Cornell Creates a Database of Fugitive Slave Ads, Telling the Story of Those Who Resisted Slavery in 18th & 19th Century America

While the val­ue of slaves in the U.S. from the colo­nial peri­od to the Civ­il War rose and fell like oth­er mar­ket goods, for the most part, enslaved peo­ple con­sti­tut­ed the most valu­able kind of prop­er­ty, typ­i­cal­ly worth even more than land and oth­er high­ly val­ued resources. In one study, three Uni­ver­si­ty of Kansas his­to­ri­ans esti­mate that dur­ing most of the 18th cen­tu­ry in South Car­oli­na, slaves “made up close to half of the per­son­al wealth record­ed in pro­bate inven­to­ry in most decades.” By the 19th cen­tu­ry, slave­hold­ers had begun tak­ing out insur­ance poli­cies on their slaves as Rachel L. Swarns doc­u­ments at The New York Times.

“Alive,” Swarns writes, “slaves were among a white man’s most prized assets. Dead, they were con­sid­ered vir­tu­al­ly worth­less…. By 1847, insur­ance poli­cies on slaves account­ed for a third of the poli­cies in a firm”—New York Life—“that would become one of the nation’s For­tune 100 com­pa­nies.” Giv­en the huge eco­nom­ic incen­tives for per­pet­u­at­ing the sys­tem of chat­tel slav­ery, the fact that peo­ple did not want to be held in forced labor for life—and to con­demn their chil­dren and grand­chil­dren to the same—presented slave­hold­ers with a seri­ous prob­lem.

For over 250 years, count­less num­bers of enslaved peo­ple attempt­ed to escape to free­dom. And thou­sands of slave­own­ers ran news­pa­per ads to try and recov­er their invest­ments. These ads are like­ly famil­iar from text­books and his­tor­i­cal arti­cles on slav­ery; they have long been used singly to illus­trate a point, “but they have nev­er been sys­tem­at­i­cal­ly col­lect­ed,” notes Cor­nell University’s Free­dom on the Move project, which intends to “com­pile all North Amer­i­can slave run­away ads and make them avail­able for sta­tis­ti­cal, geo­graph­i­cal, tex­tu­al, and oth­er forms of analy­sis.” While the data­base is still in progress, exam­ples of the ads are being shared on the @fotmproject Twit­ter account.

The ongo­ing project presents a tremen­dous oppor­tu­ni­ty for his­tor­i­cal schol­ars of the peri­od. “If we could col­lect and col­late all of these ads,” the project’s researchers write, “we would cre­ate what might be the sin­gle rich­est source of data pos­si­ble for under­stand­ing the lives of the approx­i­mate­ly eight mil­lion peo­ple who were enslaved in the U.S.” It is esti­mat­ed that 100,000 or more such ads sur­vive “from the colo­nial and pre-Civ­il War U.S.,” though they might rep­re­sent a frac­tion of those pub­lished, and of the num­ber of attempt­ed, and suc­cess­ful, escapes.

Many of the ads casu­al­ly reveal evi­dence of bru­tal treat­ment, list­ing scars and brands, miss­ing fin­gers, speech imped­i­ments, and halt­ing walks. They show many of the escaped slaves to have been skilled in sev­er­al trades and speak mul­ti­ple lan­guages. A large num­ber of the escapees are chil­dren. As Uni­ver­si­ty of New Orleans his­to­ri­an Mary Niall Mitchell tells Hyper­al­ler­gic, “iron­i­cal­ly, in try­ing to retrieve their property—the peo­ple they claimed as things—enslavers left us mounds of evi­dence about the human­i­ty of the peo­ple they bought and sold.” (Mitchell is one of the projects three lead researchers, along with Uni­ver­si­ty of Alabama’s Joshua Roth­man and Cornell’s Edward Bap­tist, author of The Half Has Nev­er Been Told.)

The slave­hold­ers who ran ads also left evi­dence of what they made them­selves believe in order to hold peo­ple as prop­er­ty. One ad describes a run­away slave named Bil­ly as hav­ing been “per­suad­ed to leave his mas­ter by some vil­lain,” as though Bil­ly must sure­ly have been con­tent­ed with his lot. In the over­whelm­ing major­i­ty of cas­es, we will nev­er know with cer­tain­ty what most peo­ple thought about being enslaved. Yet the fact that hun­dreds of thou­sands attempt­ed to escape at great per­son­al risk, often with­out any help—to such a degree that extreme, inflam­ma­to­ry mea­sures like the Fugi­tive Slave Act were even­tu­al­ly deemed necessary—should offer suf­fi­cient tes­ta­ment, if the rel­a­tive­ly few writ­ten nar­ra­tives aren’t enough. “For some” of the peo­ple in the ads, says Mitchell, “this may be the only place some­thing about them sur­vives, in any detail, in the writ­ten record,”

Free­dom on the Move, writes Hyperallergic’s Alli­son Meier, “expands on the his­to­ry of resis­tance against slav­ery in the 18th and 19th cen­turies.” It offers a com­pelling pic­ture of two intol­er­a­bly irre­solv­able views—those of slave­hold­ers who viewed enslaved peo­ple as pro­pri­etary invest­ments; and those of the enslaved who refused to be reduced to objects for oth­ers’ plea­sure and prof­it.

