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A Behind-the-Scenes Tour of NPR’s Tiny Desk Concert

Back in 2008, Bob Boilen (host of All Songs Con­sid­ered) and NPR music crit­ic Stephen Thomp­son attend­ed a noisy con­cert where they strug­gled to hear Lau­ra Gib­son per­form. Jok­ing­ly, Thomp­son sug­gest­ed that Gib­son per­form at Boilen’s office desk instead. She did. And, with that, the NPR Tiny Desk Con­cert was born. Since then, more than 1,300 musi­cal acts have per­formed their own stripped-down, authen­tic shows in the cramped con­fines of NPR’s head­quar­ters in Wash­ing­ton, D.C. That includes every­one from Tay­lor Swift to Dua Lipa, to the Pix­ies, the Grate­ful Dead­’s Bob Weir, and Gary Clark Jr. In the video above, Archi­tec­tur­al Digest takes you behind the scenes, show­ing the set where the mag­ic hap­pens. There you can see “a real desk in a real office, sur­round­ed by shelves packed with price­less memen­tos left by artists–from Adele’s water bot­tle to Sab­ri­na Carpenter’s mar­ti­ni glass and even Chap­pell Roan’s wig.” And you can meet the team behind the pro­duc­tion, while learn­ing how Tiny Desk became a beloved series. Below watch a com­plete playlist of all Tiny Desk Con­certs. Enjoy!

Relat­ed Con­tent

Jimi Hen­drix Unplugged: Two Great Record­ings of Hen­drix Play­ing Acoustic Gui­tar

David Bowie Per­forms an Ethe­re­al Acoustic Ver­sion of “Heroes,” with a Bot­tle Cap Strapped to His Shoe, Keep­ing the Beat (1996)

A‑ha Per­forms a Beau­ti­ful Acoustic Ver­sion of Their 1980s Hit, “Take on Me”: Record­ed Live in Nor­way

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The Entire History of English in 22 Minutes

When we speak Eng­lish, we might say we’re speak­ing the lan­guage of Samuel John­son, the man who wrote its first dic­tio­nary. Or we could say we’re speak­ing the lan­guage of Shake­speare, who coined more Eng­lish terms than any oth­er indi­vid­ual in his­to­ry. It would make just as much sense to describe our­selves as speak­ing the lan­guage of the King James Bible, the mass print­ing of which did so much to stan­dard­ize Eng­lish, steam­rolling flat many of the count­less local vari­a­tions that exist­ed in the ear­ly sev­en­teenth cen­tu­ry. But as many an Eng­lish­man (and more than a few Amer­i­cans) would be loath to admit, when we speak Eng­lish, we are, much of the time, actu­al­ly speak­ing French.

“In 1066, the Nor­mans turn up and seize the Eng­lish throne from the Anglo-Sax­ons says YouTu­ber Rob­words in the new video above, describ­ing the sin­gle most impor­tant event in the entire his­to­ry of the Eng­lish lan­guage, which he recounts in just 22 min­utes. “William the Con­queror becomes king, and Nor­man French becomes the lan­guage of Eng­land’s élite.”

Under its new ruler, the coun­try’s earls, thanes, and athelings would be called barons, dukes, and princes. “The now-sub­dued Anglo-Sax­ons need­ed to learn French words if they want­ed to get by, so Eng­lish absorbs a whole host of French terms asso­ci­at­ed with pow­er, jus­tice, art, gov­ern­ment, law, and cul­ture — such as pow­er, jus­tice, art, gov­ern­ment, law, and cul­ture,” to name just a few.

This thor­ough­go­ing Frenchi­fi­ca­tion gave rise to what we now call Mid­dle Eng­lish, as dis­tinct from the Old Eng­lish spo­ken before. As not­ed by Rob­Words, about 85 per­cent of Old Eng­lish vocab­u­lary is no longer in use today, yet we’re still “using Old Eng­lish in every sen­tence that we utter,” not least when we break out such irreg­u­lar-seem­ing plu­rals as mice, oxen, and wolves. Tues­day, Wednes­day, Thurs­day, and Fri­day make ref­er­ence to “the Anglo-Sax­ons’ pre-Chris­t­ian gods.” And even in the fast-chang­ing, slang-rid­den, inter­net-influ­enced, and — for bet­ter or for worse — high­ly “glob­al­ized” Eng­lish we speak today, we can still hear dim echoes of the ancient ances­tor lin­guists call Pro­to-Indo-Euro­pean. Per­haps that’s why, despite being so wide­ly spo­ken, Eng­lish is still so tricky to learn: when we speak it, we’re speak­ing not just a lan­guage, but many lan­guages all at once.

