NASA Archive Collects Great Time-Lapse Videos of our Planet

Here’s the lat­est video release from NASA, and it’s anoth­er won­drous time-lapse film from the Inter­nal Space Sta­tion. It’s called “Earth Illu­mi­nat­ed.” If you could sit back and enjoy these videos for hours, you’re in luck. NASA has cre­at­ed a web­site — The Gate­way to Astro­naut Pho­tog­ra­phy of Earth — that brings togeth­er all of its images, still and mov­ing. You can find pho­tographs here and time-lapse videos like “Earth Illu­mi­nat­ed” here. Or you can skip to the Week­ly Top Ten sec­tion, where NASA lists the ten most down­loaded images from the Gate­way with­in the past week. Enjoy.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Neil deGrasse Tyson Deliv­ers the Great­est Sci­ence Ser­mon Ever

Super­mas­sive Black Hole Shreds a Star, and You Get to Watch

125 Great Sci­ence Videos: From Astron­o­my to Physics & Psy­chol­o­gy

Django Reinhardt and the Inspiring Story Behind His Guitar Technique

When you hear the gui­tar play­ing of Djan­go Rein­hardt, with its flu­id phras­ing and light­ning-fast arpeg­gios, it’s incred­i­ble to think that he had only two good fin­gers on his left hand.

When Rein­hardt was 18 years old he was bad­ly burned in a fire. It was late on the night of Novem­ber 2, 1928. The young gui­tarist was at home with his com­mon-law wife, Bel­la, in their gyp­sy car­a­van on the edge of Paris. To scrape togeth­er a lit­tle mon­ey, Bel­la had been mak­ing arti­fi­cial flow­ers out of paper and high­ly flam­ma­ble cel­lu­loid. When Djan­go acci­dent­ly knocked over a can­dle, the mate­r­i­al from the flow­ers ignit­ed and the trail­er was quick­ly engulfed in flames.

They both sur­vived, but Djan­go would spend the next 18 months recov­er­ing from ter­ri­ble injuries. When a doc­tor expressed inter­est in ampu­tat­ing his right leg, Rein­hardt left the hos­pi­tal and moved into a nurs­ing home, where he even­tu­al­ly got bet­ter. The two small­est fin­gers on his left hand–crucial to a gui­tarist for artic­u­lat­ing notes on the fretboard–were par­a­lyzed. A less­er musi­cian would have giv­en up, but Rein­hardt over­came the lim­i­ta­tion by invent­ing his own method of play­ing. With his two good fin­gers he moved rapid­ly up and down the gui­tar neck while mak­ing very lim­it­ed use of his two shriv­eled fin­gers on chords, dou­ble-stops and triple-stops. He rose above his hand­i­cap to cre­ate one of the most dis­tinc­tive instru­men­tal styles in 20th cen­tu­ry music.

For a rare look at Rein­hardt’s amaz­ing tech­nique, watch the excerpt above from the 1938 short film, Jazz “Hot.”  It fea­tures Rein­hardt with vio­lin­ist Stéphane Grap­pel­li and their band, Quin­tette du Hot Club de France, play­ing a swing ver­sion of the pop­u­lar song “J’at­tendrai.” (It means “I will wait.”)

If you would like to sup­port the mis­sion of Open Cul­ture, con­sid­er mak­ing a dona­tion to our site. It’s hard to rely 100% on ads, and your con­tri­bu­tions will help us con­tin­ue pro­vid­ing the best free cul­tur­al and edu­ca­tion­al mate­ri­als to learn­ers every­where. You can con­tribute through Pay­Pal, Patre­on, and Ven­mo (@openculture). Thanks!

Fear and Loathing on the Road to Hollywood: The BBC’s 1978 Portrait of Hunter S. Thompson