Vis­it Free­dom on the Move and find out more.

via Hyper­al­ler­gic

Relat­ed Con­tent:

1.5 Mil­lion Slav­ery Era Doc­u­ments Will Be Dig­i­tized, Help­ing African Amer­i­cans to Learn About Their Lost Ances­tors

Boston Pub­lic Library Launch­es a Crowd­sourced Project to Tran­scribe 40,000 Doc­u­ments from Its Anti-Slav­ery Col­lec­tion: You Can Now Help

The His­to­ry of the U.S. Civ­il War Visu­al­ized Month by Month and State by State, in an Info­graph­ic from 1897

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

Martin Scorsese Teaches His First Online Course on Filmmaking: Features 30 Video Lessons

FYI: If you sign up for a Mas­ter­Class course by click­ing on the affil­i­ate links in this post, Open Cul­ture will receive a small fee that helps sup­port our oper­a­tion.

Last Sep­tem­ber, online edu­ca­tion com­pa­ny Mas­ter­class announced that they’d soon launch Mar­tin Scors­ese’s very first online course, “Mar­tin Scors­ese Teach­es Film­mak­ing.” Now it has opened for enroll­ment, at the usu­al Mas­ter­class cost of $180 for an all-access pass to the 85 cours­es on the site, a list that also includes Spike Lee and Wern­er Her­zog’s takes on the same sub­ject. For a com­pa­ny that has quick­ly made its name by enlist­ing famous instruc­tors, they could hard­ly do bet­ter than Scors­ese, whose own name has become a byword for auteurism in late 20th- and ear­ly 21st-cen­tu­ry Amer­i­can cin­e­ma.

“If you’re intrigued by moviemak­ing as a career, this isn’t the class for you,” Scors­ese says in the class’ trail­er above. “But if you need to make movies, if you feel like you can’t rest until you’ve told this par­tic­u­lar sto­ry that you’re burn­ing to tell, then I could be speak­ing to you.” Its 30 lessons, which cov­er every­thing from his life and edu­ca­tion to devel­op­ing a style to cast­ing actors to shoot­ing on a low bud­get, might also appeal to those who sim­ply love Scors­ese’s movies.

He illus­trates his instruc­tion­al points by draw­ing on his own for­mi­da­ble fil­mog­ra­phy and the vast expe­ri­ence that has gone into it (includ­ing the phys­i­cal ill­ness that descends upon him before view­ing each rough cut), a process that no doubt pro­vides count­less insights into what makes his work so pow­er­ful.

But the cur­ricu­lum also goes well beyond Scors­ese-on-Scors­ese, as one might expect from a man unabashed­ly dri­ven by a pure love of cin­e­ma — of, seem­ing­ly, all of cin­e­ma. In the final sec­tion of the course, Scors­ese breaks down scenes from Stan­ley Kubrick­’s Bar­ry Lyn­don, Jacques Tourneur’s Out of the Past, François Truf­faut’s Jules and Jim, Alfred Hitch­cock­’s Ver­ti­go, and Fed­eri­co Fellini’s 8 1/2, exam­in­ing the tech­ni­cal ele­ments that fill them with their dis­tinc­tive mag­ic. His enthu­si­asm has sure­ly inspired almost as many of his fans to go into film­mak­ing as has his work itself, but even those who lack the burn­ing desire to tell cin­e­mat­ic sto­ries them­selves know that if there’s any view­ing expe­ri­ence as com­pelling as watch­ing a Scors­ese movie, it’s watch­ing Scors­ese talk about movies. Learn more about Scors­ese’s course here.

You can take this class by sign­ing up for a Mas­ter­Class’ All Access Pass. The All Access Pass will give you instant access to this course and 85 oth­ers for a 12-month peri­od.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Mar­tin Scors­ese Cre­ates a List of 39 Essen­tial For­eign Films for a Young Film­mak­er

Mar­tin Scors­ese Makes a List of 85 Films Every Aspir­ing Film­mak­er Needs to See

Spike Lee to Teach an Online Course on Film­mak­ing; Get Ready By Watch­ing His List of 95 Essen­tial Films

Aaron Sorkin, Cre­ator of The West Wing & The Social Net­work, Teach­es Screen­writ­ing in an Online Class

Great Film­mak­ers Offer Advice to Young Direc­tors: Taran­ti­no, Her­zog, Cop­po­la, Scors­ese, Ander­son, Felli­ni & More

Wern­er Her­zog Teach­es His First Online Course on Film­mak­ing

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities 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.

