Bob Dylan Shares a Drug-Hazed Taxi Ride with John Lennon (1966)

in Music | December 17th, 2012

D.A. Pen­nebak­er’s ciné­ma vérité doc­u­men­tary Dont Look Back [sic] fol­lowed Bob Dylan on his cel­e­brat­ed 1965 tour through Eng­land, let­ting view­ers see what hap­pened along the way — the good, the bad and every­thing between. Today, it’s con­sid­ered both a clas­sic doc­u­men­tary and a pop-cul­tur­al arti­fact, some­thing Dylan fans can’t afford to miss.

The same can’t be said for Eat the Doc­u­ment, Pen­nebak­er’s fol­low-up doc­u­men­tary that cap­tured Dylan’s return to the UK in 1966. The premise had promise. Bob Dylan had just gone elec­tric and boos fol­lowed him wher­ev­er he went. In Man­ches­ter, they famous­ly called him “Judas.” That could have made for an intrigu­ing film. But, accord­ing to Dylan’s most recent biog­ra­ph­er Daniel Mark Epstein, the singer-song­writer was per­son­al­ly unrav­el­ing. He had toured to the point of exhaus­tion, and tak­en far too many amphet­a­mines. Dur­ing one moment filmed by Pen­nebak­er, Dylan shared an inco­her­ent taxi ride with John Lennon. Their ram­bling con­ver­sa­tion touched on John­ny Cash, The Mamas & the Papas, Dylan’s home­sick­ness, and how the Thames Riv­er sup­pos­ed­ly saved Britain from Hitler. And, once we get 20 min­utes into the footage, we find Dylan slumped for­ward in the back­seat, seem­ing­ly staving off nau­sea.

Dylan per­son­al­ly edit­ed the film and gave ABC tele­vi­sion the option to air it. The net­work declined, say­ing it would­n’t be com­pre­hen­si­ble to a main­stream audi­ence. Because the film was nev­er released, it has been passed around in var­i­ous boot­legged ver­sions. You can watch a 52-minute ver­sion on Dylan­Tube.

As a quick foot­note, it’s worth men­tion­ing that, accord­ing to Epstein’s biog­ra­phy, Lennon lat­er told Rolling Stone mag­a­zine that he and Dylan were doing “junk” (aka hero­in) that day, and that Lennon thought Dylan was close to OD’ing. It’s all dis­cussed in The Bal­lad of Bob Dylan: A Por­trait.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The 1969 Bob Dylan-John­ny Cash Ses­sions: Twelve Rare Record­ings

Bob Dylan and The Grate­ful Dead Rehearse Togeth­er in Sum­mer 1987. Lis­ten to 74 Tracks.

John Lennon’s Vic­to­ri­an Cir­cus Poster Lov­ing­ly Remade by Artists and Engravers

Jean-Paul Sartre Writes a Script for John Huston’s Film on Freud (1958)

in Film, Philosophy | December 17th, 2012

In 1958, leg­endary direc­tor John Hus­ton decid­ed to make a film about the life of Sig­mund Freud. Hav­ing met Jean-Paul Sarte in 1952 dur­ing the film­ing of Moulin Rouge, Hus­ton felt the philoso­pher would be the ide­al per­son to script the Freud film, since Sartre knew Freud’s work so well and since Hus­ton sur­mised that he would have “an objec­tive and log­i­cal approach.” Despite Sartre’s obvi­ous tal­ents, this still seems like an odd choice on its face, giv­en the spe­cif­ic demands of screen­writ­ing ver­sus philo­soph­i­cal or lit­er­ary work. But Sartre had some expe­ri­ence writ­ing for the screen by that time—like most lit­er­ary screen­writ­ers, he’d most­ly done it for the mon­ey and dis­avowed most of this work in hindsight–and he loved the movies and respect­ed Hus­ton. The direc­tor and the exis­ten­tial­ist philoso­pher also had very sim­i­lar views of their bio­graph­i­cal sub­ject:

Iron­i­cal­ly both Sartre and Hus­ton con­sid­ered them­selves anti-Freud for large­ly the same rea­son: Sartre because as a Com­mu­nist he believed the role of the psy­cho­an­a­lyst was lim­it­ed and of lit­tle social impor­tance.  For his part Hus­ton felt that psy­cho­analy­sis was an indul­gence for bored house wives and the prob­lem chil­dren of the rich while the “movers and shak­ers”’ were too busy for it and those that most need­ed it could­n’t afford it.

