The Psychedelic 1970s Animations of Keiichi Tanaami: A Music Video for John Lennon’s “Oh Yoko!,” Surreal Tributes to Elvis & Marilyn Monroe, and More

If you want to see the West as you’ve nev­er seen it before, go to Japan. Since the end of the Sec­ond World War, there have been few big West­ern phe­nom­e­na in which Japan­ese cre­ators have not tak­en an inter­est, then turned around and made their own. One of the most pow­er­ful imag­i­na­tions among those cre­ators belongs to Kei­ichi Tanaa­mi, who came of age sur­round­ed by the likes of Mick­ey Mouse and Elvis after doing much of his grow­ing up amid the chaos and dev­as­ta­tion of war. Born in 1936 and still active today, he’s pro­duced a body of work whose ear­li­est pieces go back to the 1950s, and even the vari­ety of media he’s used — illus­tra­tion, graph­ic design, paint­ings, comics, ani­ma­tion — can bare­ly con­tain his ever-expand­ing vision, a mix­ture of pop cul­ture and and sym­bol­ic iconog­ra­phy drawn from Amer­i­ca, Japan, and deep down in his own psy­che.

“A mag­a­zine that is packed to the brim with human inter­ests and desires bears a strong resem­blance to who I am as a per­son,” Tanaa­mi once wrote, a descrip­tion reflect­ed by his cur­rent work as well as that of pre­vi­ous eras. Take these short ani­mat­ed films, three of which come from the ear­ly 1970s — an aus­pi­cious time indeed for his brand of psy­che­delia to break through in the West.


In 1971’s Good-Bye Mar­i­lyn, Tanaa­mi pays trib­ute to per­haps the most icon­ic woman Amer­i­ca has ever pro­duced; that same year’s Good-Bye Elvis and USA draws its inspi­ra­tion from quite pos­si­bly Amer­i­ca’s most icon­ic man. Tana­mi makes use of the imagery of Mar­i­lyn Mon­roe and Elvis Pres­ley in a way no oth­er artist has, though he was hard­ly alone in his fas­ci­na­tion with the very fas­ci­na­tion those fig­ures com­mand­ed: Andy Warhol, for instance, also got artis­tic mileage out of them.

It was Warhol who showed Tanaa­mi how artists of their sen­si­bil­i­ty could make a career. Tanaa­mi first saw Warhol’s work on a trip to New York City in 1967. “Warhol was in the process of shift­ing from com­mer­cial illus­tra­tor to artist, and I both wit­nessed and expe­ri­enced first­hand his tac­tics, his method of inci­sion into the art world,” Tanaa­mi once recalled. “He used con­tem­po­rary icons as motifs in his works and for his oth­er activ­i­ties put togeth­er media such as films, news­pa­pers and rock bands.” In 1975, after becom­ing the first art direc­tor of the Japan­ese edi­tion of Play­boy, he returned to New York to vis­it the mag­a­zine’s head office and took a side trip to Warhol’s Fac­to­ry and took in what Warhol and his col­lab­o­ra­tors had been up to with exper­i­men­tal film. But Tanaa­mi had already been mak­ing seri­ous inroads into that field him­self, as evi­denced by the two afore­men­tioned shorts as well as his 1973 ani­ma­tion of John Lennon’s “Oh, Yoko!” — a kind of ear­ly music video — up top.

Few artists of any nation­al­i­ty have hybridized the thor­ough­ly com­mer­cial and the deeply per­son­al as Tanaa­mi, who got his start in adver­tis­ing and not long there­after was design­ing the cov­ers for Japan­ese edi­tions of albums by Jef­fer­son Air­plane and The Mon­kees. But as he also said in a recent Hype­beast inter­view, “a lot of my work is dri­ven by old mem­o­ries of the past, espe­cial­ly the fear that I felt as a child dur­ing the sev­er­al wars that took place. The fear I felt see­ing a per­son dying. But then there’s also the good feel­ings I have from play­ing as a child. I inte­grate all aspects of my mind and mem­o­ries into my work.” You can see oth­er exam­ples of it at Ubuweb, and Tanaami’s 2013 ani­ma­tion Adven­tures in Beau­ty Won­der­land above shows how that inte­gra­tion has con­tin­ued, tak­ing as it does just as much from tra­di­tion­al Japan­ese sym­bols and design motifs as it does from the work of Lewis Car­roll — a char­ac­ter­is­ti­cal­ly thrilling and elab­o­rate aes­thet­ic jour­ney, all of it com­mis­sioned by the cos­met­ics com­pa­ny Sepho­ra.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch “The Mid­night Par­a­sites,” a Sur­re­al Japan­ese Ani­ma­tion Set in the World of Hierony­mus Bosch’s The Gar­den of Earth­ly Delights (1972)

Japan­ese Com­put­er Artist Makes “Dig­i­tal Mon­dri­ans” in 1964: When Giant Main­frame Com­put­ers Were First Used to Cre­ate Art

Japan­ese Priest Tries to Revive Bud­dhism by Bring­ing Tech­no Music into the Tem­ple: Attend a Psy­che­del­ic 23-Minute Ser­vice

Psy­che­del­ic Ani­ma­tion Takes You Inside the Mind of Stephen Hawk­ing

Watch HD Ver­sions of The Bea­t­les’ Pio­neer­ing Music Videos: “Hey Jude,” “Pen­ny Lane,” “Rev­o­lu­tion” & More

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

These Four Manuscripts Contain All of the Literature Written in Old English–and Beyond That, There’s Nothing More

Book his­to­ri­ans and rare man­u­script librar­i­ans do not have the most glam­orous jobs by the usu­al stan­dards. They deal with weath­ered, tat­tered, frag­men­tary scraps of text in archa­ic lan­guages and let­ter­ing. It’s work unlike­ly to receive the Hol­ly­wood (or Net­flix) treat­ment unless wiz­ards, witch­es, or occult detec­tives are involved. But the rel­a­tive obscu­ri­ty of these pro­fes­sions does not make the work any less valu­able. With­out ded­i­cat­ed archivists and preser­va­tion­ists, a slow col­lec­tive amne­sia, or worse, can set in.

