Hear Glenn Gould Celebrate the Moog Synthesizer & Wendy Carlos’ Pioneering Album Switched-On Bach (1968)

Glenn Gould made his name as a pianist with his stark, idio­syn­crat­ic inter­pre­ta­tions of the music of Mozart, Haydn, Beethoven, and espe­cial­ly Bach. He left behind not just a high­ly respect­ed body of work in the form of record­ed per­for­mances, but also a host of strong opin­ions about music itself and all that cul­tur­al­ly and com­mer­cial­ly sur­round­ed it. His enthu­si­asms weren’t always pre­dictable: in 1967 he went on CBC radio to lav­ish praise on the pop singer Petu­la Clark, and the next year he returned to the air­waves to make a hearty endorse­ment of a record for which not every­one in the clas­si­cal music world would admit to an appre­ci­a­tion: Wendy Car­los’ Switched-On Bach.

After voic­ing his dis­taste for com­pi­la­tion albums, com­par­ing them to Read­er’s Digest con­densed lit­er­a­ture, Gould informs his lis­ten­ers that “the record of the year — no, let’s go all the way, the decade — is an unem­bar­rassed com­pote of Bach’s great­est hits.” The whole record, he claims, “is one of the most star­tling achieve­ments of the record­ing indus­try in this gen­er­a­tion, cer­tain­ly one of the great feats in the his­to­ry of key­board per­for­mance,” and “the surest evi­dence, if evi­dence be need­ed, that live music nev­er was best.” Gould had retired from the “anachro­nis­tic” prac­tice of live per­for­mance four years ear­li­er, seek­ing his own kind of musi­cal per­fec­tion with­in the tech­no­log­i­cal­ly enhanced con­fines of the record­ing stu­dio.

On that lev­el, it makes sense that a metic­u­lous­ly, painstak­ing­ly craft­ed record­ing — not to men­tion one impos­si­ble, at the time, to repro­duce live — like Switched-On Bach would appeal to Gould. He also takes the oppor­tu­ni­ty on this broad­cast to intro­duce the Moog syn­the­siz­er, which Car­los used to pro­duce every note on the record. “The­o­ret­i­cal­ly, the Moog can be encour­aged to imi­tate vir­tu­al­ly any instru­men­tal sound known to man, and there are moments on this disc which sound very like an organ, a dou­ble bass or a clavi­chord,” Gould says, “but its most con­spic­u­ous felic­i­ty is that, except when cast­ing gen­tle asper­sions on more famil­iar baroque instru­men­tal arche­types, the per­former shuns this kind of elec­tron­ic exhi­bi­tion­ism” — a sure way of scor­ing points with the restraint-lov­ing Gould.

The broad­cast includes not just Gould’s thoughts on Switched On-Bach and the Moog but two inter­views, one with poet and essay­ist Jean Le Moyne on “the human fact of automa­tion, its soci­o­log­i­cal and the­o­log­i­cal impli­ca­tions,” and one with Car­los her­self. Asked about the choice of Bach, Car­los frames it as a test of how the new tech­nol­o­gy of the syn­the­siz­er would fare when used to play not avant-garde music, as it then usu­al­ly was, but music with the most impec­ca­ble aes­thet­ic cre­den­tials pos­si­ble. “We’re just a baby,” Car­los says of the enter­prise of syn­the­siz­er-dri­ven elec­tron­ic music. “Although now we can see that the child is going to grow into a rather excit­ing adult, we’ve still got to take one step at a time. It will become assim­i­lat­ed. The gim­mick val­ue — thank god — is going to be lost, and true musi­cal expres­sion, and that alone, will result.”

via Syn­th­topia

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Hear Glenn Gould Chan­nel Mar­shall McLuhan and Cre­ate an Exper­i­men­tal Radio Doc­u­men­tary Ana­lyz­ing the Pop Music of Petu­la Clark (1967)

Watch a 27-Year-Old Glenn Gould Play Bach & Put His Musi­cal Genius on Dis­play (1959)

Lis­ten to Glenn Gould’s Shock­ing­ly Exper­i­men­tal Radio Doc­u­men­tary, The Idea of North (1967)

Glenn Gould Explains the Genius of Johann Sebas­t­ian Bach (1962)

Wendy Car­los’ Switched on Bach Turns 50 This Month: Learn How the Clas­si­cal Synth Record Intro­duced the World to the Moog

How the Moog Syn­the­siz­er Changed the Sound of Music

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, on Face­book, or on Insta­gram.