Relat­ed con­tent:

The His­to­ry of the Eng­lish Lan­guage in Ten Ani­mat­ed Min­utes

Trac­ing Eng­lish Back to Its Old­est Known Ances­tor: An Intro­duc­tion to Pro­to-Indo-Euro­pean

Where Did the Eng­lish Lan­guage Come From?: An Ani­mat­ed Intro­duc­tion

The Tree of Lan­guages Illus­trat­ed in a Big, Beau­ti­ful Info­graph­ic

The Alpha­bet Explained: The Ori­gin of Every Let­ter

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

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How the Ancient Greeks Built Their Magnificent Temples: The Art of Ancient Engineering

Doric, Ion­ic, Corinthi­an: these, as prac­ti­cal­ly every­one who went through school in the West some­how remem­bers, are the three vari­eties of clas­si­cal col­umn. We may still recall them, more specif­i­cal­ly, as rep­re­sent­ing the three ancient Greek archi­tec­tur­al styles. But as ancient-his­to­ry YouTu­ber Gar­rett Ryan points out in the new Told in Stone video above, only Doric and Ion­ic columns belong ful­ly to ancient Greece; what we think of when we think of Corinthi­an columns were devel­oped more in the civ­i­liza­tion of ancient Rome. The con­text is an expla­na­tion of how the ancient Greeks built their tem­ples, one of the char­ac­ter­is­tics of their design process being the use of columns aplen­ty.

It’s one thing to hear about Greek columns in the class­room, and quite anoth­er to walk amid them in per­son. That, per­haps, is why Ryan deliv­ers the open­ing of his video perched upon the ruins of what’s known as Tem­ple C. Hav­ing once stood proud­ly in Seli­nus, a city belong­ing to Magna Grae­cia (Greek-speak­ing areas of Italy), it now con­sti­tutes one of the prime tourist attrac­tions for antiq­ui­ty-mind­ed vis­i­tors to mod­ern-day Sici­ly.

Though his chan­nel may be called Told in Stone, Ryan begins his brief his­to­ry of the Greek tem­ple before that hardy mate­r­i­al had even come into use for these pur­pos­es. At first, the Greeks fash­ioned the homes of their gods out of mud brick, with thatched roofs and wood­en porch­es; only from the sev­enth cen­tu­ry BC, “prob­a­bly inspired by con­tact with Egypt,” did they start build­ing them to last.

Or they built them to last as long as could be expect­ed, in any case, giv­en the nature of the mate­ri­als avail­able in the ancient world and the mil­len­nia that have passed since then. Take the Tem­ple of Apol­lo at the Sanc­tu­ary of Didy­ma in mod­ern-day Turkey, which his­to­ry-and-archi­tec­ture YouTu­ber Manuel Bra­vo pays a vis­it in the video just above. It may not look as if the near­ly 2400 years since its nev­er-tech­ni­cal­ly-com­plet­ed con­struc­tion began have been kind, but it’s nev­er­the­less one of the bet­ter-pre­served tem­ples from ancient Greek civ­i­liza­tion in exis­tence (not to men­tion the largest). Even in its ruined state, it gives what Bra­vo describes as the impres­sion of — or at least, in its hey­day, hav­ing been — “a for­est of huge columns,” a built ver­sion of “the sacred forests that Greeks used to con­se­crate to the gods.” They’re Ion­ic columns, in case you were won­der­ing, but don’t sweat it; there won’t be a quiz.

