Animated Series Drawn & Recorded Tells “Untold Stories” from Music History: Nirvana, Leonard Cohen, Blind Willie Johnson & More

Who hasn’t tast­ed the plea­sures, guilty or oth­er­wise, of VH1’s Behind the Music? The long-run­ning show, a juicy mix of tabloid gos­sip, doc­u­men­tary insight, and unabashed nos­tal­gia, debuted in 1997, a total­ly dif­fer­ent media age. Its orig­i­nal view­ers were the first gen­er­a­tion to use email, shop online, or down­load (usu­al­ly pirat­ed) music. Peo­ple were will­ing to sit through episodes of an hour or more, with­out a pause but­ton, whether they liked the music or not. (Some of the best shows pro­file the most ridicu­lous one-hit won­ders).

Behind the Music is still on, and you can stream old episodes all day long, paus­ing every few min­utes to check email or social media, stream anoth­er video, or down­load an album in sec­onds. But with so many dis­trac­tions, it’s easy to lose the thread of Huey Lewis and the News’ rise to star­dom or the thrilling life and times of Ice‑T. We need sto­ries like these, but we may need them in a small­er, more self-con­tained form.

Enter Drawn & Record­ed: Mod­ern Myths of Music, an online series that deliv­ers the fris­son of Behind the Music in a frac­tion of the time, with the added bonus of whim­si­cal, high-qual­i­ty ani­ma­tion and nar­ra­tion by T. Bone Bur­nett. Now in its fourth sea­son, the award-win­ning series, direct­ed and hand-drawn by ani­ma­tor Drew Christie for stu­dio Gun­pow­der & Sky, brings us anec­dotes “some­times hilar­i­ous, occa­sion­al­ly trag­ic, always com­pelling,” writes Ani­ma­tion Mag­a­zine.

Those sto­ries include “Leonard Cohen’s escape from Cuban author­i­ties after being detained under sus­pi­cion of espi­onage” (see the trail­er here) and the ori­gins of Kurt Cobain’s “Smells Like Teen Spir­it” (above), a sto­ry we cov­ered in a pre­vi­ous post. Drawn & Record­ed has dif­fer­en­ti­at­ed itself from the afore­men­tioned pop music doc­u­men­tary show not only in its length and aes­thet­ic sen­si­bil­i­ties but also in its will­ing­ness to ven­ture deep­er into music his­to­ry.

The episode below, for exam­ple, fea­tures trag­ic blues­man Blind Willie John­son, who made mod­ern his­to­ry when his music trav­eled into out­er space on the Voy­ager Gold­en Record. Giv­en their lengths of under five min­utes, each Drawn & Record­ed must prune its sto­ry carefully—there’s no room for mean­der­ing or gra­tu­itous rep­e­ti­tion. Each of the vignettes promis­es an “untold sto­ry” from music his­to­ry, and while that may not always be the case, they are each well-told and sur­pris­ing and often as strange as Christie’s ani­ma­tions and Burnett’s haunt­ed, raspy bari­tone sug­gest.

In the episode below, coun­try leg­end Jim­mie Rogers, whose influ­ence “would range from Hank Williams to Louis Arm­strong to Bob Dylan,” arrived in Kenya a decade after his death, by way of British mis­sion­ar­ies tot­ing a phono­graph. The native peo­ple became fas­ci­nat­ed with the sound of Rogers’ music. They pro­nounced his name “Chemirocha,” a word that came to mean “any­thing new and dif­fer­ent.” This became a song called “Chemirocha,” about a half-man/half-ante­lope god.

It’s a fas­ci­nat­ing­ly odd lit­tle tale about cross-cul­tur­al con­tact, one that has lit­tle to do with the biog­ra­phy of Jim­mie Rogers, and hence might nev­er make it into your stan­dard-issue doc­u­men­tary. But Drawn & Record­ed is some­thing else—a hand­made arti­fact that streams dig­i­tal­ly, telling sto­ries about musi­cians famous, infa­mous, and rarely remem­bered. Oth­er episodes fea­ture a can­ny mix of the con­tem­po­rary, clas­sic, and gold­en age, includ­ing Grimes, David Bowie, the Bea­t­les, Sis­ter Roset­ta Tharpe, MF Doom, and more. Find them, notes Ani­ma­tion Mag­a­zine, “on the Net­work, avail­able on DirecTV, DirecTV Now and AT&T U‑verse” or find scat­tered episodes on Vimeo.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