Johnny Knoxville Breaks Down Every Injury of His Career

My friend and I share most opin­ions on film and art, but on one top­ic we vehe­ment­ly dis­agree: Jack­ass. He sees it as low­est-com­mon-denom­i­na­tor garbage, the kind of show seen on the TV in Idioc­ra­cy. And I can see his point, espe­cial­ly in an Amer­i­ca becom­ing more and more obvi­ous­ly sadis­tic.

But I would like to make a con­trar­i­an point: Jack­ass is the inher­i­tor of silent movie slap­stick. John­ny Knoxville is no Buster Keaton, but in an indus­try where so few actors per­form their own stunts, and where action sequences are edit­ed togeth­er from dozens of shots, Jack­ass and Knoxville’s oth­er movie projects show its self-inflict­ed com­ic vio­lence in sin­gle wide takes. It’s the only rea­son these films work: it real­ly hurts to watch. These guys set up elab­o­rate pranks, and suf­fer for our laugh­ter, masochists for enter­tain­ment. And while Hol­ly­wood has noth­ing but invin­ci­ble heroes, the Jack­ass crew excel in their fail­ure.

This comes at a phys­i­cal cost, as Knoxville recounts for this Van­i­ty Fair video. Usu­al­ly actors rem­i­nisce over their var­i­ous roles. Here Knoxville details the var­i­ous injuries he has sus­tained over his twen­ty year career.

And there have been some doozies. Bro­ken bones? That’s noth­ing. How about hav­ing a motor­bike land in your crotch caus­ing you to pee blood? Or knocked out in a box­ing match with But­ter­bean, send­ing you into a stroke-like seizure as your throat tries to swal­low your tongue? When it’s Knoxville, even the injuries are strange.

The man him­self takes us through his first (on screen) injury in 1998, where he was the guinea pig for self-defense tech, includ­ing pep­per spray (“one of the most painful things I’ve endured in my life”) and a taser.

Apart from injuries, there’s also the near miss­es. Such as the rock­et straight out of a Road Run­ner car­toon (anoth­er touch­stone for com­e­dy vio­lence) which failed on the launch pad and instead sent a series of iron rods shoot­ing out into the Jack­ass crew, near­ly decap­i­tat­ing a few. There lit­er­al­ly was a bunch of dumb luck on this show.

Knoxville’s most recent film was Action Point, based upon a real life amuse­ment park known for its reg­u­la­tion-defy­ing dan­ger, but that film sunk with­out a trace. Maybe the Jack­ass era is done now, but stay for Knoxville’s eye injury sto­ry in this video…it’s more enjoy­able than the 2018 movie.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

A Super­cut of Buster Keaton’s Most Amaz­ing Stunts

Why Is Jack­ie Chan the King of Action Com­e­dy? A Video Essay Mas­ter­ful­ly Makes the Case

Chuck Jones’ 9 Rules For Draw­ing Road Run­ner Car­toons, or How to Cre­ate a Min­i­mal­ist Mas­ter­piece

Ted Mills is a free­lance writer on the arts who cur­rent­ly hosts the artist inter­view-based FunkZone Pod­cast and is the pro­duc­er of KCR­W’s Curi­ous Coast. You can also fol­low him on Twit­ter at @tedmills, read his oth­er arts writ­ing at tedmills.com and/or watch his films here.

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

It’s hard to imag­ine that the space-crazed gen­er­al pub­lic need­ed any help get­ting worked up about astro­nauts and NASA in the ear­ly 60s.

Per­haps the wild pop­u­lar­i­ty of space-relat­ed imagery is in part what moti­vat­ed NASA admin­is­tra­tor James Webb to cre­ate the NASA Art Pro­gram in 1962.

Although the pro­gram’s hand­picked artists weren’t edit­ed or cen­sored in any way, they were briefed on how NASA hoped to be rep­re­sent­ed, and the emo­tions their cre­ations were meant capture—the excite­ment and uncer­tain­ty of explor­ing these fron­tiers.

NASA was also care­ful to col­lect every­thing the artists pro­duced while par­tic­i­pat­ing in the pro­gram, from sketch­es to fin­ished work.

In turn, they received unprece­dent­ed access to launch sites, key per­son­nel, and major events such as Project Mer­cury and the Apol­lo 11 Mis­sion.

