Hear Demo Recordings of David Bowie’s “Ziggy Stardust,” “Space Oddity” & “Changes”

These days “demo tapes” are often radio-ready record­ings, and bands often record one before they’ve even played their first gig. It’s a recent devel­op­ment, a byprod­uct of the rev­o­lu­tion in afford­able home record­ing tech­nol­o­gy. For most of the his­to­ry of rock and pop music, demos were raw sketch­es, pre­serv­ing ideas, tem­pos, changes, moods, but not at all ready to air. Lis­ten­ing back to demo ver­sions of songs we already know well can be like exca­vat­ing stra­ta under­neath a site like Stone­henge. Some­times you find noth­ing but sed­i­ment. Some­times you find anoth­er Stone­henge. Take for exam­ple John Lennon’s hyp­not­ic demo record­ings of “Straw­ber­ry Fields For­ev­er,” the Bea­t­les’ acoustic White Album demos, or Roger Waters’ ear­ly demos of The Wall. Intrigu­ing­ly rough gems all.

Today we bring you demo record­ings of anoth­er artist whose work typ­i­cal­ly bespeaks pol­ish and stu­dio panache. As in the past, song­writ­ers today still push play on cheap voice recorders—or expen­sive iphones—and cap­ture new songs on the fly. But nobody today writes like Bowie did in his “Zig­gy Star­dust” phase. At the top of the post, hear Bowie’s solo acoustic demo record­ing of that song. You’ll find it on the sec­ond CD of the 30th Anniver­sary edi­tion of Zig­gy Star­dust and the Spi­ders from Mars, which also includes a demo ver­sion of “Lady Star­dust” and two ver­sions of “Moon­age Day­dream” and “Hang on to Your­self” by “Arnold Corns,” the orig­i­nal name of Zig­gy. I’ve heard more solo acoustic ver­sions of “Zig­gy” than I’d care to remem­ber, played by earnest cof­fee-shop croon­ers and gui­tar-bear­ing par­ty guests. But Bowie’s orig­i­nal demo I could lis­ten to again and again.

While the “Arnold Corns” incar­na­tions of Zig­gy Star­dust songs def­i­nite­ly fall into the cat­e­go­ry of not-Stone­henge, the 1969 demo record­ing of “Space Odd­i­ty” has a very mon­u­men­tal feel indeed—if that mon­u­ment were 2001’s enig­mat­ic Mono­lith. Set here to clips from that film, it seems like the per­fect accom­pa­ni­ment to the glossy fore­bod­ing of Kubrick’s space vision. This drum­less arrange­ment sounds some­how more con­tem­po­rary than the record­ing we’ve heard count­less times. It also sounds much clos­er to the psy­che­del­ic folk on the rest of the Space Odd­i­ty album, a col­lec­tion of songs many Bowie fans, myself includ­ed, great­ly admire, but which his first audi­ence didn’t take to so read­i­ly. “Space Odd­i­ty” went through at least one more iter­a­tion before land­ing on the album. Hear the slight­ly more funked-up ver­sion, and see its awk­ward video, below.

Per­haps no song oth­er than “Ash­es to Ash­es” so well artic­u­lates the cre­ative destruc­tion of Bowie’s many rock star personae—and the toll those meta­mor­phoses take—than 1971’s “Changes.” But it’s a song writ­ten and record­ed ear­ly in his career, before Zig­gy Star­dust, the char­ac­ter that first broke him into super­star­dom. The song appears on Hunky Dory in a record­ing with the Star­dust band—Mick Ron­son, Trevor Bold­er, and Mick Woodmansey—but it’s such a Bowie-cen­tric lyric that it out­last­ed hun­dreds of cos­tume changes and served as the obvi­ous choice of title for the 1990 com­pi­la­tion Changes­bowie.

Does the piano demo above reveal an alter­nate pre-his­to­ry? Not real­ly. The hand­claps and odd vocal­iza­tions are half-formed ideas at best, and the poor audio qual­i­ty is not a fea­ture. But what it does demon­strate, as do all of the rough record­ings above, is that Bowie is Bowie—a stel­lar song­writer and vocal performer—whether cap­tured on a cheap home tape machine or the best stu­dio equip­ment mon­ey can buy. Stu­dio wiz­ardry of the present can do things pro­duc­ers forty years ago could only dream about, but no amount of tech­nol­o­gy can sub­sti­tute for raw musi­cal tal­ent, nor for the long years of prac­tice Bowie endured.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