Hus­ton and Sartre’s treat­ment of Freud promised to be crit­i­cal, but the part­ner­ship soon soured due to Sartre’s inabil­i­ty to keep his script at fea­ture length. First, he deliv­ered a mod­est 95-page treat­ment. This, how­ev­er, became a 300-page draft in 1959 that Hus­ton cal­cu­lat­ed would pro­duce an unac­cept­able five-hour-long film (see an image from Sartre’s draft screen­play below, and click it to read it in a larg­er for­mat).

When Hus­ton and Sartre met in per­son in Gal­way to find a way to cut the screen­play down to a rea­son­able length, their work­ing rela­tion­ship was less than cor­dial. In Huston’s rec­ol­lec­tion, Sartre nev­er stopped talk­ing long enough for any­one else to get a word in. The direc­tor also remem­bered that Sartre was “as ugly as a human being can be.” Sartre’s remem­brance is hard­ly more flat­ter­ing of Hus­ton, if some­what more com­ic; he described the direc­tor in a let­ter to his wife Simone de Beau­voir as a pre­ten­tious, thought­less char­ac­ter.…

…in moments of child­ish van­i­ty, when he puts on a red din­ner jack­et or rides a horse (not very well) or counts his paint­ings or tells work­men what to do. Impos­si­ble to hold his atten­tion five min­utes: he can no longer work, he runs away from think­ing.

After their Gal­way meet­ing, dur­ing which Hus­ton tried and failed to hyp­no­tize Sartre, the philoso­pher attempt­ed anoth­er revi­sion, but this time, he sent Hus­ton an even longer draft, for an eight-hour film. At this point, Hus­ton gave up on Sartre and sal­vaged what he could, even­tu­al­ly enlist­ing the help of Ger­man screen­writer Wolf­gang Rein­hardt to fin­ish the script. Hus­ton final­ly made his Freud film, released in 1962 as Freud: The Secret Pas­sion, with Mont­gomery Clift as the doc­tor (see the trail­er for the film above).

Unsur­pris­ing­ly, Sartre had his name removed from the final film. For a fuller account of the meet­ing of Hus­ton and Sartre, see the sec­ond chap­ter of Eliz­a­beth Roudinesco’s Phi­los­o­phy in Tur­bu­lent Times, where you’ll find oth­er fas­ci­nat­ing details like Sartre’s desire to cast Mar­i­lyn Mon­roe as Anna O and Huston’s bemuse­ment at Sartre’s den­tal hygiene.

Josh Jones is a doc­tor­al can­di­date in Eng­lish at Ford­ham Uni­ver­si­ty and a co-founder and for­mer man­ag­ing edi­tor of Guer­ni­ca / A Mag­a­zine of Arts and Pol­i­tics.

Bowling for Columbine: It’s Online and 10 Years Later the School Massacres Continue. Have You Had Enough?!

in Current Affairs | December 16th, 2012

http://youtu.be/9jGtAcDefHg?t=50s

In April 1999, Eric Har­ris and Dylan Kle­bold mur­dered 12 stu­dents and one teacher in Columbine, Col­orado, while injur­ing 21 oth­ers. Michael Moore doc­u­ment­ed the tragedy in his 2002 film, Bowl­ing for Columbine, which sits on YouTube, avail­able for every­one to see. It’s heart­break­ing to think that a decade lat­er, stu­dents are no safer at their schools. If any­thing, gun con­trol has slack­ened dur­ing the inter­ven­ing years (thanks part­ly to the Supreme Court) and mass mur­ders have become more com­mon­place, if not a month­ly occur­rence. 12 were killed and 52 injured in Auro­ra, CO in July. 10 killed in a Sikh tem­ple shoot­ing in Wis­con­sin this August. Five gunned down at Accent Sig­nage Sys­tems in Min­neso­ta in Octo­ber. Two shot dead at a mall in Port­land, Ore­gon ear­li­er this week. And now 20 young­sters and sev­en adults killed at an ele­men­tary school today in Con­necti­cut.

