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

In 2007, Kurt  Cobain’s 1991 anti-anthem “Smells Like Teen Spir­it” was long etched into the con­scious­ness of every music fan, but the musi­cal land­scape had changed con­sid­er­ably since its release. The inevitable mass appro­pri­a­tion of Nirvana’s thun­der­ous dynam­ics and shag­gy rebel­lion had turned out so much bland, over­pro­duced grunge that the sound sank into unlis­ten­able deca­dence. With indie artists doing Gang of Four-like dance punk, eight­ies elec­tro, and any­thing at all that sound­ed noth­ing like Nir­vana, some—like Iron and Wine and the Decembrists—picked up ban­jos and fid­dles and reached back even fur­ther to moody Appalachi­an folk.

So when punk fore­moth­er Pat­ti Smith re-inter­pret­ed Nirvana’s era-defin­ing clas­sic for her ’07 cov­ers album Twelve, she choose the lat­ter sound, a spare coun­try arrange­ment with bass, acoustic gui­tar, vio­lin, ban­jo, and Smith’s time­less voice. No need for drums, it’s been done; what we hear instead is the essence of the song’s lyri­cal and melod­ic pow­er.

As most song­writ­ers will tell you, a good song should strip down to voice and gui­tar with­out los­ing its heart. Smith’s ver­sion of “Smells Like Teen Spir­it” proves that Kurt Cobain’s song­writ­ing stands up to the test, and the black and white video recalls Smith’s own pho­tog­ra­phy. It’s a par­tic­u­lar­ly Pat­ti Smith memo­r­i­al.

Loss defines so much of Smith’s late peri­od work—of Cobain, her broth­er, late hus­band Fred “Son­ic” Smith, and close friend Robert Mapplethorpe—but her com­mem­o­ra­tion of those loss­es has also renewed her cre­ative­ly. In a way, her career revival began with a memo­r­i­al to Cobain, with the song “About a Boy” from her 1996 “come­back” record Gone Again, a par­tial col­lab­o­ra­tion with her hus­band not long before his death. Watch Smith below deliv­er a spell­bind­ing live per­for­mance of “About a Boy” from a June 23, 2000 con­cert in Seat­tle.

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:

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

Pat­ti Smith Remem­bers Robert Map­plethor­pe

The First Live Per­for­mance of Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spir­it” (1991)

Josh Jones is a writer, edi­tor, and musi­cian based in Wash­ing­ton, DC. Fol­low him @jdmagness

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Watch The Twilight Zone’s Pilot Episode, Pitched by Rod Serling Himself (1959)

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Sure, cre­ators of tele­vi­sion’s dis­pos­able sit­coms and game shows have to sell their wares, and stren­u­ous­ly, to net­work exec­u­tives. But The Twi­light Zone? How could such an inno­v­a­tive, influ­en­tial tele­vi­su­al insti­tu­tion have ever need­ed to push its way past gate­keep­ers? Yet watch the series’ 1959 pilot above, and, before that even starts, you’ll see cre­ator Rod Ser­ling him­self make his pitch: “You gen­tle­men, of course, know how to push a prod­uct. My pres­ence here is for much the same pur­pose: sim­ply to push a prod­uct. To acquaint you with an enter­tain­ment prod­uct which we hope, and which we rather expect, would make your prod­uct-push­ing that much eas­i­er. What you’re about to see, gen­tle­men, is a series called The Twi­light Zone. We think it’s a rather spe­cial kind of series.” And how.

As the quin­tes­sen­tial late-night, black-and-white plunge into the spec­u­la­tive, the bizarre, the moral­is­tic, and the sim­ply eerie, The Twi­light Zone con­tin­ues to cap­ti­vate viewers—nowadays often, no doubt, YouTube viewers—born gen­er­a­tions after the end of its run. The pilot episode, “Where is Every­body?” sets the tone by fol­low­ing a lone, bewil­dered man through a mys­te­ri­ous­ly emp­ty town, seem­ing­ly aban­doned moments ago. But before that rolls, Ser­ling tan­ta­lizes the boss­es with descrip­tions of oth­er tales then in pro­duc­tion: a man stuck on an aster­oid with a robot, an immor­tal sen­tenced to life impris­on­ment, and a mil­que­toast mis­tak­en for the fastest gun in the old west. Not for noth­ing did Ser­ling build a rep­u­ta­tion as an auteur of human lone­li­ness. But that would come lat­er. “Mr. Ser­ling should not have much trou­ble in mak­ing his mark,” wrote the New York Times’ crit­ic when the show first aired. “At least his series promis­es to be dif­fer­ent.”