How Nirvana’s Icon­ic “Smells Like Teen Spir­it” Came to Be: An Ani­mat­ed Video Nar­rat­ed by T‑Bone Bur­nett Tells the True Sto­ry

A Doc­u­men­tary Intro­duc­tion to Nick Drake, Whose Haunt­ing & Influ­en­tial Songs Came Into the World 50 Years Ago Today

How Talk­ing Heads and Bri­an Eno Wrote “Once in a Life­time”: Cut­ting Edge, Strange & Utter­ly Bril­liant

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

Pretty Much Pop #10 Examines Margaret Atwood’s Nightmare Vision: The Handmaid’s Tale

Mark Lin­sen­may­er, Eri­ca Spyres, and Bri­an Hirt take on both Mar­garet Atwood’s 1985 nov­el plus the Bruce Miller/Hulu TV series through sea­son 3. There’s also a graph­ic nov­el and the 1990 film.

We get into what’s need­ed to move a nov­el to the screen like that: The char­ac­ter can’t just remain pas­sive as in the nov­el in order to keep us suf­fer­ing with her past the first sea­son as sto­ry­telling beyond the book begins. We talk about Atwood’s fun­ny neol­o­gisms (like “pray­va­gan­za”) that didn’t make it into the show.

How does race play into the sto­ry, and how should it? Is the sto­ry pri­mar­i­ly a polit­i­cal state­ment or a self-con­tained work of art? Giv­en the bleak­ness of the sit­u­a­tion depict­ed, can there be com­ic relief? How can we have a nom­i­nal­ly fun­ny pod­cast about this work?

Some of the arti­cles we drew on or bring up include:

Plus Eri­ca brings up this video of Bill Moy­ers inter­view­ing Atwood about reli­gion. We also touch on Shindler’s List, Jean-Paul Sartre’s Nau­seaDavid Brin diss­ing Star Wars as anti-demo­c­ra­t­ic sto­ry­telling, and the many con­ser­v­a­tive dis­missals of the show as hys­ter­i­cal pro­pa­gan­da.

Buy the bookthe graph­ic nov­el, or its new sequel The Tes­ta­ments.

You may be inter­est­ed in these relat­ed Par­tial­ly Exam­ined Life episodes (Mark’s long-run­ning phi­los­o­phy pod­cast): #181 on Han­nah Arendt and the banal­i­ty of evil, #139 on bell hooks  and her his­tor­i­cal account of con­di­tions for black women not ter­ri­bly dis­sim­i­lar to the ones described by Atwood, #90 inter­view­ing David Brin about the con­nec­tions between spec­u­la­tive fic­tion, phi­los­o­phy, and polit­i­cal speech. PEL has also record­ed sev­er­al episodes on Sartreand Mark ran a sup­port­er-only  ses­sion that you could lis­ten to on Nau­sea in par­tic­u­lar. Also check out Brian’s Con­tel­lary Tales pod­cast #2 talk­ing about anoth­er breed­ing-relat­ed sci-fi sto­ry by Octavia But­ler.

This episode includes bonus dis­cus­sion that you can only hear by sup­port­ing the pod­cast at patreon.com/prettymuchpop. This pod­cast is part of the Par­tial­ly Exam­ined Life pod­cast net­work.

Pret­ty Much Pop is the first pod­cast curat­ed by Open Cul­ture. Browse all Pret­ty Much Pop posts or start with the first episode.

What Would Michel Foucault Think of Social Media, Fake News & Our Post Truth World?

Dur­ing the late 70s, Michel Fou­cault gave a series of lec­tures at the Col­lege de France in which he defined the con­cept of biopol­i­tics, an idea Rachel Adams calls “polit­i­cal ratio­nal­i­ty which takes the admin­is­tra­tion of life and pop­u­la­tions as its sub­ject.” These ideas have come to have even more res­o­nance in the spread of bio­met­ric iden­ti­fi­ca­tion sys­tems and mil­i­ta­rized pop­u­la­tion con­trol poli­cies.

Fou­cault begins his lec­ture series on biopol­i­tics with an account of the birth of Neolib­er­al­ism, the engi­neered pri­va­ti­za­tion of pub­lic goods and ser­vices and the con­cen­tra­tion of cap­i­tal and pow­er into the hands of a few. “Every­thing I do,” he once said, “I do in order that it might be of use.” What would he have to say about the cur­rent sit­u­a­tion? asks the BBC video above, a polit­i­cal land­scape per­me­at­ed by fake news, accu­sa­tions of fake news, and the gen­er­al admis­sion that we are now “post truth”?

