Watch the Eagles of Death Metal Perform Live Again Tonight in Paris

“There’s noth­ing left but to intro­duce you to some peo­ple whose lives will for­ev­er be a part of the life of Paris. These are our broth­ers. They were robbed of their stage three weeks ago, and we would like to offer them ours tonight.” And with those words from Bono, the Eagles of Death Met­al took the stage again tonight in Paris, just three weeks after the hor­rif­ic ter­ror­ist attack at Le Bat­a­clan. Up top, see them sing, along with U2, a ver­sion of Pat­ti Smith’s “Peo­ple Have the Pow­er.” Next, a ver­sion of their own song, “I Love You All the Time.”

Whether the band would per­form again was nev­er in doubt. Inter­viewed days after the attack, the band, still reel­ing, told Vice they had an oblig­a­tion to car­ry on. In the poignant video below, Jesse Hugh­es said it all: “I can­not wait to get back to Paris. I can­not wait to play. I want to come back. I want to be the first band to play at Le Bat­a­clan when it opens.” Play­ing at Le Bat­a­clan may have to wait. But get­ting back to Paris, that’s now cer­tain­ly done.

via The New York Times

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Anatomy of a Scene: 100+ Filmmakers Like Wes Anderson, Tim Burton & Ridley Scott Break Down a Scene from Each of Their Films

Of all the tech­no­log­i­cal inno­va­tions hap­pen­ing around me as I grew up in the 1980s and 90s, none excit­ed me more than the DVD direc­tor’s com­men­tary. Yes, LaserDisc diehards, I know com­men­tary tracks did­n’t begin with the advent of DVDs, but they unques­tion­ably came into their own as a form on that for­mat. A promis­ing-enough direc­tor’s com­men­tary — one fea­tur­ing a fun­ny film­mak­er, or one full of fas­ci­nat­ing sto­ries, or one wonky enough to get as deep into the nuts and bolts of the craft as time allowed — could by itself con­vince me to rent or even buy a disc, whether or not I cared for or had even heard of the movie itself.

And so I found it a bit dis­may­ing that, as online stream­ing began to dis­place disc-watch­ing as the home-the­ater tech­nol­o­gy of choice, direc­tor’s com­men­tary tracks — or com­men­tary tracks by any­one else, for that mat­ter — looked like a soon-to-be thing of the past. But as we’ve learned, espe­cial­ly this cen­tu­ry, tech­nol­o­gy tends to open a win­dow when it clos­es a door. At the New York Times, inter­net video has opened anoth­er win­dow onto the mind of the mod­ern film­mak­er with Anato­my of a Scene, a series of clips that each take just one scene from a film and have the film’s direc­tor explain in depth, DVD-com­men­tary-style, what went into that scene.

At the top of the post, you can hear Wes Ander­son, a direc­tor long known for his mas­tery of a cer­tain aes­thet­ic, explain some of the tech­niques that make up that aes­thet­ic as he and his col­lab­o­ra­tors used them in The Grand Budapest Hotel. Below that, Tim Bur­ton, who grew famous using an equal­ly dis­tinc­tive but whol­ly dif­fer­ent visu­al vocab­u­lary from Ander­son­’s, talks about a scene from Big Eyes, his film about the life of painter Mar­garet Keane. Keane’s paint­ings fea­ture heav­i­ly in the back­ground, which gives Bur­ton the oppor­tu­ni­ty to talk about how they cap­ti­vat­ed him in child­hood: “I found them quite dis­turb­ing, and the col­or schemes were quite lurid” — and so he explains how those lurid col­ors pro­vid­ed the col­or scheme for the movie itself.

The direc­tors of Anato­my of a Scene tend to talk about their recent films, and in recent years we’ve seen a fair few high-pro­file Hol­ly­wood movies deal­ing with out­er space and the worlds beyond Earth: Christo­pher Nolan’s Inter­stel­lar, for instance, whose scene of its astro­nauts hurtling into the great unknown pro­vides the mate­r­i­al for its Anato­my of a Scene video. Rid­ley Scott, always a stim­u­lat­ing com­menter, has also done one on The Mar­t­ian, his own lat­est space movie which came out this year. Scott talks over the scene where his film’s astro­naut, marooned and seek­ing any tool of sur­vival, digs NASA’s Pathfind­er out of the Mar­t­ian sands, about how, as “one of those prim­i­tives who can actu­al­ly draw,” he sto­ry­boards every­thing in detail: “By the time I start the movie, I’ve kind of ‘filmed’ it on paper, and when I get there, it gives me the con­fi­dence to feel free to allow the actors and every­body else to do their thing.”