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:

Rod Ser­ling: Where Do Ideas Come From?

When Roald Dahl Host­ed His Own Creepy TV Show Way Out, a Com­pan­ion to Rod Serling’s Twi­light Zone (1961)

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture and writes essays on lit­er­a­ture, film, cities, Asia, and aes­thet­ics. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

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The Poetry of Abraham Lincoln

Lincoln

It should sur­prise few to learn that Abra­ham Lin­coln wrote poet­ry. But this fact about his life is dwarfed by those events that defined his polit­i­cal lega­cy, and this is also no sur­prise. Nev­er­the­less, in the midst of the cur­rent Lin­coln revival, the man and the states­man, I think it’s fit­ting to attend to Abra­ham Lin­coln the poet. Cer­tain­ly schol­ars have read his poet­ry in rela­tion to his skill­ful prose and ora­to­ry. But, on its own, this writ­ing gives us insight into the sen­si­tiv­i­ty of Lin­col­n’s less pub­lic modes of expres­sion.

Was he a great poet? Well, it appears that he had at least three phases—the first, a youth­ful one in his teens and ear­ly twen­ties when he pro­duced some sil­ly juvenelia, “a num­ber of crude and satir­i­cal vers­es.” The most pop­u­lar of these is called “Chron­i­cles of Reuben,” a local satire Lin­coln schol­ar Robert Bray describes as “a series of pseu­do-bib­li­cal prose and verse pieces that are, out of their local Indi­ana con­text, so top­i­cal as to be nei­ther fun­ny nor com­pre­hen­si­ble.” The piece, writ­ten in 1828 to avenge him­self upon a rival Indi­ana fam­i­ly, appar­ent­ly had great effect on the neigh­bors, how­ev­er. One of them, Joseph C. Richard­son, claimed that the poem was “remem­bered here in Indi­ana in scraps bet­ter than the Bible.”

We have to cred­it fron­tier oral tra­di­tion for our knowl­edge of some of Lincoln’s more seri­ous poems in his sec­ond phase, after he joined “a Kind of Poet­i­cal Soci­ety” in Illi­nois some­time between 1837–39. One neigh­bor, James Math­e­ny, remem­bered the fol­low­ing world­ly lines from a Lin­coln poem called “On Seduc­tion”:

What­ev­er Spite­ful fools may Say—

Each jeal­ous, rant­i­ng yelper—

No woman ever played the whore

Unless She had a man to help her.

If this is tru­ly a stan­za from Lincoln’s pen, the satirist is still very much in evidence—Swift could have writ­ten these lines—but the self-described “prairie lawyer” has grown philo­soph­i­cal and left the ado­les­cent bound­aries of local feuds and pranks.

His third, most seri­ous phase begins when Lin­coln returned to Indi­ana, after leav­ing Illi­nois briefly in an attempt to help Hen­ry Clay’s failed pres­i­den­tial bid against James Polk. Lin­coln called Indi­ana “as unpo­et­i­cal as any spot of the earth,” and yet it serves as a sub­ject for a poem com­plet­ed in 1846 called “My Child­hood Home I See Again.” (The image above is of the first six stan­zas of this long poem in Lincoln’s hand­writ­ing. Click here to see the remain­ing pages). Here in the first two stan­zas (below), you can see the cut­ting wit of the younger, more con­fi­dent man give way to a kind of wist­ful nos­tal­gia wor­thy of Wordsworth:

My child-hood home I see again,

And glad­den with the view;

And still as mem’ries crowd my brain,

There’s sad­ness in it too–

 

O mem­o­ry! thou mid-way world

‘Twixt Earth and Par­adise;

Where things decayed, and loved ones lost

In dreamy shad­ows rise–

You can read a com­plete tran­script of the poem here, and the Library of Con­gress has a detailed descrip­tion of the poem’s stages of com­po­si­tion.

Lin­coln-as-poet con­tin­ued in this thought­ful, mature voice in the remain­ing years of his life, though nev­er equal­ing the poet­ic out­put of 1846. Some­what out of char­ac­ter, the final doc­u­ment­ed piece of poet­ry from Lin­coln comes from July 19, 1863. Writ­ten in response to the North’s vic­to­ry in Get­tys­burg, “Verse on Lee’s Inva­sion of the North” is a short piece of dog­ger­el that sees him return­ing to satire, writ­ing in the voice of “Gen. Lee”:

Gen. Lee’s inva­sion of the North writ­ten by him­self—

In eigh­teen six­ty three, with pomp,

and mighty swell,

Me and Jef­f’s Con­fed­er­a­cy, went

forth to sack Phil-del,

The Yan­kees they got arter us, and

giv us par­tic­u­lar hell,

And we skedad­dled back again,

And did­n’t sack Phil-del.

