We knew David Bowie could pretty much do it all—glam rock, jazz, funk, Philly soul, cabaret, pop, drum and bass, folk, avant-garde, you name it. In front of the camera, he could stretch himself into the beautiful but wounded alien in The Man Who Fell to Earth, the scary-sexy-cool Goblin King of Labyrinth, the mystical genius Tesla in The Prestige. Nothing he attempted seemed beyond his grasp, including, as you can hear above, off-the-cuff, mostly spot-on impressions of friends and fellow singers like Iggy Pop, Lou Reed, Tom Waits, and Bruce Springsteen.
The audio clip you hear comes from outtakes producer Mark Saunders happened to capture on tape during the 1985 sessions for the Absolute Beginners film soundtrack (“a better soundtrack than it was a movie!” Saunders remarks).
While recording a lead vocal, Saunders writes, Bowie “broke into the impersonations and I realized that these might get erased at some point, so I quickly put a cassette in and hit ‘record.’” You can read his full recollections at The Talkhouse in a short essay he wrote to accompany the audio—introduced by Zach Staggers of indie band the So So Glos, who writes:
Bowie goes through a handful of sung impressions, including but not limited to, Bruce Springsteen, Iggy Pop, Tom Waits, Loud Reed and Anthony Newly, who was such a big influence on the iconic singer that the impersonation almost sounds like Bowie mimicking himself. Between takes you can hear Bowie having fun and going back and forth with the engineers. Jokes.
Bowie also does what sounds like Bob Dylan (or Tom Petty, or Marc Bolan as some have speculated?) in the second take and a passable Neil Young in the last. His Springsteen, Reed, and Pop are excellent (Bowie called the Iggy impression “difficult, he’s somewhere between all of them.”) He closes the impromptu performance with “That’s it, night night.”
Bowie did indeed have jokes, though anyone who followed him over the decades knows of his comedic talents, whether playing straight man to Ricky Gervais’ obnoxious superfan or displaying impeccable timing in his deadpan delivery of “Bowie Secrets” from Late Night With Conan O’Brien in 2002.
Despite the kiss-off he gives Gervais in their comedy bit, those who knew and worked with Bowie all testify that he never took himself too seriously or, as Saunders remembers, threw his weight around by “using a big rock star ‘Hey, I’m David Bowie and I want it done my way.” He may have seemed to many like an alien or a god, but he was apparently in person a pretty humble, and very funny, guy.
Though it’s sometimes regarded as a pretentious-sounding term for genre writers who don’t want to associate with genre, I’ve always liked the phrase “speculative fiction.” J.G. Ballard, Philip K. Dick, Shirley Jackson, Margaret Atwood, Neil Gaiman… A touch of surrealist humor, a highly philosophical bent, and a somewhat tragic sensibility can be found among them all, and also in the work of Ursula K. Le Guin, who does not shy away from the genre labels of science fiction and fantasy, but who approaches these categories in the way of, say, Virginia Woolf in her Orlando: as feminist thought experiments and fables about human ecological failings and inter-cultural potential.
That’s not to say that Le Guin’s writing is driven by political agendas, but that she has a very clear, uncompromising vision, which she has realized over the course of over five decades in novels, short stories, and children’s fiction. LeGuin’s writing takes us away from the familiar to worlds we recognize as alternatives to our own.
Like those in ancient epics, her characters undertake journeys to realms unknown, where they learn as much or more about themselves as about the alien inhabitants. And though we experience in her stories the thrill of discovery and danger common to fantasy and sci-fi, we also enter a world of ideas about who we are as human beings, and how we might be different. For Le Guin, fiction is a vessel that can carry us out of ourselves and return us home changed.
Le Guin stated last year that she no longer has the “vigor and stamina” for writing novels, and having given up teaching as well, said she missed “being in touch with serious prentice writers.” Thus, she decided to start an online writing workshop at the site Book View Café, describing it as “a kind of open consultation or informal ongoing workshop in Fictional Navigation.” In keeping with the metaphor of sea voyaging, she called her workshop “Navigating the Ocean of Story” and declared that she would not take reader questions about publishing or finding an agent: “We won’t be talking about how to sell a ship, but how to sail one.” Reader questions poured in, and Le Guin did her best to answer as many as she could, posting advice every other Monday for all of the summer and much of the fall of 2015.