“It’s been four years, maybe five,” mut­ters artist Ralph Stead­man as his flight descends into Col­orado. “I don’t know what the man has done since then. He may have ter­ri­ble brain dam­age.” He speaks of a famous col­lab­o­ra­tor, a writer whose ver­bal style the cul­ture has linked for­ev­er with Stead­man’s own visu­al style. “He has these mace guns and CO2 fire extin­guish­ers, which he usu­al­ly just aims at peo­ple,” Stead­man’s voiceover con­tin­ues, and we know this col­lab­o­ra­tor could be none oth­er than Hunter S. Thomp­son, the impul­sive, drug- and firearm-lov­ing chron­i­cler of an Amer­i­can Dream gone sour.  Many of Stead­man’s fans no doubt found their way into his blotchy and grotesque but nev­er­the­less pre­cise­ly observed artis­tic world in the pages of Thomp­son’s best-known book, 1971’s Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas — or in those of its fol­low-up Fear and Loathing on the Cam­paign Trail ’72, or along­side his “gonzo” ground-break­ing arti­cle “The Ken­tucky Der­by is Deca­dent and Depraved.” Fear and Loathing on the Road to Hol­ly­wood, the BBC Omnibus doc­u­men­tary above, finds the men reunit­ing in 1978 to take a jour­ney into the heart of, if not the Amer­i­can Dream, then at least the osten­si­ble Amer­i­can “Dream Fac­to­ry.”

As Stead­man’s British, mid­dle-aged stolid­ness may seem sur­pris­ing giv­en the out-and-out insan­i­ty some see in his imagery, so Thomp­son’s famous­ly errat­ic behav­ior belies his words’ sober (as it were) indict­ment of Amer­i­ca. He wrote of Thomas Jef­fer­son­’s belief in Amer­i­ca as “a chance to start again [ .. ] a fan­tas­tic mon­u­ment to all the best instincts of the human race.” But alas, “instead, we just moved in here and destroyed the place from coast to coast like killer snails.” We see him cruise the Vegas strip, suf­fer a fit of para­noia by Grau­man’s Chi­nese The­ater (though I myself react sim­i­lar­ly to Hol­ly­wood Boule­vard), and take a meet­ing about the film that may or may not have become Where the Buf­fa­lo Roam, which fea­tured Bill Mur­ray in the Thomp­son­ian per­sona. We see archival footage of Mur­ray help­ing Thomp­son out with his sar­don­ic “Re-elect Nixon in 1980” cam­paign. We even see Thomp­son have a hotel-room sit-down with Nixon’s White House Coun­sel John Dean, who tes­ti­fied against the Pres­i­dent in the Water­gate tri­al. Between these seg­ments, Thomp­son reflects on the wild, sub­stance-fueled per­sona he cre­at­ed, and how it had got­ten away from him even then: “I’m real­ly in the way, as a per­son. The myth has tak­en over.” But he always had an eye on the next phase: at the doc­u­men­tary’s end, he draws up plans for the memo­r­i­al mount and can­non that would, 27 years lat­er, fire his ash­es high into the air.

[NOTE: Fear and Loathing on the Road to Hol­ly­wood’s nar­ra­tor refers to Thomp­son as a for­mer Hel­l’s Angel. In fact, he only rode along­side the Hel­l’s Angels, col­lect­ing mate­r­i­al for the book Hel­l’s Angels: The Strange and Ter­ri­ble Saga of the Out­law Motor­cy­cle Gangs. Remain­ing a non-mem­ber all the while, he even bought a British bike to dis­tin­guish him­self from the Harley-David­son-ded­i­cat­ed gang.]

Look for Fear and Loathing on the Road to Hol­ly­wood in our col­lec­tion of Free Doc­u­men­taries Online, part of our col­lec­tion of 635 Free Movies Online.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Crazy Nev­er Die: Hunter S. Thomp­son in Rare 1988 Doc­u­men­tary (NSFW)

Hunter S. Thompson’s The Rum Diary: a ‘Warped Casablan­ca’

Hunter S. Thomp­son Gets Con­front­ed by The Hell’s Angels

John­ny Depp Reads Let­ters from Hunter S. Thomp­son (NSFW)

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

Jon Hamm and Lena Dunham Unveil The New Yorker’s New iPhone App

In 2010, when The New York­er released its iPad app, Jason Schwartz­man made the com­ic pitch. Now comes the new iPhone app, and it’s Jon Hamm (Mad Men) and Lena Dun­ham (Tiny Fur­ni­ture film­mak­er and Girls cre­ator) doing the hon­ors. As The New York­er will tell you, the new app has “every sto­ry, every car­toon, every em dash, every illus­tra­tion” found in the mag­a­zine, plus extra audio and video fea­tures. Any­one with an iPhone can down­load this week’s issue for free. In the future, read­ers sub­scrib­ing to the mag­a­zine in print, iPad, and Kin­dle Fire for­mats will receive full access to the mobile app. Android users, don’t despair. It looks like the mag­a­zine will take care of your dig­i­tal needs down the line.…

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The New Yorker’s Fic­tion Pod­cast: Where Great Writ­ers Read Sto­ries by Great Writ­ers

Rare 1960s Audio: Stan­ley Kubrick’s Inter­view with The New York­er

The Story of the Guitar: The Complete Three-Part Documentary

It start­ed back in the 1950s. Bill Haley and Elvis burst onto the scene. Rock ‘n’ roll was born. The gui­tar took cen­ter stage, and it nev­er left. How the gui­tar came to “dom­i­nate the sound­track of our lives” is the sub­ject of The Sto­ry of the Gui­tar, a three part doc­u­men­tary nar­rat­ed by the BBC’s cre­ative direc­tor Alan Yen­tob.

