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

The defin­i­tive block­buster albums of an 80s child­hood… maybe you weren’t there, but the Inter­net has made it so you might as well have been. Prince’s 1999 and Pur­ple Rain, Van Halen’s 1984, Michael Jackson’s Mid­night Man, the best-sell­ing album of all time and biggest thing to hap­pen to pop music since Off the Wall. Sure­ly you remem­ber the hit sin­gle “Starlight.” Its smooth grooves have bur­rowed into the brain of any­one who has ever seen a radio. Hit play above and tell me you don’t imme­di­ate­ly start singing the cho­rus:

We need some starlight starlight sun
There ain’t no sec­ond chance we got to make it while we can
You need the starlight some starlight sun
I need you by my side you give me starlight starlight tonight yeah

But this sounds an awful lot like that oth­er song, the one you actu­al­ly remem­ber singing—and dancing—along to every Hal­loween. In fact, it sounds exact­ly like “Thriller.” But what’s with these lyrics?

“Starlight” is the song writer Rod Tem­per­ton orig­i­nal­ly penned. And the album title? Tem­per­ton tells The Tele­graph that after Quin­cy Jones gave him the assign­ment, he went back to his hotel room, “wrote two or three hun­dred titles, and came up with the title ‘Mid­night Man.’” It didn’t last long. The next morn­ing, Tem­per­ton had an epiphany:

I woke up, and I just said this word… Some­thing in my head just said, this is the title. You could visu­al­ize it on the top of the Bill­board charts. You could see the mer­chan­dis­ing for this one word, how it jumped off the page as “Thriller.”

The rest is a his­to­ry so thor­ough­ly embed­ded in the pop cul­ture matrix that it’s near­ly impos­si­ble to think things could have been oth­er­wise. “Imag­in­ing ‘Thriller’ as any­thing else,” writes Patrick Rivers at Amer­i­can Music Review, “can be puz­zling, even unfath­omable.” In his short, but com­pre­hen­sive sur­vey of Thriller’s cre­ation, Rivers won­ders “whether unpol­ished prod­ucts of pop­u­lar artists should be made avail­able.” Do such demos com­pro­mise or enhance our appre­ci­a­tion of the final, com­mer­cial prod­uct? “ ‘Starlight’ can real­ly dis­turb pri­or under­stand­ings of Jackson’s career and image,” Rivers con­cludes; it “does not fit the prod­uct or artist that is Michael Jack­son.”

And yet, such record­ings almost invari­ably become pub­lic even­tu­al­ly: “While years of pop­u­lar music cre­ation remain behind the bliss­ful cur­tain, the pres­ence of ‘Starlight’ on social and peer-to-peer net­works demon­strates an appetite for this con­tent.” While no sim­i­lar appetite may exist in the case of great lit­er­ary works, the shock and sur­prise at hear­ing “Starlight” (read­i­ly avail­able on YouTube) is akin to that feel­ing many stu­dents of T.S. Eliot’s poet­ry expe­ri­ence when they dis­cov­er that his mas­ter­piece The Waste Land was orig­i­nal­ly titled “He Do the Police in Dif­fer­ent Voic­es” and was a very dif­fer­ent work of art before it was heav­i­ly edit­ed and even rewrit­ten by Ezra Pound.

The com­par­i­son illu­mi­nates an impor­tant point about all art, com­mer­cial or oth­er­wise: that it is very often the prod­uct of many hands and the result of many pri­or ver­sions, and its suc­cess depends upon an often ungain­ly, tri­al-and-error process that might have led to very dif­fer­ent results. “Starlight,” Rivers writes, “elu­ci­dates the cal­cu­lat­ed deci­sions made in the cre­ation of com­mer­cial pop­u­lar music.” Sure­ly we knew this, yet when it comes to an artist like Michael Jack­son at the height of his cre­ative pow­ers, we assume a kind of instant pop per­fec­tion, rather than the hit-by-com­mit­tee process Rivers describes in his arti­cle.

In the case of “Thriller,” the com­mit­tee most­ly con­sist­ed of Temperton—whose “Starlight” demo had been cho­sen from hun­dreds sub­mit­ted by others—and Quin­cy Jones, who gen­tly pushed the song­writer toward an edgi­er theme and secured the great Vin­cent Price for the song’s out­ro (writ­ten by Tem­per­ton in a taxi on the way to the stu­dio; Hear a stu­dio out­take of Price’s voiceover above.) Album engi­neer Bruce Swe­di­an remem­bers “the words ‘Edgar Allan Poe’ going between Quin­cy and Rod. Quin­cy say­ing it should be more Edgar Allan Poe. And that ‘Starlight’ isn’t, ‘Thriller’ is.”

Tem­per­ton recalled lat­er in his com­men­tary for the 2001 Thriller: Spe­cial Edi­tion that as “Thriller” took shape along with “Bil­lie Jean” and “Wan­na be Start­ing Some­thing,” the pro­duc­tion team “were kind of giv­ing the whole thing an edge and a direc­tion that some of the oth­er tracks didn’t have.” It was an edge, Rivers notes, “intend­ed to rep­re­sent Jackson’s unveil­ing as an adult record­ing artist,” jump­start­ing his tran­si­tion from child star and the boy­ish twen­ty-year-old of Off the Wall.

