DC’s Legendary Punk Label Dischord Records Makes Its Entire Music Catalog Free to Stream Online

Image of Fugazi by Brad Sigal, via Flickr Com­mons

Apart from what­ev­er polit­i­cal night­mare du jour we’re liv­ing in, it can be easy to dis­like Wash­ing­ton, DC. I say this as some­one who grew up out­side the city, called it home for many years, and gen­er­al­ly found its pub­lic face of mon­u­ments, tourists, politi­cos, and waves of lob­by­ists and bureau­crats pret­ty alien­at­ing. The “real” DC was else­where, in the city’s his­toric Black neigh­bor­hoods, many now heav­i­ly gen­tri­fied, which host­ed leg­endary jazz clubs and gave birth to the genius of go-go. And even in the priv­i­leged, mid­dle class neigh­bor­hoods and DMV sub­urbs. Among the skate punks and dis­af­fect­ed mil­i­tary brats who cre­at­ed the DC punk scene, a seething, furi­ous­ly pro­duc­tive punk econ­o­my cen­tered around Dischord Records. The small label has been as huge­ly influ­en­tial in the past few decades as Seat­tle’s Sub Pop or Long Beach’s SST.

Formed in 1980 by Minor Threat’s Ian MacK­aye and his band­mate Jeff Nel­son, Dischord is 6 years old­er than Sub Pop and in sev­er­al ways it inspired a tem­plate for the West Coast. Dave Grohl came from the DC Punk scene, as did Black Flag’s Hen­ry Rollins. Rollins and MacK­aye were child­hood friends and DC natives, and MacK­aye went on to form Fugazi, vir­tu­al­ly a DC insti­tu­tion for well over a decade.


MacKaye’s broth­er Alec was a mem­ber of Dischord band Faith—one of Kurt Cobain’s admit­ted influences—and of Igni­tion with Gray Matter’s Dante Fer­ran­do, who went on, with invest­ments from Dave Grohl, to found the club Black Cat, a cen­tral hub of punk and indie rock in DC for 27 years. The more you dig into the musi­cal fam­i­lies of Dischord, the more you see how embed­ded they are not only in their home city, but in the weft of mod­ern Amer­i­can rock.

Dischord has been cel­e­brat­ed in gallery exhi­bi­tions, the hip doc­u­men­tary Sal­ad Days, and the short An Impres­sion: Dischord Records (watch here). Now they’ve released their cat­a­log to stream for free at Band­camp. The slew of bands fea­tured offers a gallery of nos­tal­gia for a cer­tain brand and vin­tage of DC native. And it offers a pris­tine oppor­tu­ni­ty to get caught up if you don’t know Dischord bands.

Image of Hoover by Dischord Records, via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

The com­mon fea­tures of its lineup—political urgency, earnest­ness, melod­ic exper­i­men­ta­tion, unpretentiousness—stand out. Dischord bands could be math‑y and tech­ni­cal, straight edge, veg­an, Bud­dhist, Hare Krish­na, fierce­ly fem­i­nist, anti-cap­i­tal­ist, and anti-war.… These may not sound like the mak­ings of a great par­ty scene, but they made for a com­mit­ted cadre of hard work­ing musi­cians and a wide cir­cle of ded­i­cat­ed fans around the coun­try who have kept the label thriv­ing in its way.

What dis­tin­guish­es Dischord from its more famous peers is the fact that it only releas­es bands from the DC area. Why? “Because this is the city where we live, work, and have the most under­stand­ing,” they write on their site. Still, giv­en the label’s height­ened pro­file in recent years, it’s sur­pris­ing that so much of its music remains unknown out­side of a spe­cif­ic audi­ence. Fugazi is the best-known band on the ros­ter, and for all their major crit­i­cal impor­tance, they have kept a fair­ly low pro­file. But this is the spir­it of the label, whose founders want­ed to make music, not make stars. Bands like Shud­der to Think and Jaw­box may have even­tu­al­ly moved to big­ger labels, but they did their best work with Dischord.