In some sense, Fou­cault, argued, we have always lived in such a world—not one in which real news and actu­al truth did not exist, but in which we are con­di­tioned through lan­guage to adopt ide­o­log­i­cal per­spec­tives that may have lit­tle to do with fact. What counts as knowl­edge, Fou­cault showed, gets authen­ti­cat­ed to serve the inter­ests of pow­er. Lat­er in his career, he saw more space for resis­tance and self-trans­for­ma­tion emerge in pow­er relations—and he would have seen such spaces in social media too, the video claims.

After his infa­mous acid trip in Death Val­ley, Fou­cault report­ed­ly (and self-report­ed­ly) returned a changed man, with a much less gloomy, claus­tro­pho­bic out­look. The ear­li­er Fou­cault may have empha­sized the total­iz­ing mech­a­nisms of sur­veil­lance and con­trol in social media, per­haps to the exclu­sion of any poten­tial for lib­er­a­tion. The video doesn’t make these dis­tinc­tions between ear­ly and late or give us much in the way of a his­to­ry of his thought, though it acknowl­edges how crit­i­cal­ly impor­tant his­to­ry was to Fou­cault him­self.

We can’t know that he would say any of the things attrib­uted to him here. He was a con­trar­i­an thinker, who “didn’t believe in all-embrac­ing the­o­ries to explain the world,” the nar­ra­tor admits. Per­haps he would have seen social media as tech­ni­cal elab­o­ra­tion of biopow­er: har­vest­ing per­son­al data, track­ing everyone’s loca­tion, get­ting us all to watch each oth­er. Or as a ver­sion of Jere­my Ben­tham’s panop­ti­con, in which we nev­er know when some­one’s watch­ing us, so we inter­nal­ize the con­trol sys­tem. These are some of the pris­ons, Fou­cault might say, that appear under regimes of “secu­ri­ty, ter­ri­to­ry, pop­u­la­tion.”

The video fea­tures Ang­ie Hobbs, Pro­fes­sor of Pub­lic Under­stand­ing of Phi­los­o­phy at the Uni­ver­si­ty of Sheffield.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Michel Fou­cault and Noam Chom­sky Debate Human Nature & Pow­er on Dutch TV (1971)

An Ani­mat­ed Intro­duc­tion to Michel Fou­cault, “Philoso­pher of Pow­er”

Hear Hours of Lec­tures by Michel Fou­cault: Record­ed in Eng­lish & French Between 1961 and 1983

When Michel Fou­cault Tripped on Acid in Death Val­ley and Called It “The Great­est Expe­ri­ence of My Life” (1975)

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

Watch an Archaeologist Play the “Lithophone,” a Prehistoric Instrument That Let Ancient Musicians Play Real Classic Rock

Sure­ly each of us hears more music in a day than the aver­age pre­his­toric human being heard in a life­time. Then again, it depends on the def­i­n­i­tion of “music”: though what we lis­ten to is undoubt­ed­ly more com­plex than what our dis­tant ances­tors lis­tened to, our music descends from theirs just as we descend from them. And so it should­n’t come as too much of a sur­prise that the musi­cal instru­ments used in pre­his­toric times should sound vague­ly famil­iar to us. Take, for instance, archae­ol­o­gist and pre­his­toric music spe­cial­ist Jean-Loup Ringot’s per­for­mance on the semi­cir­cle of stones known as a litho­phone, or “rock gong.”

Litho­phones, wrote Josh Jones on the instru­men­t’s last appear­ance here on Open Cul­ture, “have been found all over the African con­ti­nent, in South Amer­i­ca, Aus­tralia, Azer­bai­jan, Eng­land, Hawaii, Ice­land, India, and every­where else pre­his­toric peo­ple lived. Not the cul­tur­al prop­er­ty of any one group, the rock gong came, rather, from a uni­ver­sal human insight into the nat­ur­al son­ic prop­er­ties of stone.”

A com­menter on the video of Ringot play­ing the litho­pone describes it as “rem­i­nis­cent of the bonang,” the col­lec­tion of small gongs set on strings that con­sti­tutes one of the defin­ing instru­ments of the tra­di­tion­al Javanese per­cus­sion ensem­ble known as game­lan.