But Anato­my of a Scene does­n’t just invite house­hold names. I used to live in Los Ange­les and still keep up with movies that exam­ine the city, and so I found fas­ci­nat­ing indeed their video with Dan Gilroy on Night­crawler, my favorite Los Ange­les movie of this past year (maybe along­side Paul Thomas Ander­son­’s Thomas Pyn­chon adap­ta­tion Inher­ent Vice, a scene from which also gets anat­o­mized). The Times has put togeth­er over a hun­dred of these videos, all of which you can watch at their Anato­my of a Scene page or on Youtube. They’ve includ­ed scenes from the work of such auteurs as Olivi­er Assayas, Noah Baum­bach, Richard Lin­klater, and Lukas Moodys­son (as well as scenes from such, er, oth­er sorts of pic­tures as Zack Sny­der’s Man of Steel). If the com­men­tary is dead, well, long live the com­men­tary.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

John Lan­dis Decon­structs Trail­ers of Great 20th Cen­tu­ry Films: Cit­i­zen Kane, Sun­set Boule­vard, 2001 & More

Moviedrome: Film­mak­er Alex Cox Pro­vides Video Intro­duc­tions to 100+ Clas­sic Cult Films

Direc­tor Robert Rodriguez Teach­es The Basics of Film­mak­ing in Under 10 Min­utes

Film­mak­ing Advice from Quentin Taran­ti­no and Sam Rai­mi (NSFW)

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, the video series The City in Cin­e­maand the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future? Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Striking Poster Collection from the Great Depression Shows That the US Government Once Supported the Arts in America

WPA Caesare & Cleopatra

Of the rare and extra­or­di­nary times in U.S. his­to­ry when the U.S. gov­ern­ment active­ly fund­ed and pro­mot­ed the arts on a nation­al scale, two peri­ods in par­tic­u­lar stand out. There is the CIA’s role in chan­nel­ing funds to avant-garde artists after the Sec­ond World War as part of the cul­tur­al front of the Cold War—a boon to painters, writ­ers, and musi­cians, both wit­ting and unwit­ting, and a strange way in which the intel­li­gence com­mu­ni­ty used the anti-com­mu­nist left to head off what it saw as more dan­ger­ous and sub­ver­sive trends. Most of the high­ly agen­da-dri­ven fed­er­al arts fund­ing dur­ing the Cold War pro­ceed­ed in secret until decades lat­er, when long-sealed doc­u­ments were declas­si­fied and agents began to tell their sto­ries of the peri­od.

BOOK TALKS

Of a much less covert­ly polit­i­cal nature was the first major fed­er­al invest­ment in the arts, begun under Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s New Deal and cham­pi­oned in large part by his wife, Eleanor. Under the 1935-estab­lished Works Progress Admin­is­tra­tion (WPA)—which cre­at­ed thou­sands of jobs through large-scale pub­lic infra­struc­ture projects—the Fed­er­al Project Num­ber One took shape, an ini­tia­tive, write Don Adams and Arlene Gold­bard, that “marked the U.S. government’s first big, direct invest­ment in cul­tur­al devel­op­ment.” The project’s goals “were clear­ly stat­ed and demo­c­ra­t­ic; they sup­port­ed activ­i­ties not already sub­si­dized by pri­vate sec­tor patrons… and they empha­sized the inter­re­lat­ed­ness of cul­ture with all aspects of life, not the sep­a­rate­ness of a rar­efied art world.”

Big Tent Theatre

Under the pro­gram, known sim­ply as “Fed­er­al One,” Orson Welles made his direc­to­r­i­al debut, with a huge­ly pop­u­lar, all-Black pro­duc­tion of Mac­beth; Walk­er Evans, Dorothea Lange, and oth­ers doc­u­ment­ed the Great Depres­sion in their now icon­ic pho­to­graph­ic series; Diego Rivera paint­ed his huge murals of work­ing peo­ple; folk­lorists Alan Lomax, Stet­son Kennedy, and Har­ry Smith col­lect­ed and record­ed the pop­u­lar music and sto­ries of SouthZora Neale Hurston con­duct­ed anthro­po­log­i­cal field research in the Deep South and the Caribbean; Amer­i­can writ­ers from Ralph Elli­son to James Agee found sup­port from the WPA. This is to name but a few of the most famous artists sub­si­dized by the New Deal.

Sioux City Public Art School

Thou­sands more whose names have gone unrecord­ed were able to fund com­mu­ni­ty the­ater pro­duc­tions, lit­er­ary lec­tures, art class­es and many oth­er works of cul­tur­al enrich­ment that kept peo­ple in the arts work­ing, engaged whole com­mu­ni­ties, and gave ordi­nary Amer­i­cans oppor­tu­ni­ties to par­tic­i­pate in the arts and to find rep­re­sen­ta­tion where they oth­er­wise would be over­looked or ignored. Fed­er­al One not only “put legions of unem­ployed artists back to work,” writes George Wash­ing­ton Uni­ver­si­ty’s Eleanor Roo­sevelt Papers Project, “but their cre­ations would invari­ably enter­tain and enrich the larg­er pop­u­la­tion.”

modern dance

“If FDR was only luke­warm about Fed­er­al One,” GWU points out, “his wife more than made up for it with her enthu­si­asm. Eleanor Roo­sevelt felt strong­ly that Amer­i­can soci­ety had not done enough to sup­port the arts, and she viewed Fed­er­al One as a pow­er­ful tool with which to infuse art and cul­ture into the dai­ly lives of Amer­i­cans.”

macbeth wpa

Now, thanks to the Library of Con­gress, we can see what that infu­sion of cul­ture looked like in col­or­ful poster form. Of the 2,000 WPA arts posters known to exist, the LoC has dig­i­tized over 900 pro­duced between 1936 and 1943, “designed to pub­li­cize exhibits, com­mu­ni­ty activ­i­ties, the­atri­cal pro­duc­tions, and health and edu­ca­tion al pro­grams in sev­en­teen states and the Dis­trict of Colum­bia.”