Sure­ly the poem was writ­ten in a hur­ry, and with jubi­lant, tri­umphal glee, but if this is the last we heard from Lin­coln the poet, it might be a shame, though it would not blot out the lit­er­ary skill of poems like “My Child­hood Home I See Again” and oth­ers like “The Bear Hunt” and “To Rosa,” which you can read here.

But there’s more to this sto­ry; in 2004, a his­to­ri­an dis­cov­ered an unsigned poem called “The Sui­cide’s Soliloquy”—published in the August 25, 1838 issue of the Sang­amo Jour­nal, a Spring­field newspaper—and believed the for­mer pres­i­dent to be the poet. In the video above, lis­ten to a moody, dra­mat­ic read­ing of the poem:

It is not known with cer­tain­ty if Lin­coln wrote this poem, but schol­ar­ly con­sen­sus inclines heav­i­ly in that direc­tion, giv­en its styl­is­tic sim­i­lar­i­ty to his oth­er work from this peri­od. “The Sui­cide’s Solil­o­quy” is as pas­sion­ate and mor­bid as any of Edgar Allen Poe’s verse, and betrays Lincoln’s char­ac­ter­is­tic melan­choly in its stormi­est and most Roman­tic guise. NPR has the full poem and the sto­ry of its dis­cov­ery.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Res­ur­rect­ing the Sounds of Abra­ham Lin­coln in Steven Spielberg’s New Biopic

The Last Sur­viv­ing Wit­ness of the Lin­coln Assas­si­na­tion

Louis CK Plays Abra­ham Lin­coln, America’s 16th Pres­i­dent and (Yes) Stand-Up Come­di­an Too

Josh Jones is a writer, edi­tor, and musi­cian based in Wash­ing­ton, DC. Fol­low him @jdmagness

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The Only Known Footage of George Orwell (Circa 1921)

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Although he died in 1950, George Orwell seem­ing­ly escaped the reach of mod­ern media. Orwell’s voice was nev­er cap­tured on audio. And his image nev­er appeared on film. His­to­ri­ans and lit­er­a­ture schol­ars lament­ed this for decades.

But then, in 2003, on the hun­dredth anniver­sary of Orwell’s birth, two researchers stum­bled upon a tan­ta­liz­ing piece of footage in the The Pathay Film Library in Lon­don. The very brief footage — watch in full here, or at the 50 sec­ond mark in the video above — shows an 18-year-old Orwell, then named Eric Blair, march­ing across a sports field at Eton Col­lege, where he spent his for­ma­tive years and stud­ied French with Aldous Hux­ley. In the line of march­ing stu­dents, Orwell is the fourth stu­dent from the left.

Note: the video above comes from a British Pathe clip that fea­tures celebri­ties before they became famous. If you’re curi­ous who appears in the film, see the list below the jump.

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Physical Attraction: Marriage Proposal Comes in the Form of a Physics Paper

physics marriage proposal

On red­dit, a user wrote yes­ter­day, “My boyfriend of 7 years and I are both physi­cists. Here’s how he pro­posed to me.” Yes, the mar­riage pro­pos­al is a physics paper of sorts, called “Two Body Inter­ac­tions: A Lon­gi­tu­di­nal Study,” that con­cludes:

The sum­ma­ry of the find­ings of the study are pre­sent­ed in Fig­ure 1 and that that the project hap­pi­ness is upward with high con­fi­dence. Tak­ing these results into account, the author pro­pos­es to Christie the indef­i­nite con­tin­u­a­tion of the study. The sub­jects response to their pro­pos­al should be indi­cat­ed below [by check­ing the “Yes” or “No” box].

Bren­dan McMoni­gal and Christie Nelan (pic­tured here) met at the Uni­ver­si­ty of Syd­ney sev­en years ago. They will tie the knot this com­ing May, and we hope you’ll wish them the best.…

via Boing­Bo­ing and @stevesilberman

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Seven Tips From F. Scott Fitzgerald on How to Write Fiction

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F. Scott Fitzger­ald is often por­trayed as a nat­ur­al-born writer. “His tal­ent,” says Ernest Hem­ing­way in A Move­able Feast, “was as nat­ur­al as the pat­tern that was made by the dust on a but­ter­fly­’s wings.” But Fitzger­ald saw him­self in a dif­fer­ent light. “What lit­tle I’ve accom­plished,” he said, “has been by the most labo­ri­ous and uphill work.”