We’ve reached the point where it has become an excep­tion­al Amer­i­can pathol­o­gy. Indeed, we’ve had 27 mass mur­ders since Columbine, with the worst two tak­ing place in schools — Vir­ginia Tech and  Sandy Hook Ele­men­tary. We also have expo­nen­tial­ly more gun-relat­ed deaths than any oth­er coun­try in the devel­oped world. I sin­cere­ly hope this isn’t anoth­er instance where we breath­less­ly express out­rage for a week, then turn back to the Kar­dashi­ans, until the next shoot­ing hap­pens in Feb­ru­ary at best. Pub­lic spaces should be safe, schools all the more so. It’s time for the apa­thy and the fear of lob­bies to end, and for our lead­ers to final­ly lead. What might a prac­ti­cal action plan look like? Let’s turn to Nicholas Kristof’s plan out­lined in The New York Times. You can also donate to the Brady Cam­paign to Pre­vent Gun Vio­lence.

Below, I have post­ed Pres­i­dent Oba­ma’s mov­ing speech made last night in New­town, CT. It worth watch­ing and reflect­ing on.

What Makes Us Tick? Free Stanford Biology Course by Robert Sapolsky Offers Answers

in Biology, Life, Online Courses, Stanford | December 16th, 2012

First thing you need to know: Before doing any­thing else, you should sim­ply click “play” and start watch­ing the video above. It does­n’t take long for Robert Sapol­sky, one of Stan­ford’s finest teach­ers, to pull you right into his course. Bet­ter to watch him than lis­ten to me.

Sec­ond thing to know: Sapol­sky is a MacArthur Fel­low, a world renowned neu­ro­bi­ol­o­gist, and an adept sci­ence writer best known for his book, Why Zebras Don’t Get Ulcers. Much of his research focus­es on the inter­play between the mind and body (how biol­o­gy affects the mind, and the mind, the body), and that rela­tion­ship lies at the heart of this course called “Human Behav­ioral Biol­o­gy.”

Now the third: Human Behav­ioral Biol­o­gy is avail­able on YouTube and iTunes for free. The course, con­sist­ing of 25 videos span­ning 36 hours, is oth­er­wise list­ed in the Biol­o­gy sec­tion of our big list of Free Online Cours­es (now 575 cours­es in total).

Ok, stop read­ing and just watch.…

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Robert Sapol­sky Breaks Down Depres­sion

Dopamine Jack­pot! Robert Sapol­sky on the Sci­ence of Plea­sure

National Geographic Gives Us Intimate Moments with a Leopard Seal

in Photography, Science | December 16th, 2012

Too bad there are no leop­ard seals on Nation­al Geo­graph­ic’s pay­roll. Pho­tog­ra­ph­er Paul Nicklen’s inti­mate por­traits of the one who took par­tic­u­lar inter­est in him on a recent Antarc­tic expe­di­tion are delight­ful. Imag­ine how great it would be to have some reverse angle reac­tion shots of Nicklen as his new friend attempts to serve him a suc­ces­sion of live, dead, and muti­lat­ed pen­guins.

He may have turned up his nose at his sub­jec­t’s cui­sine, but Nicklen brings some­thing else to the table, name­ly four days’ worth of up close and per­son­al shots of an ani­mal doing some­thing oth­er than going about its busi­ness. With­out anthro­po­mor­phiz­ing its inten­tions over much, this crea­ture went out of its way to accli­mate its strange guest to his new sur­round­ings, stick­ing around when less­er hosts would have aban­doned him along­side the buf­fet. Pret­ty cool when you con­sid­er that Nick­len’s entire head could — and briefly did — fit inside its mas­sive, sharp fanged jaws.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Mari­achi Band Ser­e­nades Bel­u­ga Whale at Mys­tic Aquar­i­um

The Wild King­dom: Brought to You by Mutu­al of Oma­ha (It’s on YouTube)

Film­ing a Sprint­ing Chee­tah at 1,200 Frames Per Sec­ond

- Ayun Hal­l­i­day’s encoun­ters with species oth­er than her own are a fea­ture of her mem­oir, No Touch Mon­key! And Oth­er Trav­el Lessons Learned Too Late

Miles Davis and His ‘Second Great Quintet,’ Filmed Live in Europe, 1967

in Music | December 15th, 2012

In the mid 1960s Miles Davis respond­ed to the form-break­ing influ­ence of free jazz by sur­round­ing him­self with a group of bril­liant young musi­cians and encour­ag­ing them to push him in new direc­tions.