Over 350 artists, includ­ing Andy Warhol, Nor­man Rock­well, and Lau­rie Ander­son, have brought their unique sen­si­bil­i­ties to the project. (Find NASA-inspired art by Warhol and Rock­well above.)

(And hey, no shame if you mis­tak­en­ly assumed Warhol’s 1987 Moon­walk 1 was cre­at­ed as a pro­mo for MTV…)

Jamie Wyeth’s 1964 water­col­or Gem­i­ni Launch Pad includes a hum­ble bicy­cle, the means by which tech­ni­cians trav­eled back and forth from the launch pad to the con­crete-rein­forced block­house where they worked.

Pho­tog­ra­ph­er Annie Lei­bovitz offers two views of NASA’s first female pilot and com­man­der, Eileen Collins—with and with­out hel­met.

Postage stamp design­er, Paul Calle, one of the inau­gur­al group of par­tic­i­pat­ing artists, pro­duced a stamp com­mem­o­rat­ing the Gem­i­ni 4 space cap­sule in cel­e­bra­tion of NASA’s 9th anniver­sary. When the Apol­lo 11 astro­nauts suit­ed up pri­or to blast off on July 16, 1969, Calle was the only artist present. His quick­ly ren­dered felt tip mark­er sketch­es lend a back­stage ele­ment to the hero­ic iconog­ra­phy sur­round­ing astro­nauts Arm­strong, Aldrin and Collins. One of the items they car­ried with them on their jour­ney was the engraved print­ing plate of Calle’s 1967 com­mem­o­ra­tive stamp. They hand-can­celed a proof aboard the flight, on the assump­tion that post offices might be hard to come by on the moon.

More recent­ly, NASA’s Jet Propul­sion Lab­o­ra­to­ry has enlist­ed a team of nine artists, design­ers, and illus­tra­tors to col­lab­o­rate on 14 posters, a visu­al throw­back to the ones the WPA cre­at­ed between 1938 and 1941 to spark pub­lic inter­est in the Nation­al Parks. You can see the results at the Exo­plan­et Trav­el Bureau.

View an album of 25 his­toric works from NASA’s Art Pro­gram here.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Lau­rie Ander­son Cre­ates a Vir­tu­al Real­i­ty Instal­la­tion That Takes View­ers on an Uncon­ven­tion­al Tour of the Moon

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

NASA Dig­i­tizes 20,000 Hours of Audio from the His­toric Apol­lo 11 Mis­sion: Stream Them Free Online

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, the­ater mak­er and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine.  Join her in NYC on Mon­day, Sep­tem­ber 9 for anoth­er sea­son of her book-based vari­ety show, Necro­mancers of the Pub­lic Domain. Fol­low her @AyunHalliday.

How to Focus: Five Talks Reveal the Secrets of Concentration

Dis­agree though we may about what’s wrong with life in the 21st cen­tu­ry, all of us — at least in the devel­oped, high tech-sat­u­rat­ed parts of the world — sure­ly come togeth­er in lament­ing our inabil­i­ty to focus. We keep hear­ing how dis­trac­tions of all kinds, but espe­cial­ly those deliv­ered by social media, frag­ment our atten­tion into thou­sands of lit­tle pieces, pre­vent­ing us from com­plet­ing or even start­ing the kind of noble long-term endeav­ors under­tak­en by our ances­tors. But even if that diag­no­sis is accu­rate, we might won­der, how does it all work? These five video talks offer not just insights into the nuts and bolts of atten­tion, con­cen­tra­tion, and focus, but sug­ges­tions about how we might tight­en our own as well.

In “How to Get Your Brain to Focus,” the TED Talk at the top of the post, Hyper­fo­cus author Chris Bai­ley relates how his own life devolved into a morn­ing-noon-night “series of screens,” and what result­ed when he did away with some of those screens and the dis­trac­tions they unceas­ing­ly pre­sent­ed him — or rather, the over­stim­u­la­tion they inflict­ed on him: “We think that our brains are dis­tract­ed,” he says, “but they’re over­stim­u­lat­ed.”

Reduc­ing his own lev­el of stim­u­la­tion fur­ther still, he delib­er­ate­ly engaged in such low-stim­u­la­tion (more com­mon­ly known as “bor­ing”) prac­tices as read­ing iTunes’ entire terms-and-con­di­tions doc­u­ment (and not in graph­ic-nov­el form), wait­ing on hold with Air Canada’s bag­gage depart­ment, count­ing the zeroes in pi, and final­ly just watch­ing a clock.