Last week we brought you Sev­en Tips From Ernest Hem­ing­way on How to Write Fic­tion. Today we’re back with a sim­i­lar list of advice from Hem­ing­way’s friend and rival Fitzger­ald. We’ve select­ed sev­en quo­ta­tions from F. Scott Fitzger­ald on Writ­ing, which was edit­ed by Lar­ry W. Phillips and pub­lished in 1985 as a com­pan­ion to the Hem­ing­way book. As in the pre­vi­ous post, we’ve orga­nized the advice under our own head­ings and added some brief com­men­tary.

1: Start by tak­ing notes.

Fitzger­ald made a habit of record­ing his stray thoughts and obser­va­tions in note­books. He orga­nized the entries into cat­e­gories like “Feel­ings and emo­tions,” “Con­ver­sa­tions and things over­heard” and “Descrip­tions of girls.” When Fitzger­ald was giv­ing writ­ing advice to his mis­tress Sheilah Gra­ham in the late 1930s, he advised her to do the same. In her 1940 mem­oir, Beloved Infi­del, Gra­ham quotes Fitzger­ald as say­ing:

You must begin by mak­ing notes. You may have to make notes for years.… When you think of some­thing, when you recall some­thing, put it where it belongs. Put it down when you think of it. You may nev­er recap­ture it quite as vivid­ly the sec­ond time.

2: Make a detailed out­line of your sto­ry.

When Fitzger­ald was work­ing on a nov­el, he would sur­round him­self with charts out­lin­ing the var­i­ous move­ments and his­to­ries of his char­ac­ters. In a 1936 let­ter to nov­el­ist John O’Hara, he advis­es the younger nov­el­ist to start with a big out­line:

Invent a sys­tem Zolaesque…but buy a file. On the first page of the file put down an out­line of a nov­el of your times enor­mous in scale (don’t wor­ry, it will con­tract by itself) and work on the plan for two months. Take the cen­tral point of the file as your big cli­max and fol­low your plan back­ward and for­ward from that for anoth­er three months. Then draw up some­thing as com­pli­cat­ed as a con­ti­nu­ity from what you have and set your­self a sched­ule.

3: Don’t describe your work-in-progress to any­one.

Fitzger­ald’s pol­i­cy was nev­er to talk with oth­er peo­ple about the book he was work­ing on. In a 1940 let­ter to his daugh­ter Scot­tie, he says:

I think it’s a pret­ty good rule not to tell what a thing is about until it’s fin­ished. If you do you always seem to lose some of it. It nev­er quite belongs to you so much again.

4: Cre­ate peo­ple, not types.

Fitzger­ald was known for cre­at­ing emblem­at­ic char­ac­ters, but he said it was acci­den­tal. “I had no idea of orig­i­nat­ing an Amer­i­can flap­per when I first began to write,” he said in a 1923 inter­view for Met­ro­pol­i­tan mag­a­zine. “I sim­ply took girls who I knew very well and, because they inter­est­ed me as unique human beings, I used them for my hero­ines.” In the open­ing sen­tence of his 1926 short sto­ry, “The Rich Boy,” Fitzger­ald explains the prin­ci­ple:

Begin with an indi­vid­ual, and before you know it you find that you have cre­at­ed a type; begin with a type, and you find that you have created–nothing.

5: Use famil­iar words.

In a 1929 let­ter to his col­lege friend and fel­low writer John Peale Bish­op, Fitzger­ald says:

You ought nev­er to use an unfa­mil­iar word unless you’ve had to search for it to express a del­i­cate shade–where in effect you have recre­at­ed it. This is a damn good prose rule I think.… Excep­tions: (a) need to avoid rep­e­ti­tion (b) need of rhythm © etc.

6: Use verbs, not adjec­tives, to keep your sen­tences mov­ing.

In a 1938 let­ter to his daugh­ter, Fitzger­ald writes:

About adjec­tives: all fine prose is based on the verbs car­ry­ing the sen­tences. They make sen­tences move. Prob­a­bly the finest tech­ni­cal poem in Eng­lish is Keats’ “Eve of Saint Agnes.” A line like “The hare limped trem­bling through the frozen grass,” is so alive that you race through it, scarce­ly notic­ing it, yet it has col­ored the whole poem with its movement–the limp­ing, trem­bling and freez­ing is going on before your own eyes.

