliday.


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