One might call this atti­tude pre­cious. Spe­cial­ists are use­ful, art is great, but with sophis­ti­cat­ed machine learn­ing, we can make, store, and print copies of every his­tor­i­cal arti­fact in the world, along with all of the accu­mu­lat­ed knowl­edge about them. What need to dote on crum­bling man­u­scripts? Why the spe­cial sta­tus of the orig­i­nal? The ques­tion, tak­en up by Wal­ter Ben­jamin in his 1936 essay, “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechan­i­cal Repro­duc­tion,” comes down in part to some­thing he called “aura.”

Take the case of four man­u­scripts, all of which recent­ly appeared togeth­er at the British Library’s exten­sive exhi­bi­tion Anglo-Sax­on King­doms: Art, Word, War: The Ver­cel­li Book, the Junius Man­u­script, the Exeter Book, and the Beowulf Man­u­script con­tain rid­dles, reli­gious texts, ele­gies, and the old­est man­u­script of the old­est known poem in Eng­lish. These rep­re­sent the sum total of extant orig­i­nal lit­er­ary man­u­scripts in Old Eng­lish, a tongue sev­er­al cen­turies dis­tant from our own but still embed­ded deep with­in the struc­ture of every mod­ern ver­sion of the lan­guage.

Each man­u­script has what, as Ben­jamin wrote, “even the most per­fect repro­duc­tion of a work of art is lack­ing… its pres­ence in time and space, its unique exis­tence at the place where it hap­pens to be.” Josephine Liv­ing­stone puts the mat­ter more plain­ly at The New Repub­lic.

Why are these four books so spe­cial? It has to do, I think, with the con­cept of the original—a con­cept we have almost entire­ly lost touch with. The Beowulf Man­u­script… is not mere­ly a rep­re­sen­ta­tion of a sto­ry; it is the sto­ry…. The man­u­scripts con­front us with a for­mer ver­sion of our lit­er­ary selves; iden­ti­ties that we bare­ly rec­og­nize, and which estrange us from our­selves.

We can repro­duce his­to­ry infi­nite­ly, but the only way to expe­ri­ence the hum­bling oth­er­world­li­ness that dwarfs our cramped ideas about it is through its phys­i­cal remain­ders. Liv­ing­stone doesn’t clar­i­fy whom she includes in the phrase “our lit­er­ary selves,” but we might as well say, at min­i­mum, this means every speak­er of Eng­lish and every­one who has read Eng­lish lit­er­a­ture in trans­la­tion or felt the influ­ence of Eng­lish words and phras­es in oth­er lan­guages.

We acquire the lan­guage we hear and read from lit­er­ary sources, how­ev­er remote; they are con­sti­tu­tive, the threads that weave togeth­er cul­tur­al nar­ra­tives into a larg­er pat­tern. The orig­i­nal work of art, Ben­jamin argued, like the rel­ic, has reli­gious sig­nif­i­cance. And where the rel­ic grounds the cult, art grounds mate­r­i­al cul­ture in such a way, he thought, that it repels fas­cis­m’s aes­thet­ic obses­sion with destruc­tion.

Orig­i­nal arti­facts “must restore the instinc­tu­al pow­er of the human bod­i­ly sens­es,” lit­er­ary schol­ar Susan Buck-Morss elab­o­rates, “for the sake of humanity’s self-preser­va­tion.” The state­ment may sound less grandiose in the con­text of Europe in 1936, or we might con­sid­er it just as rel­e­vant today (and expand it to include not only art but nature).

We can rely on the fact that, should the Beowulf Man­u­script be destroyed, Liv­ing­stone grants, “the poem would still sur­vive,” as would the image of the man­u­script in very fine detail. That is “the hope con­tained in Benjamin’s dirge.” But what is lost can nev­er appear in the world again. You can view most of these rare texts—The Ver­cel­li Book, the Junius Man­u­script, and the Beowulf Manuscript—in high res­o­lu­tion scans at the British and Bodleian Libraries.

The texts are a minus­cule sam­pling of the num­ber of cul­tur­al arti­facts around the world wor­thy of preser­va­tion, and pub­lic­i­ty. And they are a tiny sam­pling of the lit­er­ary pro­duc­tion of Old Eng­lish. But on them rests a great deal of our under­stand­ing about the lin­guis­tic ances­tors of the lan­guage, with more to learn, per­haps, as scan­ning tech­nol­o­gy becomes even more advanced, illu­mi­nat­ing rather than replac­ing the orig­i­nal.

via The New Repub­lic

Relat­ed Con­tent:

1,000-Year-Old Man­u­script of Beowulf Dig­i­tized and Now Online

Europe’s Old­est Intact Book Was Pre­served and Found in the Cof­fin of a Saint

One of the Best Pre­served Ancient Man­u­scripts of The Ili­ad Is Now Dig­i­tized: See the “Bankes Homer” Man­u­script in High Res­o­lu­tion (Cir­ca 150 C.E.)

Wikipedia Leads Effort to Cre­ate a Dig­i­tal Archive of 20 Mil­lion Arti­facts Lost in the Brazil­ian Muse­um Fire

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

Classic Radiohead Songs Re-Imagined as a Sci-Fi Book, Pulp Fiction Magazine & Other Nostalgic Artifacts

When we first checked in with artist and screen­writer Todd Alcott, he was immor­tal­iz­ing the work of stars who hit their stride in the 70s and 80s, as high­ly con­vinc­ing pulp nov­el and mag­a­zine cov­ers inspired by their most famous songs and lyrics. David Bowie’s “Young Amer­i­cans” yields an East of Eden-like blonde cou­ple reclin­ing in the grass. Talk­ing Heads’ “Life Dur­ing Wartime” becomes an erot­i­cal­ly vio­lent, or vio­lent­ly erot­ic, mag­a­zine that ain’t fool­ing around.

Next, we took a look at Alcott’s series of pulp cov­ers drawn from the work of Mr. Bob Dylan, bona fide god­fa­ther of clas­sic rock, a peri­od that gets a lion’s share of cov­ers in Alcott’s imag­i­na­tive Etsy rack, along­side oth­er new wave and punk bands like The Clash, The Smiths, and Joy Divi­sion. Look­ing at these devot­ed trib­utes to musi­cal giants of yore, ren­dered in ador­ing trib­utes to an even ear­li­er era’s aes­thet­ic, pro­duces the kind of “of course!” reac­tion that makes Alcott’s work so enjoy­able.