Dag Nasty, Embrace, Gov­ern­ment Issue, Make-Up, Q and Not U, Rites of Spring, Soul­side, Void, Untouch­ables, Slant 6, the Nation of Ulysses.… these are bands, if you don’t know them, you should hear, and already have, in some way, through their enor­mous influ­ence on so many oth­ers: not only Nir­vana, but also a con­tin­gent of deriv­a­tive emo bands some of us might pre­fer to for­get. Still the label’s his­to­ry should not be tak­en as the gospel canon of DC punk. One of the most influ­en­tial of DC punk bands, Bad Brains, came out of the jazz scene, invent­ed a blis­ter­ing mashup of punk and reg­gae, and get cred­it for cre­at­ing hard­core and inspir­ing Rollins, MacK­aye, and their friends. But Bad Brains was “Banned in DC” in 1979, shut out of the clubs. They moved to New York and even­tu­al­ly signed with SST.

Oth­er parts of the scene scorned the clean-liv­ing moral­ism of Dischord, and the label’s sober founders lat­er found them­selves “alien­at­ed by the vio­lent, sub­ur­ban, teenage machis­mo they now saw at their shows,” writes Jil­lian Mapes at Fla­vor­wire. Dischord became known for cham­pi­oning caus­es on the left, a lega­cy that is insep­a­ra­ble from its leg­end. Not every­one loved their pol­i­tics, as you might imag­ine in a city with as many con­ser­v­a­tive activists and polit­i­cal aspi­rants as DC. “Great polit­i­cal punk bands—like Priests—still exist in DC,” writes Mapes—and Dischord con­tin­ues to release great records—“but the ‘80s scene retains its place in his­to­ry as the pin­na­cle of polit­i­cal Amer­i­can hard­core music.” And Dischord remains a some­times unac­knowl­edged leg­is­la­tor of Amer­i­can punk rock in the ‘80s and ’90s. Stream their whole cat­a­log at Band­camp. You can also down­load tracks for a fee.

via @wfmu

Relat­ed Con­tent:

33 Songs That Doc­u­ment the His­to­ry of Fem­i­nist Punk (1975–2015): A Playlist Curat­ed by Pitch­fork

The His­to­ry of Punk Rock in 200 Tracks: An 11-Hour Playlist Takes You From 1965 to 2016

A His­to­ry of Alter­na­tive Music Bril­liant­ly Mapped Out on a Tran­sis­tor Radio Cir­cuit Dia­gram: 300 Punk, Alt & Indie Artists

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

How Leonard Cohen & David Bowie Faced Death Through Their Art: A Look at Their Final Albums

When Leonard Cohen released You Want it Dark­er in late 2016, some sus­pect­ed that it would be his last album. When the 82-year-old singer-song­writer died nine­teen days lat­er, it felt like a reprise of David Bowie’s pas­sage from this mor­tal coil at the begin­ning of that year in which we lost so many impor­tant musi­cians: just two days after the release of his album Black­star, Bowie shocked the world by dying of an ill­ness he’d cho­sen not to make pub­lic. Both Cohen and Bowie’s fans imme­di­ate­ly dou­bled down their scruti­ny of what turned out to be their final works, find­ing in both of them artis­tic inter­pre­ta­tions of the con­fronta­tion with death.

The title track of You Want It Dark­er, says the nar­ra­tor of the Poly­phon­ic video essay above, “is not just any song, but the cul­mi­na­tion of many med­i­ta­tions on Cohen’s own mor­tal­i­ty. The result is a haunt­ing­ly accusato­ry song towards his own god.”

This analy­sis focus­es on lines, deliv­ered by Cohen’s grav­e­li­er-than-ever singing voice, like “If you are the deal­er, I’m out of the game / If you are the heal­er, that means I’m bro­ken and lame” and “If thine is the glo­ry, then mine must be the shame / You want it dark­er, we kill the flame.” Cohen also uses phras­es tak­en from a Jew­ish mourn­er’s prayer as a way of “fac­ing up to his god and sub­mit­ting.”