The first question she received was a doozy—“How do you make something good?”—and her lengthy answer sets the tone for all of her counsel to follow. She is witty and honest, and surprisingly helpful, even when confronted with such a vague, seemingly unanswerable query. The dozens of questions she selected in the following weeks tend to deal with much more manageable issues of style and technique, and in each instance, Le Guin offers the querent a clear set of coordinates to help them navigate the waters of their own fictional journeys. Below are just a few choice excerpts from the many hundreds of words Le Guin generously donated to her reading community.
The problem of exposition:
In answers to two readers’ questions about providing sufficient backstory, Le Guin refers to an old New Yorker feature called “The Department of Fuller Explanation, where they put truly and grand examples of unnecessary explaining.” Most of us, Le Guin writes, “tend to live in the Department of Fuller Explanation” when writing; “We are telling ourselves backstory and other information, which the reader won’t actually need to know when reading it.”
To avoid the “Expository Lump or the Infodump,” as she calls it, Le Guin advises the writer to “decide—or find out when revising—whether the information is actually necessary. If not, don’t bother. If so, figure out how to work it in as a functional, forward-moving element of the story… giving information indirectly, by hint and suggestion.”
The problem of description:
When it comes to describing characters’ appearances, Le Guin suggests getting specific:
It’s not just facial features—a way of moving, a voice quality, can ’embody’ a character. Specific features or mannerisms (even absurdly specific ones!) can help fix a minor character in the reader’s mind when they turn up again…. To work on this skill, you might try describing people you see on the bus or in the coffee shop: just do a sentence about them in your head, trying to catch their looks in a few words.
The problem of setting:
Le Guin answers a reader who confesses to trouble with “world building” by pointing out the central importance of setting:
Event requires location. Where we are affects who we are, what we say and and do, how and why we say and do it. It matters, doesn’t it, whether we’re in Miami or Mumbai — even more whether we’re on Earth or in Made-Up Place? So, I don’t know if it would work to try and build up a world– “all those details” – and tack it onto what you’ve written. If inventing a world isn’t your thing, OK. Stick close to this world, or use readymade, conventional sf and fantasy props and scenery. They’re there for all of us to use.
The problem of dialogue:
Le Guin offers some very practical advice on how to make speech sound convincing and genuine:
All I can recommend is to read/speak your dialogue aloud. Not whispering, not muttering, OUT LOUD. (Virginia Woolf used to try out her dialogue in the bathtub, which greatly entertained the cook downstairs.) This will help show you what’s fakey, hokey, bookish — it just won’t read right out loud. Fix it till it does. Speaking it may help you to vary the speech mannerisms to suit the character. And probably will cause you to cut a lot. Good! Many contemporary novels are so dialogue-heavy they seem all quotation marks — disembodied voices yaddering on in a void.
Getting started:
Many readers wrote to ask Le Guin about their difficulty in getting a story started at all. She replied with the caveat that “no answer to this question is going to fit every writer.” While some writers work from “a rough sketch, notes as to where the story is headed and how it might get there, with more extended notes about the world it takes place in,” for others, “a complete outline is absolutely necessary before starting to write.” Whatever the method:
A story is, after all, and before everything else, dynamic: it starts Here, because it’s going There. Its life principle is the same as a river: to keep moving. Fast or slow, straight or erratic, headlong or meandering, but going, till it gets There. The ideas it expresses, the research it embodies, the timeless inspirations it may offer, are all subordinate to and part of that onward movement. The end itself may not be very important; it is the journey that counts. I don’t know much about “flow” states, but I know that the onward flow of a story is what carries a writer from the start to the end of it, along with the whole boatload of characters and ideas and knowledge and meaning — and carries the reader in the same boat.
There are dozens more questions from readers, and dozens more insightful, funny, and very helpful answers from Le Guin. Whether you are a writer of science fiction, fantasy, speculative fiction, or none of the above, much of her advice will apply to any kind of fiction writing you do—or will give you unique insights into the techniques and trials of the fiction writer. Read all of the questions and Le Guin’s answers in her “Navigating the Ocean of Story” posts at Book View Café.