Deliv­er­ing to the world a grown-up Michael Jack­son in the artist’s next mas­sive hit record was cer­tain­ly Jones’ intent, though it was Jack­son who penned most of album’s edgi­er songs. Hits like “Bil­lie Jean” and “Beat It” arrived near­ly ful­ly formed. (Hear “Bil­lie Jean” in a home demo above and an a cap­pel­la demo of “Beat It” below.) But it took the bril­liance of Quin­cy Jones and his pro­duc­tion “A‑Team” to bring these songs to the pop music mar­ket­place, sup­ply­ing just the right embellishments—like Eddie Van Halen’s “Beat It” solo—to etch these tunes into our col­lec­tive con­scious­ness for­ev­er.

via Kot­tke

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Ori­gins of Michael Jackson’s Moon­walk: Vin­tage Footage of Cab Cal­loway, Sam­my Davis Jr., Fred Astaire & More

Miles Davis Cov­ers Michael Jackson’s “Human Nature” (1983)

Hear the 1962 Bea­t­les Demo that Dec­ca Reject­ed: “Gui­tar Groups are on Their Way Out, Mr. Epstein”

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

Sir Ian McKellen Releases New Apps to Make Shakespeare’s Plays More Enjoyable & Accessible

tempest app

FYI: Ian McK­ellen, who first made his rep­u­ta­tion per­form­ing at the Roy­al Shake­speare Com­pa­ny in the 1970s and 80s, has just released the first of a series of iPad apps meant to make Shake­speare’s plays more acces­si­ble, espe­cial­ly for high school and col­lege stu­dents.

As McK­ellen explains above, Shake­speare’s plays were orig­i­nal­ly meant to be seen per­formed live in a the­atre, not read as books. And so these apps fea­ture actors per­form­ing dra­mat­ic scenes from the plays, while text scrolls by. They’ve just launched the first of 37 apps. It’s devot­ed to The Tem­pest, runs $5.99 on iTunes, and frankly seems well worth the price. Bene­dict Cum­ber­batch likes it. See below.

The app also includes these fea­tures:

  • The full text of The Tem­pest as pub­lished in the First Folio.
  • A full dig­i­tal ver­sion of Arden Shake­speare The Tem­pest.
  • The abil­i­ty to switch between three dif­fer­ent lev­els of notes depend­ing on the lev­el of reader’s needs.
  • A full break­down and expla­na­tion of every char­ac­ter and all of their lines across every scene.
  • A linked his­tor­i­cal time line of Shake­speare’s life, his plays, his the­atres, and con­tem­po­rary con­text to put it all into per­spec­tive.
  • Video expla­na­tions and dis­cus­sions by both Sir Ian McK­ellen and Pro­fes­sor Sir Jonathan Bate on char­ac­ters, themes, and the mean­ing of the play.
  • A full “play at a glance” with illus­tra­tions and sum­maries to explain the play’s plot with key quotes and events.
  • A his­to­ry of all the major pro­duc­tions of The Tem­pest from the 17th cen­tu­ry to the present day.
  • The option to make notes, copy and high­light text that can be col­lect­ed, cor­re­lat­ed and export­ed for lat­er use.
  • The option to search the play’s full text and essays.

Keep your eye on Heuris­tic Shake­speare’s iTunes site for new Shake­speare apps down the line.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Ian McK­ellen Stars in King Lear

Sir Ian McK­ellen Puts on a Daz­zling One-Man Shake­speare Show

A 68 Hour Playlist of Shakespeare’s Plays Being Per­formed by Great Actors: Giel­gud, McK­ellen & More

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The Poetic Harmony of Andrei Tarkovsky’s Filmmaking: A Video Essay

“What words would best describe a Tarkovsky film?” asks Lewis Bond, cre­ator of the cinephile video-essay Youtube chan­nel Chan­nel Criswell. He offers a few right away: “Haunt­ing, ethe­re­al, hyp­not­ic, serene.” But appre­ci­a­tors, schol­ars, and even crit­ics of the work of Andrei Tarkovsky, the Sovi­et direc­tor of such aus­tere yet visu­al­ly rich, seri­ous-mind­ed yet dream­like, and long artis­ti­cal­ly scru­ti­nized pic­tures as Andrei RublevSolarisStalk­er, and The Mir­ror (watch them all free online here), could come up with many more. And though the man him­self may have denied draw­ing any inspi­ra­tion from sim­i­lar­ly respect­ed film­mak­ers — Bres­son, Anto­nioni, Bergman, Kuro­sawa, Mizoguchi, “I have no desire to imi­tate any of them” — few could avoid expo­sure to his own wide­spread and last­ing influ­ence on cin­e­ma.