After all, pulp mag­a­zines and books are per­haps as respon­si­ble for the coun­ter­cul­ture as LSD, with their proud­ly sexy pos­es, over­heat­ed teen fan­tasies, and bondage gear. (Prince gets his own series, a true joy.) But Alcott has moved on to a crop of artists who first appeared in the 90s class of alter­na­tive bands—from PJ Har­vey, to Fiona Apple, to Nir­vana, to Neu­tral Milk Hotel, to, as you can see here, Radio­head, the most long-lived and inno­v­a­tive stars of the era.

How well does Alcot­t’s approach work with artists who hit the scene when pulp fic­tion turned into Pulp Fic­tion, appro­pri­at­ed in a wink­ing, exple­tive-filled splat­ter-fest that didn’t, tech­ni­cal­ly, require its audi­ence to know any­thing about pulp fic­tion? You’ll notice that Alcott has tak­en a nov­el approach to the con­cept in many cas­es (reimag­in­ing PJ Harvey’s “This is Love!” as a 50s grind­house flick, anoth­er genre that has been heav­i­ly Taran­ti­no-ized).

He con­verts Radiohead’s “Kid A” into that most trea­sured pub­li­ca­tion for futon-surf­ing hip­sters cir­ca 2000, the IKEA cat­a­log. “Video­tape” man­i­fests in lit­er­al fash­ion as one of the oughties’ many objects of con­sumer elec­tron­ics nos­tal­gia, the 120-minute VHS. And “Myx­o­mato­sis,” from 2003’s Hail to the Thief, appears as a 1970s cat book, an arti­fact many Radio­head fans at the turn of the mil­len­ni­um might trea­sure as both an iron­ic Tum­blr goof and a poignant reminder of child­hood.

The Radio­head series does not ful­ly aban­don the pulp look—“Karma Police,” for exam­ple, gets the detec­tive mag­a­zine treat­ment. But it does lean more heav­i­ly on lat­er-20th cen­tu­ry pro­duc­tions, like the 70s sci-fi cov­er of “Para­noid Android,” clear­ly inspired by Michael Crichton’s West­world. Moon-Shaped Pool’s “Burn the Witch,” on the oth­er hand, looks like a clas­sic 50s Ham­mer Hor­ror poster, but with a nod to Robin Hardy’s 1973 Wick­er Man. (Both Crich­ton and Hardy have like­wise been re-imag­ined for audi­ences who may nev­er have seen the orig­i­nals.)

Per­haps the least inter­est­ing of Alcott’s riffs on the Radio­head cat­a­log, “Jig­saw Falling into Place,” goes right for the obvi­ous, though its idyl­lic, Bob Ross-like scene strikes a dis­so­nant chord in illus­trat­ing a song that ref­er­ences closed cir­cuit cam­eras and sawn-off shot­guns. Speak­ing of obvi­ous, maybe it seemed too on the nose to turn “Creep” into creepy pulp erot­i­ca. Still, I won­der how Alcott resist­ed. View and pur­chase in hand­made print form all of Alcott’s songs-as-book cov­ers, etc. at Etsy.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Songs by David Bowie, Elvis Costel­lo, Talk­ing Heads & More Re-Imag­ined as Pulp Fic­tion Book Cov­ers

Clas­sic Songs by Bob Dylan Re-Imag­ined as Pulp Fic­tion Book Cov­ers: “Like a Rolling Stone,” “A Hard Rain’s A‑Gonna Fall” & More

7 Rock Album Cov­ers Designed by Icon­ic Artists: Warhol, Rauschen­berg, Dalí, Richter, Map­plethor­pe & More

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

Download 586 Free Art Books from The Metropolitan Museum of Art

Met 1

You could pay $118 on Ama­zon for the Met­ro­pol­i­tan Muse­um of Art’s cat­a­log The Art of Illu­mi­na­tion: The Lim­bourg Broth­ers and the Belles Heures of Jean de France, Duc de Berry. Or you could pay $0 to down­load it at Met­Pub­li­ca­tions, the site offer­ing “five decades of Met Muse­um pub­li­ca­tions on art his­to­ry avail­able to read, down­load, and/or search for free.”

If that strikes you as an obvi­ous choice, pre­pare to spend some seri­ous time brows­ing Met­Pub­li­ca­tions’ col­lec­tion of free art books and cat­a­logs.

You may remem­ber that we fea­tured the site a few years ago, back when it offered 397 whole books free for the read­ing, includ­ing Amer­i­can Impres­sion­ism and Real­ism: The Paint­ing of Mod­ern Life, 1885–1915; Leonar­do da Vin­ci: Anatom­i­cal Draw­ings from the Roy­al Library; and Wis­dom Embod­ied: Chi­nese Bud­dhist and Daoist Sculp­ture in The Met­ro­pol­i­tan Muse­um of Art

But the Met has kept adding to their dig­i­tal trove since then, and, as a result, you can now find there no few­er than 586 art cat­a­logs and oth­er books besides. Those sit along­side the 400,000 free art images the muse­um put online last year.

met museum free art books

So have a look at Met­Pub­li­ca­tions’ cur­rent col­lec­tion and you’ll find you now have unlim­it­ed access to such lush as well as artis­ti­cal­ly, cul­tur­al­ly, and his­tor­i­cal­ly var­ied vol­umes as African IvoriesChess: East and West, Past and PresentMod­ern Design in The Met­ro­pol­i­tan Muse­um of Art, 1890–1990; Vin­cent Van Gogh: The Draw­ings; French Art Deco; or even a guide to the muse­um itself (vin­tage 1972).

Since I haven’t yet turned to art col­lec­tion — I sup­pose you need mon­ey for that — these books don’t nec­es­sar­i­ly make me cov­et the vast sweep of art­works they depict and con­tex­tu­al­ize. But they do make me wish for some­thing even less prob­a­ble: a time machine so I could go back and see all these exhibits first­hand.