Even if you’ve nev­er heard of game­lan or bonang, the sound of the litho­phone — and its resem­blance to that of instru­ments used in oth­er tra­di­tion­al musics — may well res­onate with you, so to speak. The main dif­fer­ence comes out of the mate­ri­als: the gongs, or ket­tles, of a bonang are made from bronze, iron, or mix­tures of oth­er met­als, while the litho­phone gen­er­ates sound with only what would have been avail­able to the Flint­stones. The use of such a nat­u­ral­ly abun­dant sub­stance has, of course, inspired many a mod­ern wag to Flintston­ian quips about litho­phone play­ers as the first “rock­ers.” Play­ers of the real clas­sic rock, in oth­er words — not like all the junk that has come out in the last few mil­len­nia. But then, don’t we all pre­fer the ear­ly stuff?

Relat­ed Con­tent:

A Mod­ern Drum­mer Plays a Rock Gong, a Per­cus­sion Instru­ment from Pre­his­toric Times

Hear a 9,000 Year Old Flute—the World’s Old­est Playable Instrument—Get Played Again

What Did Ancient Greek Music Sound Like?: Lis­ten to a Recon­struc­tion That’s ‘100% Accu­rate’

Vis­it an Online Col­lec­tion of 61,761 Musi­cal Instru­ments from Across the World

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

Sun Ra Applies to NASA’s Art Program: When the Inventor of Space Jazz Applied to Make Space Art

You may have seen the image above float­ing around, espe­cial­ly if you fol­low jazz lovers and writ­ers like Ted Gioia: the first page of Sun Ra’s appli­ca­tion to NASA’s art pro­gram. The pro­gram was “some­what of a glo­ri­fied PR cam­paign,” writes Shan­non Gorm­ley at Willamette Week, but one nonethe­less that has employed many promi­nent artists since its incep­tion in 1962, includ­ing Annie Lei­bovitz, Andy Warhol, Lau­rie Ander­son, and Nor­man Rock­well. NASA has “enlist­ed musi­cians, poets and oth­ers for more vari­ety,” the Admin­is­tra­tion notes. “Pat­ti LaBelle even record­ed a space-themed song.”

But Sun Ra—given name Her­man Blount; legal name (as he writes in paren­the­ses) Le Sony’r Ra—was not, it seems, con­sid­ered when he applied in the 1960s, even if he more or less invent­ed space jazz in the pre­vi­ous decade. After many years in Chica­go, he’d relo­cat­ed his free jazz big band, the Arkestra, to New York, where they influ­enced lat­er Beats and the ear­ly psy­che­del­ic scene (just as he was to influ­ence funk, prog, and fusion in the 70s, and come in for a major revival in the 90s through indie rock and hip hop.)

Like­ly, who­ev­er read his appli­ca­tion was unfa­mil­iar with the cre­ative idio­syn­crasies of his lan­guage, writ­ten just as he sang and played—with incan­ta­to­ry rep­e­ti­tion, syn­tac­ti­cal sur­pris­es, and ALL CAPS all the time. The prodi­gious, vision­ary band­leader pro­pos­es to con­tribute “music that enlight­ens and space ori­en­tate dis­ci­pline coor­di­nate.” One might cast a wary eye on this descrip­tion, from an appli­cant who lists their edu­ca­tion­al mis­sion as “space ori­en­ta­tion.” Unless you’d heard what Sun Ra meant by the phrase.

Take his ori­en­ta­tion in 1961’s “Space Jazz Rever­ie” from The Futur­is­tic Sounds of Sun Ra, record­ed just after he arrived in New York, on the thresh­old of push­ing the Arkestra fur­ther out into the solar sys­tem. The tune “osten­si­bly sounds like a large-ensem­ble take on hard bop,” writes Matthew Wuethrich at All About Jazz. “Mid-tem­po swing, strange-but-not-unheard-of-inter­vals and a string of solos.” But the com­po­si­tion starts to warp and wob­ble. “Ra’s comp­ing on the piano gen­er­ates an unset­tling back­drop.” A “bizarre bridge” after the solos throws things fur­ther off-kil­ter.