Why has Tarkovsky’s work made such an impact? One might argue that the answer has do to with his com­mit­ment to “pure cin­e­ma,” or in Bond’s words, “to do with film that which could­n’t be done with oth­er art forms.” Solaris may have emerged, exten­sive­ly rethought, out of the source mate­r­i­al of Stanis­law Lem’s epony­mous sci­ence fic­tion nov­el, and Stalk­er may have more recent­ly pro­vid­ed the ele­ments of a video game (which went on to become a series of nov­els itself), but none of Tarkovsky’s works can tru­ly exist out­side the medi­um, with all its emo­tion­al and expe­ri­en­tial pow­er, in which he and his col­lab­o­ra­tors made them.

In this video essay called “Poet­ic Har­mo­ny,” Bond iden­ti­fies the pure­ly cin­e­mat­ic qual­i­ties of Tarkovsky’s films: from the tex­tures of their visu­al com­po­si­tion to their selec­tive use of sound (and quiet­ness as well) to build moods and the resis­tance of their abstrac­tion and ambi­gu­i­ty to intel­lec­tu­al analy­sis (despite how much view­ers con­tin­ue to fling at them); from their lack of sym­bol­ism to their build­ing of char­ac­ters through not words but action, the con­nec­tion of scenes through metaphor (as in Nos­tal­ghia, which cuts from a man who lights him­self on fire to a man who strug­gles to light a can­dle), and their use of long takes to build the “pres­sure of time.” Tarkovsky enthu­si­asts could hard­ly dis­agree, though the time soon comes to put away what The Sac­ri­fice’s cen­tral char­ac­ter calls “words, words, words” and sim­ply watch.

When you’re done watch­ing Bond’s video, you can watch many of Tarkovsky’s major films free online, thanks to Russ­ian film stu­dio Mos­film.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

A Poet in Cin­e­ma: Andrei Tarkovsky Reveals the Director’s Deep Thoughts on Film­mak­ing and Life

“Auteur in Space”: A Video Essay on How Andrei Tarkovsky’s Solaris Tran­scends Sci­ence Fic­tion

Andrei Tarkovsky’s Solaris Shot by Shot: A 22-Minute Break­down of the Director’s Film­mak­ing

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and style. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, 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 Making of Japanese Handmade Paper: A Short Film Documents an 800-Year-Old Tradition

For many of us, washi paper is the art sup­ply equiv­a­lent of a dish that’s “too pret­ty to eat.” I love to look at it, but would be loathe to mar its beau­ty with my ama­teur cre­ative efforts.

Orig­i­nal­ly intend­ed for use in lanterns and sho­ji screens in Japan, its sim­plic­i­ty makes it a stand out among the far more orna­men­tal dec­o­ra­tive sheets pop­u­lat­ing the fan­cy inter­na­tion­al paper selec­tions. Though there is no short­age of machine-pro­duced washi on the mar­ket these days, the loveli­est exam­ples are still hand­made in Kurotani, a small town near Kyoto.

Kurotani has the dis­tinc­tion of being Japan’s old­est paper-mak­ing town, and as doc­u­ment­ed by film­mak­er Kuroy­ana­gi Takashi, above, the washi process has changed lit­tle in 800 years.

In the pre-indus­tri­al age, washi-mak­ing was sea­son­al. Farm­ers plant­ed the paper mul­ber­ry (kozo), mit­suma­ta, and gampi plants essen­tial to the process along with their food crops. Come havest-time, they would soak these plants’ fibrous inner barks until they were soft enough to be cleaned and pound­ed.

Then as now, the result­ing pulp was added mixed with liq­uid and a mucilage to yield a (not par­tic­u­lar­ly deli­cious sound­ing, and def­i­nite­ly not too pret­ty to eat…) spread­able paste.

The sheets are formed on bam­boo screens, then stacked and pressed until dry.

The end result is both strong and flex­i­ble, mak­ing it a favorite of book­binders. Its absorben­cy is prized by print­mak­ers, includ­ing Rem­brandt.

If you have a yen to wit­ness the labor-inten­sive, tra­di­tion­al process up close, Dutch washi crafts­man Rogi­er Uiten­boogaart runs a guest house as part of his stu­dio in near­by Kamikoya.

The rest of us must con­tent our­selves with Takashi’s med­i­ta­tive 5‑minute doc­u­men­tary.

via The Kid Should See This

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Art of Col­lo­type: See a Near Extinct Print­ing Tech­nique, as Lov­ing­ly Prac­ticed by a Japan­ese Mas­ter Crafts­man

How Ink is Made: A Volup­tuous Process Revealed in a Mouth-Water­ing Video

Dis­cov­er Harvard’s Col­lec­tion of 2,500 Pig­ments: Pre­serv­ing the World’s Rare, Won­der­ful Col­ors

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine. She writes a month­ly col­umn about peo­ple who love their jobs for Mainichi Week­ly, a bilin­gual Japan­ese news­pa­per. Fol­low her @AyunHalliday

Walt Whitman’s Unearthed Health Manual, “Manly Health & Training,” Urges Readers to Stand (Don’t Sit!) and Eat Plenty of Meat (1858)

walt-whitman

The idea of “the author,” wrote Roland Barthes, “rules in man­u­als of lit­er­ary his­to­ry, in biogra­phies of writ­ers, in mag­a­zine inter­views, and even in the aware­ness of lit­er­ary men, anx­ious to unite, by their pri­vate jour­nals, their per­son and their work.” We see this anx­i­ety of author­ship in much of Walt Whit­man’s per­son­al cor­re­spon­dence. The poet, “could be sur­pris­ing­ly anx­ious about his own dis­ap­pear­ance,” writes Zachary Turpin in the intro­duc­tion to a recent­ly re-dis­cov­ered series of Whit­man essays called “Man­ly Health and Train­ing.”