The sto­ry of the gui­tar is, of course, a big one. The instru­ment, and its stringed pre­cur­sors, goes way back — all the way to the Greeks. And the influ­ence of the gui­tar can be felt far and wide. It plays a lead role in clas­si­cal music in Spain (and Chi­na); jazz in France (think Djan­go); the blues in the Mis­sis­sip­pi Delta, and beyond. Yen­tob paints the big­ger pic­ture for you in the first seg­ment, “In the Begin­ning” (above). Part II (Out of the Fry­ing Pan) focus­es on the big moment when the gui­tar went elec­tric. And Part III gets you up close and per­son­al with the mas­ters of the elec­tric gui­tar. The doc­u­men­tary fea­tures inter­views with Pink Floy­d’s David Gilmour, The Who’s Pete Town­shend, Iggy Pop, and The Edge from U2 (Part 1Part 2 and Part 3), to name a few. We’ve got more great gui­tar-relat­ed resources list­ed below. H/T Men­tal Floss

Part 2 — Out of the Fry­ing Pan

Part 3 — This Time it’s Per­son­al

Relat­ed Con­tent:

A His­to­ry of Rock ‘n’ Roll in 100 Riffs

Here Comes The Sun: The Lost Gui­tar Solo by George Har­ri­son

Mak­ing Fend­er Gui­tars, Then (1959) and Now (2012)

Jim­my Page Tells the Sto­ry of “Kash­mir”

Bob Dylan’s (In)Famous Elec­tric Gui­tar From the New­port Folk Fes­ti­val Dis­cov­ered?

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E.M. Forster: Why I Stopped Writing Novels (1958)

E.M. Forster’s lat­er years are some­thing of a rid­dle. After pub­lish­ing five nov­els, includ­ing the clas­sics A Pas­sage to India and Howards End, Forster stopped writ­ing fic­tion at the age of 45. He lived qui­et­ly for anoth­er 46 years and con­tin­ued to write essays, short biogra­phies and lit­er­ary jour­nal­ism — but no more nov­els.

The issues behind it are com­pli­cat­ed, says Forster in this excerpt from a 1958 BBC inter­view. “But I think one of the rea­sons why I stopped writ­ing nov­els,” he says, “is that the social aspect of the world changed so very much. I’d been accus­tomed to write about the old van­ished world with its homes and its fam­i­ly life and its com­par­a­tive peace. All of that went. And though I can think about it I can­not put it into fic­tion form.”

At the time of the inter­view Forster was an hon­orary fel­low at King’s Col­lege, Cam­bridge, where he lived the final 24 years of his life. He speaks of his life at Cam­bridge, and of his own lim­i­ta­tions as a writer, with a sin­cer­i­ty and human­i­ty that read­ers will rec­og­nize from his books.

Unseen Scenes from Jim Jarmusch’s 1986 Jailbreak Movie Down By Law

In 1980, Jim Jar­musch made his first fea­ture, Per­ma­nent Vaca­tion, an urban walk­a­bout that’s equal parts stark, alien­at­ed, and fun­ny. Four years lat­er came Stranger Than Par­adise, a film often com­pared to both Yasu­jiro Ozu and The Hon­ey­moon­ers, and the one that made his name in the cinephilic con­scious­ness. Faced with the job of fol­low­ing up this sur­pris­ing­ly (some would say shock­ing­ly) low-key hit, Jar­musch came up with 1986’s Down By Law. His pro­duc­tions have always tak­en pains to assem­ble dis­tinc­tive casts, and this one stars the trio of Tom Waits, Stranger Than Par­adise’s John Lurie, and Rober­to Benig­ni. When the three find them­selves locked up togeth­er in the same prison cell, they devise an escape plan that takes them straight out into the sur­round­ing Louisiana swamps. The film there­fore rep­re­sents Jar­musch’s entry into the genre of the jail­break movie, albeit in the same con­ven­tion-skew­ing, tra­di­tion-dis­miss­ing, tan­gen­tial way that his Dead Man was a west­ern, his Ghost Dog was a samu­rai movie, and his The Lim­its of Con­trol was a spy thriller.