This is not cold, crys­talline music of the stars, but an emo­tion­al jour­ney into the exci­ta­tion, coor­di­na­tion (to take his phrase), and defa­mil­iar­iza­tion of space trav­el. Lis­ten­ing to Sun Ra almost inclines me to believe his tales of inter­stel­lar trav­el and alien abduction—or at least to feel, for a few min­utes, as though I had tak­en a cos­mic trip. NASA’s art pro­gram would have cer­tain­ly been enriched by his con­tri­bu­tions, though whether it would have raised either one’s pro­file is uncer­tain.

Ra’s appli­ca­tion “reads like a prophe­cy,” writes Gorm­ley. We need music, in space and oth­er­wise. “What is called man is very anar­chy-mind­ed at present,” he wrote. But Sun Ra him­self was “anar­chy-mind­ed,” in the best sense of the term—he gave his imag­i­na­tion free rein and did not cater to any author­i­ty. This ran­kled many of his jazz peers, who fre­quent­ly said he went too far. Sun Ra nev­er seemed to both­er about the crit­i­cism.

He may have tak­en the NASA snub a lit­tle hard. In his land­mark 1972 film Space is the Place, he dis­cuss­es the space pro­gram with a group of black Oak­land youth, say­ing, “I see none of you have been invit­ed.” Sun Ra and the young peo­ple to whom he brought the hope of out­er space could not have known about the hid­den his­to­ry of African Amer­i­can sci­en­tists and astro­nauts in the space pro­gram. In any case, Ra had his own space pro­gram. A one-band cul­tur­al rev­o­lu­tion that was too for­ward-look­ing for both jazz and NASA.

via Ted Gioia

Relat­ed Con­tent:

NASA Enlists Andy Warhol, Annie Lei­bovitz, Nor­man Rock­well & 350 Oth­er Artists to Visu­al­ly Doc­u­ment America’s Space Pro­gram

Star Trek‘s Nichelle Nichols Cre­ates a Short Film for NASA to Recruit New Astro­nauts (1977)

Stream 74 Sun Ra Albums Free Online: Decades of “Space Jazz” and Oth­er Forms of Inter­galac­tic, Afro­fu­tur­is­tic Musi­cal Cre­ativ­i­ty

Sun Ra’s Full Lec­ture & Read­ing List From His 1971 UC Berke­ley Course, “The Black Man in the Cos­mos”

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

Monty Python’s Eric Idle Breaks Down His Most Iconic Characters

When I first saw Mon­ty Python’s Fly­ing Cir­cus, late at night on PBS and in degrad­ed VHS videos bor­rowed from friends, I assumed the show’s con­cepts must have come out of bonkers improv ses­sions. But the troupe’s many state­ments since the show’s end, in the form of books, doc­u­men­taries, inter­views, etc., have told us in no uncer­tain terms that Mon­ty Python’s cre­ators always put writ­ing first. “I’m not an actor at all,” says Eric Idle in the GQ video above. “I’m real­ly a writer who just acts occa­sion­al­ly.”

Like­wise, in the PBS series Mon­ty Python’s Per­son­al Best, Idle dis­cuss­es the joy of writ­ing for the show—and com­pares cre­at­ing Mon­ty Python to fish­ing, of all things: “You go to the river­bank every day, you don’t know what you’re going to catch.” This idyl­lic scene may be the last thing you’d asso­ciate with the Pythons, though you may recall their take on fish­ing in the sec­ond sea­son sketch “Fish License,” in which John Cleese’s char­ac­ter, Eric, tries to buy a license for his pet hal­ibut, Eric.

Idle’s protes­ta­tions notwith­stand­ing, none of the show’s writ­ing would have worked as well as it did onscreen with­out the con­sid­er­able act­ing tal­ents of all five per­form­ers. (Idle mod­est­ly ascribes his own abil­i­ty to being “lift­ed up” by the oth­ers.) Above, he talks about the most icon­ic char­ac­ters he embod­ied on the show, begin­ning with the “wink, wink, nudge, nudge, know what I mean?” guy: a char­ac­ter, we learn, based on Vivian Stan­shall of the Bon­zo Dog Doo-Dah Band crossed with a reg­u­lar from Idle’s local pub named Mon­ty, from whom the troupe took their first name.