Whit­man, how­ev­er, was just as often anx­ious to dis­as­so­ci­ate his per­son from his work, whether juve­nile short sto­ries or his copi­ous amount of jour­nal­ism and occa­sion­al pieces. Orig­i­nal­ly pub­lished in the New York Atlas between 1858 and 1860, “Man­ly Health and Train­ing”—“part guest edi­to­r­i­al, part self-help column”—may indeed rep­re­sent some of the work Whit­man wished would dis­ap­pear in his late-in-life attempts at “careerist revi­sion­ism.” As it hap­pens, reports The New York Times, these arti­cles did just that until Turpin, a grad­u­ate stu­dent in Eng­lish at the Uni­ver­si­ty of Hous­ton, found the essays last sum­mer while brows­ing arti­cles writ­ten under var­i­ous jour­nal­is­tic pseu­do­nyms Whit­man used.

The work in ques­tion appeared under the name “Mose Vel­sor,” and it’s worth ask­ing, as Barthes might, whether we should con­sid­er it by the poet­ic fig­ure we call “Whit­man” at all. Though we encounter in these occa­sion­al­ly “eye­brow-rais­ing” essays the “more-than-typ­i­cal­ly self-con­tra­dic­to­ry Whit­man,” Turpin com­ments, “these con­tra­dic­tions dis­play lit­tle of the poet­ic dialec­ti­cism of Leaves of Grass”—first pub­lished, with­out the author’s name, in 1855.

The essays are piece­meal dis­til­la­tions of “a huge range of top­ics” of gen­er­al inter­est to male read­ers of the time—in some respects, a 19th cen­tu­ry equiv­a­lent of Men’s Health mag­a­zine. And yet, argues Ed Fol­som, edi­tor of The Walt Whit­man Quar­ter­lywhich has pub­lished the near­ly 47,000 word series of essays online—“One of Whitman’s core beliefs was that the body was the basis of democ­ra­cy. The series is a hymn to the male body, as well as a guide to tak­ing care of what he saw as the most vital unit of demo­c­ra­t­ic liv­ing.” These themes are man­i­fest along with the robust homo­eroti­cism of Whitman’s poet­ry:

We shall speak by and by of health as being the foun­da­tion of all real man­ly beau­ty. Per­haps, too, it has more to do than is gen­er­al­ly sup­posed, with the capac­i­ty of being agree­able as a com­pan­ion, a social vis­i­tor, always welcome—and with the divine joys of friend­ship. In these par­tic­u­lars (and they sure­ly include a good part of the best bless­ings of exis­tence), there is that sub­tle virtue in a sound body, with all its func­tions per­fect, which noth­ing else can make up for, and which will itself make up for many oth­er defi­cien­cies, as of edu­ca­tion, refine­ment, and the like.

David Reynolds, pro­fes­sor of Eng­lish at the Grad­u­ate Cen­ter of the City Uni­ver­si­ty of New York, con­curs: “there’s a kind of health-nut thing about ‘Leaves of Grass’ already. This series sort of cod­i­fies it and expands on it, giv­ing us a real reg­i­men.” To that end, two of “Mose Velsor”’s promi­nent top­ics are diet and exer­cise, and whether we con­sid­er “Man­ly Health and Train­ing” a prose adden­dum to Whitman’s first book or most­ly work-for-hire on a range of top­ics in his gen­er­al purview, some of the advice, like the poet­ry, can often sound par­tic­u­lar­ly mod­ern, while at the same time pre­serv­ing the quaint­ness of its age.

Antic­i­pat­ing the Paleo craze, for exam­ple, Whit­man writes, “let the main part of the diet be meat, to the exclu­sion of all else.” His diet advice is far from sys­tem­at­ic from essay to essay, yet he con­tin­u­al­ly insists upon lean meat as the foun­da­tion of every meal and refers to beef and lamb as “strength­en­ing mate­ri­als.” The “sim­plest and most nat­ur­al diet,” con­sists of eat­ing main­ly meat, Whit­man asserts as he casts asper­sions on “a veg­e­tar­i­an or water-gru­el diet.” Whit­man issues many of his dietary rec­om­men­da­tions in the ser­vice of vocal train­ing, rec­om­mend­ing that his read­ers “gain ser­vice­able hints from the ancients” in order to “give strength and clear­ness to their vocal­iza­tions.”