Sometimes I’ll meet someone who mentions having written a book, and who then adds, “… well, an academic book, anyway,” as if that didn’t really count. True, academic books don’t tend to debut at the heights of the bestseller lists amid all the eating, praying, and loving, but sometimes lightning strikes; sometimes the subject of the author’s research happens to align with what the public believes they need to know. Other times, academic books succeed at a slower burn, and it takes readers generations to come around to the insights contained in them — a less favorable royalty situation for the long-dead writer, but at least they can take some satisfaction in the possibility.
History has shown, in any case, that academic books can become influential. “After a list of the top 20 academic books was pulled together by expert academic booksellers, librarians and publishers to mark the inaugural Academic Book Week,” writes The Guardian’s Alison Flood, “the public was asked to vote on what they believed to be the most influential.” The shortlist of these most important academic books of all time runs as follows (and you can read many of them free by following the links from our meta list of Free eBooks):
The top spot went to Darwin’s On the Origin of Species, which Flood quotes the University of Glasgow’s Andrew Prescott as calling “the supreme demonstration of why academic books matter,” one that “changed the way we think about everything – not only the natural world, but religion, history and society. Every researcher, no matter whether they are writing books, creating digital products or producing artworks, aspires to produce something as significant in the history of thought as Origin of Species.”
Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason placed a still impressive fifth, given its status, in the words of philosopher Roger Scruton, as “one of the most difficult works of philosophy ever written,” — but one which aims to “show the limits of human reasoning, and at the same time to justify the use of our intellectual powers within those limits. The resulting vision, of self-conscious beings enfolded within a one-sided boundary, but always pressing against it, hungry for the inaccessible beyond, has haunted me, as it has haunted many others since Kant first expressed it.”
This is the kind of thing we usually just mention on our Twitter stream. But perhaps you’re not following us there, and we didn’t want you to miss this.…
In 2003, David Bowie rummaged through his collection of 2500 vinyl LPs and created a list of his 25 favorite albums for Vanity Fair. The list came prefaced by these (and other) words:
If you can possibly get your hands on any of these, I guarantee you evenings of listening pleasure, and you will encourage a new high-minded circle of friends, although one or two choices will lead some of your old pals to think you completely barmy. So, without chronology, genre, or reason, herewith, in no particular order, 25 albums that could change your reputation.
Just as eclectic as you might expect, the list recommends everything from blues tunes by John Lee Hooker, minimalist compositions by Steve Reich, avant garde rock by The Velvet Underground, electronic music by The Electrosoniks, psychedelic folk music by The Incredible String Band, and the last works of Richard Strauss. You can view a copy of Bowie’s list here (and perhaps couple it with his list of 100 Favorite Books).
And despite his concerns about finding these albums in supply, you can stream most of his favorite albums for free on Spotify using the playlist above. (Yes, we got a little inspired and pulled it together.) If you need the software, download it here.
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In a new video series from “How To Make Everything” — a Youtube channel dedicated to finding out how to break down complex production processes and make things from scratch — you can watch Andy George create a book using very traditional techniques. And when I say traditional, I mean traditional. He creates papyrus, parchment, ink and leather book covers by hand. And be warned, some parts may make you a bit squeamish. “The How to Make a Book” series is divided into eight separate videos. If you click play above, you can watch them all from start to finish.
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“No, I have not shorted out or fallen in love with a cyborg,” insisted Robert Christgau in his review of Kraftwerk’s 1977 album Trans-Europe Express, which he credited with “a simple-minded air of mock-serious fascination with melody and repetition” and textures that “sound like parodies by some cosmic schoolboy of every lush synthesizer surge that’s ever stuck in your gullet — yet also work the way those surges are supposed to work.” To electronic music fans, Kraftwerk now have a status even beyond that of the grand old men of the tradition, but continue to tour the world enthusiastically (with their own detached, biomechanical interpretation of enthusiasm), performing the deliberately technological, sometimes startlingly jagged, sometimes startlingly rhythmic music they invented.
The world got their first taste of it, in an early experimental form, a few short years before successful and relatively mainstream Kraftwerk records like Trans-Europe Expressor Autobahncame along. The group debuted onstage in their native Germany (in the town of Soest, to be precise) in the 1970 concert captured on video. Watch the gig above, or find it on YouTube. Together, the footage captures with unexpected clarity the avant-gardism of both Kraftwerk’s performative sensibility and technological setup as well as the reaction of the crowd, on the whole more pleased than bewildered. Now, in an age where performers playing from laptops onstage have become commonplace — even Kraftwerk themselves have joined that rather introverted party — it doesn’t seem as striking as all that.