Bai­ley found that, absent the fre­quent dopamine hits pro­vid­ed by his screens, his atten­tion span grew and more ideas, plans, and thoughts about the future came to him. “We think that we need to fit more in,” he says, but in real­i­ty “we’re doing too much, so much that our mind nev­er wan­ders.” When we have noth­ing in par­tic­u­lar to focus on, our mind finds its way into new ter­ri­to­ries: hence, he says, the fact that we so often get our best ideas in the show­er. He ref­er­ences data indi­cat­ing that these men­tal wan­der­ings take us back into the past 12 per­cent of the time and remain in the present 28 per­cent of the time, but most often fast-for­ward into the future, a habit also explored by neu­ro­sci­en­tist Amishi Jha in the TED Talk just above, “How to Tame Your Wan­der­ing Mind.”

“Our mind is an exquis­ite time-trav­el­ing mas­ter,” says Jha, “and we land in this men­tal time-trav­el mode of the past or the future very fre­quent­ly. “And when this hap­pens, when we mind-wan­der with­out an aware­ness that we’re doing it, there are con­se­quences. We make errors. We miss crit­i­cal infor­ma­tion, some­times. And we have dif­fi­cul­ty mak­ing deci­sions.” In Jha’s view, a wan­der­ing mind can be dan­ger­ous: she labels its “inter­nal dis­trac­tion” as one of the three fac­tors, along­side exter­nal stress and dis­trac­tion in the envi­ron­ment, that “dimin­ish­es atten­tion’s pow­er.” Her lab­o­ra­to­ry research has brought her to endorse the solu­tion of “mind­ful­ness prac­tice,” which “has to do with pay­ing atten­tion to our present-moment expe­ri­ence with aware­ness. And with­out any kind of emo­tion­al reac­tiv­i­ty of what’s hap­pen­ing,” keep­ing our fin­ger on the “play” but­ton “to expe­ri­ence the moment-to-moment unfold­ing of our lives.”

As a mind­ful­ness prac­tice, med­i­ta­tion does the trick for many, although pre­ci­sion shoot­ing cham­pi­on Christi­na Bengts­son rec­om­mends star­ing at leaves. “I focused on a beau­ti­ful autumn leaf play­ing in the wind,” she says of her deci­sive shot in her TED Talk above. “Sud­den­ly I am com­plete­ly calm, and the world cham­pi­on title was mine.” That leaf, she says, “relieved me of dis­tract­ing thoughts and made me focus,” and the expe­ri­ence led her to come up with a broad­er the­o­ry. “We need to learn to notice dis­turb­ing thoughts and to dis­tin­guish them from not-dis­turb­ing thoughts,” she says, a not-dis­turb­ing thought being one that “knocks out all the dis­turb­ing and wor­ry­ing thoughts.” In this frame­work, the thought of a leaf can drain the dis­tract­ing pow­er from all those nag­ging what-ifs about our goals and the future ahead.

“Focus is not about becom­ing some­thing new or some­thing bet­ter, but sim­ply about func­tion­ing exact­ly as well as we already are,” says Bengts­son, “and under­stand­ing that this is enough for both gen­er­al hap­pi­ness and great achieve­ments.” Among her oth­er, non-leaf-relat­ed rec­om­men­da­tions is to cre­ate a “not-to-do list,” a form suit­ed to a world “no longer about pri­or­i­tiz­ing, but about pri­or­i­tiz­ing away.” The not-to-do list also gets a strong endorse­ment in “How to Focus Intense­ly,” the Free­dom in Thought ani­mat­ed video just above. After open­ing with an elab­o­rate anal­o­gy about robots, box­es, and fac­to­ry fires, it goes on to break down the key trade­off of atten­tion: on one side direct­ed focus, “pro­vid­ing undi­vid­ed atten­tion while ignor­ing envi­ron­men­tal stim­uli,” and on the oth­er gen­er­al­ized focus, which does the oppo­site.