How the Iconic Eames Lounge Chair Is Made, From Start to Finish

In 1956, Charles and Ray Eames unveiled a lounge chair that did some­thing spe­cial. It took mod­ern design and made it com­fort­able. It placed “the sit­ter into a volup­tuous lux­u­ry that few mor­tals since Nero have known.” Below, you can revis­it the orig­i­nal unveil­ing of the Eames Lounge Chair, which took place on the Home Show, an Amer­i­can day­time TV pro­gram host­ed by Arlene Fran­cis. And above, you can watch the mak­ing of the Eames Lounge Chair, which remains very much in pro­duc­tion and demand today. It’s still a sta­ple of the Her­man Miller fur­ni­ture col­lec­tion. Some aspects of the pro­duc­tion have got­ten a bit more high tech, of course. And the orig­i­nal Brazil­ian rose­wood has been replaced by a more sus­tain­able Pal­isander rose­wood. But the high-touch process remains oth­er­wise large­ly the same. Orig­i­nal­ly priced at $310, the Eames Lounge Chair will now set you back $5,295.

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 and BlueSky.

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!

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Charles & Ray Eames’ Icon­ic Lounge Chair Debuts on Amer­i­can TV (1956)

Design­ers Charles & Ray Eames Cre­ate a Pro­mo­tion­al Film for the Ground­break­ing Polaroid SX-70 Instant Cam­era (1972)

Charles & Ray Eames’ Icon­ic Film Pow­ers of Ten (1977) and the Less­er-Known Pro­to­type from 1968

Ice Cube & Charles Eames Rev­el in L.A. Archi­tec­ture

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Dress Like an Intellectual Icon with Japanese Coats Inspired by the Wardrobes of Camus, Sartre, Duchamp, Le Corbusier & Others

If you fol­low men’s style in the 21st cen­tu­ry, you know that the same names tend to come up as ref­er­ences again and again, from actors like Cary Grant and Steve McQueen to busi­ness­men like Gian­ni Agnel­li and roy­al­ty like Prince Charles. But what if we looked to oth­er, less con­ven­tion­al realms of cul­ture for inspi­ra­tion on what to wear and, more impor­tant­ly, how to wear it? Over the past few years, Japan­ese label Cohérence has done just that, design­ing coats mod­eled after those worn by the likes of Albert Camus, Jean-Paul Sartre, Mar­cel Duchamp, and Le Cor­busier — and improv­ing upon them with new mate­ri­als and details.

“I love Dada and Sur­re­al­ism, jazz music, writ­ers con­nect­ed to the Lost Gen­er­a­tion, and New Wave cin­e­ma. Along with the art and cul­ture, there were also the clothes – the heav­ier fab­rics and fuller sil­hou­ettes,” says Cohérence design­er Ken­taro Nak­ago­mi as quot­ed by men’s style blog­ger Derek Guy of Die, Work­wear! “They were clas­sic, but also mod­ern at the same time.”

If it strikes you as odd that a Japan­ese oper­a­tion would ded­i­cate itself to the styles of par­tic­u­lar cul­tur­al moments in the West, know that mod­ern Japan has quite a his­to­ry of not just repli­cat­ing them but rein­vent­ing them, told most recent­ly by W. David Marx in his book Ame­to­ra: How Japan Saved Amer­i­can Style. Amer­i­cans, thus far, haven’t con­sti­tut­ed a major pres­ence in Cohérence’s col­lec­tions, though the jazz sax­o­phon­ist, clar­inetist, and com­pos­er Sid­ney Bechet did inspire a Bal­macaan.

Though French­men (also includ­ing The Lit­tle Prince author Antoine de Saint-Exupéry and writer-artist-film­mak­er Jean Cocteau) dom­i­nate the label’s list of inspi­ra­tions, it has also made sev­er­al coats in hon­or of Léonard Tsug­uharu Fou­ji­ta, the Japan­ese painter and print­mak­er who in the ear­ly 20th cen­tu­ry brought the artis­tic tech­niques of his ances­tral home­land to his adopt­ed home­land of France. In a way, Fou­ji­ta stands as a sym­bol of the whole project, premised as it is on the union of clas­si­cism and moder­ni­ty as well as exchange between Japan and Europe. And were he around today, Fou­ji­ta, like Cohérence, would sure­ly also have made good use of Insta­gram.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Recall­ing Albert Camus’ Fash­ion Advice, Noam Chom­sky Pans Glenn Greenwald’s Shiny, Pur­ple Tie

Google Cre­ates a Dig­i­tal Archive of World Fash­ion: Fea­tures 30,000 Images, Cov­er­ing 3,000 Years of Fash­ion His­to­ry

1930s Fash­ion Design­ers Pre­dict How Peo­ple Would Dress in the Year 2000

Vin­tage Lit­er­ary T‑Shirts

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities 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.