Big White Fog

These posters, added to the Library’s hold­ings in the ‘40s, show us a nation that looked very dif­fer­ent from the one we live in today—one in which the arts and cul­ture thrived at a local and region­al lev­el and were not sim­ply the pre­serves of celebri­ties, pri­vate wealth, and major cor­po­ra­tions. Per­haps revis­it­ing this past can give us a mod­el to strive for in a more demo­c­ra­t­ic, equi­table future that val­ues the arts as Eleanor Roo­sevelt and the WPA admin­is­tra­tors did. Click here to browse the com­plete col­lec­tion of WPA arts posters and to down­load dig­i­tal images as JPEG or TIFF files.

Art_classes_for_children_LCCN98510141

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Down­load Vin­tage Film Posters in High-Res: From The Philadel­phia Sto­ry to Attack of the Crab Mon­sters

Yale Launch­es an Archive of 170,000 Pho­tographs Doc­u­ment­ing the Great Depres­sion

Young Orson Welles Directs “Voodoo Mac­beth,” the First Shake­speare Pro­duc­tion With An All-Black Cast: Footage from 1936

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

Take a Virtual Tour of Machu Picchu, One of the New 7 Wonders of the World

Briefly not­ed: Google will now let you pay a vir­tu­al vis­it to one of my favorite places on the plan­et — Machu Pic­chu, the great Inca ruins locat­ed in the Andes in Peru. There’s noth­ing like vis­it­ing Machu Pic­chu in per­son. But if you can’t get there, you can do worse than take this tour.

Take a train ride through the Andes, to this his­toric site. And once you’re there, vis­it the His­toric Sanc­tu­ary of Machu Pic­chu, includ­ing The Tem­ple of the Three Win­dows, the Tem­ple of the Sun, the Astro­nom­i­cal Obser­va­to­ry, and the Sacred Rock, among oth­ers parts of this UNESCO World Her­itage Site. You can also explore more Inca arti­facts over at the Museo Machupic­chu at Casa Con­cha, which holds the largest col­lec­tion of such arti­facts in the world. Hap­py trav­els.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Take a 360° Vir­tu­al Tour of Tal­iesin, Frank Lloyd Wright’s Per­son­al Home & Stu­dio

Rome Reborn: Take a Vir­tu­al Tour Through Ancient Rome, 320 C.E.

Take a 3D Vir­tu­al Tour of the Sis­tine Chapel, St. Peter’s Basil­i­ca and Oth­er Art-Adorned Vat­i­can Spaces

Prize-Win­ning Ani­ma­tion Lets You Fly Through 17th Cen­tu­ry Lon­don

 

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Marcel Marceau Mimes the Progression of Human Life, From Birth to Death, in 4 Minutes

What do you think of when you hear the word “mime.”

A cheeky, stripe-shirt­ed, invis­i­ble lad­der-climb­ing pub­lic nui­sance?

The soli­tary prac­ti­tion­er Dustin Hoff­man word­less­ly top­pled in the 1982 film Toot­sie?

Or Mar­cel Marceau?

Ah ha, and what does the name “Mar­cel Marceau” bring to mind?

The cheeky, stripe shirt­ed, but­ter­fly chas­ing Bip (who maybe caus­es you to cringe a lit­tle, despite his creator’s rep­u­ta­tion as a great artist)?

I was sur­prised to learn that he was a for­mer French Resis­tance fight­er, whose first review was print­ed in Stars and Stripes after he accept­ed an Amer­i­can general’s spur of the moment invi­ta­tion to per­form for 3,000 GIs in 1945 Frank­furt.

The film above doc­u­ments a 1965 per­for­mance of his most cel­e­brat­ed piece, Youth, Matu­ri­ty, Old Age, and Death, giv­en at 42, the exact mid­point of his life. In four abstract min­utes, he pro­gress­es through the sev­en ages of man, rely­ing on nuances of gait and pos­ture to con­vey each stage.

He per­formed it count­less times through­out his extra­or­di­nary career, nev­er stray­ing from his own pre­cise­ly ren­dered chore­og­ra­phy. The play­ing area is just a few feet in diam­e­ter.

Observe the 1975 per­for­mance that film­mak­er John Barnes cap­tured for his series Mar­cel Marceau’s Art of Silence, below. Noth­ing left to chance there, from the tim­ing of the small­est abdom­i­nal iso­la­tions to the angle of his head in the final tableau.