The non-reli­gious Bowie took a dif­fer­ent tack. “Just take a look at Bowie’s cos­tume,” says the essay’s nar­ra­tor. “He’s ban­daged, frail, and mani­a­cal in the ‘Black­star’ video. While the ban­dage serves to rep­re­sent wounds, it can also be tak­en as a blind­fold,” his­tor­i­cal­ly “worn by those con­demned to exe­cu­tion.” Using Chris­t­ian imagery, Bowie frames his song “in the post-par­adise world of mor­tal life,” in a sense ref­er­enc­ing what Cohen once described as “our blood myth,” the cru­ci­fix­ion. And so Bowie’s song “is using our cul­tur­al vocab­u­lary to explore our rela­tion­ship with death.” And yet, “in the midst of this dark song, Bowie offers opti­mism” in the form of the tit­u­lar Black­star, a “new­ly inspired being” that emerges from death.

“While mankind can’t cheat death, we can still find immor­tal­i­ty in the way peo­ple remem­ber us, the lega­cy that they car­ry on.” And despite rec­og­niz­ing their basic human­i­ty, many of us car­ri­ers of the lega­cy still strug­gle to process the deaths of high-pro­file, sui gener­is per­form­ing artists. Maybe it has to do with their sta­tus as icons, and icons, strict­ly speak­ing, can’t die — but nor can they live. Leonard Cohen and David Bowie, the men, may have fin­ished their days, and what days they were, but Leonard Cohen and David Bowie, the cul­tur­al phe­nom­e­na, will sure­ly out­last us all.

You can lis­ten to Cohen and Bowie’s final albums above. If you need Spo­ti­fy’s free soft­ware, get it here.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Leonard Cohen Has Passed at Age 82: His New and Now Final Album Is Stream­ing Free Online

Hear Leonard Cohen’s Final Inter­view: Record­ed by David Rem­nick of The New York­er

Say Good­bye to Leonard Cohen Through Some of His Best-Loved Songs: “Hal­lelu­jah,” “Suzanne” and 235 Oth­er Tracks

David Bowie Sings “Changes” in His Last Live Per­for­mance, 2006

Dave: The Best Trib­ute to David Bowie That You’re Going to See

Death: A Free Phi­los­o­phy Course from Yale

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. He’s at work on the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les, the video series The City in Cin­e­ma, the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future?, and the Los Ange­les Review of Books’ Korea Blog. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Watch “The Woodswimmer,” a Stop Motion Film Made Entirely with Wood, and “Brutally Tedious” Techniques

Above you can watch “The Woodswim­mer,” a new stop-motion music video shot by Brett Foxwell. As Foxwell describes it, the film was shot with “a straight­for­ward tech­nique but one which is bru­tal­ly tedious to com­plete.”  Elab­o­rat­ing, he told the web­site This is Colos­sal, “Fas­ci­nat­ed with the shapes and tex­tures found in both new­ly-cut and long-dead pieces of wood, I envi­sioned a world com­posed entire­ly of these forms.”  “As I began to engage with the mate­r­i­al, I con­ceived a method using a milling machine and an ani­ma­tion cam­era set­up to scan through a wood sam­ple pho­to­graph­i­cal­ly and cap­ture its entire struc­ture. Although a dif­fi­cult and tedious tech­nique to refine, it yield­ed gor­geous imagery at once abstract and very real. Between the twist­ing growth rings, swirling rays, knot holes, ter­mites and rot, I found there is a lot going on inside of wood.”

Final­ly, Foxwell notes on his per­son­al web­site: “As a short film began to build from [the filmed sequences], I col­lab­o­rat­ed with bed­times, an ani­ma­tor and musi­cian of spe­cial tal­ents to write a song and help edit a tight visu­al and son­ic jour­ney through this won­drous and fas­ci­nat­ing mate­r­i­al. WoodSwim­mer is the result.”