John Lennon Extols the Virtues of Transcendental Meditation in a Spirited Letter Written to a Beatles Fan (1968)

An Indi­an guru trav­els to the West with teach­ings of enlight­en­ment, world peace, and lib­er­a­tion from the soul-killing mate­ri­al­ist grind. He attracts thou­sands of fol­low­ers, some of them wealthy celebri­ties, and founds a com­mer­cial empire with his teach­ings. No, this isn’t the sto­ry of Bhag­wan Shree Rajneesh, the head of the reli­gious move­ment in Wild Wild Coun­try. There was no mirac­u­lous city in the Ore­gon wilds or fleet of Lear­jets and Rolls Royces. No stock­pile of auto­mat­ic weapons, planned assas­si­na­tions, or mass poi­son­ings. Decades before those strange events, anoth­er teacher, Mahar­ishi Mahesh Yogi inspired mass devo­tion among stu­dents around the world with the peace­ful prac­tice of Tran­scen­den­tal Med­i­ta­tion.

Rolling Stone’s Claire Hoffman—who grew up in a TM com­mu­ni­ty—writes of the move­ment with ambiva­lence. For most of his dis­ci­ples, he was a “Wiz­ard of Oz-type char­ac­ter,” she says, dis­tant and mys­te­ri­ous. But much of what we pop­u­lar­ly know about TM comes from its most famous adher­ents, includ­ing Jer­ry Sein­feld, Katy Per­ry, David Lynch, the Beach Boys, and, of course, The Bea­t­les, who famous­ly trav­eled to India in 1968, med­i­tat­ed with Mia Far­row, Dono­van, and Mike Love, and wrote some of their wildest, most inven­tive music after a cre­ative slump fol­low­ing the huge suc­cess of Sgt. Pepper’s.

“They stayed in Rishikesh,” writes Maria Popo­va at Brain Pick­ings, “a small vil­lage in the foothills of the Himalayas, con­sid­ered the cap­i­tal of yoga. Immersed in this peace­ful com­mu­ni­ty and nur­tured by an inten­sive dai­ly med­i­ta­tion prac­tice, the Fab Four under­went a cre­ative growth spurt—the weeks at Rishikesh were among their most fer­tile song­writ­ing and com­pos­ing peri­ods, pro­duc­ing many of the songs on The White Album and Abbey Road.” Unlike most of the Maharishi’s fol­low­ers, The Bea­t­les got a per­son­al audi­ence. The Indi­an spir­i­tu­al teacher “helped them through the shock” of their man­ag­er Bri­an Epstein’s death, and helped them tap into cos­mic con­scious­ness with­out LSD.

They left on a sour note—there were alle­ga­tions of impro­pri­ety, and Lennon, being Lennon, got a bit nasty, orig­i­nal­ly writ­ing The White Album’s “Sexy Sadie” with the lyrics “Maharishi—what have you done? You made a fool of every­one.” But before their falling out with TM’s founder, before even the trip to India, all four Bea­t­les became devot­ed med­i­ta­tors, sit­ting for two twen­ty-minute ses­sions a day and find­ing gen­uine peace and happiness—or “ener­gy,” as Lennon and Har­ri­son describe it in a 1967 inter­view with David Frost. The next year, hap­pi­ly prac­tic­ing, and fever­ish­ly writ­ing, in India, Lennon received let­ters from fans, and respond­ed with enthu­si­asm.

In answer to a let­ter from a fan named Beth, evi­dent­ly a devout Chris­t­ian and appar­ent­ly threat­ened by TM and con­cerned for the bands’ immor­tal souls, Lennon wrote the fol­low­ing (see his hand­writ­ten reply at the top):

Dear Beth:

Thank you for your let­ter and your kind thoughts. When you read that we are in India search­ing for peace, etc, it is not that we need faith in God or Jesus — we have full faith in them; it is only as if you went to stay with Bil­ly Gra­ham for a short time — it just so hap­pens that our guru (teacher) is Indi­an — and what is more nat­ur­al for us to come to India — his home. He also holds cours­es in Europe and Amer­i­ca — and we will prob­a­bly go to some of these as well — to learn — and to be near him.

Tran­scen­den­tal med­i­ta­tion is not opposed to any reli­gion — it is based on the basic truths of all reli­gions — the com­mon denom­i­na­tor. Jesus said: “The King­dom of Heav­en is with­in you” — and he meant just that — “The King­dom of Heav­en is at hand” — not in some far dis­tant time — or after death — but now.

Med­i­ta­tion takes the mind down to that lev­el of con­scious­ness which is Absolute Bliss (Heav­en) and through con­stant con­tact with that state — “the peace that sur­pass­es all under­stand­ing” — one grad­u­al­ly becomes estab­lished in that state even when one is not med­i­tat­ing. All this gives one actu­al expe­ri­ence of God — not by detach­ment or renun­ci­a­tion — when Jesus was fast­ing etc in the desert 40 days & nights he would have been doing some form of med­i­ta­tion — not just sit­ting in the sand and pray­ing — although me it will be a true Chris­t­ian — which I try to be with all sin­cer­i­ty — it does not pre­vent me from acknowl­edg­ing Bud­dha — Mohammed — and all the great men of God. God bless you — jai guru dev.