We also learn that the char­ac­ter was so pop­u­lar in the States that “Elvis called every­body ‘squire’ because of that f*cking sketch!” Pres­ley’s’ pen­chant for doing Mon­ty Python mate­r­i­al while in bed with his girl­friend (“if only there was footage”) is but one of the many fas­ci­nat­ing anec­dotes Idle casu­al­ly toss­es off in his com­men­tary on char­ac­ters like the Aus­tralian Bruces, who went on to sing “The Philosopher’s Song”; Mr. Smoke­toomuch, who deliv­ers a ten-minute mono­logue writ­ten by John Cleese and Gra­ham Chap­man; and Idle’s char­ac­ters in the non-Python moc­u­men­tary All You Need Is Cash, which he cre­at­ed and co-wrote, about a par­o­dy Bea­t­les band called The Rut­les.

Idle is stead­fast in his descrip­tion of him­self as a com­pe­tent “car­i­ca­tur­ist,” and not a “com­ic actor.” But his song and dance rou­tines, sly sub­tle wit and broad ges­tures, and for­ev­er fun­ny turn as cow­ard­ly Sir Robin in Mon­ty Python and the Holy Grail should leave his fans with lit­tle doubt about his skill in front of the cam­era.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Mon­ty Python’s Best Phi­los­o­phy Sketch­es: “The Philoso­phers’ Foot­ball Match,” “Philosopher’s Drink­ing Song” & More

Ter­ry Gilliam Reveals the Secrets of Mon­ty Python Ani­ma­tions: A 1974 How-To Guide

The Mon­ty Python Phi­los­o­phy Foot­ball Match: The Ancient Greeks Ver­sus the Ger­mans

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

Watch a Short 1967 Film That Imagines How We’d Live in 1999: Online Learning, Electronic Shopping, Flat Screen TVs & Much More

Nobody uses the word com­put­er­ized any­more. Its dis­ap­pear­ance owes not to the end of com­put­er­i­za­tion itself, but to the process’ near-com­plete­ness. Now that we all walk around with com­put­ers in our pock­ets (see also the fate of the word portable), we expect every aspect of life to involve com­put­ers in one way or anoth­er. But in 1967, the very idea of com­put­ers got peo­ple dream­ing of the far-flung future, not least because most of them had nev­er been near one, let alone brought one into their home. But for the Shore fam­i­ly, each and every phase of the day involves a com­put­er: their “cen­tral home com­put­er, which is sec­re­tary, librar­i­an, banker, teacher, med­ical tech­ni­cian, bridge part­ner, and all-around ser­vant in this house of tomor­row.”

Tomor­row, in this case, means the year 1999. Today is 1967, when Philco-Ford (the car com­pa­ny hav­ing pur­chased the bank­rupt radio and tele­vi­sion man­u­fac­tur­er six years before) did­n’t just design and build this spec­u­la­tive “house of tomor­row,” which made its debut on a tele­vi­sion broad­cast with Wal­ter Cronkite, but pro­duced a short film to show how the fam­i­ly of tomor­row would live in it. Year 1999 AD traces a day in the life of the Shores: astro­physi­cist Michael, who com­mutes to a dis­tant lab­o­ra­to­ry to work on Mars col­o­niza­tion; “part-time home­mak­er” Karen, who spends the rest of the time at the pot­tery wheel; and eight-year-old James, who attends school only two morn­ings a week but gets the rest of his edu­ca­tion in the home “learn­ing cen­ter.”

There James watch­es footage of the moon land­ing, plau­si­ble enough mate­r­i­al for a his­to­ry les­son in 1999 until you remem­ber that the actu­al land­ing did­n’t hap­pen until 1969, two years after this film was made. The flat screens on which he and his par­ents per­form their dai­ly tasks (a tech­nol­o­gy that would also sur­face in Stan­ley Kubrick­’s 2001: A Space Odyssey the fol­low­ing year) might also look strik­ing­ly famil­iar to we denizens of the 21st cen­tu­ry. (Cer­tain­ly the way James watch­es car­toons on one screen while his record­ed lec­tures play on anoth­er will look famil­iar to today’s par­ents and edu­ca­tors.) But many oth­er aspects of the Philco-Ford future won’t: even though the year 2000 is also retro now, the Shores’ clothes and decor look more late-60s than late-90s.