Aspi­rants to man­li­ness should also attend to the ancients’ habit of fre­quent­ing “gym­na­si­ums, in order to acquire mus­cu­lar ener­gy and pli­an­cy of limbs.” Many of Whitman’s train­ing reg­i­mens con­jure images from The Road to Wellville or of stereo­typ­i­cal 19th-cen­tu­ry strong men with han­dle­bar mus­tach­es and fun­ny-look­ing leo­tards. But he does intu­it the mod­ern iden­ti­fi­ca­tion of a seden­tary lifestyle with ill health and pre­ma­ture death, address­ing espe­cial­ly “stu­dents, clerks, and those in seden­tary or men­tal employ­ments.” He exhorts pro­to-cubi­cal jock­eys and couch pota­toes alike: “to you, clerk, lit­er­ary man, seden­tary per­son, man of for­tune, idler, the same advice. Up!”

Whitman’s “warn­ings about the dan­gers of inac­tiv­i­ty,” writes The New York Times, “could have been issued from a 19th-cen­tu­ry stand­ing desk,” a not unlike­ly sce­nario, giv­en the many authors from the past who wrote on their feet.  But should we pic­ture Whit­man him­self issu­ing these procla­ma­tions on “Health and Train­ing”? No image of the man him­self, with cocked elbow and cocked hat, is affixed to the essays. The pseu­do­ny­mous byline may be no more than a con­ven­tion, or it may be a desire to inhab­it anoth­er per­sona, and to dis­tance the words far from those of “Walt Whit­man.”

Did Whit­man con­sid­er the essays hackwork—populist pab­u­lum of the kind strug­gling writ­ers today often crank out anony­mous­ly as “spon­sored con­tent”? The series, Turpin writes “is un-Whit­man­ian, even unpo­et­ic,” its func­tion “fun­da­men­tal­ly util­i­tar­i­an, a phys­i­o­log­i­cal and polit­i­cal doc­u­ment root­ed in the (pseudo)sciences of the era.” Not the sort of thing one imag­ines the high­ly self-con­scious poet would have want­ed to claim. “Dur­ing his life­time,” Whit­man “wast­ed no time remind­ing any­one of this series,” like­ly hop­ing it would be for­got­ten.

And yet, it’s inter­est­ing nonethe­less to com­pare the exag­ger­at­ed mas­culin­i­ty of “Man­ly Health and Train­ing” with much of the belit­tling per­son­al crit­i­cism Whit­man received in his life­time, rep­re­sent­ed per­fect­ly by one Thomas Went­worth Hig­gin­son. This crit­ic and harsh review­er includ­ed Whitman’s “pri­apism,” his serv­ing as a nurse dur­ing the Civ­il War rather than “going into the army,” and his “not look­ing… in real­ly good con­di­tion for ath­let­ic work” as rea­sons why the poet “nev­er seemed to me a thor­ough­ly whole­some or man­ly man.”

In addi­tion to thin­ly veiled homo­pho­bia, many of Higginson’s com­ments sug­gest­ed, write Robert Nel­son and Ken­neth Price, that “as a social group, work­ing-class men did not and could not pos­sess the qual­i­ties of true man­li­ness.” Per­haps we can read these ear­ly Whit­man edi­to­ri­als, pseu­do­ny­mous or not, as demo­c­ra­t­ic instruc­tions for using mas­cu­line health as a great social lev­el­er and means to “make up for many oth­er defi­cien­cies, as of edu­ca­tion, refine­ment, and the like.” Or per­haps “Man­ly Health and Train­ing” was just anoth­er assignment—a way to pay the bills by ped­dling pop­u­lar male wish-ful­fill­ment while the poet wait­ed for the rest of the world to catch up with his lit­er­ary genius.

via The New York Times

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Free Online Lit­er­a­ture Cours­es

Iggy Pop Reads Walt Whit­man in Col­lab­o­ra­tions With Elec­tron­ic Artists Alva Noto and Tar­wa­ter

Orson Welles Reads From America’s Great­est Poem, Walt Whitman’s “Song of Myself” (1953)

Mark Twain Writes a Rap­tur­ous Let­ter to Walt Whit­man on the Poet’s 70th Birth­day (1889)

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

President Obama’s 2016 Stand-Up Comedy Routine

One thing I’ll miss about Pres­i­dent Oba­ma is his abil­i­ty to deliv­er a good joke at the White House Cor­re­spon­dents’ Din­ner. My favorite line from Sat­ur­day night:

And then there’s Ted Cruz. Ted had a tough week. He went to Indi­ana –- Hoosier coun­try –- stood on a bas­ket­ball court, and called the hoop a “bas­ket­ball ring.” What else is in his lex­i­con? Base­ball sticks? Foot­ball hats? But sure, I’m the for­eign one.

Bern!

And it’s always nice to see John Boehn­er and Oba­ma shar­ing a good joke around a smoke. Fast for­ward to the 27 minute mark for that.