Time’s effects may have pro­vid­ed the sub­ject for the piece, but its peren­ni­al­ly lithe author claimed not to con­cern him­self with age, telling the New York Times in 1993 that his focus was on “life-force and cre­ation.”

Lat­er in the same inter­view, he reflect­ed:

When I start­ed, I hunt­ed but­ter­flies. Lat­er, I began to remem­ber the war and I began to dig deep­er, into mis­ery, into soli­tude, into the fight of human souls against robots.

This would seem to sup­port the the­o­ry that matu­ri­ty is a side effect of age.

His alter ego Bip’s lega­cy may be the infer­nal invis­i­ble ropes and glass cages that are a mime’s stock in trade, but dis­till­ing human expe­ri­ence to its purest expres­sion was the basis of Marceau’s silent art.

In a recent appre­ci­a­tion pub­lished in the Paris Review, author Mave Fel­lowes con­sid­ers the many stages of Marceau, from the for­ma­tive effects of child­hood encoun­ters with Char­lie Chap­lin films to his death at 84:

He feels his advanc­ing age and fears that the art of mime will die with him. It’s a tran­si­to­ry, ephemer­al art, he explains, as it exists only in the moment. As an old man, he works hard­er than ever, per­form­ing three hun­dred times a year, teach­ing four hours a day. He is named the UN Ambas­sador for Aging. Five nights a week he smears the white paint over his face, draws in the red bud at the cen­ter of his lips, fol­lows the line of his eye­lid with a black pen­cil. And then takes to the stage, his side­burns frayed, his hair dyed chest­nut and combed for­ward, look­ing like a toupee.

His body is as elas­tic as ever, but the old suit of Bip hangs loose on him now. Beneath the whitened jaw­line is a bag­gy, sinewy neck. With each con­tor­tion of his face, the white paint reveals deep lines. At the end of his show, he folds in a deep bow and the knobs of his spine show above the low cut of Bip’s Bre­ton top.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

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

David Bowie Launch­es His Act­ing Career in the Avant-Garde Play Pier­rot in Turquoise (1967)

Klaus Nomi: The Bril­liant Per­for­mance of a Dying Man

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine. In col­lege, she earned a hun­dred dol­lars for appear­ing as a mime before a con­ven­tion of hun­gover glass­ware sales­men, an expe­ri­ence briefly recalled in her mem­oir, Job Hop­per. Fol­low her @AyunHalliday

 

Musicians Play Bach on the Octobass, the Gargantuan String Instrument Invented in 1850

Take a look at the live per­for­mance above of a Johann Sebas­t­ian Bach cha­conne. See that mon­strous stringed instru­ment in the back? The one that looks like a movie prop? It’s real, and it’s called the octo­bass, a triple bass made in 1850 by pro­lif­ic French instru­ment mak­er and inven­tor Jean-Bap­tiste Vuil­laume, whom Ger­man vio­lin mak­er Corilon calls “the most sig­nif­i­cant vio­lin mak­er of mod­ern times.”

The huge instru­ment can play a full octave below the stan­dard dou­ble bass and cre­ate sound down to 16 Hz, at the low­est thresh­old of human hear­ing and into the realm of what’s called infra­sound. The octo­bass is so large that play­ers have to stand on a plat­form, and use spe­cial keys on the side of the instru­ment to change the strings’ pitch since the neck is far too high to reach. (See this pho­to of a young boy dwarfed by an octo­bass for scale.)

One of two playable repli­cas of the orig­i­nal three octo­bass­es Vuil­laume made resides at the Musi­cal Instru­ment Muse­um (MIM) in Phoenix, AZ. In the video below, MIM cura­tor Col­in Pear­son gets us up close to the gar­gan­tu­an bass, cre­at­ed, he tells us, to “add a low end rum­ble to any large orches­tra.” That it does.

The descrip­tion of the video just below advis­es you to “turn up your subs” to hear the demon­stra­tion by Nico Abon­do­lo, dou­ble bass play­er of the LA Cham­ber orches­tra. (Abon­do­lo is also prin­ci­ple bass for sev­er­al Hol­ly­wood orches­tras, and he came to MIM to record sam­ples of the octo­bass for the Hunger Games sound­track.) As you’ll see in the video, the octo­bass is so mas­sive, it takes five peo­ple to move it.

Abon­do­lo plays the octo­bass with both his fin­gers and with the 3‑stringed instru­men­t’s spe­cial­ly made bow, and demon­strates its sys­tem of keys and levers. “Play­ing the instru­ment is a twofold, or maybe three­fold phys­i­cal exer­tion,” he remarks. It’s also a jour­ney into a past where “peo­ple were as crazy, or cra­zier about music than we are now.” Per­haps need­less to say, the instru­men­t’s bulk and the awk­ward phys­i­cal move­ments required to play it mean that it can­not be played at faster tem­pos. And if the first thing that comes to mind when you hear Abon­do­lo strum those low bass notes is the theme from Jaws, you’re not alone.