Watch it, in all of its glo­ry, above.

via This is Colos­sal

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Relat­ed Con­tent:

The His­to­ry of Stop-Motion Films: 39 Films, Span­ning 116 Years, Revis­it­ed in a 3‑Minute Video

Watch The Amaz­ing 1912 Ani­ma­tion of Stop-Motion Pio­neer Ladis­las Stare­vich, Star­ring Dead Bugs

Mes­mer­iz­ing GIFs Illus­trate the Art of Tra­di­tion­al Japan­ese Wood Join­ery — All Done With­out Screws, Nails, or Glue

Watch Japan­ese Wood­work­ing Mas­ters Cre­ate Ele­gant & Elab­o­rate Geo­met­ric Pat­terns with Wood

89 Essential Songs from The Summer of Love: A 50th Anniversary Playlist

Image by Bryan Costales, via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

The Sum­mer of Love was not just a sea­son of great music and the zenith of the flower child, but the cul­mi­na­tion of a move­ment that start­ed back on a chill­i­er Bay Area day, on Jan­u­ary 14, 1967. That was the month of the Human Be-In, and what must have looked like a full on inva­sion of the coun­ter­cul­ture into Gold­en Gate Park. The back­drop of this out­pour­ing of good vibra­tions was any­thing but lov­ing: Viet­nam, inner city riots, Civ­il Rights, and a huge gen­er­a­tion gap. The crowd size was esti­mat­ed at 100,000, and every­body there sud­den­ly real­ized they weren’t alone. They were a force.

Joel Selvin, inter­viewed by Michael Kras­ny for this KQED seg­ment on the Sum­mer of Love (lis­ten here), says that the real Sum­mer of Love for San Fran­cis­cans at least, hap­pened in 1966, when it was a local secret. One year lat­er, the hip­pie move­ment had become main­stream. And that’s when every band on both sides of the Atlantic had turned on to the zeit­geist, and the gates of psy­che­del­ic music opened up.

Today, we have a playlist of 89 songs to com­mem­o­rate the 50th anniver­sary of that his­toric sum­mer. (Down­load Spo­ti­fy’s free soft­ware here, if you need it.) If you are com­ing to this as a music fan, but not some­body who lived through that era, you might think you know all the songs from that peri­od, hav­ing had them ham­mered into your brain over the years from the ubiq­ui­tous hits of clas­sic rock radio, and nos­tal­gic movies.

There are of course the stone cold clas­sics from 1967, with not one but two Bea­t­les releas­es, includ­ing the icon­ic Sgt. Pep­per album; the best two songs from Jef­fer­son Air­plane; Pro­col Harum’s “A Whiter Shade of Pale”; the Who’s best psy­che­del­ic song “I Can See for Miles”; Jimi Hendrix’s “Are You Expe­ri­enced?” and “Hey Joe”; the Rolling Stones’ move into cham­ber pop with “Ruby Tues­day” and their own trip­py “She’s a Rain­bow” and “We Love You”—the last time they ever felt lovey dovey about any­thing; and the first releas­es by the Doors.

Soul and R’n’B was also at the height of its mid-60s pow­er, with Aretha Franklin’s “Respect,” James Brown’s “Cold Sweat,” Mar­vin Gaye and Tam­mi Terrell’s “Ain’t No Moun­tain High Enough”, and Sam and Dave’s “Soul Man” infect­ing the charts.

“We were rid­ing the crest of a high and beau­ti­ful wave,” is how Hunter S. Thomp­son famous­ly put it in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, and this playlist might just con­vince you of that con­sid­er­ing how music seemed to frac­ture so soon after—even the Bea­t­les would be deliv­er­ing that strange and some­times fright­en­ing trip of a White Album a year lat­er. Viet­nam would con­tin­ue to drag on, and the decade’s metaphor­i­cal end at Alta­mont was loom­ing on the hori­zon, not that many could see it. (By the way, Joel Selvin just wrote a very good book on that dark, decade-end­ing con­cert.)