Below, we also have Lar­ry Wilmore’s cut­ting rou­tine:

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Hear 30 of the Great­est Standup Com­e­dy Albums: A Playlist Cho­sen by Open Cul­ture Read­ers

Lenny Bruce: Hear the Per­for­mances That Got Him Arrest­ed (NSFW)

Richard Pry­or Does Ear­ly Stand-Up Com­e­dy Rou­tine in New York, 1964

Sein­feld, Louis C.K., Chris Rock, and Ricky Ger­vais Dis­sect the Craft of Com­e­dy (NSFW)

Discover Harvard’s Collection of 2,500 Pigments: Preserving the World’s Rare, Wonderful Colors

If mod­ern paint com­pa­nies’ pre­ten­tious­ly-named col­or palettes gall you to the point of an exclu­sive­ly black-and-white exis­tence, the Har­vard Art Muse­ums’ Forbes pig­ment col­lec­tion will prove a wel­come balm.

The hand and type­writ­ten labels iden­ti­fy­ing the collection’s 2500+ pig­ments boast none of the flashy “cre­ativ­i­ty” that J. Crew employs to ped­dle its cash­mere Boyfriend Cardi­gans.
Pigment Collection

Images by Har­vard News

The benign, and whol­ly unex­cit­ing-sound­ing “emer­ald green” is —unsurprisingly—the exact shade legions of Oz fans have come to expect. The thrills here are chem­i­cal, not con­ferred. A mix of crys­talline pow­der cop­per ace­toarsen­ite, this emerald’s fumes sick­ened pen­ni­less artists as adroit­ly as they repelled insects.

Look how nice­ly it goes with Van Gogh’s rud­dy hair…

Van Gogh Harvard

“Mum­my” is per­haps the clos­est the Forbes col­lec­tion comes to 21st- cen­tu­ry pig­ment nam­ing. As Harvard’s Direc­tor of the Straus Cen­ter for Con­ser­va­tion and Tech­ni­cal Stud­ies, Narayan Khan­dekar, notes in the video above, its mush­room shade is no great shakes. The source—the resin used to seal mum­mies’ bandages—is what dis­tin­guish­es it.

Index_mummy_02

The collection’s crown jew­el is a rich ball of mustard‑y Indi­an Yel­low. This pig­ment comes not from maize, nor earth, but from the dehy­drat­ed urine of a cow sub­sist­ing exclu­sive­ly on man­go leaves. I’m drawn to it like a moth to the liv­ing room walls. I’m sure Ben­jamin Moore had his rea­sons for dub­bing its urine-free fac­sim­i­le “Sun­ny Days.”

pigment_vault India Yellow

The images above, save the Van Gogh paint­ing, comes cour­tesy of by Har­vard News. The video above was cre­at­ed by Great Big Sto­ry.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

How Ink is Made: A Volup­tuous Process Revealed in a Mouth-Water­ing Video

The Art of Col­lo­type: See a Near Extinct Print­ing Tech­nique, as Lov­ing­ly Prac­ticed by a Japan­ese Mas­ter Crafts­man

Watch the First 10 Sea­sons of Bob Ross’ The Joy of Paint­ing Free Online

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine. Fol­low her @AyunHalliday

Watch Animated Introductions to 35 Philosophers by The School of Life: From Plato to Kant and Foucault

Phi­los­o­phy as an aca­d­e­m­ic sub­ject is reg­u­lar­ly maligned in pop­u­lar dis­course. Phi­los­o­phy majors get told that their stud­ies are use­less. Phi­los­o­phy pro­fes­sors find their bud­gets cut, their cours­es scru­ti­nized, and their char­ac­ter gross­ly impeached in pro­pa­gan­dis­tic reli­gious fea­ture films. It’s enough to make one despair over the turgid air of anti-intel­lec­tu­al­ism that sti­fles con­ver­sa­tion.

But before we start pin­ing for bygone gold­en ages of rig­or­ous crit­i­cal thought, let us remem­ber that philoso­phers have been a thorn in the side of the pow­er­ful since the incep­tion of West­ern phi­los­o­phy. After all, Socrates, the ancient Greek whose name we asso­ciate with philosophy’s most basic max­ims and meth­ods, was sup­pos­ed­ly put to death for the crime of which today’s pro­fes­so­rate so often stand accused: cor­rupt­ing the youth.

We most­ly know of Socrates’ life and death through the writ­ten dia­logues of his star pupil, Pla­to, whom Alain de Bot­ton calls in the first video above, “the world’s first true, and per­haps great­est, philoso­pher.” De Bot­ton quick­ly explains in his ani­mat­ed School of Life intro­duc­tion that the core of Plato’s phi­los­o­phy con­sti­tutes a “spe­cial kind of ther­a­py” geared toward Eudai­mo­nia, or human ful­fill­ment and well-being. From Pla­to, De Bot­ton’s series of quick takes on famous philoso­phers con­tin­ues, mov­ing through the Enlight­en­ment and the 19th and 20th cen­turies.