With love,
John Lennon

This hard­ly sounds like the man who imag­ined no reli­gion. A fan in India wrote Lennon less to inquire and more to acquire, name­ly mon­ey for a trip around the world so that he could “dis­cov­er the ‘huge trea­sure’ nec­es­sary for achiev­ing inner peace.” Lennon respond­ed with a brief rebuke of the man’s mate­r­i­al aspi­ra­tions, then rec­om­mend­ed TM, “through which all things are pos­si­ble.” (He signs both let­ters with “jai guru dev,” or “I give thanks to the Guru Dev,” the Maharishi’s teacher. The phrase also appears as the refrain in his “Across the Uni­verse.”)

The let­ters come from an excel­lent col­lec­tion of his cor­re­spon­dence, The John Lennon Let­ters, which includes oth­er mis­sives extolling the virtues of tran­scen­den­tal med­i­ta­tion. We might take his word for it based on the strength of the cre­ative work he pro­duced dur­ing the peri­od. We could also take the word of David Lynch, who describes med­i­ta­tion as the way he catch­es the cre­ative “big fish.” Or we could go out and find our own meth­ods for expand­ing our minds and tap­ping into cre­ative poten­tial.

via Brain Pick­ings

Relat­ed Con­tent:

David Lynch Explains How Med­i­ta­tion Enhances Our Cre­ativ­i­ty

The John Lennon Sketch­book, a Short Ani­ma­tion Made of Lennon’s Draw­ings, Pre­mieres on YouTube

Watch John Lennon’s Last Live Per­for­mance (1975): “Imag­ine,” “Stand By Me” & More

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

Listen to an Archive of Recordings by Delia Derbyshire, the Electronic Music Pioneer & Composer of the Dr. Who Theme Song

Delia Der­byshire, com­pos­er of the Dr. Who theme song and musi­cal pio­neer, has not quite become a house­hold name, but read­ers of this site sure­ly know who she is, as well should every stu­dent of avant garde, elec­tron­ic, and exper­i­men­tal pop music. Along with oth­er often unsung female elec­tron­ic com­posers of the 60s and beyond—like fel­low BBC Radio­phon­ic Work­shop doyenne, Daphne Oram—Derbyshire brought the ear­ly elec­tron­ic tech­niques of musique con­crete and tape manip­u­la­tion to a wider audi­ence, who most­ly had no idea where the sounds they heard came from.

As part of the unit respon­si­ble for cre­at­ing the sounds of British tele­vi­sion, Derbyshire’s unusu­al instincts took her to places no com­pos­er had ever ven­tured before. In her sound work for a doc­u­men­tary called The World About Us, on the Tuareg peo­ple of the Sahara, she “used her voice for the sound of the [camels’] hooves,” writes her one­time col­league Bri­an Hodg­son at The Guardian, “cut up into an obbli­ga­to rhythm. And she added a thin, high elec­tron­ic sound using vir­tu­al­ly all the fil­ters and oscil­la­tors in the work­shop.” As Der­byshire recalls it:

My most beau­ti­ful sound at the time was a tat­ty BBC lamp­shade. It was the wrong colour, but it had a beau­ti­ful ring­ing sound to it. I hit the lamp­shade, record­ed that, fad­ed it up into the ring­ing part with­out the per­cus­sive start. I… recon­struct­ed the sound of the workshop’s famous 12 oscil­la­tors to give it a whoosh­ing sound. So the camels rode off into the sun­set with my voice in their hooves and a green lamp­shade on their backs.

What the col­or of the lamp­shade had to do with the sound, only Der­byshire could know for sure. But it clear­ly had a psy­cho­log­i­cal impact on the way she heard it. “I sup­pose in a way,” she said, “I was exper­i­ment­ing in psy­cho-acoustics.”

This was an immer­sive expe­ri­ence for her, and for every­one who heard the results, no mat­ter whether they could iden­ti­fy what it was they were hear­ing. Derbyshire’s sound design rev­o­lu­tion­ized the indus­try, but we can­not over­look her extracur­ric­u­lar work—experimental sound col­lages and musi­cal pieces made with sev­er­al close col­lab­o­ra­tors, includ­ing Hodg­son, which sound remark­ably ahead of their time.

In 1964, Der­byshire col­lab­o­rat­ed with poet and drama­tist Bar­ry Bermange on The Dreams, a work that showed her, Hodg­son writes, “at her ele­gant best.” The two put togeth­er a col­lage, with peo­ple describ­ing their dreams in snip­pets of cut-up mono­logues, backed by a puls­ing, throb­bing, buzzing, hum­ming omi­nous score. (Lis­ten to “Run­ning” fur­ther up.) In 1966, she worked with David Bowie’s favorite per­former Antho­ny New­ley on “Moogles Bloogles,” above, which Ubuweb calls “an unre­leased perv-pop clas­sic in the 1966 nov­el­ty vein.” She was not privy to what the song would become. “I’d writ­ten this beau­ti­ful inno­cent tune,” she said, “all sen­si­tive love and inno­cence, and he made it into a dirty old rain­coat song. But he was real­ly chuffed!”