Relat­ed con­tent:

The City of Nashville Built a Full-Scale Repli­ca of the Parthenon in 1897, and It’s Still Stand­ing Today

A 3D Mod­el Reveals What the Parthenon and Its Inte­ri­or Looked Like 2,500 Years Ago

How the Parthenon Mar­bles End­ed Up In The British Muse­um

Explore Ancient Athens 3D, a Dig­i­tal Recon­struc­tion of the Greek City-State at the Height of Its Influ­ence

What Ancient Greece Real­ly Looked Like: See Recon­struc­tions of the Tem­ple of Hadri­an, Curetes Street & the Foun­tain of Tra­jan

The His­to­ry of Ancient Greece in 18 Min­utes: A Brisk Primer Nar­rat­ed by Bri­an Cox

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

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Albert Einstein Tells His Son That the Key to Learning & Happiness Is Losing Yourself in Creativity (or “Finding Flow”)

As one par­tic­u­lar­ly astute observ­er of human emo­tions might put it, it is a truth uni­ver­sal­ly acknowl­edged that we can’t all be Albert Ein­stein. In fact, none of us can. That unique expe­ri­ence was denied even Einstein’s son Hans Albert, though he did go on to his own dis­tin­guished career as an engi­neer and pro­fes­sor of hydraulics. Ein­stein father and son had a strained rela­tion­ship, yet the great physi­cist had a hand in his son’s suc­cess, inspir­ing him to pur­sue his sci­en­tif­ic pas­sion. But Einstein’s pater­nal encour­age­ment extend­ed fur­ther, beyond sci­en­tif­ic pur­suits and toward a gen­er­al the­o­ry of learn­ing and enjoy­ment that sug­gests we can be hap­pi­est and most pro­duc­tive when being most our­selves.

While liv­ing in Berlin in 1915, Ein­stein wrote a poignant let­ter to his son, just two days after fin­ish­ing his the­o­ry of gen­er­al rel­a­tiv­i­ty. His tone swings from buoy­ant to pained—lamenting his family’s “awk­ward” sep­a­ra­tion and propos­ing to spend more time with Albert, as he calls him. His son can “learn many good and beau­ti­ful things from me,” writes Ein­stein, “These days I have com­plet­ed one of the most beau­ti­ful works of my life.”

Ein­stein also writes, “I am very pleased that you find joy with the piano. This and car­pen­try are in my opin­ion for your age the best pur­suits.” An ama­teur musi­cian him­self, Ein­stein under­stood the val­ue of devel­op­ing an infor­mal avo­ca­tion. “Main­ly play the things on the piano which please you,” he tells his son, “even if the teacher does not assign those.” Doing what you love, the way you like to do it, he goes on, “is the way to learn the most, that when you are doing some­thing with such enjoy­ment that you don’t notice that the time pass­es.”

This great theme of total immer­sion in a cre­ative endeav­or sur­faced sev­er­al decades lat­er in anoth­er scientist’s work, that of Hun­gar­i­an psy­chol­o­gist Mihaly Csik­szent­mi­ha­lyi, described by Mar­tin Selig­man—for­mer Pres­i­dent of the Amer­i­can Psy­cho­log­i­cal Association—as “the world’s lead­ing researcher” in the field of pos­i­tive psy­chol­o­gy. Pre­sent­ed in his pop­u­lar TED talk above, and at more length in his books on the sub­ject, Csikszentmihalyi’s insights into human flour­ish­ing mir­ror Einstein’s: he calls such cre­ative immer­sion “flow,” or the state of “being com­plete­ly involved in an activ­i­ty for its own sake.”

The ego falls away. Time flies. Every action, move­ment, and thought fol­lows inevitably from the pre­vi­ous one, like play­ing jazz. Your whole being is involved, and you’re using your skills to the utmost.

Con­trary to our usu­al con­cep­tions of using one’s “skills to the utmost,” Csik­szent­mi­ha­lyi tells us that the reward for enter­ing such a state is not the mate­r­i­al ben­e­fits it gen­er­ates, but the pos­i­tive emo­tions. These emo­tions, as Ein­stein the­o­rized, not only moti­vate us to become bet­ter, but they also pro­vide a source of mean­ing no amount of finan­cial gain above a min­i­mum lev­el can offer. “The lack of basic mate­r­i­al resources con­tributes to unhap­pi­ness,” Csikszentmihalyi’s data demon­strates, “but the increase in mate­r­i­al resources does not increase hap­pi­ness.” While none of us can be Ein­stein, Csik­szent­mi­ha­lyi tells us we can all ben­e­fit from Einstein’s advice, by doing what­ev­er we do to the best of our abil­i­ties and with­out any motive oth­er than sheer plea­sure.