A num­ber of oth­er musi­cians vis­it­ing the octo­bass at MIM took the oppor­tu­ni­ty to goof around on the com­i­cal­ly over­sized bass and play their ver­sions of the omi­nous shark approach music (above). You won’t get the full effect of the instru­ment unless you’re lis­ten­ing with a qual­i­ty sub­woofer with a very low bass response, and even then, almost no sub—consumer or pro—can han­dle the low­est pitch the octo­bass is capa­ble of pro­duc­ing. But if you were to stand in the same room while some­one played the huge triple bass, you’d cer­tain­ly feel its low­est reg­is­ter rum­bling through you.

via Laugh­ing Squid

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Sto­ry of the Bass: New Video Gives Us 500 Years of Music His­to­ry in 8 Min­utes

100 Great Bass Riffs Played in One Epic Take: Cov­ers 60 Years of Rock, Jazz and R&B

Jazz Leg­end Jaco Pas­to­rius Gives a 90 Minute Bass Les­son and Plays Live in Mon­tre­al (1982)

The Neu­ro­science of Bass: New Study Explains Why Bass Instru­ments Are Fun­da­men­tal to Music

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

Vintage Footage Shows a Young, Unknown Patti Smith & Robert Mapplethorpe Living at the Famed Chelsea Hotel (1970)

Here at Open Cul­ture, we can’t get enough of the Chelsea Hotel, which means we can’t get enough of the Chelsea Hotel in a cer­tain era, at the height of a cer­tain cul­tur­al moment in New York his­to­ry. Though it strug­gled as a busi­ness for years after it first opened as an apart­ment build­ing in 1884 and changed hands left and right until the 1970s, it hit its stride as an icon when a cer­tain crit­i­cal mass of well-known (or soon to be well known) musi­cians, writ­ers, artists, film­mak­ers, and oth­er­wise col­or­ful per­son­al­i­ties had put in time there. One such musi­cian, writer, artist in oth­er media, and col­or­ful per­son­al­i­ty indeed has an espe­cial­ly strong asso­ci­a­tion with the Chelsea: Pat­ti Smith.

You may remem­ber our post back in 2012 fea­tur­ing Smith read­ing her final let­ter to Robert Map­plethor­pe, which she includ­ed in Just Kids, her acclaimed mem­oir of her friend­ship with the con­tro­ver­sial pho­tog­ra­ph­er.

For a time, Smith and Map­plethor­pe lived in the Chelsea togeth­er, and in the footage above, shot in 1970 by a Ger­man doc­u­men­tary film crew, you can see them there in their nat­ur­al habi­tat. “The Chelsea was like a doll’s house in The Twi­light Zone, with a hun­dred rooms, each a small uni­verse,” Smith writes in Just Kids. “Every­one had some­thing to offer and nobody seemed to have much mon­ey. Even the suc­cess­ful seemed to have just enough to live like extrav­a­gant bums.”

These fif­teen min­utes of film also includes glimpses into a vari­ety of oth­er lives lived at the Chelsea as the 1970s began. If you’d like to see more of the place at its cul­tur­al zenith — made pos­si­ble by the state of 70s New York itself, which had infa­mous­ly hit some­thing of a nadir — have a look at the clip we fea­tured in 2013 of the Vel­vet Under­ground’s Nico singing “Chelsea Girls” there. Just after the 70s had gone, BBC’s Are­na turned up to shoot a doc­u­men­tary of their own, which we fea­tured last year. Smith has long since left the Chelsea, and Map­plethor­pe has long since left this world, but even now, as the hotel under­goes exten­sive ren­o­va­tions that began in 2011, some of those “extrav­a­gant bums” remain.

via Please Kill Me

Relat­ed Con­tent:

New York’s Famous Chelsea Hotel and Its Cre­ative Res­i­dents Revis­it­ed in a 1981 Doc­u­men­tary

Nico Sings “Chelsea Girls” in the Famous Chelsea Hotel

Iggy Pop Con­ducts a Tour of New York’s Low­er East Side, Cir­ca 1993

Pat­ti Smith Reads Her Final Words to Her Dear Friend Robert Map­plethor­pe

The Life and Con­tro­ver­sial Work of Pho­tog­ra­ph­er Robert Map­plethor­pe Pro­filed in 1988 Doc­u­men­tary

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, the video series The City in Cin­e­maand the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future? Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Watch Björk, Age 11, Read a Christmas Nativity Story on a 1976 Icelandic TV Special

The hol­i­days can be hard, start­ing in Octo­ber when the red and green dec­o­ra­tions begin muscling in on the Hal­loween aisle.

Most Won­der­ful Time of the Year, you say? Oh, go stuff a stock­ing in it, Andy Williams!

The major­i­ty of us have more in com­mon with the Grinch, Scrooge, and/or the Lit­tle Match Girl.

Still, it’s hard to resist the preter­nat­u­ral­ly mature 11-year-old Björk read­ing the nativ­i­ty sto­ry in her native Ice­landic, backed by unsmil­ing old­er kids from the Children’s Music School in Reyk­javík.

Par­tic­u­lar­ly since I myself do not speak Ice­landic.