Note: This is an updat­ed ver­sion of a post that orig­i­nal­ly appeared on our site in March 2015.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

1.8 Mil­lion Free Works of Art from World-Class Muse­ums: A Meta List of Great Art Avail­able Online

Down­load Over 250 Free Art Books From the Get­ty Muse­um

2,000+ Archi­tec­ture & Art Books You Can Read Free at the Inter­net Archive

The Met­ro­pol­i­tan Muse­um of Art Puts 400,000 High-Res Images Online & Makes Them Free to Use

The Guggen­heim Puts 109 Free Mod­ern Art Books Online

800 Free eBooks for iPad, Kin­dle & Oth­er Devices

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Hear the Sounds of World War I: A Gas Attack Recorded on the Front Line, and the Moment the Armistice Ended the War

The world recent­ly com­mem­o­rat­ed the 100th anniver­sary of end of World War I, which came to its close on Novem­ber 11th, 1918. The last vet­er­ans of that unprece­dent­ed­ly large-scale mil­i­tary con­flict, all of them cen­te­nar­i­ans or super­cente­nar­i­ans, died in the late 2000s and ear­ly 2010s. Though his­tor­i­cal schol­ar­ship on the sub­ject con­tin­ues, the Great War, as it was wide­ly known at the time, has now well and tru­ly passed out of liv­ing mem­o­ry. No one alive saw World War I for them­selves, though we do have pho­tographs, some of them in col­or; and no one alive heard World War I for them­selves, though we do have a lit­tle record­ed audio: in the clip above, you can hear the sounds of a gas shell bom­bard­ment in the war’s final year.

“Just before the end of the Great War, William Gais­berg, a sound recordist of the pre-elec­tric era, took record­ing equip­ment to the West­ern Front in order to cap­ture the sound of British artillery shelling Ger­man lines with poi­son gas,” writes media his­to­ri­an Bri­an Han­ra­han at Sound­ing Out!. The “Gas Shell Bom­bard­ment” record, “a 12-inch HMV shel­lac disc, just over 2 min­utes at 78 rpm,” came out just as the war end­ed, a few weeks after Gais­berg’s own death (prob­a­bly of Span­ish flu) and just after the end of the war itself. “Ini­tial­ly intend­ed to pro­mote War Bonds,” Han­ra­han explains, ulti­mate­ly the record was used to raise mon­ey for dis­abled vet­er­ans.”

Long billed as one of the first “actu­al­i­ty record­ings” (the kind “doc­u­ment­ing a real loca­tion and event beyond the per­for­ma­tive space of the stu­dio, imprint­ed with the audi­ble mate­r­i­al trace of an actu­al moment in space and time”), the record lat­er came under scruti­ny, which Han­ra­han writes about in detail: “Close lis­ten­ing at slow speeds – just care­ful atten­tion and nota­tion, noth­ing more elab­o­rate – revealed incon­sis­ten­cies and odd­i­ties in the fir­ing nois­es.” These and oth­er qual­i­ties sug­gest lay­ers of sound added after the fact, on top of the ini­tial record­ing in the field, much like live con­cert record­ings now get “sweet­ened” with addi­tion­al lay­ers of instru­men­ta­tion (and even audi­ence enthu­si­asm).

But we can hard­ly expect per­fect fideli­ty from audio record­ings of the events of a cen­tu­ry ago, a time when audio record­ing itself was still in its infan­cy. You can hear anoth­er approach to the task of hear­ing World War I in the clip just above, an “inter­pre­ta­tion” of the sound of the armistice caus­ing the guns to fall silent. This real­is­tic minute of sound was based on sound infor­ma­tion col­lect­ed in the field, using a tech­nique called “sound rang­ing” in which, as Smith­son­ian’s Jason Daley explains, “tech­ni­cians set up strings of micro­phones — actu­al­ly bar­rels of oil dug into the ground — a cer­tain dis­tance apart, then used a piece of pho­to­graph­ic film to visu­al­ly record noise inten­si­ty,” much as “a seis­mome­ter records an earth­quake.”

As part of its com­mem­o­ra­tion of the armistice’s cen­ten­ni­al, London’s Impe­r­i­al War Muse­um “com­mis­sioned the sound pro­duc­tion com­pa­ny Coda to Coda to use the film strip of the guns fir­ing away at 10:58 A.M. on Novem­ber 11, 1918, then going silent when the clock strikes 11, the sym­bol­ic moment politi­cians deter­mined the war would end, to try and recre­ate what that instant may have sound­ed like.” Though you can hear the result on the inter­net, you can also go to the Impe­r­i­al War Muse­um exhi­bi­tion Mak­ing a New World in per­son and more intense­ly expe­ri­ence it through the “sound­bar” installed there, on which “vis­i­tors to the exhib­it lean their elbows on the bar and place their hands on their ears. The sound is then con­duct­ed through their arms to their skulls where they can both hear and feel the moment,” the moment that birthed that “New World” — in not just the polit­i­cal sense but the tech­no­log­i­cal one, and many oth­ers besides — in which we still live today.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Peter Jackson’s New Film on World War I Fea­tures Incred­i­ble Dig­i­tal­ly-Restored Footage From the Front Lines: Get a Glimpse

Watch World War I Unfold in a 6 Minute Time-Lapse Film: Every Day From 1914 to 1918

The Great War: Video Series Will Doc­u­ment How WWI Unfold­ed, Week-by-Week, for the Next 4 Years

The First Col­or Pho­tos From World War I: The Ger­man Front

British Actors Read Poignant Poet­ry from World War I

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Watch “The Midnight Parasites,” a Surreal Japanese Animation Set in the World of Hieronymus Bosch’s The Garden of Earthly Delights (1972)

Hierony­mus Bosch’s bizarre paint­ings might have looked per­fect­ly ordi­nary to his con­tem­po­raries, argues Stan­ley Meisler in “The World of Bosch.” Mod­ern view­ers may find this very hard to believe. We approach Bosch through lay­ers of Freudi­an inter­pre­ta­tion and Sur­re­al­ist appre­ci­a­tion. We can­not help “regard­ing the scores of bizarre monsters”—allegories for sins and pun­ish­ments far more leg­i­ble in 15th-cen­tu­ry Netherlands—“as a kind of dark and cru­el com­ic relief.”

While Bosch might have intend­ed his work as seri­ous ser­mo­niz­ing, it is impos­si­ble for us to inhab­it the medieval con­scious­ness of his time and place. There’s just no get­ting around the fact that Bosch is real­ly weird—weird­er even (or more imag­i­na­tive­ly alle­gor­i­cal) than near­ly any oth­er artist of his time. In some very impor­tant ways, he belongs to a 20th-cen­tu­ry aes­thet­ic of post-Freudi­an dream log­ic as much as he belonged to pecu­liar medieval visions of heav­en and hell.

Bosch “described ter­ri­ble, unbear­able holo­causts crush­ing mankind for its sins,” writes Meisler, visions that seemed both stranger and more famil­iar in the wake of so many man-made holo­causts whose absur­di­ties defy rea­son. What mod­ern hor­rors does famed Japan­ese ani­ma­tor Yōji Kuri invoke in his psy­che­del­ic 1972 film “The Mid­night Par­a­sites,” above, a sur­re­al­ist short set in the world of Bosch?