7: Be ruth­less.

A writer has to make some hard choic­es. Fitzger­ald warns about the dan­ger of becom­ing too attached to some­thing you’ve writ­ten. Keep an objec­tive eye on the whole piece, he says, and if some­thing isn’t work­ing get rid of it. In a 1933 Sat­ur­day Evening Post arti­cle titled “One Hun­dred False Starts,” he writes:

I am alone in the pri­va­cy of my fad­ed blue room with my sick cat, the bare Feb­ru­ary branch­es wav­ing at the win­dow, an iron­ic paper weight that says Busi­ness is Good, a New Eng­land conscience–developed in Minnesota–and my great­est prob­lem:

“Shall I run it out? Or shall I turn back?”

Shall I say:

“I know I had some­thing to prove, and it may devel­op far­ther along in the sto­ry?”

Or:

“This is just bull­head­ed­ness. Bet­ter throw it away and start over.”

The lat­ter is one of the most dif­fi­cult deci­sions that an author must make. To make it philo­soph­i­cal­ly, before he has exhaust­ed him­self in a hun­dred-hour effort to resus­ci­tate a corpse or dis­en­tan­gle innu­mer­able wet snarls, is a test of whether or not he is real­ly a pro­fes­sion­al. There are often occa­sions when such a deci­sion is dou­bly dif­fi­cult. In the last stages of a nov­el, for instance, where there is no ques­tion of junk­ing the whole, but when an entire favorite char­ac­ter has to be hauled out by the heels, screech­ing, and drag­ging half a dozen good scenes with him.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Sev­en Tips From Ernest Hem­ing­way on How to Write Fic­tion

Rare Footage of Scott and Zel­da Fitzger­ald From the 1920s

Win­ter Dreams: F.Scott Fitzger­ald’s Life Remem­bered in a Fine Film

F. Scott Fitzger­ald Reads From Shake­speare’s Oth­el­lo and John Mase­field­’s ‘On Grow­ing Old’ (c.1940)

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Édith Piaf’s Moving Performance of ‘La Vie en Rose’ on French TV, 1954

Édith Piaf’s life was any­thing but rosy. Born in a Parisian slum, she was aban­doned by her moth­er and lived for awhile in a broth­el run by her grand­moth­er. As a teenag­er she sang on the streets for mon­ey. She was addict­ed to alco­hol and drugs for much of her life, and her lat­er years were marred by chron­ic pain. Through it all, Piaf man­aged to hold onto a basi­cal­ly opti­mistic view of life. She sang with a lyri­cal aban­don that seemed to tran­scend the pain and sor­row of liv­ing.

On April 3, 1954 Piaf was the guest of hon­or on the French TV show La Joie de Vivre. She was 38 years old but looked much old­er. She had recent­ly under­gone a gru­el­ing series of “aver­sion ther­a­py” treat­ments for alco­holism, and was by that time in the habit of tak­ing mor­phine before going onstage. Cor­ti­sone treat­ments for arthri­tis made the usu­al­ly wire-thin singer look puffy. But when Piaf launch­es into her sig­na­ture song, “La Vie en Rose” (see above), all of that is left behind.

Nine years after this per­for­mance, when Piaf died, her friend Jean Cocteau said of her: “Like all those who live on courage, she did­n’t think about death–she defied it. Only her voice remains, that splen­did voice like black vel­vet.”

Fol­low Open Cul­ture on Face­book and Twit­ter and share intel­li­gent media with your friends. Or bet­ter yet, sign up for our dai­ly email and get a dai­ly dose of Open Cul­ture in your inbox. And if you want to make sure that our posts def­i­nite­ly appear in your Face­book news­feed, just fol­low these sim­ple steps.

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33 Oscar-Winning Films Online

http://youtu.be/euh0kEU20V4?t=10s

Per­son­al­ly, I’d rather watch a good movie than an awards show about good movies. If you’re like me, then con­sid­er spend­ing tonight watch­ing a long list of Oscar-win­ning films on the web. 33 films, to be pre­cise. The list includes many great short films, ani­mat­ed films, doc­u­men­taries, and a few fea­ture-length movies. We start you off above with Why Man Cre­ates, the clas­sic ani­mat­ed film by Saul Bass and his wife/collaborator Elaine, which won the 1968 Acad­e­my Award for Doc­u­men­tary Short Sub­ject. You can get the full list of Acad­e­my Award win­ners on the web here. And don’t for­get to peruse our ever-grow­ing list of 500 Free Movies Online. It’ll keep you busy for weeks, if not months.