David Bowie Recalls the Strange Expe­ri­ence of Invent­ing the Char­ac­ter Zig­gy Star­dust (1977)

The Sto­ry of Zig­gy Star­dust: How David Bowie Cre­at­ed the Char­ac­ter that Made Him Famous

A 17-Year-Old David Bowie Defends “Long-Haired Men” in His First TV Inter­view (1964)

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

Young Joni Mitchell Performs a Hit-Filled Concert in London (1970)

It’s hard to imag­ine the young lady seen per­form­ing her own songs on the BBC in the video above twerk­ing or even tweet­ing, for that mat­ter. The utter­ly unadorned qual­i­ty of this per­for­mance suits the now-leg­endary puri­ty of her youth­ful voice.

Woe, the dele­te­ri­ous effects of her long­time cig­a­rette habit.

Now, back to 1970, when just shy of 27, Joni Mitchell played a hit-filled set to a British stu­dio audi­ence, despite a “lit­tle Lon­don flu” she alludes to more than once.

If it seemed unpre­ten­tious at the time, it’s even more so now, nary a laser beam or back up dancer in sight. No cos­tume changes. Bare­ly any make­up. Just Joni, her gui­tar, her piano, and a nifty cus­tom dul­cimer made by “a dyna­mite girl who lives in Cal­i­for­nia.”

Pass­ing the time as she tunes this last instru­ment, she men­tions that the upcom­ing song, “Cal­i­for­nia,”con­cerns an adven­ture to which she’d recent­ly treat­ed her­self. She’d writ­ten it before her return, as a sort of post­card home. Mean­ing that that park bench in Paris, France was bare­ly cold! This is way more excit­ing to me than a bevy of hair exten­sions, served with a prac­ticed snarl and a side of auto tune.

A girl­ish gig­gle and dig­ni­fied bow seal the deal. Classy!

If you would like to sign up for Open Culture’s free email newslet­ter, please find it here. Or fol­low our posts on Threads, Face­book, BlueSky or Mastodon.

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Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch Clas­sic Per­for­mances of Joni Mitchel­l’s “Both Sides Now” & “The Cir­cle Game” (1968)

The Music, Art, and Life of Joni Mitchell Pre­sent­ed in a Superb 2003 Doc­u­men­tary

James Tay­lor and Joni Mitchell, Live and Togeth­er (1970)

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, home­school­er, and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine. Fol­low her @AyunHalliday

How to Jump the Paris Metro: A Witty, Rebellious Primer from New Wave Director Luc Moullet (1984)

Luc Moul­let, a French New Wave film­mak­er and long-time crit­ic for the Cahiers du ciné­ma, makes films “known for their humor, anti-author­i­tar­i­an lean­ings and rig­or­ous­ly prim­i­tive aes­thet­ic.” Case in point, the 1984 short film Bar­res, which com­i­cal­ly doc­u­ments the best ways to jump the Paris metro. It’s some­thing of a sport in Paris. Arguably the sport most Parisians real­ly take part in. Unlike oth­er ver­sions of the film on the web, this one has Eng­lish sub­ti­tles. Enjoy.

h/t ubuweb

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Tui­leries: A Short, Slight­ly Twist­ed Film by Joel and Ethan Coen

Illus­trat­ed Eti­quette Guide Explains How to Ride the Paris Metro in a Civ­i­lized Way

Names of Paris Métro Stops Act­ed Out: Pho­tos by Janol Apin

 

81-Year-Old Professor Charlie Warner Goes to Burning Man: A Short Documentary (NSFW)

Char­lie Warn­er. He’s an 81-year-old media pro­fes­sor and for­mer media exec­u­tive from New York. He’s had bone mar­row can­cer. (It’s now in remis­sion.) He had open-heart surgery. He still has dia­betes. And yet he made the jour­ney to the Burn­ing Man fes­ti­val, in Nevada’s Black Rock Desert, to expe­ri­ence some­thing tran­scen­dent. And the fes­ti­val did­n’t dis­ap­point. Film­mak­er Jan Bed­degenoodts doc­u­ment­ed Warn­er’s expe­ri­ence in a short film called Char­lie Goes to Burn­ing Man. You can watch the touch­ing short in an embed­ded for­mat above. But it’s even bet­ter to go to the film’s web­site, where you can view it in a visu­al­ly-appeal­ing, full-screen for­mat. Be warned: It’s Burn­ing Man, so there are some Not Safe for Work (NSFW) moments in the film.