Dan­ger­ous Minds’ Paul Gal­lagher describes the plot, such as it is:

Here Kuri imag­ines what would life might be like if we all lived in Bosch’s paint­ing “Gar­den of Earth­ly Delights.” It’s a basi­cal­ly shit and death or rather a cycle of life where blue fig­ures live and die; eat shit and shit gold; are skew­ered, and devoured; are regur­gi­tat­ed and reborn to car­ry on the cycle once again.

Kuri’s satir­i­cal vision, in films long favored by counter-cul­tur­al audi­ences, has “bite,” writes Ani­ma­tion World Network’s Chris Robin­son: “he helped lift Japan­ese ani­ma­tion out of decades of cozy nar­ra­tive car­toons into a new era of graph­ic and con­cep­tu­al exper­i­men­ta­tion. His films mock and shock, attack­ing tech­nol­o­gy, pop­u­la­tion expan­sion, monot­o­ny of mod­ern soci­ety… Wit­ness­ing the sur­ren­der of Japan dur­ing WW2, the dev­as­ta­tion of his coun­try fol­lowed by the quick rise of West­ern inspired mate­ri­al­ist cul­ture and ram­pant con­sump­tion, Kuri, like many of his col­leagues at the time, ques­tioned the state and direc­tion of his soci­ety and world.”

His cre­ative appro­pri­a­tion of Bosch, “dark, dirty, odd­ly beau­ti­ful, with a groovy sound­track,” Gal­lagher writes, may not, as Meisler wor­ries of many mod­ern takes, get Bosch wrong at all. Though the Dutch artist’s sym­bol­ism may nev­er be comprehensible—or any­thing less than hallucinatory—to us mod­erns, Kuri’s half-play­ful reimag­in­ing uses Boschi­an fig­ures for some seri­ous mor­al­iz­ing, show­ing us a hell world gov­erned by grave laps­es and cru­el­ties Bosch could nev­er have imag­ined.

via Dan­ger­ous Minds

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Fig­ures from Hierony­mus Bosch’s “The Gar­den of Earth­ly Delights” Come to Life as Fine Art Piñatas

Hierony­mus Bosch Fig­urines: Col­lect Sur­re­al Char­ac­ters from Bosch’s Paint­ings & Put Them on Your Book­shelf

Take a Vir­tu­al Tour of Hierony­mus Bosch’s Bewil­der­ing Mas­ter­piece The Gar­den of Earth­ly Delights

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

Glenn Gould’s Heavily Marked-Up Score for the Goldberg Variations Surfaces, Letting Us Look Inside His Creative Process

Does it make sense to call Glenn Gould, that most prodi­gious and unusu­al inter­preter of clas­si­cal piano, a com­pos­er? While his radio doc­u­men­tary tril­o­gy should earn him the title, his clas­si­cal per­for­mances and record­ings remain bound—albeit some­times mad­den­ing­ly loose­ly for cer­tain tastes—to the work of oth­ers, whether Mozart, Schoen­berg, Strauss, Sibelius, Beethoven, Brahms, or J.S. Bach, who pro­vid­ed Gould with the mate­r­i­al that would launch his career, the “Gold­berg” Vari­a­tions, which he first record­ed at 22 in 1955 to wide­spread acclaim and admi­ra­tion. His debut became one of the best-sell­ing clas­si­cal albums of all time.

Famous­ly Gould made anoth­er record­ing of the “Gold­berg” in 1981, the year before his ear­ly death at 50, “leav­ing the two Bach state­ments as book­ends to his career,” writes Michael Coop­er at The New York Times. Gould revered the com­posers he record­ed and expound­ed on their virtues at length in writ­ten, tele­vised, and broad­cast com­men­taries. This was espe­cial­ly the case with Bach, whom he described as “first and last an archi­tect, a con­struc­tor of sound, and what makes him so ines­timably valu­able to us is that he was beyond a doubt the great­est archi­tect of sound who ever lived.”

The Cana­di­an pianist was more than con­tent to devote his life to oth­ers’ con­struc­tions of sound, rather than try­ing his hand at writ­ing them him­self, but if Bach was an archi­tect of sound, we might com­pare Gould to a director—a metic­u­lous auteur with a sin­gu­lar and soli­tary vision. Take his heav­i­ly marked up score for the 1981 “Gold­berg,” above, recent­ly resur­faced and des­tined for auc­tion on Decem­ber 5th at Bon­hams in New York. “I would call this the equiv­a­lent of a shoot­ing script of a movie,” com­ments crit­ic and Uni­ver­si­ty of South­ern Cal­i­for­nia pro­fes­sor Tim Page.

Gould chose the stu­dio over live per­for­mance ear­ly in his career, find­ing that the con­trolled expe­ri­ence of recording—the abil­i­ty to do mul­ti­ple takes and edit them togeth­er in a kind of nar­ra­tive dynamic—provided him with max­i­mum cre­ative free­dom. His 1981 “Gold­berg,” “elec­tri­fied the clas­si­cal music world near­ly as much as his clas­sic 1955 record­ing had,” writes pianist Antho­ny Tom­masi­ni. His record­ings res­onate far out­side the clas­si­cal world, such that a Toron­to hip-hop pro­duc­er has even remixed his work.

There is anoth­er case for think­ing of Gould him­self as some­thing of a mod­ern producer/remixer—of oth­er com­posers’ works and of his own per­for­mances. Page, who knew Gould well, spec­u­lates that he would have loved the inter­net. “I bet, with­out any inter­fer­ence,” he says, “Glenn would have record­ed three or four dif­fer­ent ver­sions of the same piece and put them all out there for peo­ple to lis­ten to and even chose from.” He took to mod­ern tech­niques and tech­nolo­gies with­out reser­va­tion.

Gould’s friend­li­ness to moder­ni­ty, and its enthu­si­as­tic embrace of him, makes him seem like so much more than a pianist, and of course, he was. But we should also con­sid­er him—and all great clas­si­cal interpreters—as at least a co-com­pos­er, a role as old as clas­si­cal music itself. As pianist Jere­my Denk writes, each score is “at once a book and a book wait­ing to be writ­ten.” (Tom­masi­ni points out that “Bach’s scores leave much to the choic­es and tastes of per­form­ers,” and in the case of “Gold­berg,” we have only recon­struc­tions of the orig­i­nal.) The Vari­a­tions, after all, are not named for Bach, but for vir­tu­oso harp­si­chordist Johann Got­tlieb Gold­berg, like­ly the orig­i­nal per­former of the piece.