But the genre of “kraut rock” (which All Music Guide describes as made by “legions of German bands of the early ’70s that expanded the sonic possibilities of art and progressive rock,” going in “mechanical and electronic” directions by “working with early synthesizers and splicing together seemingly unconnected reels of tape”) began in a different reality — in an era when Christgau could still, reviewing a later Kraftwerk album in 1981, write that every time he hears their lyric “ ‘I program my home computer/Bring myself into the future,’ I want to make a tape for all those zealots who claim a word processor will change my life.”
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In a recent entry in the New York Times’ philosophy blog “The Stone,” Robert Frodeman and Adam Briggle locate a “momentous turning point” in the history of philosophy: its institutionalization in the research university in the late 19th century. This, they argue, is when philosophy lost its way—when it became subject to the dictates of the academy, placed in competition with the hard sciences, and forced to prove its worth as an instrument of profit and progress. Well over a hundred years after this development, we debate a wider crisis in higher education, as universities (writes Mimi Howard in the Los Angeles Review of Books) “increasingly resemble global corporations with their international campuses and multibillion dollar endowments. Tuition has skyrocketed. Debt is astronomical. The classrooms themselves are more often run on the backs of precarious adjuncts and graduate students than by real professors.”
It’s a cutthroat system I endured for many years as both an adjunct and graduate student, but even before that, in my early undergraduate days, I remember well watching public, then private, colleges succumb to demand for leaner operating budgets, more encroachment by corporate donors and trustees, and less autonomy for educators. Universities have become, in a word, high-priced, high-powered vocational schools where every discipline must prove its value on the open market or risk massive cuts, and where students are treated, and often demand to be treated, like consumers. Expensive private entities like for-profit colleges and corporate educational companies thrive in this environment, often promising much but offering little, and in this environment, philosophy and the liberal arts bear a crushing burden to demonstrate their relevance and profitability.
Howard writes about this situation in the context of her review of Friedrich Nietzsche’s little-known, 1872 series of lectures, On the Future of Our Educational Institutions, published in a new translation by Damion Searls with the pithy title Anti-Education. Nietzsche, an academic prodigy, had become a professor of classical philology at the University of Basel at only 24 years of age. By 27, when he wrote his lectures, he was already disillusioned with teaching and the strictures of professional academia, though he stayed in his appointment until illness forced him to retire in 1878. In the lectures, Nietzsche excoriates a bourgeois higher education system in terms that could come right out of a critical article on the higher ed of our day. In a Paris Review essay, his translator Searls quotes the surly philosopher on what “the state and the masses were apparently clamoring for”:
as much knowledge and education as possible—leading to the greatest possible production and demand—leading to the greatest happiness: that’s the formula. Here we have Utility as the goal and purpose of education, or more precisely Gain: the highest possible income … Culture is tolerated only insofar as it serves the cause of earning money.
Perhaps little has changed but the scale and the appearance of the university. However, Nietzsche did admire the fact that the school system “as we know it today… takes the Greek and Latin languages seriously for years on end.” Students still received a classical education, which Nietzsche approvingly credited with at least teaching them proper discipline. And yet, as the cliché has it, a little knowledge is a dangerous thing; or rather, a little knowledge does not an education make. Though many pursue an education, few people actually achieve it, he believed. “No one would strive for education,” wrote Nietzsche, “if they knew how unbelievably small the number of truly educated people actually was, or ever could be.” For Nietzsche, the university was a scam, tricking “a great mass of people… into going against their nature and pursuing an education” they could never truly achieve or appreciate.
While it’s true that Nietzsche’s critiques are driven in part by his own cultural elitism, it’s also true that he seeks in his lectures to define education in entirely different terms than the utilitarian “state and masses”—terms more in line with classical ideals as well as with the German concept of Bildung, the term for education that also means, writes Searls, “the process of forming the most desirable self, as well as the end point of the process.” It’s a resonance that the English word has lost, though its Latin roots—e ducere, “to lead out of” or away from the common and conventional—still retain some of this sense. Bildung, Searls goes on, “means entering the realm of the fully formed: true culture is the culmination of an education, and true education transmits and creates culture.”