In this and oth­er ways, Year 1999 AD resem­bles a par­o­dy of the tech­no-opti­mistic shorts made by post­war cor­po­rate Amer­i­ca, so much so that Snopes put up a page con­firm­ing its verac­i­ty. “Many vision­ar­ies who tried to fore­cast what dai­ly life would be like for future gen­er­a­tions made the mis­take of sim­ply pro­ject­ing exist­ing tech­nolo­gies as being big­ger, faster, and more pow­er­ful,” writes Snopes’ David Mikkel­son. Still, Year 1999 AD does a decent job of pre­dict­ing the uses of tech­nol­o­gy to come in dai­ly life: “Con­cepts such as ‘fin­ger­tip shop­ping,’ an ‘elec­tron­ic cor­re­spon­dence machine,’ and oth­ers envi­sioned in this video antic­i­pate sev­er­al inno­va­tions that became com­mon­place with­in a few years of 1999: e‑commerce, web­cams, online bill pay­ment and tax fil­ing, elec­tron­ic funds trans­fers (EFT), home-based laser print­ers, and e‑mail.”

Even twen­ty years after 1999, many of these visions have yet to mate­ri­al­ize: “Split-sec­ond lunch­es, col­or-keyed dis­pos­able dish­es,” pro­nounces the nar­ra­tor as the Shores sit down to a meal, “all part of the instant soci­ety of tomor­row, a soci­ety of leisure and tak­en-for-grant­ed com­forts.” But as easy as it is to laugh at the notion that “life will be rich­er, eas­i­er, health­i­er as Space-Age dreams come true,” the fact remains that, like the Shores, we now real­ly do have com­put­er pro­grams that let us com­mu­ni­cate and do our shop­ping, but that also tell us what to eat and when to exer­cise. What would the minds behind Year 1999 AD make of my watch­ing their film on my per­son­al screen on a sub­way train, amid hun­dreds of rid­ers all sim­i­lar­ly equipped? “If the com­put­er­ized life occa­sion­al­ly extracts its pound of flesh,” says the nar­ra­tor, “it holds out some inter­est­ing rewards.” Few state­ments about 21st-cen­tu­ry have turned out to be as pre­scient.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Wal­ter Cronkite Imag­ines the Home of the 21st Cen­tu­ry… Back in 1967

Arthur C. Clarke Pre­dicts the Future in 1964… And Kind of Nails It

In 1968, Stan­ley Kubrick Makes Pre­dic­tions for 2001: Human­i­ty Will Con­quer Old Age, Watch 3D TV & Learn Ger­man in 20 Min­utes

Did Stan­ley Kubrick Invent the iPad in 2001: A Space Odyssey?

9 Sci­ence-Fic­tion Authors Pre­dict the Future: How Jules Verne, Isaac Asi­mov, William Gib­son, Philip K. Dick & More Imag­ined the World Ahead

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

The Secret Student Group Who Took on the Nazis: An Introduction to “The White Rose”

Late­ly, young peo­ple stand­ing up against oppres­sive regimes have faced unre­lent­ing streams of ridicule, abuse, and worse: some have even lost their lives in mys­te­ri­ous cir­cum­stances that recall the trag­ic fates of those who bat­tled racism in the U.S. south decades ago. Though it’s cold con­so­la­tion to the bereaved and harassed, it at least remains the case today that activists who speak out can count on vary­ing, but vocal lev­els of sup­port, and they will find celebri­ties and politi­cians, whether cyn­i­cal or well-mean­ing, to ampli­fy (or co-opt) their mes­sage.

We can and should draw par­al­lels between 20th-cen­tu­ry Euro­pean fas­cism and the 21st-century’s fas­cist turn. But the above sit­u­a­tion could nev­er have obtained in Nazi Ger­many of the 1930s and 40s. Anti-Nazi points of view were banned even for enter­tain­ment pur­pos­es. Cir­cu­lat­ing them would almost cer­tain­ly result in exe­cu­tion. Ordi­nary Ger­mans may have also vent­ed their spleens at dis­senters, but they did so with full assur­ance that those peo­ple would be crushed by the gov­ern­ment, and that no one would stand up for them, not even to pos­ture.

It was in this par­a­lyz­ing cli­mate of ter­ror that the stu­dent mem­bers of The White Rose, a secre­tive, anony­mous group of activists, began dis­trib­ut­ing leaflets denounc­ing Hitler and Nazism. “At a time when a sar­cas­tic remark could con­sti­tute trea­son,” notes the TED-Ed les­son above, the stri­dent lan­guage “was unprece­dent­ed.” Most of the leaflets were writ­ten by Hans Scholl, as the short, ani­mat­ed video—scripted by schol­ar Iseult Gillespie—informs us. Just a few years ear­li­er, Scholl had been an enthu­si­as­tic mem­ber of the Hitler Youth, and his sis­ter Sophie, who joined him in The White Rose, had been a mem­ber of the League of Ger­man Girls.