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2015.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

How to Enter a ‘Flow State’ on Com­mand: Peak Per­for­mance Mind Hack Explained in 7 Min­utes

Cre­ativ­i­ty, Not Mon­ey, is the Key to Hap­pi­ness: Dis­cov­er Psy­chol­o­gist Mihaly Csikszentmihaly’s The­o­ry of “Flow”

How to Get into a Cre­ative “Flow State”: A Short Mas­ter­class

How to Enter Flow State, Increase Your Abil­i­ty to Con­cen­trate, and Let Your Ego Fall Away : An Ani­mat­ed Primer

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

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Watch Queen’s Brilliant Live Aid Performance: It Happened 40 Years Ago Today (July 13, 1985)

“The last peo­ple any­one expect­ed to come out of that gig as being the mem­o­rable ones was Queen,” said Bob Geld­of in an inter­view, look­ing back at the band’s stun­ning 24 minute set at Live Aid on July 13, 1985. In front of 72,000 peo­ple in Wem­b­ley Sta­di­um and mil­lions watch­ing world­wide, Queen resus­ci­tat­ed their career with a selec­tion of hits and new mate­r­i­al.

The band, as Roger Tay­lor says in the mini doc here, was “bored” and “in a bit of a trough.” They also had been crit­i­cized for play­ing Sun City in South Africa dur­ing the reign of Apartheid.

Going into Live Aid, a lot of the artists didn’t know what to expect of the entire event. Many, includ­ing Bob Geld­of him­self, won­dered if the event would flop. But Queen more than any of them seemed to intu­it right from the start the impor­tance of the day, though they were very ner­vous back­stage. But once onstage they com­plete­ly own it, even more so Fred­die Mer­cury who ris­es to the occa­sion as a front man and as a singer, giv­ing one of his best per­for­mances.

In that short set, Queen gives a full con­cert worth of ener­gy and the audi­ence responds. Not all were Queen fans, but by the end every­body had become one, singing along to “We Are the Cham­pi­ons” and “We Will Rock You.” Across the Atlantic, the 90,000 strong Philadel­phia audi­ence fol­lowed suit, watch­ing the jum­botron simul­cast.

“Do you know how hard it is to get someone’s atten­tion who’s on the oth­er side of the room?” asks Dave Grohl of Foo Fight­ers in this oth­er short doc on the set. “Imag­ine a sta­di­um and mak­ing them sing along with you.”

This hot sum­mer con­cert would turn out to be the zenith of Queen’s career. There would be more albums and sin­gles, but Fred­die Mer­cury would slow­ly suc­cumb to AIDS, and dis­ap­pear from pub­lic view, until pass­ing in 1991. The Live Aid set stands as one of the band’s final, icon­ic, and major achieve­ments. Watch it, in all of its glo­ry, above.

You can watch the full Live Aid broad­cast on Inter­net Archive. You can also watch 10+ hours of the best per­for­mances here on the Live Aid YouTube chan­nel. Videos will be added to the playlist below through­out the day.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch 16 Hours of His­toric Live Aid Per­for­mances: Queen, Led Zep­pelin, Neil Young & Much More

Watch Queen Rehearse & Metic­u­lous­ly Pre­pare for Their Leg­endary 1985 Live Aid Per­for­mance

Bob Geld­of Talks About the Great­est Day of His Life, Step­ping on the Stage of Live Aid, in a Short Doc by Errol Mor­ris

Sci­en­tif­ic Study Reveals What Made Fred­die Mercury’s Voice One of a Kind; Hear It in All of Its A Cap­pel­la Splen­dor

Lis­ten to Fred­die Mer­cury and David Bowie on the Iso­lat­ed Vocal Track for the Queen Hit ‘Under Pres­sure,’ 1981

Ted Mills is a free­lance writer on the arts.