In the late six­ties, Der­byshire joined Hodg­son and bass play­er David Vorhaus to form White Noise, an exper­i­men­tal elec­tron­ic pop project whose “Love With­out Sound” you can hear at the top of the post (behind scenes from Jean Cocteau’s Orphée.) In 1972, Der­byshire teamed with Hodg­son and Don Harp­er, all “moon­light­ing from day jobs” at the BBC, for an album called Elec­troson­ic, a “haunt­ing batch of spare elec­tron­ic tracks.” Just above, hear “Liq­uid Ener­gy (Bub­bling Rhythm)” from that col­lec­tion.

These tracks rep­re­sent just a frac­tion of the Der­byshire music avail­able at Ubuweb’s Delia Der­byshire library, includ­ing a com­pi­la­tion of Radio­phon­ic Work­shop sound­track pieces like “Envi­ron­men­tal Stud­ies,” above, from 1969, as well as an audio doc­u­men­tary on her work made in 2010. Soon after her ear­ly 70s musi­cal exper­i­ments, Der­byshire retired from music to work as a radio oper­a­tor and in an art gallery and book­shop, dis­gust­ed with the state of con­tem­po­rary sound. But in her last few years, she had the plea­sure of watch­ing a new gen­er­a­tion dis­cov­er her work. As Hodg­son writes in his touch­ing eulo­gy, “the tech­nol­o­gy she had left behind was final­ly catch­ing up to her vision.”

Hear more record­ing at Ubuweb’s Delia Der­byshire library.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Two Doc­u­men­taries Intro­duce Delia Der­byshire, the Pio­neer in Elec­tron­ic Music

The Fas­ci­nat­ing Sto­ry of How Delia Der­byshire Cre­at­ed the Orig­i­nal Doc­tor Who Theme

Meet Delia Der­byshire, the Dr. Who Com­pos­er Who Almost Turned The Bea­t­les’ “Yes­ter­day” Into Ear­ly Elec­tron­i­ca

Watch “Bells of Atlantis,” an Exper­i­men­tal Film with Ear­ly Elec­tron­ic Music Fea­tur­ing Anaïs Nin (1952)

Meet Four Women Who Pio­neered Elec­tron­ic Music: Daphne Oram, Lau­rie Spiegel, Éliane Radigue & Pauline Oliv­eros

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

An Avalanche of Novels, Films and Other Works of Art Will Soon Enter the Public Domain: Virginia Woolf, Charlie Chaplin, William Carlos Williams, Buster Keaton & More

There may be no sweet­er sound to the ears of Open Cul­ture writ­ers than the words “pub­lic domain”—you might even go so far as to call it our “cel­lar door.” The phrase may not be as musi­cal, but the fact that many of the world’s cul­tur­al trea­sures can­not be copy­right­ed in per­pe­tu­ity means that we can con­tin­ue to do what we love: curat­ing the best of those trea­sures for read­ers as they appear online. Pub­lic domain means com­pa­nies can sell those works with­out incur­ring any costs, but it also means that any­one can give them away for free. “Any­one can re-pub­lish” pub­lic domain works, notes Life­hack­er, “or chop them up and use them in oth­er projects.” And there­by emerges the remix­ing and repur­pos­ing of old arti­facts into new ones, which will them­selves enter the pub­lic domain of future gen­er­a­tions.

Some of those future works of art may even become the next Great Amer­i­can Nov­el, if such a thing still exists as any­thing more than a hack­neyed cliché. Of course, no one seri­ous­ly goes around say­ing they’re writ­ing the “Great Amer­i­can Nov­el,” unless they’re Philip Roth in the 70s or William Car­los Williams (top right) in the 20s, who both some­how pulled off using the phrase as a title (though Roth’s book does­n’t quite live up to it.) Where Roth casu­al­ly used the con­cept in a light nov­el about base­ball, Williams’ The Great Amer­i­can Nov­el approached it with deep con­cern for the sur­vival of the form itself. His mod­ernist text “engages the tech­niques of what we would now call metafic­tion,” writes lit­er­ary schol­ar April Boone, “to par­o­dy worn out for­mu­las and con­tent and, iron­i­cal­ly, to cre­ate a new type of nov­el that antic­i­pates post­mod­ern fic­tion.”

We will all, as of Jan­u­ary 1, 2019, have free, unfet­tered access to Williams’ metafic­tion­al shake-up of the for­mu­la­ic sta­tus quo, when “hun­dreds of thou­sands of… books, musi­cal scores, and films first pub­lished in the Unit­ed States dur­ing 1923” enter the pub­lic domain, as Glenn Fleish­man writes at The Atlantic. Because of the com­pli­cat­ed his­to­ry of U.S. copy­right law—especially the 1998 “Son­ny Bono Act” that suc­cess­ful­ly extend­ed a copy­right law from 50 to 70 years (for the sake, it’s said, of Mick­ey Mouse)—it has been twen­ty years since such a mas­sive trove of mate­r­i­al has become avail­able all at once. But now, and “for sev­er­al decades from 2019 onward,” Fleish­man points out, “each New Year’s Day will unleash a full year’s worth of works pub­lished 95 years ear­li­er.”