We human beings often don’t make that trade­off adept­ly, and the rea­sons cit­ed here include stress, engage­ment in tasks we dis­like because they aren’t inher­ent­ly plea­sur­able (even when they promise plea­sures lat­er on, since the arrival of those plea­sures can be uncer­tain), and the habit of short-term plea­sure-seek­ing. Along with med­i­ta­tion and the not-to-do list come oth­er fea­tured strate­gies like active­ly plac­ing bound­aries on your media con­sump­tion, struc­tur­ing your day with “blocks” of work sep­a­rat­ed by short breaks, and draw­ing up a pri­or­i­ty list, all while adher­ing to the gen­er­al ratio of spend­ing 80 per­cent of your time on “activ­i­ties that pro­duce long-term plea­sure” and 20 per­cent on “activ­i­ties that pro­duce short-term plea­sure.”

The Free­dom in Thought video also rec­om­mends some­thing called “deep work,” a set of tech­niques defined by com­put­er sci­en­tist Cal New­port in his book of the same name. But to do deep work as New­port him­self does it requires that you take a step that may sound rad­i­cal at first: quit social media. That imper­a­tive pro­vides the title of New­port’s TED Talk above, which explains the whys and hows of doing just that. He also deals with the com­mon objec­tions to the notion of quit­ting social media, fram­ing social media itself as just anoth­er slot machine-like form of enter­tain­ment — with all the atten­dant psy­cho­log­i­cal harms — that, because of its sheer com­mon­ness and eas­i­ness, can hard­ly be as vital to suc­cess in the 21st-cen­tu­ry econ­o­my as it’s so often claimed to be.

New­port explains that “what the mar­ket dis­miss­es, for the most part, are activ­i­ties that are easy to repli­cate and pro­duce a small amount of val­ue,” i.e. what most of us spend our days doing on Twit­ter, Face­book, and Insta­gram. “It’s instead going to reward the deep, con­cen­trat­ed work required to build real skills and apply those skills to pro­duce things, like a crafts­man, that are rare and are valu­able.” If you treat your atten­tion with respect, he says, “when it comes time to work, you can actu­al­ly do one thing after anoth­er, and do it with inten­si­ty, and inten­si­ty can be trad­ed for time.” When you train your mind away from dis­trac­tion, in oth­er words, you actu­al­ly end up with more time to work with — an asset that even Bill Gates and War­ren Buf­fett, both of whom famous­ly cred­it their own suc­cess to focus, can’t buy for them­selves.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

How Infor­ma­tion Over­load Robs Us of Our Cre­ativ­i­ty: What the Sci­en­tif­ic Research Shows

The Case for Delet­ing Your Social Media Accounts & Doing Valu­able “Deep Work” Instead, Accord­ing to Prof. Cal New­port

The Neu­ro­science & Psy­chol­o­gy of Pro­cras­ti­na­tion, and How to Over­come It

Alan Watts Presents a 15-Minute Guid­ed Med­i­ta­tion: A Time-Test­ed Way to Stop Think­ing About Think­ing

Lis­ten to Wake Up to Your Life: Dis­cov­er­ing the Bud­dhist Path of Atten­tion by Ken McLeod

How to Take Advan­tage of Bore­dom, the Secret Ingre­di­ent of Cre­ativ­i­ty

Lyn­da Bar­ry on How the Smart­phone Is Endan­ger­ing Three Ingre­di­ents of Cre­ativ­i­ty: Lone­li­ness, Uncer­tain­ty & Bore­dom

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, on Face­book, or on Insta­gram.

Watch the Talking Heads Play Material From Their Groundbreaking Album Remain in Light in an Incredible Concert from 1980


Does every cre­ative use of anoth­er cul­ture count as cul­tur­al appro­pri­a­tion? I mean, how can you tell, right? When does theft become art? At min­i­mum, there are a few cri­te­ria: a deep respect for the mate­r­i­al in ques­tion and the chops to pull it off con­vinc­ing­ly, with a style and atti­tude all one’s own. That sets the bar high, and if you’re won­der­ing who meets it, look no fur­ther than Talk­ing Heads.

The band donned the rhyth­mic per­sona of Fela Kuti’s Afrobeat for most of their 1980 album Remain in Light. The result was a record almost uni­ver­sal­ly beloved by crit­ics then and now, praised and cov­ered live by Beni­nese singer Angelique Kid­jo, Phish, and many oth­ers, and plun­dered for decades by indie dance rock bands look­ing to dupli­cate the record’s pro­found­ly funky jan­g­ly New Wave.