Enjoy the playlist and argue over what’s miss­ing in the com­ments. (No “Water­loo Sun­set”? “I Sec­ond That Emo­tion”? “Glo­ria”? Hmmph!)

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Rare Footage of the “Human Be-In,” the Land­mark Counter-Cul­ture Event Held in Gold­en Gate Park, 1967

Jimi Hen­drix Opens for The Mon­kees on a 1967 Tour; Then After 8 Shows, Flips Off the Crowd and Quits

Paul McCart­ney Admits to Drop­ping Acid in a Scrap­py Inter­view with a Pry­ing Reporter (June, 1967)

Ted Mills is a free­lance writer on the arts who cur­rent­ly hosts the FunkZone Pod­cast. You can also fol­low him on Twit­ter at @tedmills, read his oth­er arts writ­ing at tedmills.com and/or watch his films here.

Siri Can Sing Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody”

It’s true. And you can try it your­self, at home. Just sing “I see a lit­tle sil­hou­et­to of a man.” Then let Siri do the rest.

Have fun!

Relat­ed Con­tent:

65,000 Fans Break Into a Sin­ga­long of Queen’s “Bohemi­an Rhap­sody” at a Green Day Con­cert in London’s Hyde Park

1910 Fair­ground Organ Plays Queen’s “Bohemi­an Rhap­sody,” and It Works Like a Charm

Inside the Rhap­sody: A Short Doc­u­men­tary on the Mak­ing of Queen’s Clas­sic Song, ‘Bohemi­an Rhap­sody’ (2002)

Bohemi­an Grav­i­ty: String The­o­ry Explored With an A Cap­pel­la Ver­sion of Bohemi­an Rhap­sody

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Hear Patti Smith Read the Poetry that Would Become Horses: A Reading of 14 Poems at Columbia University, 1975

Note: The first poem and oth­ers con­tain some offen­sive lan­guage.

In the con­text of the rad­i­cal socio-polit­i­cal change of 1975, Pat­ti Smith announced her­self to the world with Hors­es, “the first real full-length hint of the artis­tic fer­ment tak­ing place in the mid-‘70s at the junc­ture of Bow­ery and Bleeck­er,” writes Mac Ran­dall. Though born in an insu­lar down­town milieu, Smith’s view was vast, con­duct­ing the poet­ry of the past—of Rim­baud, the Beats, and rock and roll—into an uncer­tain future, through the nascent medi­um of punk rock. The album is “close­ly asso­ci­at­ed with the begin­ning of some­thing,” and yet is “so con­cerned with end­ings”: the loss of Jimi Hen­drix (at whose stu­dio Smith record­ed), and of “oth­er depart­ed coun­ter­cul­ture heroes like Jim Mor­ri­son, Janis Joplin and Bri­an Jones.”

In a way, Smith’s voice defines the piv­otal moment in which it arrived: antic­i­pat­ing an anx­ious age of aus­ter­i­ty and wom­en’s lib­er­a­tion; mourn­ing the loss of 60s ide­al­ism and the promise of racial equi­ty. She was a female artist ful­ly uncon­strained by patri­ar­chal expec­ta­tions, with com­plete author­i­ty over her vision. “My peo­ple were try­ing to forge a new bridge between the peo­ple we had lost and learned from and the future,” she recent­ly remarked.

In her “fab­u­lous­ly grand” way, she told The Guardian’s Simon Hat­ten­stone in 2013, “I felt in the cen­ter, not quite the old gen­er­a­tion, not quite the new gen­er­a­tion. I felt like the human bridge.” Smith was no naïf when she made Hors­es, but a con­fi­dent artist who, at 29, had worked in the­ater with her late­ly-depart­ed friend Sam Shep­ard, become her famous lover Robert Mapplethorpe’s favorite sub­ject, joined the St. Mark’s Poet­ry Project, and pub­lished two col­lec­tions of verse.