The group was Davis’s last with all acoustic instru­ments, and came to be known as his “sec­ond great quin­tet.” It fea­tured Davis on trum­pet, Wayne Short­er on sax­o­phone, Her­bie Han­cock on piano, Ron Carter on bass and Tony Williams on drums. Between 1964 and 1968 the quin­tet record­ed a string of inno­v­a­tive albums, includ­ing E.S.P., Sor­cer­er and the tran­si­tion­al Miles in the Sky, in which Han­cock intro­duces the elec­tric Fend­er Rhodes piano.

For Guardian jazz crit­ic John Ford­ham, the sec­ond great quin­tet was Davis’s best group ever. “Their solos were fresh and orig­i­nal, and their indi­vid­ual styles fused with a spon­ta­neous flu­en­cy that was sim­ply aston­ish­ing,” writes Ford­ham in a 2010 arti­cle. “The quin­tet’s method came to be dubbed ‘time, no changes’ because of their empha­sis on strong rhyth­mic grooves with­out the dic­ta­to­r­i­al pat­terns of song-form chords. At times they veered close to free-impro­vi­sa­tion, but the pieces were as thrilling and hyp­not­i­cal­ly sen­su­ous as any­thing the band’s open-mind­ed leader had record­ed before.”

You can hear for your­self in these two con­certs, shown back-to-back, record­ed for tele­vi­sion dur­ing the quin­tet’s 1967 tour of Europe. The first con­cert was record­ed on Octo­ber 31, 1967 at the Kon­serthuset in Stock­holm, Swe­den. Here’s the set list:

1. Agi­ta­tion (Miles Davis)
2. Foot­prints (Wayne Short­er)
3. ‘Round Mid­night (Thelo­nius Monk)
4. Gin­ger­bread Boy (Jim­my Heath)
5. Theme (Miles Davis)

The next con­cert was record­ed one week lat­er, on Novem­ber 7, 1967, at the Stad­halle in Karl­sruhe, Ger­many:

1. Agi­ta­tion (Miles Davis)
2. Foot­prints (Wayne Short­er)
3. I Fall in Love Too Eas­i­ly (Sam­my Cahn/Jule Styne)
4. Walkin’ (Richard Car­pen­ter)
5. Gin­ger­bread Boy (Jim­my Heath)
6. Theme (Miles Davis)

Relat­ed con­tent:

The Miles Davis Sto­ry, the Defin­i­tive Film Biog­ra­phy of a Jazz Leg­end

‘The Sound of Miles Davis’: Clas­sic 1959 Per­for­mance with John Coltrane

Mashup Duet: Miles Davis Impro­vis­ing on LCD Soundsys­tem

Chowda!: Three Centuries of Recipes Reveal the Rise of New England’s Finest Culinary Export

in History, Life, Random | December 14th, 2012

Say chow­der out loud: chow­der. The word sounds like food. Not an appe­tiz­er either. An entree in a small crock topped with bro­ken crack­ers.

As with so many things relat­ed to food, chow­der is a sto­ried dish. It hails from New Eng­land and north­east­ern Cana­da, its first writ­ten ref­er­ence dat­ing back to 1732 when a jour­nal­ist recalls din­ing on a “fine chow­dered cod.”

There are as many types of chow­der as there are soup, though a true chow­der is more like a stew than a soup. Some purists would rather eat slugs than a chow­der with toma­toes in it or whose name ref­er­ences New York. But all chow­ders must fea­ture the fol­low­ing: broth, salt pork, bis­cuit and seafood.

Aside from that, all bets are off. Chow down.

Of course a region­al dish with this long a his­to­ry and which leaves this much room for inter­pre­ta­tion deserves a his­to­ry of its own, and so the good peo­ple at the Uni­ver­si­ty of Mass­a­chu­setts, Amherst cre­at­ed the New Eng­land Chow­der Com­pendi­um, a col­lec­tion of recipes and ephemera explor­ing how chow­der rose to become a sta­ple of New Eng­land cook­ery.

Culled from cook­books held by the university’s Beat­rice McIn­tosh Cook­ery Col­lec­tion, the com­pendi­um chron­i­cles chow­der recipes from the 1700s to the 1970s, through lean times and fat, through recipes heavy with cream and with­out.