It’s usu­al­ly said that David Byrne first heard Fela Kuti in 1977, when Remain in Light pro­duc­er Bri­an Eno played him the leg­endary Niger­ian bandleader’s mes­mer­iz­ing syn­the­sis of jazz, funk, rock, high-life, and tra­di­tion­al polyrhyth­mic syn­co­pa­tion. Byrne doesn’t men­tion Eno’s role in his dis­cov­ery of Fela’s music in a 1999 inter­view with Arthur’s Jay Bab­cock. He’s also a lit­tle cagey about the extent to which the album takes from the Afrobeat tem­plate. “There are some sec­tions,” he says, in “The Great Curve,” that are “straight Afrobeat riffs and stuff.” The same could be said for almost every track on the album, such as open­er “Born Under Punch­es” and big hit “Once in a Life­time.”


Did the band have the chops to pull this off? Much of the praise sur­rounds the album’s stu­dio con­struc­tion, the metic­u­lous, adven­tur­ous pro­duc­tion by Eno, Byrne’s lyri­cal stream-of-con­scious­ness, the band’s increas­ing lev­el of con­tri­bu­tion. They expand­ed to a nine-piece and cre­at­ed a gen­er­ous space for impro­vi­sa­tion. And when they went on stage in the result­ing tour, they more than demon­strat­ed they were up to the task of rein­ter­pret­ing West African funk for a suite of Amer­i­can songs built on cut-up tel­e­van­ge­lism, the Water­gate tes­ti­mo­ny of John Dean, slave nar­ra­tives, and enough research to war­rant a bib­li­og­ra­phy in the press release. Art school nerds, the band remained.

See them at the top play much of the mate­r­i­al from Remain in Light, as well as from pre­vi­ous album Fear of Music (released 40 years ago today), where the exper­i­ments with African rhythms began, at the Capi­tol The­atre in New Jer­sey in 1980, with an expand­ed line­up includ­ing King Crimson’s Adri­an Belew. The exper­i­men­tal gui­tarist is in incred­i­ble form through­out the show, as is the entire band. Byrne was clear­ly enam­ored with Kuti’s orig­i­nal musi­cal vocab­u­lary. “The whole con­cept was dif­fer­ent,” he tells Bab­cock, “the grooves were so great. The grooves are intense, trance-induc­ing,” and them­selves the prod­uct of gen­er­ous bor­row­ing. Fela drew from the music of James Brown, John Coltrane, and Miles Davis, from the Black Pow­er move­ment, fusion, and psy­che­del­ic rock.

Talk­ing Heads brought those trans­formed bor­row­ings back to the U.S. and trans­formed them again into the kind of music only these musi­cians could make, born of deep appre­ci­a­tion and study, skill, and the will­ing­ness to freely expand their own idiom while still retain­ing their dis­tinc­tive voic­es.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

An Intro­duc­tion to the Life & Music of Fela Kuti: Rad­i­cal Niger­ian Band­leader, Polit­i­cal Hero, and Cre­ator of Afrobeat

Watch Phish Play the Entire­ty of the Talk­ing Heads’ Remain in Light (1996)

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

Talk­ing Heads Live in Rome, 1980: The Con­cert Film You Haven’t Seen

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

Who Are the Best Drum Soloists in Rock? See Legendary Performances by Neil Peart (RIP), John Bonham, Keith Moon, Terry Bozzio & More

Drum solos, yuck, am I right? So bor­ing. Even Kei­th Moon report­ed­ly dis­liked them, though he played a few in his day. Can we argue with Moon’s polyrhyth­mic assaults? His aver­sion was a con­trar­i­an hot take: The Who peaked at the same time the rock drum solo did, thanks to a hand­ful of celebri­ty drum­mers led by Moon and, of course, John Bon­ham, who broke up live ver­sions of Led Zeppelin’s “Moby Dick” with 13-minute solo triplet jams.

These were times, claims Drum! mag­a­zine, “when every rock drum­mer worth his salt had to whip out an extend­ed solo at a moment’s notice in order to be con­sid­ered com­pet­i­tive.” Yet “by the mid-‘70s, rock drum solos had devolved into point­less, deriv­a­tive dis­plays of flashy chops and histri­on­ic pos­ing that had lit­tle in com­mon with actu­al musi­cian­ship. Even worse, in con­cert the drum solo became lit­tle more than a noisy inter­mis­sion that sent the audi­ence run­ning to the bath­room or bar. No won­der the art form suf­fered such an inaus­pi­cious death.”