The par­tic­u­lar­ly idio­syn­crat­ic approach of a pianist like Gould, writes Denk, with much ambiva­lence, “found per­ver­si­ty in the music and teased it out, but most­ly he just slathered it on; piece after piece, he made bril­liant but deeply unin­tu­itive, ‘unnat­ur­al’ choic­es, and made them work through sheer force of will.” Now, in his 1981 “Gold­berg” score, fans and schol­ars can see for them­selves how much delib­er­a­tion was involved in his appar­ent will­ful­ness.

In Gould’s inter­pre­ta­tions, we can­not sep­a­rate the play­er from the work. “He immor­tal­ized his pho­bias,” his pas­sions, and his per­son­al eccen­tric­i­ties, Denk writes, “by graft­ing them onto Bach,” with the effect that his record­ings “erase the dis­tance of cen­turies; they dis­solve the var­nish that has piled up, and make Bach one with the anx­i­eties of the present.” See Gould record­ing his 1981 “Gold­berg” Vari­a­tions fur­ther up, and read about the 2015 tran­scrip­tion of the record­ing by Nicholas Hop­kins here.

via NYTimes/@stevesilberman

Relat­ed Con­tent:

How Glenn Gould’s Eccen­tric­i­ties Became Essen­tial to His Play­ing & Per­son­al Style: From Hum­ming Aloud While Play­ing to Per­form­ing with His Child­hood Piano Chair

Watch a 27-Year-Old Glenn Gould Play Bach & Put His Musi­cal Genius on Dis­play (1959)

Glenn Gould: Off and On the Record: Two Short Films About the Life & Music of the Eccen­tric Musi­cian

Lis­ten to Glenn Gould’s Shock­ing­ly Exper­i­men­tal Radio Doc­u­men­tary, The Idea of North (1967)

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

An Animated Introduction to the Forgotten Pioneer in Quantum Theory, Grete Hermann

From Aeon Video comes a short, vivid­ly-ani­mat­ed trib­ute to Grete Her­mann (1901–1984), the Ger­man math­e­mati­cian and philoso­pher who made impor­tant, but often for­got­ten, con­tri­bu­tions to quan­tum mechan­ics. Aeon intro­duces the video with these words:

In the ear­ly 20th cen­tu­ry, New­ton­ian physics was upend­ed by exper­i­ments that revealed a bizarre sub­atom­ic uni­verse rid­dled with pecu­liar­i­ties and incon­sis­ten­cies. Why do pho­tons and elec­trons behave as both par­ti­cles and waves? Why should the act of obser­va­tion affect the behav­iour of phys­i­cal sys­tems? More than just a puz­zle for sci­en­tists to sort out, this quan­tum strange­ness had unset­tling impli­ca­tions for our under­stand­ing of real­i­ty, includ­ing the very con­cept of truth.

The Ger­man math­e­mati­cian and philoso­pher Grete Her­mann offered some intrigu­ing and orig­i­nal answers to these puz­zles. In a quan­tum uni­verse, she argued, the notion of absolute truth must be aban­doned in favour of a frag­ment­ed view – one in which the way we mea­sure the world affects the slice of it that we can see. She referred to this idea as the ‘split­ting of truth’, and believed it extend­ed far beyond the lab­o­ra­to­ry walls and into every­day life. With a strik­ing visu­al style inspired by the mod­ern art of Hermann’s era, this Aeon Orig­i­nal video explores one of Hermann’s pro­found but under­val­ued con­tri­bu­tions to quan­tum the­o­ry – as well as her own split life as an anti-Nazi activist, social jus­tice reformer and edu­ca­tor.

The short was direct­ed and ani­mat­ed by Julie Gratz and Ivo Stoop, and pro­duced by Kellen Quinn.

via Aeon

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Relat­ed Con­tent:

Free Online Physics Cours­es

“The Matil­da Effect”: How Pio­neer­ing Women Sci­en­tists Have Been Denied Recog­ni­tion and Writ­ten Out of Sci­ence His­to­ry

Read the “Don’t Let the Bas­tards Get You Down” Let­ter That Albert Ein­stein Sent to Marie Curie Dur­ing a Time of Per­son­al Cri­sis (1911)

Marie Curie Attend­ed a Secret, Under­ground “Fly­ing Uni­ver­si­ty” When Women Were Banned from Pol­ish Uni­ver­si­ties

Pop Art Posters Cel­e­brate Pio­neer­ing Women Sci­en­tists: Down­load Free Posters of Marie Curie, Ada Lovelace & More

The Ency­clo­pe­dia of Women Philoso­phers: A New Web Site Presents the Con­tri­bu­tions of Women Philoso­phers, from Ancient to Mod­ern

The Captivating Story Behind the Making of Ansel Adams’ Most Famous Photograph, Moonrise, Hernandez, New Mexico

Ansel Adams cap­tured many an Amer­i­can land­scape as no pho­tog­ra­ph­er had before or has since, but in his large cat­a­log you’ll find few pic­tures as imme­di­ate­ly strik­ing as — and none more famous than — Moon­rise, Her­nan­dez, New Mex­i­co. Orig­i­nal­ly tak­en from the shoul­der of a high­way pass­ing through the com­mu­ni­ty of Her­nan­dez in 1941, the shot cap­tures the moon ris­ing above a clus­ter of hous­es, a church with a grave­yard, and a moun­tain range in the back­ground. All of those might seem like pret­ty stan­dard ele­ments of a remote part of Amer­i­ca in that era, but the sheer visu­al impact Adams draws from them shows what sep­a­rates a road-trip snap­shot from the work of a ded­i­cat­ed pho­tog­ra­ph­er.

Few pho­tog­ra­phers in the his­to­ry of the medi­um have been quite as ded­i­cat­ed as Adams, whose tech­niques we’ve pre­vi­ous­ly fea­tured here on Open Cul­ture. But as much as his delib­er­ate­ness and patience have become the stuff of pho­to­graph­ic leg­end, Moon­rise was very much a seat-of-the-pants achieve­ment.