She thought of her­self as a poet who “got side­tracked” by music. “When I was young,” Smith says, “all I want­ed was to write books and be an artist.” But poet­ry was always cen­tral to her work; Hors­es, she says, “evolved organ­i­cal­ly” from her first poet­ry read­ing, four years ear­li­er, at St. Mark’s Church, along­side Allen Gins­berg, William Bur­roughs, and oth­er lumi­nar­ies. Above, you can hear her dis­cuss that atten­tion-grab­bing first read­ing, and at the top of the post, lis­ten to Smith at Colum­bia Uni­ver­si­ty in 1975, read­ing the poems that devel­oped that year into the songs on Hors­es, includ­ing her 1971 “Oath,” which begins with a vari­a­tion on Hors­es’ open­ing sneer, “Christ died for somebody’s sins, but not mine.”

Be warned the first poem she reads con­tains offen­sive lan­guage, as do many oth­ers. No one should be shocked by this. But some who only know Smith as a singer may be sur­prised by her mas­ter­ful lit­er­ary voice and wicked sense of humor. She has always been an elegist, mourn­ing her cul­tur­al heroes, most of whom died young, as well as a trag­ic string of per­son­al loss­es. “When I start­ed work­ing with the mate­r­i­al that became Hors­es,” she remem­bers, “a lot of our great voic­es had died.” But her intent went beyond ele­gy, beyond a maudlin appro­pri­a­tion of fad­ing 60s heroes. Smith had a “mis­sion,” she says, of “form­ing a cul­tur­al voice through rock’n’roll that incor­po­rat­ed sex and art and poet­ry and per­for­mance and rev­o­lu­tion.” It sounds grandiose, but it’s a mis­sion she’s large­ly ful­filled. At the cen­ter of her project is poet­ry as per­for­mance, as a means of enter­tain­ing, shock­ing, and seduc­ing an audi­ence. The read­ing at the top is an espe­cial­ly faith­ful record of her fear­less onstage per­sona.

Find more poet­ry read­ings in our col­lec­tion, 1,000 Free Audio Books: Down­load Great Books for Free.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Hear Pat­ti Smith Read 12 Poems From Sev­enth Heav­en, Her First Col­lec­tion (1972)

Watch Pat­ti Smith Read from Vir­ginia Woolf, and Hear the Only Sur­viv­ing Record­ing of Woolf’s Voice

Pat­ti Smith’s New Haunt­ing Trib­ute to Nico: Hear Three Tracks

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

Discover Langston Hughes’ Rent Party Ads & The Harlem Renaissance Tradition of Playing Gigs to Keep Roofs Over Heads

Both com­mu­ni­ties of col­or and com­mu­ni­ties of artists have had to take care of each oth­er in the U.S., cre­at­ing sys­tems of sup­port where the dom­i­nant cul­ture fos­ters neglect and depri­va­tion. In the ear­ly twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry, at the nexus of these two often over­lap­ping com­mu­ni­ties, we meet Langston Hugh­es and the artists, poets, and musi­cians of the Harlem Renais­sance. Hugh­es’ bril­liant­ly com­pressed 1951 poem “Harlem” speaks of the sim­mer­ing frus­tra­tion among a weary peo­ple. But while its star­tling final line hints grim­ly at social unrest, it also looks back to the explo­sion of cre­ativ­i­ty in the sto­ried New York City neigh­bor­hood dur­ing the Great Depres­sion.

Hugh­es had grown reflec­tive in the 50s, return­ing to the ori­gins of jazz and blues and the his­to­ry of Harlem in Mon­tage of a Dream Deferred. The strained hopes and hard­ships he had elo­quent­ly doc­u­ment­ed in the 20s and 30s remained large­ly the same post-World War II, and one of the key fea­tures of Depres­sion-era Harlem had returned; Rent par­ties, the wild shindigs held in pri­vate apart­ments to help their res­i­dents avoid evic­tion, were back in fash­ion, Hugh­es wrote in the Chica­go Defend­er in 1957.