The fact that it’s in black and white is mere­ly the blue­ber­ries on the spiced cab­bage.

It speaks high­ly of the Ice­landic approach to edu­ca­tion that a prin­ci­pal’s office reg­u­lar who report­ed­ly chafed at her school’s “retro, con­stant Beethoven and Bach bol­locks” cur­ricu­lum was award­ed the plum part in this 1976 Christ­mas spe­cial for the Nation­al Broad­cast­ing Ser­vice.

It would also appear that lit­tle Björk, the fierce­ly self-reliant latchkey kid of a Bohemi­an sin­gle moth­er, was far and away the most charis­mat­ic kid enrolled in the Bar­namúsik­skóli.

(Less than a year lat­er her self-titled first album sold 7000 copies in Iceland—a mod­est amount com­pared to Adele’s debut, maybe, but c’mon, the kid was 11! And Ice­land’s pop­u­la­tion at the time was a cou­ple hun­dred thou­sand and change.)

As to the above per­for­mance’s reli­gious slant, it wasn’t a reflec­tion of her per­son­al beliefs. As she told the UK music webzine Drowned in Sound in 2011:

…nature is my reli­gion, in a way… I think every­body has their own pri­vate reli­gion. I guess what both­ers me is when mil­lions have the same one. It just can’t be true. It’s just…what?

Still, it prob­a­bly was­n’t too con­tro­ver­sial that the pro­gram­mers elect­ed to cleave to the rea­son in the sea­son. Ice­landic church atten­dance may be low-key, but the over­whelm­ing major­i­ty of its cit­i­zens iden­ti­fy as Luther­an, or some oth­er Chris­t­ian denom­i­na­tion.

(They also believe in elves and 13 for­mer­ly fear­some Yule Lads, descen­dants of the ogres Grýla and Lep­palúði. By the time Björk appeared on earth, they had long since evolved, through a com­bi­na­tion of for­eign influ­ence and pub­lic decree, into the kinder, gen­tler, not quite San­ta-esque ver­sion, address­ing the stu­dio audi­ence at the top of the act.)

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Hear the Album Björk Record­ed as an 11-Year-Old: Fea­tures Cov­er Art Pro­vid­ed By Her Mom (1977)

A Young Björk Decon­structs (Phys­i­cal­ly & The­o­ret­i­cal­ly) a Tele­vi­sion in a Delight­ful Retro Video

Björk Presents Ground­break­ing Exper­i­men­tal Musi­cians on the BBC’s Mod­ern Min­i­mal­ists (1997)

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine. She is proud to orig­i­nat­ed the role of Santa’s mor­tal con­sort, Mary, in her Jew­ish hus­band Greg Kotis’ Nordic-themed hol­i­day fan­ta­sia, The Truth About San­ta. Fol­low her @AyunHalliday

Hear All Three of Jack Kerouac’s Spoken-World Albums: A Sublime Union of Beat Literature and 1950s Jazz

kerouac albums

Image by Tom Palum­bo, via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

At the epi­cen­ter of three explo­sive forces in 1950s America—the birth of Bebop, the spread of Bud­dhism through the coun­ter­cul­ture, and Beat rev­o­lu­tion­iz­ing of poet­ry and prose—sat Jack Ker­ouac, though I don’t pic­ture him ever sit­ting for very long. The rhythms that moved through him, through his verse and prose, are too flu­id to come to rest. At the end of his life he sat… and drank, a most­ly spent force.

But in his prime, Ker­ouac was always on the move, over high­ways on those leg­endary road trips, or his fin­gers fly­ing over the typewriter’s keys as he banged out the scroll man­u­script of On the Road in three fever­ish weeks (so he said). After the pub­li­ca­tion of On the Road, Ker­ouac “became a celebri­ty,” says Steve Allen in intro­duc­tion to the Beat writer on a 1959 appear­ance, “part­ly because he’d writ­ten a pow­er­ful and suc­cess­ful book, but part­ly because he seemed to be the embod­i­ment of this new gen­er­a­tion.”

After a lit­tle back-and-forth, Allen lets Ker­ouac do what he always did so well, whether on tele­vi­sion or on record—embody the rhythms of his writ­ing in his voice, his phras­ing always musi­cal, whether he read over jazz hot or cool or over med­i­ta­tive silence. He did a lot of both, record­ing with Allen and many oth­er jazzmen, and “exper­i­ment­ing with a home reel-to-reel sys­tem, tap­ing him­self to see whether his spon­ta­neous prose out­bursts had the musi­cal rhythms F. Scott Fitzger­ald con­sid­ered the hall­mark of all great writ­ing.” So writes his­to­ri­an David Brink­ley in the lin­er notes (remem­ber those?) to the com­pi­la­tion album Jack Ker­ouac Reads On the Road, a rare col­lec­tion of haunt­ing poet­ry read­ings, play­ful croon­ing, and exper­i­ments with voice and music. Brink­ley describes how Ker­ouac, the French Cana­di­an from Low­ell, Mass­a­chu­setts, devel­oped his “bop ear” by hang­ing out at Minton’s Play­house in Harlem in the 40s, watch­ing Thelo­nious Monk, Char­lie Park­er, and Dizzy Gille­spie invent what he called a “goofy new sound.”