Adams was dri­ving around the west with his son Michael and friend Cedric Wright at the behest of Sec­re­tary of the Inte­ri­or Harold Ick­es, who had com­mis­sioned Adams to pro­duce large-for­mat pho­tographs for the Depart­ment of the Inte­ri­or’s new muse­um. Toward the end of one not par­tic­u­lar­ly pro­duc­tive day on the job came the big moment. As Adams him­self tells it in Exam­ples: The Mak­ing of Forty Pho­tographs:

We were sail­ing south­ward along the high­way not far from Espanola when I glanced to the left and saw an extra­or­di­nary sit­u­a­tion — an inevitable pho­to­graph! I almost ditched the car and rushed to set up my 8×10 cam­era. I was yelling to my com­pan­ions to bring me things from the car as I strug­gled to change com­po­nents on my Cooke Triple-Con­vert­ible lens. I had a clear visu­al­iza­tion of the image I want­ed, but when the Wrat­ten No. 15 (G) fil­ter and the film hold­er were in place, I could not find my West­on expo­sure meter! The sit­u­a­tion was des­per­ate: the low sun was trail­ing the edge of the clouds in the west, and shad­ow would soon dim the white cross­es.

While an expe­ri­enced pho­tog­ra­ph­er today prob­a­bly won’t have used the same gear as Adams, they’ll cer­tain­ly rec­og­nize the dread­ful feel­ing of being about to lose a pre­cious image. What came to the res­cue of Moon­rise was­n’t any piece of Adams’ equip­ment — he nev­er did find that light meter — but the fact that he’d already spent so much time immersed so deeply in the prac­tice of pho­tog­ra­phy that he could set up and load his cam­era as if by pure instinct. Then, when he remem­bered that he knew the lumi­nos­i­ty of the moon (250 foot can­dles, for the record), he could cal­cu­late the prop­er expo­sure for the image he’d already visu­al­ized in his head: one with a bright moon and just enough light on the ground to make the cross­es in the church­yard glow.

You can learn more about the mak­ing and nature of Adams’ best-known pho­to­graph, prints of which com­mand high prices at auc­tion to this day, in the three videos here: first Adams’ own descrip­tion of his process mak­ing it, then a short by the Ansel Adams Gallery exam­in­ing a rare “mur­al-sized” print from the ear­ly 1970s, then a look into the pic­ture’s back­sto­ry by Swann Auc­tion Gal­leries. The tale of the pic­ture’s tak­ing, dra­mat­ic though it is, does­n’t quite con­vey the full extent of the pho­to­graph­ic work it took to cre­ate the image known to every­one famil­iar with Adams’ work (and many who aren’t famil­iar with it): he also had to go through quite a bit of tri­al and error in the devel­op­ment process to imbue the sky with just the right dark­ness. If any pho­tog­ra­ph­er could pro­duce Moon­rise, Her­nan­dez, New Mex­i­co, Ansel Adams could. But we might reflect on the fact that even a mas­ter like Ansel Adams only had one Moon­rise, Her­nan­dez, New Mex­i­co in his career — and even he almost missed it.

via Petapix­el

Relat­ed Con­tent:

226 Ansel Adams Pho­tographs of Great Amer­i­can Nation­al Parks Are Now Online

How to Take Pho­tographs Like Ansel Adams: The Mas­ter Explains The Art of “Visu­al­iza­tion”

200 Ansel Adams Pho­tographs Expose the Rig­ors of Life in Japan­ese Intern­ment Camps Dur­ing WW II

Ansel Adams, Pho­tog­ra­ph­er: 1958 Doc­u­men­tary Cap­tures the Cre­ative Process of the Icon­ic Amer­i­can Pho­tog­ra­ph­er

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Watch the First Film Adaptation of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein (1910): It’s Newly Restored by the Library of Congress

In his Cri­tique of Judg­ment Immanuel Kant made every attempt to sep­a­rate the Sublime—the phe­nom­e­non that inspires rev­er­ence, awe, and imagination—from ter­ror, hor­ror, and mon­stros­i­ty. But as Bar­bara Free­man argues, the dis­tinc­tions fall apart. Nowhere do we see this bet­ter dra­ma­tized, Free­man writes, than in Mary Shelley’s Franken­stein, which “can be read almost as a par­o­dy of the Cri­tique of Judg­ment, for in it every­thing Kant iden­ti­fies with or as sub­lime… yield pre­cise­ly what Kant pro­hibits: ter­ror, mon­stros­i­ty, pas­sion, and fanati­cism.”

Rea­son, even that as care­ful as Kan­t’s, begets mon­sters, Shel­ley sug­gests. It’s a theme that has become so com­mon­place in writ­ing about Franken­stein and its numer­ous prog­e­ny that it seems hard­ly worth repeat­ing. And yet, Shelley’s dark vision, like that of her con­tem­po­rary Fran­cis­co Goya, came at a time when elec­tric­i­ty was a new force in the world (one that her hus­band Per­cy used to con­duct exper­i­ments on him­self)… a time when Kant’s phi­los­o­phy had seem­ing­ly val­i­dat­ed empir­i­cal real­ism and the pri­ma­cy of abstract rea­son.

Steeped in the lat­est sci­ence and phi­los­o­phy, and liv­ing on the oth­er side of the French Rev­o­lu­tion, Shel­ley saw the return of what Kant had sought to ban­ish. The mon­ster arrives as an omi­nous por­tent of atroc­i­ty. As Steven J. Kraftchick points out in a recent anthol­o­gy of Franken­stein essays pub­lished for the novel’s 200th anniver­sary, “the Eng­lish term ‘mon­ster’ (by way of French) like­ly derives from the Latin words mon­trare ‘to demon­strate’ and mon­ere ‘to warn.’” The mon­ster comes to show “the lim­its of the ordi­nary… expand­ing or con­tract­ing.”

As a being intend­ed to show us some­thing, it seems apt that Vic­tor Frankenstein’s cre­ation became ubiq­ui­tous in film and tele­vi­sion, first arriv­ing on screen in 1910 at the dawn­ing of film as a pop­u­lar medi­um. The first Franken­stein adap­ta­tion pre­dates the tech­no­log­i­cal hor­rors of the 20th cen­tu­ry (them­selves, of course, well doc­u­ment­ed on film). Rather than tak­ing tech­nol­o­gy to task direct­ly, this orig­i­nal cin­e­mat­ic adap­ta­tion, direct­ed by J. Sear­le Daw­ley for Thomas Edison’s stu­dios, vague­ly illus­trates, as Rich Drees writes, “the dan­gers of tam­per­ing in God’s realm.”