In oth­er words, it’ll be Christ­mas all over again in Jan­u­ary every year, and while you can browse the pub­li­ca­tion dates of your favorite works your­self to see what’s com­ing avail­able in com­ing years, you’ll find at The Atlantic a short list of lit­er­ary works includ­ed in next-year’s mass-release, includ­ing books by Aldous Hux­ley, Win­ston Churchill, Carl Sand­burg, Edith Whar­ton, and P.G. Wode­house. Life­hack­er has sev­er­al more exten­sive lists, which we excerpt below:

Movies [see many more at Indiewire]

All these movies, includ­ing:

  • Cecil B. DeMille’s (first, less famous, silent ver­sion of) The Ten Com­mand­ments
  • Harold Lloyd’s Safe­ty Last!, includ­ing that scene where he dan­gles off a clock tow­er, and his Why Wor­ry?
  • A long line-up of fea­ture-length silent films, includ­ing Buster Keaton’s Our Hos­pi­tal­ityand Char­lie Chaplin’s The Pil­grim
  • Short films by Chap­lin, Keaton, Lau­rel and Hardy, and Our Gang (lat­er Lit­tle Ras­cals)
  • Car­toons includ­ing Felix the Cat(the char­ac­ter first appeared in a 1919 car­toon)
  • Mar­lene Dietrich’s film debut, a bit part in the Ger­man silent com­e­dy The Lit­tle Napoleon; also the debuts of Dou­glas Fair­banks Jr. and Fay Wray

Music

All this music, includ­ing these clas­sics:

  • “King Porter Stomp”
  • “Who’s Sor­ry Now?”
  • “Tin Roof Blues”
  • “That Old Gang of Mine”
  • “Yes! We Have No Bananas”
  • “I Cried for You”
  • “The Charleston”—written to accom­pa­ny, and a big fac­tor in the pop­u­lar­i­ty of, the Charleston dance
  • Igor Stravinsky’s “Octet for Wind Instru­ments”

Lit­er­a­ture

All these booksand these books, includ­ing the clas­sics:

  • Mrs. Dal­loway by Vir­ginia Woolf
  • Cane by Jean Toomer
  • The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran
  • The Ego and the Id by Sig­mund Freud
  • Towards a New Archi­tec­ture by Le Cor­busier
  • Whose Body?, the first Lord Peter Wim­sey nov­el by Dorothy L. Say­ers
  • Two of Agatha Christie’s Her­cule Poirot nov­els, The Mur­der of Roger Ack­royd and The Mur­der on the Links
  • The Pris­on­er, vol­ume 5 of Mar­cel Proust’s In Search of Lost Time (note that Eng­lish trans­la­tions have their own copy­rights)
  • The Com­plete Works of Antho­ny Trol­lope
  • George Bernard Shaw’s play Saint Joan
  • Short sto­ries by Christie, Vir­ginia Woolf, H.P. Love­craft, Kather­ine Mans­field, and Ernest Hem­ing­way
  • Poet­ry by Edna St. Vin­cent Mil­lay, E.E. Cum­mings, William Car­los Williams, Rain­er Maria Rilke, Wal­lace Stevens, Robert Frost, Suku­mar Ray, and Pablo Neru­da
  • Works by Jane Austen, D.H. Lawrence, Edith Whar­ton, Jorge Luis Borges, Mikhail Bul­gakov, Jean Cocteau, Ita­lo Sve­vo, Aldous Hux­ley, Win­ston Churchill, G.K. Chester­ton, Maria Montes­sori, Lu Xun, Joseph Con­rad, Zane Grey, H.G. Wells, and Edgar Rice Bur­roughs

Art

These art­works, includ­ing:

  • Con­stan­tin Brâncuși’s Bird in Space
  • Hen­ri Matisse’s Odal­isque With Raised Arms
  • Mar­cel Duchamp’s The Bride Stripped Bare By Her Bach­e­lors, Even (The Large Glass)
  • Yokoya­ma Taikan’s Metempsy­chosis
  • Work by M. C. Esch­er, Pablo Picas­so, Wass­i­ly Kandin­sky, Max Ernst, and Man Ray

Again, these are only par­tial lists of high­lights, and such high­lights…. Speak­ing for myself, I can­not wait for free access to the very best (and even worst, and weird­est, and who-knows-what-else) of 1923. And of 1924 in 2020, and 1925 and 2021, and so on and so on….

via The Atlantic

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The British Library Puts Over 1,000,000 Images in the Pub­lic Domain: A Deep­er Dive Into the Col­lec­tion