Above you’ll find unseen scenes Jar­musch shot for Down by Law (here’s part two) show­ing a few char­ac­ter­is­ti­cal­ly intrigu­ing moments of per­for­mance from Waits, Lurie, and oth­ers in jail and out on the streets of New Orleans. All of it comes shot in a rich, dream­like black-and-white by famed cin­e­matog­ra­ph­er Rob­by Müller, a look Jar­musch tried out in Stranger Than Par­adise and would lat­er per­fect in Dead Man. Though these scenes did­n’t ulti­mate­ly make it into the movie, they nonethe­less come off as clear­ly Jar­muschi­an in their appear­ance and tone. Crit­ics have long con­sid­ered Jar­musch one of the least, if not the least com­pro­mis­ing inde­pen­dent film­mak­er to come out of the eight­ies. You can, of course, see that in the way an entire per­son­al­i­ty comes through in each of his films. But lis­ten close­ly to these out­takes, and you’ll find that even the way he says “action” and “cut” bears the stamp of his cin­e­mat­ic atti­tude.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Jim Jar­musch: The Art of the Music in His Films

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

New Archive Showcases Dr. Seuss’s Early Work as an Advertising Illustrator and Political Cartoonist

Most peo­ple know Dr. Seuss (Theodor Seuss Geisel) as a writer and illus­tra­tor of some of the world’s most-beloved children’s books. And while it’s true that some of his char­ac­ters have not fared well since his death in 1991, his lega­cy as a play­ful moral­ist is secure with par­ents and teach­ers every­where. But few peo­ple know that Geisel got his start as a satirist and illus­tra­tor for adults, pub­lish­ing arti­cles and illus­tra­tions in Judge, Life, Van­i­ty Fair, and the Sat­ur­day Evening Post. He went on to promi­nence as an adver­tis­ing illus­tra­tor dur­ing the Depres­sion, most famous­ly with a 17-year cam­paign for a bug-repel­lant called Flit—made by Stan­dard Oil—whose slo­gan, “Quick, Hen­ry, the Flit!” became a pop­u­lar catch phrase in the 30s.

The Uni­ver­si­ty of Cal­i­for­nia, San Diego, has a spe­cial col­lec­tion of Geisel’s adver­tis­ing work from the 30s and 40s (such as the image above) for clients like Stan­dard, NBC, and Ford. The images show Geisel the illus­tra­tor devel­op­ing visu­al themes that char­ac­ter­ize his children’s books—the cir­cus imagery, ele­phants, daz­zling phys­i­cal stunts, wide-eyed, fur­ry crea­tures, com­plex Rube Gold­berg machines, and the sig­na­ture dis­em­bod­ied point­ing gloves. Dur­ing World War II, Geisel shift­ed his focus from adver­tis­ing to pol­i­tics and con­tributed week­ly car­toons to PM mag­a­zine, a lib­er­al pub­li­ca­tion. UCSD also has an online cat­a­log of Geisel’s polit­i­cal car­toons, such as the 1941 ad for U.S. Sav­ings Bonds below.

 

via Coudal

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.

Watch Tom Waits’ Classic Appearance on Australian TV, 1979

Here’s a rare gem from the video vault: Tom Waits on the Aus­tralian TV pro­gram, The Don Lane Show, in 1979.

Don Lane was an Amer­i­can night­club per­former who some­how man­aged to become the John­ny Car­son of Aus­tralia. The Don Lane Show ran from 1975 to 1983, and fea­tured com­e­dy, inter­views and musi­cal per­for­mances by a vari­ety of inter­na­tion­al stars who were tour­ing Aus­tralia, includ­ing Elton John, Ste­vie Won­der, Jer­ry Lee Lewis and, on more than one occa­sion, Tom Waits.