No won­der so many peo­ple exhaled when punk came along and ripped out two-minute, two-chord songs that made drum solos look even more pre­ten­tious­ly indul­gent. But the writ­ers at Drum! aren’t reject­ing the solo (a use­ful skill for drum­mers in many sit­u­a­tions). In point­ing out how the drum solo became “humil­i­at­ed by its own excess­es and reduced to a mere par­o­dy of itself,” they only aim to show how “cre­ative drum­mers used their solos to test the lim­its of rock drum­ming.” In the right hands, and feet, the live rock drum solo is a musi­cal exper­i­ment or a trance-induc­ing com­mu­nal expe­ri­ence.

Moon makes Drum!’s list of mad sci­en­tist rock drum soloists, as do “two of the top rock drum­mers of the day, Gin­ger Bak­er and Mitch Mitchell.” These are three dis­tinc­tive play­ers, yet all part of the same clas­sic cohort, and all inspired by jazz drum­mers like Gene Kru­pa, Bud­dy Rich, Elvin Jones, and Tony Williams (destroy­ing every oth­er drum solo just above). Who else belongs in the fan­ta­sy Rock Drum Solo Hall of Fame? Who—that is—not in one of the great lum­ber­ing beasts of the British Inva­sion or back­ing Jimi Hen­drix?

Rush’s Neil Peart (RIP) will be on the tip of many tongues, as will Ter­ry Bozzio, Frank Zappa’s ridicu­lous­ly tal­ent­ed drum­mer. Some might say the roco­co antics of Peart and Bozzio sped the decline of the drum solo into par­o­dy. Some might pre­fer, say, the bash­ing of Clash drum­mer Top­per Head­on. But let us not for­get that Head­on start­ed as a jazz drum­mer and could rip out a smart solo when he need­ed. (Below, Bozzio reimag­ines solo drum per­for­mance as a one-man drum orches­tra.)

The phrase “drum solo” may have become syn­ony­mous with bor­ing overplaying—at least to peo­ple raised on punk, hard­core, and oth­er self-con­scious­ly min­i­mal­ist forms. But great soloists remind us that rock drum­ming derived from jazz, where solos are syn­tac­tic struc­tures, not bunch­es of excit­ed­ly busy adverbs unnec­es­sar­i­ly crammed togeth­er. If you need­ed a refresh­er on great drum solos to remind you of how seri­ous they can be, see some of the finest exam­ples in the clips here, con­clud­ing with two leg­endary play­ers, Phil Collins and Chester Thomp­son (anoth­er Zap­pa drum­mer), below.

These are two drum­mers among many who emerged in the ear­ly-to-mid-70s and who con­tin­ued to ele­vate the  drum solo after Moon and Bon­ham left the scene. Share your picks for the Drum Solo Hall of Fame in the com­ments.

Relat­ed Con­tent:  

Watch John Bonham’s Blis­ter­ing 13-Minute Drum Solo on “Moby Dick,” One of His Finest Moments Live Onstage (1970)

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

Watch the Evo­lu­tion of Ringo Starr, Dave Grohl, Tré Cool & 19 Oth­er Drum­mers in Short 5‑Minute Videos

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

How Margaret Hamilton Wrote the Computer Code That Helped Save the Apollo Moon Landing Mission

From a dis­tance of half a cen­tu­ry, we look back on the moon land­ing as a thor­ough­ly ana­log affair, an old-school engi­neer­ing project of the kind sel­dom even pro­posed any­more in this dig­i­tal age. But the Apol­lo 11 mis­sion could nev­er have hap­pened with­out com­put­ers and the peo­ple who pro­gram them, a fact that has become bet­ter-known in recent years thanks to pub­lic inter­est in the work of Mar­garet Hamil­ton, direc­tor of the Soft­ware Engi­neer­ing Divi­sion of MIT’s Instru­men­ta­tion Lab­o­ra­to­ry when it devel­oped on-board flight soft­ware for NASA’s Apol­lo space pro­gram. You can learn more about Hamil­ton, whom we’ve pre­vi­ous­ly fea­tured here on Open Cul­ture, from the short MAKERS pro­file video above.

Today we con­sid­er soft­ware engi­neer­ing a per­fect­ly viable field, but back in the mid-1960s, when Hamil­ton first joined the Apol­lo project, it did­n’t even have a name. “I came up with the term ‘soft­ware engi­neer­ing,’ and it was con­sid­ered a joke,” says Hamil­ton, who remem­bers her col­leagues mak­ing remarks like, “What, soft­ware is engi­neer­ing?”