 

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Tomorrow Never Knows: How The Beatles Invented the Future With Studio Magic, Tape Loops & LSD

“Tomor­row Nev­er Knows” could­n’t be made today, and not just because the Bea­t­les already made it in 1966. Mark­ing per­haps the sin­gle biggest step in the group’s artis­tic evo­lu­tion, that song is in every sense a prod­uct of its time. The use of psy­che­del­ic drugs like LSD was on the rise in the coun­ter­cul­ture, as was the aware­ness of the reli­gion and music of far­away lands such as India. At the same moment, devel­op­ments in record­ing-stu­dio tech­nol­o­gy were mak­ing new approach­es pos­si­ble, involv­ing sounds that musi­cians nev­er would have imag­ined try­ing before — and, when brought togeth­er, pro­duced a result that many lis­ten­ers of just a few years ear­li­er would hard­ly have rec­og­nized as music at all.

In the new You Can’t Unhear This video above, host Ray­mond Schillinger explains all that went into the record­ing of “Tomor­row Nev­er Knows,” which he calls “arguably the most piv­otal song of the Bea­t­les’ career.” It seems that John had under­gone some con­sid­er­able expe­ri­ences dur­ing the group’s five-month-long break after Rub­ber Soul, giv­en that he turned up to EMI Stu­dios after­ward with a song that “defied pret­ty much every con­ven­tion of pop music at the time: the lyrics did­n’t rhyme, the chord pro­gres­sion did­n’t real­ly progress, and instead of roman­tic love, the sub­ject mat­ter was expand­ing one’s psy­chic con­scious­ness through ego death.” A young Geoff Emer­ick, who’d just been pro­mot­ed to the role of the Bea­t­les’ record­ing engi­neer, rose to the chal­lenge of facil­i­tat­ing an equal­ly non-stan­dard stu­dio process.

The whol­ly new son­ic tex­ture that result­ed owes in large part to the use of mul­ti­ple tape loops, lit­er­al sec­tions of audio tape con­nect­ed at the begin­ning and end to allow the­o­ret­i­cal­ly infi­nite rep­e­ti­tion of their con­tent. This was a fair­ly new musi­cal tech­nol­o­gy at the time, and the Bea­t­les made use of it with gus­to, cre­at­ing loops of all man­ner of sped-up sounds — an orches­tra play­ing, a Mel­lotron, a reversed Indi­an sitar, Paul sound­ing like a seag­ull — and orches­trat­ing them “live” dur­ing record­ing. (Ringo’s drum track, despite what sounds like a super­hu­man reg­u­lar­i­ty in this con­text, was not, in fact a loop.) Oth­er tech­no­log­i­cal­ly nov­el ele­ments includ­ed John’s dou­ble-tracked vocals run through a revolv­ing Leslie speak­er and a back­wards gui­tar solo about whose author­ship Bea­t­les enthu­si­asts still argue.

What John had called “The Void,” was reti­tled after one of Ringo’s sig­na­ture askew expres­sions (“a hard day’s night” being anoth­er) in order to avoid draw­ing too much atten­tion as a “drug song.” But lis­ten­ers tapped into the LSD scene would have rec­og­nized lyri­cal inspi­ra­tion drawn from The Tibetan Book of the Dead, the ancient work that also informed The Psy­che­del­ic Expe­ri­ence, the guide­book by Tim­o­thy Leary and Richard Alpert (lat­er Baba Ram Dass) with which John direct­ed his own first trip. But even for the least turned-on Bea­t­le fan, “Tomor­row Nev­er Knows” was “like step­ping from a black-and-white world into full col­or,” as Schillinger puts it. The Bea­t­les might have gone the way of the Rolling Stones and cho­sen to record in an Amer­i­can stu­dio rather than their home-away-from-home on Abbey Road, the uncon­ven­tion­al use of its less-than-cut­ting-edge gear result­ed in what remains a vivid­ly pow­er­ful dis­patch from the ana­log era — even here in the twen­ty-twen­ties, when con­scious­ness expan­sion itself has gone dig­i­tal.