Key to Plato’s thought is the crit­i­cal exam­i­na­tion of Doxa, or the con­ven­tion­al val­ues and “pop­u­lar opin­ions” that reveal them­selves as “rid­dled with errors, prej­u­dice, and super­sti­tion.” Plato’s most famous illus­tra­tion of the pro­found state of igno­rance in which most of us live goes by the name “The Alle­go­ry of the Cave,” and receives a retelling with com­men­tary by De Bot­ton just above. The para­ble doesn’t only illus­trate the util­i­ty of phi­los­o­phy, as De Bot­ton says; it also serves as a vivid intro­duc­tion to Plato’s the­o­ry of the Forms—an ide­al realm of which our phe­nom­e­nal real­i­ty is only a debased copy.

The dual­ism between the real and the ide­al long gov­erned philo­soph­i­cal thought, though many com­pet­ing schools like the Sto­ics expressed a healthy degree of skep­ti­cism. But we might say that it wasn’t until Immanuel Kant, whom you can learn about above, that Pla­to real­ly met his match. Along with his famous eth­i­cal dic­tum of the “cat­e­gor­i­cal imper­a­tive,” Kant also posit­ed two dis­tinct realms—the noume­nal and the phe­nom­e­nal. And yet, unlike Pla­to, Kant did not believe we can make any asser­tions about the prop­er­ties or exis­tence of the ide­al. What­ev­er lies out­side the cave, we can­not access it through our faulty sens­es.

These cen­tral ques­tions about the nature of knowl­edge and mind not only make phi­los­o­phy an imma­nent­ly fas­ci­nat­ing discipline—they also make it an increas­ing­ly nec­es­sary endeav­or, as we move fur­ther into the realm of con­struct­ing arti­fi­cial minds. Soft­ware engi­neers and video game devel­op­ers are tasked with philo­soph­i­cal prob­lems relat­ed to con­scious­ness, iden­ti­ty, and the pos­si­bil­i­ty of eth­i­cal free choice. And at the cut­ting edge of cog­ni­tive sci­ence—where evo­lu­tion­ary biol­o­gy and quan­tum mechan­ics rub elbows—we may find that Pla­to and Kant both intu­it­ed some of the most basic prob­lems of con­scious­ness: what we take for real­i­ty may be noth­ing of the kind, and we may have no way of gen­uine­ly know­ing what the world is like out­side our sens­es.

As 17th cen­tu­ry French philoso­pher and math­e­mati­cian Rene Descartes feared, but found impos­si­ble to believe, our per­cep­tion of the world may in fact be a decep­tive, if use­ful, illu­sion. Learn more about Descartes above, and see De Botton’s full School of Life phi­los­o­phy series at the top of the post. Or watch the series on Youtube.

There are 35 videos in total, which let you become acquaint­ed with, and per­haps cor­rupt­ed by, a range of thinkers who ques­tion ortho­doxy and com­mon sense, includ­ing Aris­to­tle, Epi­cu­rus, Georg Wil­helm Friedrich Hegel, Friedrich Niet­zsche, Michel Fou­cault, Arthur Schopen­hauer, Albert Camus, Soren Kierkegaard, Jean-Paul Sartre, and Baruch Spin­oza. Watch all of the videos in the playlist right below.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Free Online Phi­los­o­phy Cours­es (140+ Free Cours­es)

6 Polit­i­cal The­o­rists Intro­duced in Ani­mat­ed “School of Life” Videos: Marx, Smith, Rawls & More

An Ani­mat­ed Intro­duc­tion to Goethe, Germany’s “Renais­sance Man”

Alain de Bot­ton Shows How Art Can Answer Life’s Big Ques­tions in Art as Ther­a­py

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

How Steely Dan Wrote “Deacon Blues,” the Song Audiophiles Use to Test High-End Stereos

Every Steely Dan fan remem­bers the first time they lis­tened to their music — not just heard it, but lis­tened to it, active­ly tak­ing notice of Wal­ter Beck­er and Don­ald Fagen’s com­plex­ly anachro­nis­tic lyrics (long scru­ti­nized by the band’s exegetes), jazz-and-rock-span­ning com­po­si­tion­al tech­nique, ultra-dis­cern­ing selec­tion of ses­sion musi­cians, and immac­u­late stu­dio craft which, by the stan­dards of the 1970s, raised pop­u­lar music’s bar through the ceil­ing.

Often, that first real lis­ten­ing ses­sion hap­pens in the neigh­bor­hood of a high-end stereo deal­er. For me, the album was Two Against Nature, their turn-of-the-21st cen­tu­ry come­back, but for many more, the album was Aja, which came out in 1977 and soon claimed the sta­tus of Steely Dan’s mas­ter­piece. At the end of side one comes “Dea­con Blues,” one of their best-loved songs as well as a pro­duc­tion that puts audio­phile lis­ten­ing equip­ment to the test. You can see a break­down of what went into it in Nerd­writer’s new video “How Steely Dan Com­pos­es a Song” above.