It was a trite mes­sage tai­lored for cen­so­ri­ous moral reform­ers who had tak­en aim at the mov­ing image’s sup­pos­ed­ly cor­rupt­ing effect on impres­sion­able minds. And yet the film does more than inau­gu­rate a cin­e­mat­ic tra­di­tion of bet­ter Franken­stein adap­ta­tions, both faith­ful and lib­er­al­ly mod­ern­ized. The cre­ation of the mon­ster in the 13-minute short is some­what terrifying—and cer­tain­ly would have unset­tled audi­ences at the time. Sig­nif­i­cant­ly, it takes place in giant black box, with a small win­dow through which Vic­tor peers as the spe­cial effects unfold.

The scene is not unlike a film direc­tor look­ing through a colos­sal camera’s lens, fur­ther sug­gest­ing the dan­ger­ous influ­ence of film, its abil­i­ty to pro­duce and cap­ture mon­strosi­ties. The Library of Congress’s Mike Mashon describes the Edi­son pro­duc­tion of Franken­stein as not “all that rev­e­la­to­ry.” Maybe with the ben­e­fit of 108 years of hind­sight, it is not. But as a cri­tique of the very tech­nol­o­gy that pro­duced it, we can see it updat­ing Shelley’s anx­i­eties, antic­i­pat­ing the ways in which Franken­stein-like sto­ries have come to tele­graph fears of com­put­er intel­li­gence, in films increas­ing­ly cre­at­ed by intel­li­gent machines.

This 1910 Franken­stein film has been restored by the Library of Con­gress, and Mashon’s sto­ry of how the only nitrate print was acquired by the library’s Packard Cam­pus for Audio Visu­al Con­ser­va­tion may be, he writes, “more inter­est­ing than the film itself.” Or it may not, depend­ing on your lev­el of inter­est in the twists and turns of library acqui­si­tions. But the film, which you can see in its restored glo­ry at the top, rewards view­ing as more than a cin­e­ma-his­tor­i­cal arti­fact. Its effects are crude, its sim­pli­fied sto­ry moral­is­tic, but this trun­cat­ed ver­sion can­ni­ly rec­og­nizes the hor­rif­ic crea­ture not as the exclud­ed oth­er but as the mon­strous mir­ror image of its cre­ator.

via Indiewire

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Very First Film Adap­ta­tion of Mary Shelley’s Franken­stein, a Thomas Edi­son Pro­duc­tion (1910)

Mary Shelley’s Hand­writ­ten Man­u­scripts of Franken­stein Now Online for the First Time

The First Hor­ror Film, George Méliès’ The Manor of the Dev­il (1896)

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

A New Christmas Commercial Takes You on a Sentimental Journey Through Elton John’s Rich Musical Life

The Bitch is Back…or is he?

Yes, Elton John is spend­ing the next cou­ple of years bid­ding adieu to fans on his Good­bye Yel­low Brick Road world tour.

And yes, there’s a soon-to-be released biopic, Rock­et­man.

On the oth­er hand, there’s the ridicu­lous­ly pneu­mat­ic two-minute tele­vi­sion com­mer­cial above, upscale depart­ment store John Lewis’s attempt to best rivals Sainsbury’s and Marks & Spencer in the unof­fi­cial British hol­i­day advert bowl.

These annu­al pro­duc­tions are as hot­ly antic­i­pat­ed as Super­bowl ads, but this year’s entry, in which view­ers trav­el back­wards in time near­ly 70 years to the three-year-old Elton (née Regi­nald Dwight) receiv­ing a (SPOILER!) piano from his granny, has proved a bit of a mis­fire.

View­ers are flock­ing to social media to lam­bast the ad for inad­ver­tent­ly sug­gest­ing that Elton John is the rea­son for the sea­son. (Pop­u­lar sub­jects from Christ­mases past include Padding­ton Bear, pen­guins, and box­er dogs.)

There’s also a bit of cyn­i­cism sur­round­ing the fact that John Lewis hus­tled to add dig­i­tal key­boards to its inven­to­ry pri­or to the release of “The Boy And The Piano”…

And then there’s the rumor that Sir Elton took home £5 mil­lion for his par­tic­i­pa­tion in the four day shoot.

Sev­er­al of the star’s most out­ré looks have been faith­ful­ly recre­at­ed, but, Christ­mas aside, it’s hard not to feel that this por­trait is rather too san­i­tized. You won’t find any friends rolling ‘round the base­ment floor here. His dad, an RAF offi­cer with whom he had a thorny rela­tion­ship is sim­i­lar­ly strick­en from the record. There’s nary a whis­per of drugs or diva-esque behav­ior.


As colum­nist Stu­art Her­itage notes in The Guardian before offer­ing a hilar­i­ous allit­er­a­tive script in which Sir Elton screams pro­fan­i­ties, flings vas­es, and bad­mouths Madon­na:

Elton John isn’t a great pop star because he sings songs about lit­tle dancers, croc­o­diles that rock, and being able to stand up. No, Elton John is a great pop star because he is knot­ty and com­pli­cat­ed and, well, a bit of a dick some­times.

A num­ber of spoofs have already cropped up, and nat­u­ral­ly there’s a Mak­ing Of, below—also set to “Your Song”—wherein the young actors who embod­ied Sir Elton at var­i­ous stages of his life and career, some­times with the help of pros­thet­ics, hold forth.

Also… while we don’t dis­miss out of hand the pos­si­bil­i­ty that sen­ti­men­tal attach­ment could have caused Sir Elton to hold on to his child­hood piano, we’ll eat our plat­form boots if that’s what con­sti­tutes his Christ­mas tree.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Elton John Sings His Clas­sic Hit ‘Your Song’ Through the Years

Enjoy a Blue­grass Per­for­mance of Elton John’s 1972 Hit, “Rock­et Man”

Elton John Proves He Can Turn any Text into a Song: Watch Him Impro­vise with Lines from Hen­rik Ibsen’s Play, Peer Gynt

Sell & Spin: The His­to­ry of Adver­tis­ing, Nar­rat­ed by Dick Cavett (1999)

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, the­ater mak­er and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine.  Join her in NYC this Decem­ber for the 10th anniver­sary pro­duc­tion of Greg Kotis’ apoc­a­lyp­tic hol­i­day tale, The Truth About San­ta, and the next month­ly install­ment of her book-based vari­ety show, Necro­mancers of the Pub­lic Domain. Fol­low her @AyunHalliday.


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