Don’t for­get to sign up for our dai­ly email. Once a day, we bun­dle all of our dai­ly posts and drop them in your inbox, in an easy-to-read for­mat.

Eight Free Films by Dziga Vertov, Creator of Soviet Avant-Garde Documentaries

Has any film­mak­er, of any era, had more influ­ence on doc­u­men­taries than Dzi­ga Ver­tov? We know the ear­ly 20th-cen­tu­ry Sovi­et cin­e­ma the­o­rist and direc­tor of avant-garde non-fic­tion films has a place high in the doc­u­men­tary pan­theon by virtue of his 1929 Man with a Movie Cam­era alone.

We’ve pre­vi­ous­ly fea­tured that motion pic­ture’s rise to Sight and Sound’s des­ig­na­tion of the eighth great­est of all time, and if you did­n’t watch it free online then, you can do so above now. Just after that, we fea­tured his unset­tling Sovi­et Toys, the first ani­mat­ed film ever made in that then-nation. But giv­en that the age of Ver­tov’s work — not that time has dimin­ished its aes­thet­ic rel­e­vance or excite­ment — has brought it into the pub­lic domain, why stop there?

Today we offer a roundup of all the Dzi­ga Ver­tov movies cur­rent­ly view­able free online, a col­lec­tion that allows you to watch and judge for your­self whether he and his col­lab­o­ra­tors suc­ceed­ed in mak­ing a dent in what he called “the film dra­ma, the Opi­um of the peo­ple.” Despite the thor­ough­ly low-tech nature of these pic­tures, even by doc­u­men­tary stan­dards, you may find your­self moved after hav­ing watched them — not nec­es­sar­i­ly by the Sovi­et caus­es he some­times extolled, but by his cin­e­mat­ic ral­ly­ing cry: “Down with bour­geois fairy-tale sce­nar­ios. Long live life as it is!”

  • Kino Eye (1924) Ver­tov’s first doc­u­men­tary not made from found footage jour­neys, accord­ing to a con­tem­po­rary news­pa­per, “from the Pio­neer camp, through the peas­ant court­yards, through the fields, through the mar­kets and slums of the town, with an ambu­lance car to a dying man, from there to work­ers’ sports grounds, and so on and so forth, peer­ing into all the lit­tle cor­ners of social life.”
  • Sovi­et Toys (1924) A “car­toon” that, in the words of our own Jonathan Crow, “dis­plays [Ver­tov’s] knack for mak­ing strik­ing, pun­gent images,” “yet those who don’t have an inti­mate knowl­edge of Sovi­et pol­i­cy of the 1920s might find the movie — which is laden with Marx­ist alle­gories — real­ly odd.”
  • Kino-Prav­da #21 (1925) Also known as Lenin Kino-Prav­da, “a spe­cial, longer-than-usu­al issue of [news­reel] Kino-Prav­da,” as the Har­vard Film Archive describes it, “in which Ver­tov jumps with bold­ness and ease between news­reel and drawn ani­ma­tion to illus­trate Sovi­et Rus­si­a’s way up under Lenin’s lead­er­ship, the decline in Lenin’s health, and the year elapsed since his death.”
  • A Sixth Part Of The World (1926) A mix­ture of news­reel and found footage that, accord­ing to the Inter­net Archive, the film depict­ed “through the trav­el­ogue for­mat [ … ] the mul­ti­tude of Sovi­et peo­ples in remote areas of USSR and detailed the entire­ty of the wealth of the Sovi­et land,” mak­ing “a call for uni­fi­ca­tion in order to build a ‘com­plete social­ist soci­ety.’ ”
  • Stride, Sovi­et! (1926) “What began as a com­mis­sion by the sit­ting Moscow Sovi­et for a pro­mo­tion­al movie,” says the Har­vard Film Archive, “was trans­formed by Ver­tov into some­thing else entire­ly: a film exper­i­ment, an emo­tion­al film – any­thing but a pic­ture that would help the Mossovet be reelect­ed.”
  • The Eleventh Year (1928) A cel­e­bra­tion of “the tenth anniver­sary of the Octo­ber Rev­o­lu­tion” which, accord­ing to the Har­vard Film Archive, presents that decade of social­ism “in the eyes of a left-wing artist of the twen­ties” as “a rad­i­cal social exper­i­ment [ … ] required to be pre­sent­ed in a rad­i­cal­ly exper­i­men­tal way.”
  • Man with a Movie Cam­era (1929) “Made up as it is of ‘bits and pieces’ of cities from Moscow to the Ukraine,” writes Sens­es of Cin­e­ma’s Jonathan Daw­son, it “remains a per­fect dis­til­la­tion of the sense of a mod­ern city life that looks fresh and true still,” “the strongest reminder that, in spite of the extra­or­di­nary pres­sures on his per­son­al and work­ing life, Ver­tov was one of the great­est of all the pio­neer film­mak­ers.”
  • Three Songs About Lenin (1934) Also known as Three Songs of Lenin and Three Songs Ded­i­cat­ed to Lenin, a deliv­ery of exact­ly what the title promis­es — but with a Ver­tov­ian styl­is­tic slant.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