“Maybe it is infla­tion today and the high cost of liv­ing that is caus­ing the return of the pay-at-the-door and buy-your-own-refresh­ments par­ties,” he said. He also not­ed that the new par­ties weren’t as much fun.

But how could they be? Depres­sion-era rent par­ties were leg­endary. They “impact­ed the growth of Swing and Blues danc­ing,” writes dance teacher Jered Morin, “like few oth­er peri­ods.” As Hugh­es com­ment­ed, “the Sat­ur­day night rent par­ties that I attend­ed were often more amus­ing than any night club, in small apart­ments where God-knows-who lived.” Famous artists met and rubbed elbows, musi­cians formed impromp­tu jams and invent­ed new styles, work­ing class peo­ple who couldn’t afford a night out got to put on their best clothes and cut loose to the lat­est music. Hugh­es was fas­ci­nat­ed, and as a writer, he was also quite tak­en by the quirky cards used to adver­tise the par­ties. “When I first came to Harlem,” he said, “as a poet I was intrigued by the lit­tle rhymes at the top of most House Rent Par­ty cards, so I saved them. Now I have quite a col­lec­tion.”

The cards you see here come from Hugh­es’ per­son­al col­lec­tion, held with his papers at Yale’s Bei­necke Rare Book and Man­u­script Library. Many of these date from the 40s and 50s, but they all draw their inspi­ra­tion from the Harlem Renais­sance peri­od, when the phe­nom­e­non of jazz-infused rent par­ties explod­ed.  “San­dra L. West points out that black ten­ants in Harlem dur­ing the 1920s and 1930s faced dis­crim­i­na­to­ry rental rates,” notes Rebec­ca Onion at Slate. “That, along with the gen­er­al­ly low­er salaries for black work­ers, cre­at­ed a sit­u­a­tion in which many peo­ple were short of rent mon­ey. These par­ties were orig­i­nal­ly meant to bridge that gap.” A 1938 Fed­er­al Writ­ers Project account put it plain­ly: Harlem “was a typ­i­cal slum and ten­e­ment area lit­tle dif­fer­ent from many oth­ers in New York except for the fact that in Harlem rents were high­er; always have been, in fact, since the great war-time migra­to­ry influx of col­ored labor.”

Ten­ants took it in stride, draw­ing on two long­stand­ing com­mu­ni­ty tra­di­tions to make ends meet: the church fundrais­er and the Sat­ur­day night fish fry. But rent par­ties could be rau­cous affairs. Guests typ­i­cal­ly paid a few cents to enter, and extra for food cooked by the host. Apart­ments filled far beyond capac­i­ty, and alcohol—illegal from 1919 to 1933—flowed freely. Gam­bling and pros­ti­tu­tion fre­quent­ly made an appear­ance.  And the com­pe­ti­tion could be fierce. The Ency­clo­pe­dia of the Harlem Renais­sance writes that in their hey­day, “as many as twelve par­ties in a sin­gle block and five in an apart­ment build­ing, simul­ta­ne­ous­ly, were not uncom­mon.” Rent par­ties “essen­tial­ly amount­ed to a kind of grass­roots social wel­fare,” though the atmos­phere could be “far more sor­did than the aver­age neigh­bor­hood block par­ty.” Many upright cit­i­zens who dis­ap­proved of jazz, gam­bling, and booze turned up their noses and tried to ignore the par­ties.