Relat­ed con­tent:

How John Lennon Wrote the Bea­t­les’ Best Song, “A Day in the Life”

The Amaz­ing Record­ing His­to­ry of The Bea­t­les’ “Here Comes the Sun”

The Exper­i­men­tal Move­ment That Cre­at­ed The Bea­t­les’ Weird­est Song, “Rev­o­lu­tion 9”

How “Straw­ber­ry Fields For­ev­er” Con­tains “the Cra­zi­est Edit” in Bea­t­les His­to­ry

Hear Bri­an Eno Sing The Bea­t­les’ “Tomor­row Nev­er Knows” as Part of The Best Live Album of the Glam/Prog Era (1976)

The Bea­t­les’ 8 Pio­neer­ing Inno­va­tions: A Video Essay Explor­ing How the Fab Four Changed Pop Music

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

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The Invisible Horror of The Shining: How Music Makes Stanley Kubrick’s Iconic Film Even More Terrifying

Inex­plic­a­ble as it may sound to read­ers of this site, there are movie-lovers who claim not to enjoy the work of Stan­ley Kubrick. But even his most stead­fast non-appre­ci­a­tors have to hand it to him for The Shin­ing, his 1980 Stephen King adap­ta­tion wide­ly con­sid­ered one of the scari­est — quite pos­si­bly the scari­est – film ever made. The visu­al rea­sons for its effec­tive­ness well beyond the core audi­ence of Kubrick enthu­si­asts are many, and they’ve been much scru­ti­nized by twen­ty-first-cen­tu­ry video essay­ists. But as explained in the Kap­tain Kris­t­ian video above, a sig­nif­i­cant por­tion of the hor­ror of The Shin­ing is invis­i­ble. That is, we don’t see it, but hear it; or rather, what we hear great­ly inten­si­fies what we see.

One tech­nique pow­er­ful­ly employed in the film has the incon­gru­ous name of “Mick­ey Mou­s­ing.” Named after the man­ner in which clas­sic car­toons were scored in tight syn­chrony with the move­ments of their char­ac­ters, it had fall­en into dis­use by the nine­teen-sev­en­ties, when a sub­tler cin­e­mat­ic style pre­vailed.

For The Shin­ing, Kubrick and musi­cal edi­tor Gor­don Stain­forth chose to revive it, assem­bling scenes to pieces of music like Béla Bartók’s “Music for Strings, Per­cus­sion and Celes­ta” so as to height­en not just shock moments, but also to deep­en the sense of dread that per­vades the movie from its open­ing moments. So tight does the cor­re­spon­dence feel between The Shin­ing’s music and its char­ac­ters’ actions that it comes as a sur­prise that most of the film was shot with­out what we hear on the sound­track play­ing on the set; some scenes weren’t even intend­ed to have music at all before edit­ing.

Stain­forth has said that the over­all idea was to use “music as fate”: for exam­ple, the “big chords” that accom­pa­ny the title cards announc­ing the day of the week, which por­tend “a dooms­day of judg­ment com­ing ever clos­er.” When next you watch The Shin­ing, pay atten­tion to the cues, and notice just how close­ly they’re asso­ci­at­ed in your mem­o­ry with — and how much more fright­en­ing they’re made by — their accom­pa­ny­ing images: Jack danc­ing through the ball­room filled with jazz-age ghosts, Dan­ny turn­ing a cor­ner and see­ing the pal­lid twins, the blood flow­ing out of the ele­va­tor, Wendy lock­ing eyes with the man in the bear suit. But then, I sus­pect that last one would be scary no mat­ter what was on the sound­track.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Free Doc­u­men­tary View from the Over­look: Craft­ing The Shin­ing Looks at How Kubrick Made “the World’s Scari­est Movie”

How Stan­ley Kubrick Adapt­ed Stephen King’s The Shin­ing into a Cin­e­mat­ic Mas­ter­piece

A Kubrick Schol­ar Dis­cov­ers an Eerie Detail in The Shin­ing That’s Gone Unno­ticed for More Than 40 Years

Stan­ley Kubrick’s Anno­tat­ed Copy of Stephen King’s The Shin­ing

Decod­ing the Screen­plays of The Shin­ing, Moon­rise King­dom & The Dark Knight: Watch Lessons from the Screen­play

The Clas­si­cal Music in Stan­ley Kubrick’s Films: Lis­ten to a Free Four-Hour Playlist

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

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A Rabbit Rides a Chariot Pulled by Geese in an Ancient Roman Mosaic (2nd century AD)