200 Free Doc­u­men­taries Online, part of our col­lec­tion: 4,000+ Free Movies Online: Great Clas­sics, Indies, Noir, West­erns, Doc­u­men­taries & More

65 Free Char­lie Chap­lin Films Online

35 Free Oscar Win­ning Films Avail­able on the Web

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture and writes essays on cities, lan­guage, Asia, and men’s style. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Sound Effects Genius Michael Winslow Sings Zeppelin’s “Whole Lotta Love”: Vocal & Guitar Parts

Ladies and gen­tle­men, we present Michael Winslow, the Man of 10,000 Sound Effects, singing Led Zep­pelin’s “Whole Lot­ta Love.” And by sing, we mean that he per­forms the lead vocals, and the dis­tor­tion-filled sounds of the elec­tric gui­tar, all with his voice. The per­for­mance took place one night, back in Novem­ber, 2011, on Nor­way’s TV show Senkveld med Thomas og Har­ald (aka Late Night with Thomas and Harold). Winslow is joined by folk pop-musi­cian Odd Nord­sto­ga on the acoustic gui­tar. When you’re done pick­ing up your jaw, you’ll want to watch Winslow per­form the Sounds of 32 Type­writ­ers (1898–1983). It’s quite mag­nif­i­cent. Or watch an old re-run of Police Acad­e­my. That’s nev­er hurts, either.

via Metafil­ter

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Jim­my Page Describes the Cre­ation of Led Zeppelin’s “Whole Lot­ta Love”

Iso­lat­ed Drum Tracks From Six of Rock’s Great­est: Bon­ham, Moon, Peart, Copeland, Grohl & Starr

Sound Effects Genius Michael Winslow Per­forms the Sounds of 32 Type­writ­ers (1898–1983)

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

Back in June, our very own Josh Jones took us on an audio tour of five great rock bassists, break­ing down the styles of Paul McCart­ney, Sting, John Dea­con, John Paul Jones & Ged­dy Lee. If you got into the groove of that post, you’ll almost cer­tain­ly enjoy watch­ing bassist Marc Naj­jar, accom­pa­nied by Nate Bau­man on drums, tak­ing you through 100 great bass riffs. The rhythm duo cov­ers 60 years of music his­to­ry, in 17 min­utes, just above.

The riffs were notably per­formed in one con­tin­u­ous take, with a Sand­berg Umbo HCA Crème bass. (Find more gear used in the video here.) And the clip was put togeth­er by the Chica­go Music Exchange, the same folks who assem­bled the 2012 viral video, A His­to­ry of Rock ‘n’ Roll in 100 Gui­tar Riffs. They also sold me a sweet acoustic gui­tar that same year.

You can find a com­plete list of the riffs, and the songs from which they came, below. (Click the “more” link to see them, if they’re not already vis­i­ble.)  Please note that the bass sounds a lit­tle mut­ed at the out­set, but it quick­ly comes to the fore.

(more…)

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Hear David Foster Wallace Read His Own Essays & Short Fiction on the 6th Anniversary of His Death,

Yes­ter­day, of course, marked the 13th anniver­sary of the hor­ri­ble attacks on the Twin Tow­ers and the Pen­ta­gon. Today marks the 6th anniver­sary of David Fos­ter Wallace’s death by sui­cide. The two events are relat­ed not only by prox­im­i­ty, and not because they are com­pa­ra­ble tragedies, but because Wallace’s work, in par­tic­u­lar his 1993 essay “E Unibus Plu­ram: Tele­vi­sion and U.S. Fic­tion,” has become such a touch­stone for the dis­course of “post-irony” or “the new sin­cer­i­ty” since 9/11, when Van­i­ty Fair edi­tor Gray­don Carter and oth­ers pro­claimed the “end of irony.” But the cul­tur­al con­scious­ness has shift­ed mea­sur­ably since those heady days of fer­vent affir­ma­tion. In a recon­sid­er­a­tion of Wal­lace on irony, Bradley War­shauer writes, “he wasn’t wrong—but he is obso­lete.” Our nation­al discourse—as much as it can be defined in broad terms—may have, some argue, swung fur­ther toward sin­cer­i­ty and sen­ti­men­tal rev­er­ence than Wal­lace would have liked. And he may have been much more an iro­nist than he liked to believe.