Nietzsche the philologist took the rich valence of Bildung very seriously. In the years after penning his lectures on the educational system, he completed the essays that would become Untimely Meditations(including one of his most famous, “On the Use and Abuse of History for Life”). Among those essays was “Schopenhauer as Educator,” in which Nietzsche calls the gloomy philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer his “true educator.” However, writes Peter Fitzsimons, the “image” of Schopenhauer “is more a metaphor for Nietzsche’s own self-educative process.” For Nietzsche, the process of a true education consists not in rote memorization, or in attaining cultural signifiers consistent with one’s class or ambitions, or in learning a set of practical skills with which to make money. It is, Fitzsimons observes, “rather an exhortation to break free from conventionality, to be responsible for creating our own existence, and to overcome the inertia of tradition and custom”—or what Nietzsche calls the universal condition of “sloth.” In “Schopenhauer as Educator,” Nietzsche defines the role of the educator and explicates the purpose of learning in deliberately Platonic terms:
…for your true nature lies, not concealed deep within you, but immeasurably high above you, or at least above that which you usually take yourself to be. Your true educators and formative teachers reveal to you what the true basic material of your being is, something in itself ineducable and in any case difficult of access, bound and paralysed: your educators can be only your liberators.
As in Plato’s notion of innate knowledge, or anamnesis, Nietzsche believed that education consists mainly of a clearing away of “the weeds and rubbish and vermin” that attack and obscure “the real groundwork and import of thy being.” This kind of education, of course, cannot be formalized within our present institutions, cannot be marketed to a mass audience, and cannot serve the interests of the state and the market. Hence it cannot be obtained by simply progressing through a system of grades and degrees, though one can use such systems to obtain access to the liberatory materials one presumably needs to realize one’s “true nature.”
For Nietzsche, in his example of Schopenhauer, achieving a true education is an enterprise fraught with “three dangers”—those of isolation, of crippling doubt, and of the pain of confronting one’s limitations. These dangers “threaten us all,” but most people, Nietzsche thinks, lack the fortitude and vigor to truly brave and conquer them. Those who acquire Bildung, or culture, those who realize their “true selves,” he concludes “must prove by their own deed that the love of truth has itself awe and power,” though “the dignity of philosophy is trodden in the mire,” and one will likely receive little respite, recompense, or recognition for their labors.
In his essay “The Relativity of Wrong,” Isaac Asimov argues persuasively against the common belief that “’right’ and ‘wrong’ are absolute; that everything that isn’t perfectly and completely right is totally and equally wrong.” Instead, he says, “it seems to me that right and wrong are fuzzy concepts,” and that certain ideas can be true in a sense, but still in need of further correction with new information. I can’t testify as to the strength of his argument when it comes to theoretical physics, but as far as basic inductive reasoning goes it seems perfectly sound to me, and a point worth making frequently. We don’t experience a world of binaries, but one full of “fuzziness” and near misses of all kinds.
As in science—argues former Monty Python member, comedy writer, and intellectual gadfly John Cleese—so in business. Cleese gave a motivational speech called “The Importance of Mistakes” in 1988 to an audience of 500 businessman at the British-American Chamber of Commerce, a demographic he has addressed remotely since 1972 with a series of business training videos made by his company, Video Arts. (“Better job training through entertainment,” as Kate Callen at UPI describes the company’s mission. Videos have titles like “Meetings, Bloody Meetings,” and “If Looks Could Kill.”)
In “The Importance of Mistakes,” Cleese explains that we do not veer wildly off course into total wrongness every time we make an error. Instead, our mistakes provide us with opportunities for feedback, which enables us to make course corrections, where we will inevitably make another mistake, receive more feedback, etc., until we hit the mark. These metaphors are not mine; Cleese uses a story called Gordon the Guided Missile as his primary example—which he dubiously claims was “the first nursery story I ever remember my mother reading to me”:
Gordon the guided missile sets off in pursuit of its target. It immediately sends out signals to discover if it is on the right course to hit that target. Signals come back: “No, you are not on course. So change it. Up a bit and slightly to the left.” And Gordon changes course as instructed and then, rational little fellow that he is, sends out another signal. “Am I on course now?” Back comes the answer, “No, but if you adjust your present course a bit further up and a bit further to the left, you will be.” He adjusts his course again and sends out another request for information. Back comes the answer, “No, Gordon, you’ve still got it wrong. Now you must come down a bit and a foot to the right.” And the guided missile goes on and on making mistakes, and on and on listening to feedback and on and on correcting its behavior until it blows up the nasty enemy thing. And we applaud the missile for its skill. If, however some critic says, “Well, it certainly made a lot of mistakes on the way”, we reply, “Yes, but that didn’t matter, did it? It got there in the end.” All its mistakes were little ones, in the sense that they could be immediately corrected. And as a results of making many hundreds of mistakes, eventually the missile succeeded in avoiding the one mistake which really would have mattered: missing the target.