If you head to the Lou­vre, make sure you vis­it the Mona Lisa, Venus de Milo, and Lib­er­ty Lead­ing the Peo­ple. But then swing by the Depart­ment of Greek, Etr­uscan, and Roman Antiq­ui­ties. There you might find (no guar­an­tee!) a Roman mosa­ic fea­tur­ing a rab­bit rid­ing a char­i­ot pulled by geese. Dis­cov­ered at Hadri­an’s vil­la in Tivoli, Italy, the mosa­ic dates back to the 2nd cen­tu­ry. About the mosa­ic, the His­to­ry Cool Kids writes:

This kind of humor­ous scene is an exam­ple of asária, a type of ancient visu­al joke where ani­mals behave like humans (anthro­po­mor­phism). Such mosaics were pop­u­lar in Roman domes­tic dec­o­ra­tion, often as floor or wall pan­els in vil­las and bath­hous­es.

This par­tic­u­lar mosa­ic is part of the Louvre’s exten­sive col­lec­tion of Greek, Etr­uscan, and Roman Antiq­ui­ties. It illus­trates how Roman artists loved play­ful or satir­i­cal imagery along­side more seri­ous mytho­log­i­cal and real­is­tic scenes. The rab­bit, a sym­bol often asso­ci­at­ed with fer­til­i­ty and speed, paired with the absur­di­ty of it dri­ving a char­i­ot of geese, reflects both Roman wit and their fond­ness for dec­o­ra­tive exu­ber­ance.

Some schol­ars believe the mosa­ic plays on a line in Ovid’s Meta­mor­phoses: “Cytherea [Aphrodite] was rid­ing in her dain­ty char­i­ot, winged by her swans, across the mid­dle air mak­ing for Cyprus, when she heard afar Ado­nis’ dying groans, and thith­er turned her snowy birds.” But it’s hard to know for sure.

via Messy Nessy

Relat­ed Con­tent 

Killer Rab­bits in Medieval Man­u­scripts: Why So Many Draw­ings in the Mar­gins Depict Bun­nies Going Bad

The Medieval Man­u­script That Fea­tures “Yoda”, Killer Snails, Sav­age Rab­bits & More: Dis­cov­er The Smith­field Dec­re­tals

How a Mosa­ic from Caligula’s Par­ty Boat Became a Cof­fee Table in a New York City Apart­ment 50 Years Ago

Archae­ol­o­gists Dis­cov­er a 2,000-Year-Old Roman Glass Bowl in Per­fect Con­di­tion

 

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Paradise Lost Explained: How John Milton Wrote His Epic Religious Poem from Satan’s Perspective

“Par­adise Lost is one of the books which the read­er admires and lays down, and for­gets to take up again,” Samuel John­son wrote in the late eigh­teenth cen­tu­ry. “None ever wished it longer than it is. Its perusal is a duty rather than a plea­sure. We read Mil­ton for instruc­tion, retire harassed and over­bur­dened, and look else­where for recre­ation; we desert our mas­ter, and seek for com­pan­ions.” These near­ly two and a half cen­turies lat­er, how many of us attempt to seek out the instruc­tion of Mil­ton in the first place? What was a lit­er­ary hit in 1667 has become a work read most­ly by spe­cial­ist schol­ars — but will, per­haps, become a favorite among view­ers of the YouTube chan­nel Hochela­ga thanks to its new video above.

The first thing to know about Mil­ton’s epic poem, says Hochela­ga host Tom­mie Trelawny, is that it “tells the sto­ry of the Bib­li­cal fall of man — but, curi­ous­ly, from Satan’s per­spec­tive.” Even if it’s nev­er occurred to you to set eyes on Par­adise Lost, you’ve almost cer­tain­ly heard one of Satan’s most mem­o­rable dec­la­ra­tions: “Bet­ter to reign in Hell, then serve in Heav’n.”

There’s a decent chance you’ve also run across anoth­er, “The mind is its own place, and in it self. Can make a Heav’n of Hell, a Hell of Heav’n,” per­haps with­out know­ing which char­ac­ter speaks it. But if you hear enough of his quotable quotes, you might start to think that this Satan fel­low makes some good points after all.