Wal­lace, writes War­shauer, was “a wannabe sen­ti­men­tal­ist who was too absurd­ly tal­ent­ed and prob­a­bly too obsessed with the arti­fi­cial­i­ty of fic­tion to be the sort of ‘anti-rebel’ that he him­self talked about.” While he may have roman­ti­cized the high-mind­ed fig­ure who “stands for” things in uncom­pli­cat­ed ways, Wal­lace him­self was com­pli­cat­ed, prick­ly, and just too hyper-aware—of him­self and others—to be seduced by easy sen­ti­ment, what Som­er­set Maugh­am called “unearned emo­tion.” While his work pulls us still toward deep­er lev­els of analy­sis, toward con­tem­pla­tion and cri­tique, toward seri­ous con­sid­er­a­tions of val­ue, it does not do so by eschew­ing irony. In the descrip­tive force of his prose are the eva­sions, par­ries, asides, cir­cum­lo­cu­tions, and jar­ring­ly odd jux­ta­po­si­tions of the iro­nist, the satirist, and—what might be the same thing—the moral­ist. “The inher­ent contradiction”—the irony, if you will—of Wallace’s stance, Washauer argues, cit­ing 1999’s Brief Inter­views With Hideous Men, is that he him­self “was addict­ed to iron­ic detach­ment.” But, of course, it’s not so sim­ple as that.

Today we bring you sev­er­al read­ings by David Fos­ter Wal­lace of his own work. We begin at the top with “Death is Not the End” from Brief Inter­views, that col­lec­tion of “weird metafic­tion” that couch­es raw and painful con­fes­sions in lay­ers of irony. Below it, from that same col­lec­tion, we have “Sui­cide as a Sort of Present,” a piece that, in hind­sight, offers its own poten­tial mor­bid­ly iron­ic read­ings. Just above, hear Wal­lace read the short sto­ry “Incar­na­tions of Burned Chil­dren” from the 2005 col­lec­tion Obliv­ion, full of sto­ries Wyatt Mason described as “tight­ly withhold[ing]… hid­ing on high shelves the keys that unlock their trea­sures.” Replete with tiny mech­a­nisms that can take many care­ful read­ings to parse, these sto­ries are fine-art stud­ies in iron­ic lan­guage and sit­u­a­tions.

One may class David Fos­ter Wal­lace as a mas­ter iro­nist, despite his crit­i­cal stance against its overuse, but this reduces the full range of his mas­tery to one mode among so many. His work embraced the voice of irony and the voice of sin­cer­i­ty as equal­ly valid rhetor­i­cal means, alter­nat­ing between the two in what A.O. Scott once called a “feed­back loop.” “The View From Mrs. Thompson’s,” the essay Wal­lace reads above from 2005’s essay col­lec­tion Con­sid­er the Lob­ster, is a piece he wrote just days after 9/11. Writ­ten quick­ly as a com­mis­sion from Rolling Stone, the essay records his tren­chant obser­va­tions of the reac­tions in Bloom­ing­ton, Illi­nois between Sep­tem­ber 11–13. It’s a piece that show­cas­es the ten­sion between Wallace’s sin­cere desire for imme­di­a­cy and his almost uncon­trol­lable impulse to amused detach­ment. And hear­ing Wal­lace com­mem­o­rate the trag­ic events we remem­bered yes­ter­day high­lights the sad irony of memo­ri­al­iz­ing his own death today.

You can hear many more of David Fos­ter Wallace’s read­ings and inter­views at the David Fos­ter Wal­lace Audio Project, and be sure to stop by our siz­able col­lec­tion, 30 Free Essays & Sto­ries by David Fos­ter Wal­lace on the Web.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

‘This Is Water’: Com­plete Audio of David Fos­ter Wallace’s Keny­on Grad­u­a­tion Speech (2005)

David Fos­ter Wal­lace: The Big, Uncut Inter­view (2003)

David Fos­ter Wallace’s 1994 Syl­labus: How to Teach Seri­ous Lit­er­a­ture with Light­weight Books

Read Two Poems David Fos­ter Wal­lace Wrote Dur­ing His Ele­men­tary School Days

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

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