In 1936, when Hans wit­nessed a mass Nazi ral­ly for the first time, he began to seri­ous­ly ques­tion his life choic­es. Sophie had been enter­tain­ing her own doubts. Their par­ents, both increas­ing­ly con­cerned about the Nazi threat, were very sup­port­ive. The Scholl fam­i­ly had secret­ly lis­tened to for­eign broad­casts and learned “shock­ing truths” about what was hap­pen­ing in their coun­try. While at the Uni­ver­si­ty of Munich, Hans “start­ed read­ing anti-Nazi ser­mons,” writes Erin Blake­more at Smith­son­ian, “and attend­ing class­es with Kurt Huber, a psy­chol­o­gy and phi­los­o­phy pro­fes­sor whose lec­tures includ­ed veiled crit­i­cisms of the regime.”

Hans was draft­ed into the army as a medic, where he wit­nessed abus­es against Jew­ish pris­on­ers and heard about the con­cen­tra­tion camps. When he returned to med­ical school at the Uni­ver­si­ty of Munich, he met sev­er­al friends who shared his out­rage. In 1939, The White Rose print­ed its first leaflets, spread­ing them all over Munich. “Adopt pas­sive resis­tance,” they urged, inspir­ing Ger­mans to sab­o­tage the war effort. “Block the func­tion­ing of this athe­is­tic war machine before it is too late. Before the last city is a heap of rub­ble. Before the last youth in our nation bleeds to death.”

Many more leaflets fol­lowed. (Sophie would not dis­cov­er them and join the group until after their activ­i­ties began.) “The White Rose mailed the pam­phlets to ran­dom peo­ple they found in the phone book,” writes Blake­more. They “took them in suit­cas­es to oth­er cities, and left them in phone booths. They also paint­ed graf­fi­ti on the walls of the Uni­ver­si­ty of Munich with slo­gans like ‘Free­dom!’ and ‘Hitler the Mass Mur­der­er!’” It was the first time pub­lic dis­sent against the Nazis had tak­en hold. “The soci­ety’s work quick­ly spread to oth­er cities, with some of its lit­er­a­ture even show­ing up in Aus­tria.”

In 1943, Allied planes dropped tens of thou­sands of The White Rose’s leaflets over Nazi Ger­many. News of them “even reached con­cen­tra­tions camps and pris­ons,” the video notes. Soon after­ward, the Scholls and their friend Christoph Prob­st were arrest­ed by the Gestapo. (Read a mov­ing account of their arrest and tri­al at the Jew­ish Vir­tu­al Library.) The three were put on show tri­al and exe­cut­ed by guil­lo­tine. Lat­er, their pro­fes­sor, Kurt Huber and oth­er mem­bers of The White Rose were also behead­ed.

The iden­ti­ties of The White Rose would not be known until after the war. They have since become heroes to anti-fas­cists and activists around the world, and their call for pas­sive resis­tance echoes in one of their final leaflets: “We will not be silent. We are your bad con­science. The White Rose will not leave you in peace!” In spite of the risks, which they all knew, the Scholls and their allies chose to act, cau­tious­ly, but deci­sive­ly, against a regime they final­ly saw to be a ter­ri­ble evil.

To learn more about The White Rose, explore these books: The White Rose (1970), A Noble Trea­son (1979), and An Hon­ourable Defeat (1994).

Relat­ed Con­tent:  

Edu­ca­tion for Death: The Mak­ing of Nazi–Walt Disney’s 1943 Pro­pa­gan­da Film Shows How Fas­cists Are Made

Rare 1940 Audio: Thomas Mann Explains the Nazis’ Ulte­ri­or Motive for Spread­ing Anti-Semi­tism

20,000 Amer­i­cans Hold a Pro-Nazi Ral­ly in Madi­son Square Gar­den in 1939: Chill­ing Video Re-Cap­tures a Lost Chap­ter in US His­to­ry

How Warn­er Broth­ers Resist­ed a Hol­ly­wood Ban on Anti-Nazi Films in the 1930s and Warned Amer­i­cans of the Dan­gers of Fas­cism

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

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