“There’s a rea­son why audio­philes use Steely Dan records to test the sound qual­i­ty of new speak­ers,” says host Evan Puschak. “The band is among the most son­i­cal­ly sophis­ti­cat­ed pop acts of the 20th and 21st cen­turies,” in both the tech­ni­cal and artis­tic sens­es. He goes on to iden­ti­fy some of the sig­na­ture ele­ments in the mix, includ­ing some­thing called the “mu major cord”; the record­ing meth­ods that allow “every instru­ment its own life” (espe­cial­ly those played by mas­ters like gui­tarist Lar­ry Carl­ton and drum­mer Bernard Pur­die); the strik­ing effect of “mid­dle reg­is­ter horns slid­ing against each oth­er”; and even sax­o­phone soloist Pete Christlieb, whom Beck­er and Fagen dis­cov­ered by chance on a Tonight Show broad­cast.

Puschak does­n’t ignore the lyrics, with­out a thor­ough analy­sis of which no dis­cus­sion of Steely Dan’s work would be com­plete. He men­tions the band’s typ­i­cal­ly wry, sar­don­ic tone, their detached per­spec­tive and notes of uncer­tain­ty, but in the case of this par­tic­u­lar song, it all comes with a “hid­den earnest­ness” that makes it one of the most poignant in their entire cat­a­log. “ ‘Dea­con Blues’ is about as close to auto­bi­og­ra­phy as our tunes get,” admits Fagen in the tele­vi­sion doc­u­men­tary clip just above, which puts him and Beck­er back into the stu­dio to look back at the song track by iso­lat­ed track.

“We’re both kids who grew up in the sub­urbs. We both felt fair­ly alien­at­ed. Like a lot of kids in the fifties, we were look­ing for some kind of alter­na­tive cul­ture — some kind of escape, real­ly — from where we found our­selves.” Beck­er describes the song’s epony­mous pro­tag­o­nist, who dreams of learn­ing to “work the sax­o­phone” in order to play just how he feels, “drink Scotch whiskey all night long, and die behind the wheel,” as not a musi­cian but some­one who “just sort of imag­ines that would be one of the myth­ic forms of loser­dom to which he might aspire. Who’s to say that he’s not right?”

You can learn even more about the mak­ing (and the mag­ic) of “Dea­con Blues” in Marc Myers’ inter­view with Beck­er and Fagen in the Wall Street Jour­nal last year. “It’s the only time I remem­ber mix­ing a record all day and, when the mix was done, feel­ing like I want­ed to hear it over and over again,” says Beck­er. “It was the com­pre­hen­sive sound of the thing.” Fagen acknowl­edges “one thing we did right” in the mak­ing of the song: “We nev­er tried to accom­mo­date the mass mar­ket. We worked for our­selves and still do.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Pro­duc­er Tony Vis­con­ti Breaks Down the Mak­ing of David Bowie’s Clas­sic “Heroes,” Track by Track

The Dis­tor­tion of Sound: A Short Film on How We’ve Cre­at­ed “a McDonald’s Gen­er­a­tion of Music Con­sumers”

Neil Young on the Trav­es­ty of MP3s

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and style. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, 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.

Peter Frampton Plays a Tiny Desk Concert for NPR, Featuring Acoustic Versions of His Classic Songs

Hav­ing recent­ly released a new album fea­tur­ing acoustic ver­sions of his big hits, Peter Framp­ton is now back on tour, play­ing in some small­er venues across the U.S. But no venue–not the Gillioz The­atre in Spring­field, Mis­souri, nor the Tobin Cen­ter for Per­form­ing Arts in San Anto­nio, Texas–is quite as small as the one we’re fea­tur­ing today. Above, watch Framp­ton per­form at the desk of NPR’s All Songs Con­sid­ered. The per­for­mance is part of NPR’s Tiny Desk series, and the setlist includes acoustic ver­sions of “Baby, I Love Your Way,” “Lines On My Face,” and “All I Want To Be (Is By Your Side).” Oth­er recent Tiny Desk per­for­mances include Gra­ham Nash, Wilco, Natal­ie Mer­chant, and Ben Folds. Enjoy.

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!

Young Patti Smith Rails Against the Censorship of Her Music: An Animated, NSFW Interview from 1976

The lat­est install­ment from Blank on Blank’s series of ani­mat­ed videos drops us inside the bohemi­an Por­to­bel­lo Hotel in Lon­don. It’s May, 1976, and we hear a young Pat­ti Smith rail­ing against the cen­sor­ship of her music, using some colorful–that is to say, NSFW–words. She talks Rim­baud. The poet­ry and com­bat of rock. The dreams and hal­lu­ci­na­tions that feed her music. The stuff that would even­tu­al­ly earn her the cred to be called The God­moth­er of Punk.

The audio is part of a longer, two-hour inter­view with Mick Gold, which is avail­able through Ama­zon and iTunes. Enjoy.

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!

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Pat­ti Smith’s List of Favorite Books: From Rim­baud to Susan Son­tag

Pat­ti Smith’s Cov­er of Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spir­it” Strips the Song Down to its Heart

Watch Pat­ti Smith Read from Vir­ginia Woolf, and Hear the Only Sur­viv­ing Record­ing of Woolf’s Voice

Pat­ti Smith Reads Her Final Words to Robert Map­plethor­pe


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