The sound stayed with him, as he turned his immer­sion into Amer­i­can lit­er­ary and musi­cal coun­ter­cul­ture into On the Road, The Sub­ter­raneans, The Dhar­ma Bums, etc, and through­out all the writ­ing, there was the music of his read­ing, cap­tured on the albums Poet­ry for the Beat Gen­er­a­tion with Steve Allen, Blues and Haikus with Al Cohn and Zoot Sims—both in 1959—and, the fol­low­ing year, Read­ings by Jack Ker­ouac on the Beat Gen­er­a­tion. Kerouac’s read­ing style did not come only from his inter­nal­iza­tion of bebop rhythms, how­ev­er, but also from “the dis­cov­ery of the extra­or­di­nary spo­ken-word albums of poets Langston Hugh­es, Carl Sand­berg, and Dylan Thomas,” Brink­ley tells us. The writer became “con­vinced that prose should be read aloud in pub­lic, as it had been in Homer’s Greece and Shakespeare’s Eng­land.” The albums he record­ed and released in his life­time bear out this con­vic­tion and explore “the pos­si­bil­i­ties of com­bin­ing jazz and spon­ta­neous verse.”

These records became very dif­fi­cult to find for many years, but you can now pur­chase an omnibus CD at a rea­son­able price (vinyl will set you back a cou­ple hun­dred bucks). Alter­nate­ly, you can stream all three Ker­ouac albums free on Spo­ti­fy, above in chrono­log­i­cal order of release. If you don’t have Spo­ti­fy, you can eas­i­ly down­load the soft­ware here. And if you’d rather hear Ker­ouac’s read­ings on CD or on the orig­i­nal vinyl medi­um, that’s cool too. How­ev­er you expe­ri­ence these read­ings, you should, at some point, expe­ri­ence them. Like all the very best poet­ry, Ker­ouac’s work is most alive when read aloud, and most espe­cial­ly when read aloud by Ker­ouac him­self.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Down­load 55 Free Online Lit­er­a­ture Cours­es: From Dante and Mil­ton to Ker­ouac and Tolkien

Jack Kerouac’s 30 Beliefs and Tech­niques For Writ­ing Mod­ern Prose

Jack Ker­ouac Lists 9 Essen­tials for Writ­ing Spon­ta­neous Prose

The First Record­ing of Allen Gins­berg Read­ing “Howl” (1956)

Watch Langston Hugh­es Read Poet­ry from His First Col­lec­tion, The Weary Blues (1958)

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

 

The Life & Times of Buckminster Fuller’s Geodesic Dome: A Documentary

In the ear­ly 20th cen­tu­ry, the vision­ary inven­tor Buck­min­ster Fuller start­ed look­ing for ways to improve human shel­ter by:

  • Apply­ing mod­ern tech­no­log­i­cal know-how to shel­ter con­struc­tion.
  • Mak­ing shel­ter more com­fort­able and effi­cient.
  • Mak­ing shel­ter more eco­nom­i­cal­ly avail­able to a greater num­ber of peo­ple.

And what he came up with (read more here) was the “geo­des­ic” dome.” This dome held appeal for two main rea­sons: 1.) its sur­face would be “omni­tri­an­gu­lat­ed,” mean­ing built out of small tri­an­gles, which would give the over­all struc­ture unpar­al­leled strength. And 2.) domes by their very nature enclose the great­est vol­ume for the least sur­face area, which makes them very effi­cient.

Fuller devel­oped the math­e­mat­ics for the geo­des­ic dome and helped make it an archi­tec­tur­al real­i­ty. You can find instances where these domes served as audi­to­ri­ums, weath­er obser­va­to­ries, and stor­age facil­i­ties in the US and Cana­da. And then above, you watch a doc­u­men­tary called A Nec­es­sary Ruin: The Sto­ry of Buck­min­ster Fuller and the Union Tank Car DomeShot by Evan Math­er in 2010, the doc­u­men­tary tells the sto­ry of the dome built in Baton Rouge, LA in 1958. At 384 feet in diam­e­ter, the Union Tank Car Dome was the world’s largest free-span struc­ture then in exis­tence. Math­er’s doc­u­men­tary includes ” inter­views with archi­tects, engi­neers, preser­va­tion­ists, media, and artists; ani­mat­ed sequences demon­strat­ing the oper­a­tion of the facil­i­ty; and hun­dreds of rare pho­tographs and video seg­ments tak­en dur­ing the dome’s con­struc­tion, decline, and demo­li­tion.” It was fund­ed by a grant from the Gra­ham Foun­da­tion for Advanced Stud­ies in the Fine Arts, and you can now find it our col­lec­tion of Free Doc­u­men­taries, a sub­set of our col­lec­tion, 4,000+ Free Movies Online: Great Clas­sics, Indies, Noir, West­erns, Doc­u­men­taries & More.