In order to entice par­ty-goers and dis­tin­guish them­selves, writes Onion, “the cards name the kind of musi­cal enter­tain­ment atten­dees could expect using lyrics from pop­u­lar songs or made-up rhyming verse as slo­gans.” They also “used euphemisms to name the par­ties’ pur­pose,” call­ing them “Social Whist Par­ty” or “Social Par­ty,” while also sly­ly hint­ing at row­di­er enter­tain­ments. The new rent par­ties may not have lived up to Hugh­es’ mem­o­ries of jazz-age shindigs, per­haps because, in some cas­es, live musi­cians had been replaced by record play­ers. But the new cards, he wrote “are just as amus­ing as the old ones.”

via Slate

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Langston Hugh­es Presents the His­to­ry of Jazz in an Illus­trat­ed Children’s Book (1955)

Langston Hugh­es Cre­ates a List of His 100 Favorite Jazz Record­ings: Hear 80+ of Them in a Big Playlist

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

3D Scans of 7,500 Famous Sculptures, Statues & Artworks: Download & 3D Print Rodin’s Thinker, Michelangelo’s David & More

Last week we fea­tured the British Muse­um’s archive of down­load­able 3D mod­els of over 200 rich­ly his­tor­i­cal objects in their col­lec­tion, per­haps most notably the Roset­ta Stone. But back in 2015, before that mighty cul­tur­al insti­tu­tion put online in 3D the most impor­tant lin­guis­tic arti­fact of them all, a project called Scan the World cre­at­ed a mod­el of it dur­ing an unof­fi­cial com­mu­ni­ty “scanathon,” and it remains freely avail­able to all who would, for exam­ple, like to 3D print a Roset­ta Stone of their very own.

Or per­haps you’d pre­fer to run off your own copy of a world-famous sculp­ture like ancient Egypt­ian court sculp­tor Thut­mose’s bust of Nefer­ti­ti or Auguste Rod­in’s The Thinker, both of whose 3D mod­els you can find on Scan the World’s archive at My Mini Fac­to­ry.

There the orga­ni­za­tion, “com­prised of a vast com­mu­ni­ty of 3D scan­ning and 3D print­ing enthu­si­asts,” has amassed a col­lec­tion of 7,834 3D mod­els and count­ing, all toward their mis­sion ” to archive the world’s sculp­tures, stat­ues, art­works and any oth­er objects of cul­tur­al sig­nif­i­cance using 3D scan­ning tech­nolo­gies to pro­duce con­tent suit­able for 3D print­ing.”

Scan the World has­n’t lim­it­ed its man­date to just arti­facts and art­works kept in muse­ums: among its mod­els you’ll also find large scale pieces of pub­lic sculp­ture like the Stat­ue of Lib­er­ty and even beloved build­ings like Big Ben. This con­jures up the tan­ta­liz­ing vision of each of us one day becom­ing empow­ered to 3D-print our very own Lon­don, com­plete with not just a British Muse­um but all the objects, each of which tells part of human­i­ty’s sto­ry, inside it.

As much of a tech­no­log­i­cal mar­vel as it may rep­re­sent, print­ing out a Venus de Milo or a David or a Lean­ing Tow­er of Pisa or a Moai head at home can’t, of course, com­pare to mak­ing the trip to see the gen­uine arti­cle, espe­cial­ly with the kind of 3D print­ers now avail­able to con­sumers. But as recent tech­no­log­i­cal his­to­ry has shown us, the most amaz­ing devel­op­ments tend to come out of the decen­tral­ized efforts of count­less enthu­si­asts — just the kind of com­mu­ni­ty pow­er­ing Scan the World. The great achieve­ments of the future have to start some­where, and they might as well start by pay­ing trib­ute to the great­est achieve­ments of the past.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The British Muse­um Cre­ates 3D Mod­els of the Roset­ta Stone & 200+ Oth­er His­toric Arti­facts: Down­load or View in Vir­tu­al Real­i­ty

The British Muse­um Is Now Open To Every­one: Take a Vir­tu­al Tour and See 4,737 Arti­facts, Includ­ing the Roset­ta Stone

Artists Put Online 3D, High Res­o­lu­tion Scans of 3,000-Year-Old Nefer­ti­ti Bust (and Con­tro­ver­sy Ensues)

The Com­plete His­to­ry of the World (and Human Cre­ativ­i­ty) in 100 Objects

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. He’s at work on the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les, the video series The City in Cin­e­ma, the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future?, and the Los Ange­les Review of Books’ Korea Blog. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

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