The story illustrates, Cleese says, the importance of a “tolerant attitude towards mistakes”—even, a “positive attitude.” To take any other view would be to behave “irrationally, unscientifically, and unsuccessfully.” Cleese more or less recommends his audience adopt Asimov’s scientific perspective on error: mistakes are not disastrously irrecoverable missteps, but ways of learning how to get things “less wrong.”
Some clarification: Cleese means to validate only “those mistakes which, at the time they were committed, did have a chance.” A reasonably good try, in other words. There are some absolutes in the world, after all, and there are “true copper bottomed mistakes, like spelling the word ‘rabbit with three m’s or … starting a land war in Asia.” But the point stands. We’re usually in the realm of in-between, and instead of letting the anxiety of indeterminacy overwhelm us, Cleese recommends we take risks and “gain the confidence to contribute spontaneously to what’s happening,” thus overcoming inhibitions and the fear of looking ridiculous.
Cleese delivered this speech to a body of people not typically known for acting spontaneously. And while it seems to me that these days top executives can make egregious errors (or commit egregious fraud) and land squarely on their feet, I wonder if those on the tiers below have the privilege of daring to make errors in most industries. In any case, whether an assembly of corporate managers can afford to loosen up, the rest of us probably can, if we’re willing to adopt a “positive attitude” toward mistakes and consistently—scientifically, even—view them as opportunities to learn.
All of this requires a fine balance of the confidence to screw up and the humility to take constructive feedback when you do. “Healthy behavior actually arises out of confidence,” Cleese observed in an interview after his speech, and yet, “the worst problem in management—in fact, the worst problem in life—is the ego.”
We’re moving back in time, before the mp3 player and the CD. We’re going back to the analog age, a moment when the shellac (and later vinyl) record reigned supreme. The month is June 1937. And the short film you’re watching is “Record Making with Duke Ellington and His Orchestra.” How the film came into being was described in the July 1937 edition of Melody News:
Last month, a crew of cameramen, electricians and technicians from the Paramount film company set up their paraphernalia in the recording studios of Master Records, Inc. for the purpose of gathering ‘location’ scenes for a movie short, now in production, showing how phonograph records are produced and manufactured. Duke Ellington and his orchestra was employed for the studio scenes, with Ivie Anderson doing the vocals.
Narrated by Alois Havrilla, a pioneer radio announcer, the film shows you how records were actually recorded, plated and pressed. It’s a great relic from the shellac/vinyl era, which you will want to couple with this 1956 vinyl tutorial from RCA Victor.
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Where did modern electronic music come from? Whatever the genre markers—EDM, house, glitch, dubstep, ambient—any discussion of the history will inevitably pay homage to a few founding names: Brian Eno, Kraftwerk, Afrika Bambaataa, synthesizer inventor Robert Moog, Daft Punk’s personal hero Giorgio Moroder, superstar DJs Larry Levan and Frankie Knuckles… the list could go on. In most mainstream discussions, it will often leave out the name Karlheinz Stockhausen. And yet, though he decidedly did not make dance music, no history of electronica writ large is complete without him, something filmmaker Iara Lee recognized when she featured him prominently in her 1999 electronica documentary Modulations.
In an introduction to Lee’s transcribed interview with Stockhausen, James Wesley Johnson describes the experimental German electronic composer and theorist as “his own best spokesman,” for the way he “describes the theoretical underpinnings of his work with a simple clarity which belies its complexity.”
Trying to describe Stockhausen’s work proves difficult, since “he’s always experimenting.” Anyone who thinks they “ ‘know’ what to expect from him,” Johnson remarks, is “destined to be surprised by further mutations.”
Stockhausen, who died in 2007, began his career as a student in the 1950s, studying under influential French composer Olivier Messiaen while developing his own concept of musical spatialization. Throughout the fifties and sixties, he pioneered live performance and recorded compositions with tape recorders, microphones, ring modulators, Hammond Organ, and other analog electronic devices, along with traditional instruments, voice, and musique concrete techniques.