On his first appear­ance in 1979, the 29-year-old Waits gave a dis­joint­ed, com­ic inter­view (above), before going to the piano (below) to per­form “On the Nick­el,” which he wrote for the sound­track of the 1980 film of the same name. “The Nick­el” refers to the skid row area of Los Ange­les, along 5th Street. The song was includ­ed on Wait­s’s 1980 album, Heartat­tack and VineAus­tralian TV view­ers appar­ent­ly did­n’t know what to think about the mum­bling, chain-smok­ing singer. When Waits returned in 1981, Lane said, “The last time Tom Waits appeared with us, his unusu­al style and sense of humor lit up our switch­board for about an hour after the show. And not all with com­pli­ments, either.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

A Brief His­to­ry of John Baldessari, Nar­rat­ed by Tom Waits

Tom Waits Reads Charles Bukows­ki

Tom Waits and David Let­ter­man: An Amer­i­can Tele­vi­sion Tra­di­tion

Watch Astronaut Don Pettit Conduct Cool Experiments Aboard the International Space Station

Astro­naut Don Pet­tit is a chem­i­cal engi­neer by train­ing, and he is a man who loves his work. The video above, pro­duced as part of a series called “Sci­ence off the Sphere,” shows an exper­i­ment con­duct­ed aboard the Inter­na­tion­al Space Sta­tion. In it, Pet­tit demon­strates the way a water bub­ble reacts to puffs of air in micro­grav­i­ty. The results are fas­ci­nat­ing to watch, made more so by Pettit’s total absorp­tion in the exper­i­ment.

Dur­ing his first six-month stay on the ISS in 2002–3, Pet­tit also exper­i­ment­ed on how flu­ids react in zero-grav­i­ty. He dubbed these ses­sions “Sat­ur­day Morn­ing Sci­ence.” Pet­tit returned to the ISS in Decem­ber of 2011 and is still there, orbit­ing over 240 miles above the earth, con­duct­ing exper­i­ments in his free time and pro­duc­ing “Sci­ence off the Sphere.” Episode 5 of the series (below) is mes­mer­iz­ing, and again, Pettit’s won­der as he nar­rates the exper­i­ment is pal­pa­ble.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Great Cities at Night: Views from the Inter­na­tion­al Space Sta­tion

Drink­ing Cof­fee at Zero Grav­i­ty

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.

 

Bob Dylan & The Grateful Dead Rehearse Together in Summer 1987: Hear 74 Tracks

dylan and the dead

Image via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

In the mid 1980s, Bob Dylan found his career hit­ting an unmis­tak­able low point. In his auto­bi­og­ra­phy, he recalls “Every­thing was smashed. My own songs had become strangers to me, I did­n’t have the skill to touch the right nerves, could­n’t pen­e­trate the sur­faces. It was­n’t my moment of his­to­ry any­more.”

For a while, Dylan toured with Tom Pet­ty and The Heart­break­ers, and it only led him to one con­clu­sion: “Tom was at the top of his game and I was at the bot­tom of mine.” It was time to pack things in, to exit music alto­geth­er.

Before he could retire, Dylan agreed to do some shows with The Grate­ful Dead. In the sum­mer of 1987, the singer-song­writer trav­eled to San Rafael, Cal­i­for­nia to rehearse with the band. But it turned out to be try­ing, more than he could have ever imag­ined. In Chron­i­cles, Vol­ume 1 he writes:

After an hour or so, it became clear to me that the band want­ed to rehearse more and dif­fer­ent songs than I had been used to doing with Pet­ty. They want­ed to run over all the songs, the ones they liked, the sel­dom seen ones. I found myself in a pecu­liar posi­tion and I could hear the brakes screech. If I had known this to begin with, I might not have tak­en the dates.… There were so many [songs] that I could­n’t tell which was which‑I might even get the words to some mixed up with oth­ers.

Dylan even­tu­al­ly excused him­self from the stu­dios, intend­ing nev­er to return. But an encounter with a local jazz band — call it a sim­ple twist of fate — brought him back. Dylan and The Dead start­ed play­ing through his big reper­toire. It was tough sled­ding at first. “But then mirac­u­lous­ly,” he adds,  “some­thing inter­nal came unhinged.” “I played these shows with The Dead and nev­er had to think twice about it. Maybe they just dropped some­thing in my drink, I can’t say, but any­thing they want­ed to do was fine with me.”

It’s a great lit­tle sto­ry. Even bet­ter, the rehearsal is record­ed for pos­ter­i­ty. Thanks to the Inter­net Archive, you can sit back and lis­ten to 74 tracks, which includes some clas­sics — “It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue,” “Got­ta Serve Some­body,” “Mag­gie’s Farm,” “Tan­gled Up in Blue,” “Sim­ple Twist of Fate,” and more.

You can stream all of the tracks right below, from start to end. Or find indi­vid­ual record­ings here.

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