The Pub­lic Domain Project Makes 10,000 Film Clips, 64,000 Images & 100s of Audio Files Free to Use

List of Great Pub­lic Domain Films 

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

Watch Roxy Music Play Live with Brian Eno in Early Groundbreaking Performances (1972)

Just what, exact­ly, is Roxy Music? Those encoun­ter­ing the band for the first time when their self-titled debut came out in 1972 had ques­tions. Were these 50s R&B throw­backs? Zig­gy Stardust/Slade/T‑Rex like glam rock­ers? Exper­i­men­tal art-rock-retro-futur­ists dressed like a Stax funk band on acid? Yes, yes, yes, and then some. The album, “at once post­mod­ern, strange, sen­su­al and thrilling,” writes Chica­go Tri­bune’s Greg Kot, “mapped out a new fron­tier, even as bands like the Rolling Stones and Led Zep­pelin dom­i­nat­ed the rock land­scape.”

In the very same year that Bowie’s Zig­gy land­ed to re-make rock in its image, Bri­an Fer­ry and his vir­tu­oso band—including stand­outs Phil Man­zan­era on gui­tar and Bri­an Eno on synths, tape effects, and var­i­ous “treatments”—prefigured a some­how even sex­i­er, weird­er, funki­er, more dis­turb­ing future for pop, chart­ing the ter­ri­to­ry for bands like Duran Duran, the Cars, Eury­th­mics, Pulp, and too many more to name. Roxy Music was so effort­less­ly orig­i­nal that once Bowie exhaust­ed his space alien phase, he turned to Fer­ry and Eno for inspi­ra­tion.

Like Bowie, Roxy Music favored sax­o­phones, cour­tesy of Andy Mack­ay, who also played… the oboe? Manzanera’s psy­che­del­ic flights were rem­i­nis­cent of The Doors’ Rob­by Krieger, with a Latin Amer­i­can fla­vor from his ear­ly days play­ing rev­o­lu­tion­ary Cuban folk songs. Paul Thompson’s rhyth­mic pound­ing and smooth, coun­try-ish grooves improb­a­bly mar­ried Moe Tuck­er and Ken­ny But­trey.

Gra­ham Simp­son played the bass with “an exu­ber­ant rush,” writes Kot.  “They were spe­cial­ists in their field,” remarks Fer­ry,” who him­self drew from the rock­ers every British child of the 50s loved, but was also obsessed with Char­lie Park­er, Lester Young, Bil­lie Hol­l­i­day, Kurt Weill, the Beats, T.S. Eliot, Fred Astaire, and Cole Porter.

And Eno? “With his deep inter­est in exper­i­men­tal music,” says Fer­ry, Eno turned raunchy retro-fusion rock ‘n’ roll into sound­tracks for space­ships, his synth lines swoop­ing wild­ly and bur­bling omi­nous­ly behind Ferry’s qua­ver­ing melis­ma. “Those tex­tures,” the singer recalled recent­ly, “the synth sounds were wash­es, colours, tex­tures, mood enhancers, and so on.” Arriv­ing ful­ly-formed in 1972, they “sound­ed as if they had just beamed down from out­er space and brought along the music of the spheres,” Dan­ger­ous Minds’ Paul Gal­lagher writes. “Roxy Music was the sound of the future—but we just didn’t real­ize it then. Roxy was so over­whelm­ing­ly new. No one knew what to think.”

“Try to imag­ine,” writes Gal­lagher, “how insane this TV footage looked” at the time. Imag­ine tun­ing in to Top of the Pops and catch­ing them play­ing their debut sin­gle “Vir­ginia Plain” (top), a song “named after a pack­et of cig­a­rettes.” (Read about how they record­ed those motor­cy­cle sounds.) Imag­ine see­ing Mack­ay dressed like a Flash Gor­don vil­lain, play­ing oboe over Eno’s sci-fi synth wash­es in the intro to “Ladytron” on the Old Grey Whis­tle Test, or see­ing the band con­fi­dent­ly stomp through “Re-make/Re-mod­el,” “Ladytron,” and “Grey Lagoons,” on the BBC’s Full House, fur­ther up.

In that lat­er 1972 live tele­vised per­for­mance, Roxy Music was already deliv­er­ing the sound of its future with “Grey Lagoons” from the fol­low­ing year’s bril­liant For Your Plea­sure, the final album to fea­ture Eno, who would go on to even stranger things in his solo work. Now imag­ine you hap­pened to tune in to The Old Grey Whis­tle Test in ’73 just in time to catch that album’s “In Every Dream Home a Heartache,” a war­bly, sin­is­ter, Bal­lar­dian love song writ­ten for a blow-up doll.

via Dan­ger­ous Minds

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Bri­an Eno Discog­ra­phy: Stream 29 Hours of Record­ings by the Mas­ter of Ambi­ent Music

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

Meet the World’s Worst Orches­tra, the Portsmouth Sin­fo­nia, Fea­tur­ing Bri­an Eno

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

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