Stockhausen combined—writes Ed Chang at the Stockhausen blog Sounds in Space—the results of his experimentation with the “harmonically-liberating methods of the 2nd Viennese School (basically Arnold Schönberg, Alban Berg and Anton Webern, who explored the chromatic scale through the use of unique ordered tone rows and intervals).” This fusion gave rise to the lecture at the top of the post, delivered at the Oxford Union in England on May 6th, 1972, in which Stockhausen lays out his “Four Criteria of Electronic Music.” They are as follows:
Unified Time Structuring
Splitting of the Sound
Multi-Layered Spatial Composition
Equality of Sound and Noise
Chang provides a detailed, technical summary of each point. Much more entertaining, however, is watching the eccentric and enthusiastic Stockhausen elaborate his theory. “One might ask,” he says at the opening of his lecture, “why are [the four criteria] interesting, as there is electronic music, and everybody can make up his mind about what to think about this music?” His answer is classic Stockhausen—cryptic, elliptical, intriguingly vague yet self-assured:
New means change the method; new methods change the experience, and new experiences change man. Whenever we hear the sounds we are changed: we are no longer the same after hearing certain sounds, and this is the more the case when we hear organized sounds, sounds organized by another human being: music.
Thus he launches into his fascinating—if not always fully comprehensible—theory of music as “organized sound,” with animated gestures and several examples from his own composition from the late 50s, Kontakte. “Four Criteria of Electronic Music” is the fifth in a long series of lectures Stockhausen delivered in London that year. If you have any interest in music theory, avant-garde composition, or in how electronic music—and hence how our world—came to sound the way it does, you should not miss these. You can watch them all on Youtube (or below) or at Ubuweb. If you cannot sit in front of the screen and watch Stockhausen’s strangely compelling delivery, you can also download a PDF of a published version of “Four Criteria of Electronic Music” at Monoskop.
Today is Edgar Allan Poe’s birthday, or would be had he lived to be 207 years old. I can’t imagine he would have relished the prospect. When Poe did meet his end, it was under mysterious and rather awful circumstances, fittingly (in a grimly ironic sort of way) for the man often credited with the invention of detective fiction and the perfecting of the gothic horror story.
“True!” begins his most famous story, “The Tell-Tale Heart”—“nervous, very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am,” and we surely believe it. But when he finishes his intimate introduction to us, we are much less inclined to trust his word:
But why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses—not destroyed—not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily—how calmly I can tell you the whole story.
Have we ever been confronted with a more unnerving and unreliable narrator? Poe’s genius was to draw us into the confidence of this terrifying character and keep us there, rapt in suspense, even though we cannot be sure of anything he says, or whether the entire story is nothing more than a paranoid nightmare. And it is that, indeed.
In the animation above by Annette Jung—adapted from Poe’s chilling tale—the madman Ed resolves to take the life of an old man with a creepy, staring eye. In this version, however, a central ambiguity in Poe’s story is made clear. We’re never entirely sure in the original what the relationship is between Poe’s narrator and the doomed old man. In Jung’s version, they are father and son, and the old man is rendered even more grotesque, Ed’s psychological torments even more… shall we say, animated, with clearly comic intent. Jung publishes a web comic called Applehead, and on her short film’s website (in German), she refers to her “Tell-Tale Heart” as “an animated satire.”
Poe’s talent for sustaining controlled hyperbole and for creating unforgettable images like the old man’s evil eye and loudly beating heart make his work especially inviting to animators, and we’ve featured many animations of that work in the past. Just above, see the original animated “Tell-Tale Heart” from 1954. Narrated by the ideally creepy-voiced James Mason, the film received an “X” rating in the UK upon its release, then went on to an Academy Award nomination for Best Animated Short (though it did not win). Just below, Aaron Quinn—who has also animated Poe’s “The Raven” and other 19th century classics by Oscar Wilde, Lewis Carroll and others—updates Mason’s narration with his own frighteningly stark, animated take on the story. Poe, had he lived to see the age of animation, may not have been pleased to see his story adapted in such graphic styles, but we, as his devoted readers over 150 years later, can be grateful that he left us such wonderfully weird source material for animated films.
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