And so, as read­ers click through fea­tured chow­der recipes from the 1920s on through to the 1940s, they’re sure to notice the ways ingre­di­ents vary. Use evap­o­rat­ed milk and a lit­tle water, if cream is not avail­able. House­wives were wise in the 1940s to be thrifty while mak­ing fresh stock from knuck­les: Save that fat that rose to the top and sell it to your meat deal­er.

Chow­der may be one of the poster food for peo­ple who are mak­ing do. Don’t have fresh seafood? Canned tuna will do. Lima beans soaked overnight can sub­sti­tute for clams.

As with most hand­writ­ten recipes, the hand­writ­ing and illus­tra­tions are part of the fun. One rad­i­cal sug­gests adding a dash of papri­ka. This recipe, for the Kingston Yacht Club, may have fed the entire mem­ber­ship (three gal­lons of clams?!)

The archivists include a nice primer, trac­ing the devel­op­ment of chow­der (the word comes from French for “caul­dron”).

One recipe that doesn’t sound so good: diet chow­der from the 1970s.

Kate Rix writes about dig­i­tal media and edu­ca­tion. Read more of her work at and at thenifty.blogspot.com.

Writers’ Houses Gives You a Virtual Tour of Famous Authors’ Homes

in Life, Literature, Writing | December 14th, 2012

I’ve always been some­what amused by the accounts of Paul Ver­laine and Arthur Rimbaud’s brief bohemi­an affair. The old­er, mar­ried, and inter­nal­ly tor­tured Catholic Verlaine’s pin­ing for the self-destruc­tive and pre­co­cious young Rim­baud always presents a ridicu­lous pic­ture in prose. But it’s a pic­ture that takes on much clear­er con­tours when, for the first time, I get to see the house they occu­pied on 8 Roy­al Col­lege Street (above). The image of the house, with its for­bid­ding brick façade, gives their real­ly pret­ty unpleas­ant sto­ry a grav­i­tas that lit­er­ary his­to­ry can’t approach. Whether seen in per­son or in a pho­to­graph, the effect of view­ing any revered author’s home is sim­i­lar: his­to­ries once sub­ject to biog­ra­phers’ caprice take on the irrefutable weight of phys­i­cal real­i­ty. And while I’d love to have the lux­u­ry of a pil­grim­age to all my lit­er­ary heroes’ homes, I’m con­tent with the next best thing: an inter­net tour in pic­tures. That’s exact­ly what one gets at the Writ­ers’ Hous­es site, which has col­lect­ed dozens of images of famous writ­ers’ homes, sourced main­ly from user pho­tos.

And so home­bod­ies like myself can read their favorite Edna St. Vin­cent Mil­lay son­nets while gaz­ing at her Auster­litz, NY home “Steeple­top” (below, a bit more mod­est than I’d imag­ined):

Like­wise, I can read Flan­nery O’Connor’s grotesque lit­tle sto­ries and be con­tin­u­al­ly amazed that she did not emerge from some Medieval clois­ter in a fiery South­ern wild but from the bright, ram­bling farm­house called “Andalu­sia” (below).

And while I can only con­nect Thomas Hardy’s coun­try goth­ic nov­els and bleak poet­ry with the ter­mi­nal despair of a man who nev­er leaves his fire­lit study in some stur­dy, for­mal estate, his lit­tle cot­tage (below) is real­ly kind of cheery and resem­bles some­thing out of Peter Jackson’s Shire (though Hardy’s “Max Gate” home in Dorch­ester is exact­ly what I pic­ture him in).

The Writ­ers’ Hous­es site allows you to browse by author, state, and city, with a sep­a­rate cat­e­go­ry for “inter­na­tion­al hous­es.” Its main page is a reg­u­lar blog with a wealth of cur­rent infor­ma­tion on writ­ers’ homes, replete with links to oth­er sites and sources. For lovers of trav­el and archi­tec­tur­al and lit­er­ary his­to­ry, this is not to be missed.

via Kot­tke

Josh Jones is a doc­tor­al can­di­date in Eng­lish at Ford­ham Uni­ver­si­ty and a co-founder and for­mer man­ag­ing edi­tor of Guer­ni­ca / A Mag­a­zine of Arts and Pol­i­tics.