Please fol­low us on Face­book, Twit­ter and Google Plus and share intel­li­gent media with your friends! They’ll thank you for it.

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Richard Dawkins Dies (Not Really) and Meets His Maker in a New NSFW Animation

When Christo­pher Hitchens died, it did­n’t take long for humorists to imag­ine the com­ic sce­nario: what hap­pens when the surly athe­ist comes face to face with God? It’s amus­ing to con­sid­er. And when it comes to Richard Dawkins, the humorists aren’t wait­ing for the biol­o­gist’s demise to play things out. In Kevin Breen’s South Park-style trib­ute, Dawkins arrives at the Gates of Heav­en, only to dis­cov­er that God exists after all. When the “Man in the Sky Who Saves Amer­i­ca, Bless­es the Queen” asks Dawkins for his reac­tion, the author of The God Delu­sion gives him an ear­ful. The stri­dent lan­guage is pure Dawkins. Actu­al­ly, his lines are sound bites tak­en from recent Dawkins speech­es. In 2006, a stu­dent famous­ly asked Dawkins “What If You’re Wrong [About the Exis­tence of God], and the Oxford biol­o­gist replied with lines that sound famil­iar.

In this clip, crit­ics will find anoth­er rea­son not to like Dawkins; fans will find anoth­er rea­son to adore him. But, what did Richard Dawkins think? “Fun!,” he wrote, as he post­ed it to his Face­book page.

Note: This video con­tains some strong lan­guage. It’s basi­cal­ly NSFW.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Alan Watts and His Zen Wis­dom Ani­mat­ed by Cre­ators of South Park

The Unbe­liev­ers, A New Film Star­ring Richard Dawkins, Lawrence Krauss, Wern­er Her­zog, Woody Allen, & Cor­mac McCarthy

Christo­pher Hitchens: No Deathbed Con­ver­sion for Me, Thanks, But it was Good of You to Ask

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Bertolt Brecht Sings ‘Mack the Knife’ From The Threepenny Opera, 1929

Bertolt Brecht was­n’t much of a singer, but he could real­ly roll his “r“s. This rare record­ing of the social­ist play­wright singing “Mack the Knife” was made in May of 1929, less than a year after the smash-hit pre­miere of The Three­pen­ny Opera.

The song, called in Ger­man “Die Mori­tat von Mack­ie Mess­er,” was writ­ten in a rush only a few days before the August 31, 1928 Berlin pre­miere, after the actor who played Macheath com­plained that his entrance was­n’t grand enough. Brecht wrote the words overnight and asked his col­lab­o­ra­tor, the com­pos­er Kurt Weill, to set them to music. The song is mod­eled after the Mori­tat (from “mord” mean­ing mur­der and “tat” mean­ing deed), a kind of medieval bal­lad tra­di­tion­al­ly sung by trav­el­ing min­strels recount­ing the crimes of noto­ri­ous mur­der­ers. An Eng­lish trans­la­tion begins:

See the shark with teeth like razors.
All can read his open face.
And Macheath has got a knife, but
Not in such an obvi­ous place.

See the shark, how red his fins are
As he slash­es at his prey.
Mack the Knife wears white kid gloves which
Give the min­i­mum away.

Brecht’s grit­ty 1929 record­ing of the song is con­sis­tent with the ragged aes­thet­ic of the orig­i­nal pro­duc­tion of The Three­pen­ny Opera, with its inten­tion­al­ly thread­bare sets and its cast of actors who were not accom­plished singers. Although Weill was the one who wrote the score, Brecht per­son­al­ly enjoyed play­ing music. The actress Lotte Lenya, who played Jen­ny in the orig­i­nal pro­duc­tion, remem­bered how Brecht would strum his gui­tar and sing bal­lads “ama­teur­ish­ly but with an odd mag­net­ism.” Besides “Mack the Knife,” there is also a record­ing from the same 1929 ses­sion of Brecht singing a less­er-known piece from The Three­pen­ny Opera, “Song of the Insuf­fi­cien­cy of Human Endeav­or.” You can lis­ten to that one by click­ing here.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Bertolt Brecht Tes­ti­fies Before the House Un-Amer­i­can Activ­i­ties Com­mit­tee (1947)

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