Par­adise Lost had a sim­i­lar effect on some of its God-fear­ing ear­ly read­ers, who sus­pi­cious­ly start­ed to won­der whose side Mil­ton was real­ly on. What the poem seems to glo­ri­fy, when read today, isn’t Satan, and it’s not even so much God or man as lan­guage itself. Now as then, Mil­ton’s baroque gram­mar and heav­i­ly Lati­nate vocab­u­lary con­sti­tut­ed a good por­tion of both the work’s chal­lenge and its appeal. Equal­ly notable is his obvi­ous con­vic­tion that lan­guage is up to the task of address­ing the most fun­da­men­tal truths, ques­tions, and con­tra­dic­tions of exis­tence. Satan may not emerge vic­to­ri­ous — and cer­tain­ly does­n’t at the end of the sequel, Par­adise Regained — but if he hap­pens to have the best lines, that just reflects our greater, and thor­ough­ly human, fas­ci­na­tion with the bad guys more than the good ones.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Only Sur­viv­ing Man­u­script of John Milton’s Par­adise Lost Gets Pub­lished in Book Form for the First Time

William Blake’s Hal­lu­ci­na­to­ry Illus­tra­tions of John Milton’s Par­adise Lost

John Milton’s Hand Anno­tat­ed Copy of Shakespeare’s First Folio: A New Dis­cov­ery by a Cam­bridge Schol­ar

Spenser and Mil­ton (Free Course)

A Sur­vival Guide to the Bib­li­cal Apoc­a­lypse

Did the Tow­er of Babel Actu­al­ly Exist?: A Look at the Archae­o­log­i­cal Evi­dence

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

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Watch Animated Sheet Music for Miles Davis’ “So What,” Coltrane’s “Giant Steps,” and Charlie Parker’s “Confirmation”

Miles Davis’ Kind of Blue changed jazz. It changed music, peri­od. So I take it very seri­ous­ly. But when I see the ani­mat­ed sheet music of the first cut, “So What,” I can’t help but think of Charles Schulz’s Peanuts car­toons, and their Vince Guaral­di com­po­si­tions. I mean no offense to Miles. His modal jazz swings, and it’s fun, as fun to lis­ten to as it is to watch in ris­ing and falling arpeg­gios. The YouTube uploader, Dan Cohen, gives us this on his chan­nel Ani­mat­ed Sheet Music, with apolo­gies to Jim­my Cobb for the lack of drum nota­tion.

Also from Cohen’s chan­nel, we have Char­lie Parker’s music ani­mat­ed. Nev­er one to keep up with his admin, Park­er left his estate unable to recu­per­ate roy­al­ties from com­po­si­tions like “Con­fir­ma­tion” (above).

Nonethe­less, every­one knows it’s Bird’s tune, and to see it ani­mat­ed above is to see Park­er dance a very dif­fer­ent step than Miles’ post-bop cool, one filled with com­plex melod­ic para­graphs instead of chordal phras­es.

And above, we have John Coltrane’s mas­sive “Giant Steps,” with its rapid-fire bursts of quar­ter notes, inter­rupt­ed by half-note asides. Coltrane’s icon­ic 1960 com­po­si­tion dis­plays what Ira Gitler called in a 1958 Down­beat piece, “sheets of sound.” Gitler has said the image he had in his head was of “bolts of cloth undu­lat­ing as they unfurled,” but he might just as well have thought of sheets of rain, so mul­ti­tudi­nous and heavy is Coltrane’s melod­ic attack.

See Cohen’s Ani­mat­ed Sheet Music chan­nel for two more Char­lie Park­er pieces, “Au Pri­vave” and “Bloom­di­do.”

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!

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2013.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Miles Davis Plays Music from Kind of Blue Live in 1959, Intro­duc­ing a Com­plete­ly New Style of Jazz

Char­lie Park­er Plays with Dizzy Gille­spie in the Only Footage Cap­tur­ing the “Bird” in True Live Per­for­mance

Behold John Coltrane’s Hand­writ­ten Out­line for His Mas­ter­piece A Love Supreme

Char­lie Park­er Plays with Dizzy Gille­spie in the Only Footage Cap­tur­ing the “Bird” in True Live Per­for­mance

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

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