Enthusiastic Futurist Jason Silva Waxes Theoretical About the Immersive Power of Cinema

in Art, Film | December 13th, 2012

No one will ever accuse Jason Sil­va of lack­ing in enthu­si­asm. The self-pro­fessed “film­mak­er, futur­ist, epiphany addict” is in love, head over heels, with tech­nol­o­gy, and it’s a love infec­tious, as he shows us above in his short mono­logue, Atten­tion: The Immer­sive Pow­er of Cin­e­ma. Inspired by Diana Slattery’s essay “Vir­tu­al Real­i­ty and Hal­lu­ci­na­tion,” Sil­va extracts a the­o­ry of cin­e­ma as a “rhetor­i­cal tech­nol­o­gy, a shrine to immer­sion.” His ideas are also built around a nar­ra­tive and lin­guis­tic con­cept known as “deic­tic shift the­o­ry,” from deix­is or “self-ori­en­ta­tion.” For Sil­va, the deic­tic shift occurs when the “view­er assumes a view­point in the sto­ry,” and, in total immer­sion, “enters the dream as dream.” He spec­u­lates that at this point, the “pre-frontal lobe dims, and there’s a loss of ego,” such that “cin­e­ma is akin to god­li­ness.” Hog­wash, you say? Per­haps, but it’s enter­tain­ing hog­wash, and if one takes the time to process the ideas embed­ded in Silva’s man­ic, form-is-con­tent pre­sen­ta­tion, it’s even per­sua­sive. But poor Beethoven. Fur Elise doesn’t deserve anoth­er beat­ing.

Josh Jones is a doc­tor­al can­di­date in Eng­lish at Ford­ham Uni­ver­si­ty and a co-founder and for­mer man­ag­ing edi­tor of Guer­ni­ca / A Mag­a­zine of Arts and Pol­i­tics.

Kickstart the Restoration of the Very First William S. Burroughs Documentary

in Film, Literature | December 13th, 2012

If you’re into William S. Bur­roughs, maybe you’ve watched all the Bur­roughs-relat­ed mate­r­i­al we’ve fea­tured here on Open Cul­ture, like his 1981 Sat­ur­day Night Live appear­ance or the 1991 doc­u­men­tary Com­mis­sion­er of Sew­ers. But anoth­er doc­u­men­tary on Bur­roughs exists — the ear­li­est one of all — and we can’t show it to you. Nobody can show Bur­roughs: The Movie to you, or at least they can’t show it to you in any crisp, clear, acces­si­ble form. Sure you could pay between 25 and 90 dol­lars for a VHS copy on Ama­zon, but that mon­ey might be more pro­duc­tive­ly put toward restor­ing the orig­i­nal film. As you can see in the video above, such a restora­tion is in the works, pro­vid­ed the restor­ers can raise the $20,000 they need to do it on Kick­starter by the end of this month.

Aaron Brookn­er, nephew of Bur­roughs: The Movie’s direc­tor Howard Brookn­er, found a print of the film in good con­di­tion, but now needs the fund­ing to remas­ter it clean­ly into a mod­ern dig­i­tal form. Begun in 1979 and debuted on the BBC in 1983, the doc­u­men­tary includes inter­views not just with Bur­roughs but with Allen Gins­berg, Brion Gysin, Fran­cis Bacon, Her­bert Hun­ke, Pat­ti Smith, Ter­ry South­ern, and Lau­ren Hut­ton. Howard Brookn­er, who died in 1989, made it as his New York Uni­ver­si­ty film school the­sis, and to oper­ate the cam­era and record the sound he enlist­ed two soon-to-be famous class­mates, Tom DiCil­lo and Jim Jar­musch. As of this writ­ing, Aaron Brookn­er has received $9,425 in pledges, near­ly half of his goal. Bur­roughs enthu­si­asts inter­est­ed in chip­ping in — back­ing pre­mi­ums include lim­it­ed-edi­tion DVDs, nev­er-before-heard audio record­ings, and Bur­roughs: The Movie pho­to­books — should vis­it the pro­jec­t’s Kick­starter page.

Relat­ed con­tent:

William S. Bur­roughs Reads His First Nov­el, Junky

William S. Bur­roughs on the Art of Cut-up Writ­ing

Beat Writer William S. Bur­roughs on Sat­ur­day Night Live, 1981

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.