Vis­it handcraftedfilms.com for more info on Math­er’s film and/or to pur­chase the DVD.

Relat­ed Con­tent

Every­thing I Know: 42 Hours of Buck­min­ster Fuller’s Vision­ary Lec­tures Free Online (1975)

Watch an Ani­mat­ed Buck­min­ster Fuller Tell Studs Terkel All About “the Geo­des­ic Life”

Bet­ter Liv­ing Through Buck­min­ster Fuller’s Utopi­an Designs: Revis­it the Dymax­ion Car, House, and Map

Bertrand Rus­sell & Buck­min­ster Fuller on Why We Should Work Less, and Live & Learn More

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How Isaac Asimov Went from Star Trek Critic to Star Trek Fan & Advisor

asimov star trek

When we think of a sci­ence fic­tion, most of us doubt­less think of a Star Trek. Since the orig­i­nal series made its tele­vi­sion debut almost a half-cen­tu­ry ago, the spec­u­la­tive future it cre­at­ed has come to stand, in many minds, as the very mod­el of the sci­ence-fic­tion­al enter­prise (as it were). But the insti­tu­tion of Star Trek in all its forms — TV shows, movies, movies made out of TV shows, nov­els, video games, action fig­ures, and so on — still has its detrac­tors, and back at the very begin­ning it hard­ly looked like a sure suc­cess. Geek.com’s list of five things that near­ly killed off Star Trek includes a failed pilot, a near-fir­ing of Leonard Nimoy, and the words of no less a sci­ence-fic­tion titan than Isaac Asi­mov.

Star Trek,wrote its cre­ator Gene Rod­den­ber­ry in 1966, “almost did not get on the air because it refused to do juve­nile sci­ence fic­tion, because it refused to put a ‘Lassie’ aboard the space ship, and because it insist­ed on hir­ing Dick Math­e­son, Har­lan Elli­son, A.E. Van Vogt, Phil Farmer, and so on.” This came as part of a response to Asi­mov, who, in a TV Guide arti­cle enti­tled “What Are a Few Galax­ies Among Friends?,” crit­i­cized Star Trek for get­ting the sci­ence wrong. He cites, for exam­ple, a line about a gaseous cloud “one-half light year out­side the Galaxy,” which he likens to “say­ing a house is one-half yard out­side the Mis­sis­sip­pi Basin.”

Mea­sure­ment flubs aside, Star Trek, despite its can­cel­la­tion after three sea­sons, had become so big by the ear­ly 1970s that its fans had begun to put on whole con­ven­tions ded­i­cat­ed to the show. You can see in the clip above one such event in 1973, which pro­vides proof that even Asi­mov had turned fan. He speaks of his appre­ci­a­tion for the show three times dur­ing the video, now describ­ing Star Trek as the “san­est” and “most mean­ing­ful” pro­gram of its kind, one that “tack­led real social prob­lems,” was “not devot­ed entire­ly to adven­ture,” and had “ful­ly real­ized char­ac­ters” (cit­ing Mr. Spock as Exhib­it A). He may still have object­ed to the infa­mous split infini­tive “to bold­ly go” (once a nit­pick­er, always a nit­pick­er), but he still thought the show “real­ly pre­sent­ed the broth­er­hood of intel­li­gence.”

After Asi­mov wrote his ini­tial cri­tique in TV Guide, he and Gene Rod­den­ber­ry exchanged let­ters, and the two for­mi­da­ble sci-fi minds became friends and even col­lab­o­ra­tors there­after. A 1967 Time mag­a­zine pro­file described Asi­mov as “bat­ting out books on a new elec­tric type­writer, emerg­ing only occa­sion­al­ly to watch Star Trek (his favorite TV show),” and he went on to become an advi­sor to the show. A Let­ters of Note post on Rod­den­ber­ry and Asi­mov’s cor­re­spon­dence con­tains a 1967 exchange where­in they put their heads togeth­er to solve the prob­lem of how to give Cap­tain Kirk lines as good as the ones that nat­u­ral­ly go to a more unusu­al char­ac­ter like Spock. Since Asi­mov also con­tributed orig­i­nal ideas to the show, after hav­ing gone on record as a fan, I won­der: does that mean, in some sense, that Isaac Asi­mov wrote Star Trek fan fic­tion?

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Klin­gon for Eng­lish Speak­ers: Sign Up for a Free Course Com­ing Soon

Isaac Asi­mov Pre­dicts in 1964 What the World Will Look Like Today — in 2014

Free: Isaac Asimov’s Epic Foun­da­tion Tril­o­gy Dra­ma­tized in Clas­sic Audio

Isaac Asi­mov Explains the Ori­gins of Good Ideas & Cre­ativ­i­ty in Nev­er-Before-Pub­lished Essay

Isaac Asi­mov Explains His Three Laws of Robots

Isaac Asimov’s Favorite Sto­ry “The Last Ques­tion” Read by Isaac Asi­mov— and by Leonard Nimoy

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, the video series The City in Cin­e­maand the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future? Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.


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