But her own expe­ri­ence went some way toward prov­ing that work­ing in code had become as impor­tant as work­ing in steel. Only by watch­ing her young daugh­ter play at the same con­trols the astro­nauts would lat­er use did she real­ize that just one human error could poten­tial­ly bring the mis­sion into ruin — and that she could min­i­mize the pos­si­bil­i­ty by tak­ing it into account when design­ing its soft­ware. Hamil­ton’s pro­pos­al met with resis­tance, NASA’s offi­cial line at the time being that “astro­nauts are trained nev­er to make a mis­take.”

But Hamil­ton per­sist­ed, pre­vailed, and was vin­di­cat­ed dur­ing the moon land­ing itself, when an astro­naut did make a mis­take, one that caused an over­load­ing of the flight com­put­er. The whole land­ing might have been abort­ed if not for Hamil­ton’s fore­sight in imple­ment­ing an “asyn­chro­nous exec­u­tive” func­tion capa­ble, in the event of an over­load, of set­ting less impor­tant tasks aside and pri­or­i­tiz­ing more impor­tant ones. “The soft­ware worked just the way it should have,” Hamil­ton says in the Christie’s video on the inci­dent above, describ­ing what she felt after­ward as “a com­bi­na­tion of excite­ment and relief.” Engi­neers of soft­ware, hard­ware, and every­thing else know that feel­ing when they see a com­pli­cat­ed project work — but sure­ly few know it as well as Hamil­ton and her Apol­lo col­lab­o­ra­tors do.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Mar­garet Hamil­ton, Lead Soft­ware Engi­neer of the Apol­lo Project, Stands Next to Her Code That Took Us to the Moon (1969)

How 1940s Film Star Hedy Lamarr Helped Invent the Tech­nol­o­gy Behind Wi-Fi & Blue­tooth Dur­ing WWII

Meet Grace Hop­per, the Pio­neer­ing Com­put­er Sci­en­tist Who Helped Invent COBOL and Build the His­toric Mark I Com­put­er (1906–1992)

How Ada Lovelace, Daugh­ter of Lord Byron, Wrote the First Com­put­er Pro­gram in 1842–a Cen­tu­ry Before the First Com­put­er

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, on Face­book, or on Insta­gram.

How Scientists Colorize Those Beautiful Space Photos Taken By the Hubble Space Telescope

When you pic­ture the giant for­ma­tions of gasses and space dust that make up a neb­u­la, maybe you see the deli­cious­ly gar­ish CGI of Guardians of the Galaxy. The look of the Mar­vel uni­verse is, of course, inspired by eye-pop­ping images of neb­u­lae tak­en by the Hub­ble tele­scope, images that have appeared rou­tine­ly for the past three decades in the pages of Nation­al Geo­graph­ic, Dis­cov­er, and your favorite screen savers.

Whether you’re into sci-fi super­hero flicks or not, you’ve sure­ly stared in awe and dis­be­lief at these pho­tographs: ghost­ly, glow­ing, resem­bling the illus­tra­tions of out­er space by cer­tain pulp sci-fi illus­tra­tors twen­ty years before the Hub­ble was launched into orbit in 1990. If these images seem too painter­ly to be real, it’s because they are, as the Vox video above explains, to a great degree, prod­ucts of pho­to­graph­ic art and imag­i­na­tion.

The Hub­ble tele­scope only takes images in black and white. The images are then col­orized by sci­en­tists. Their work is not pure fan­ta­sy. A process called “broad­band fil­ter­ing” allows them to rea­son­ably esti­mate a range of col­ors in the black and white pho­to. Some imag­i­na­tive license must be tak­en “to show us por­tions of the image that would nev­er have been vis­i­ble to our eyes in the first place,” notes PetaPix­el. “For exam­ple: turn­ing cer­tain gasses into vis­i­ble col­or in a pho­to­graph.”

In an impres­sive few min­utes, the Vox explain­er digs deep into the sci­ence of optics to explain how and why we see col­or as com­bi­na­tions of three wave­lengths. The sci­ence has been “the guid­ing prin­ci­ple in col­or­ing black and white images” since the turn of the 20th cen­tu­ry. We learn above how broad­band filtering—the pho­to­graph­ic tech­nique bring­ing us full-col­or galac­tic fever dreams—originated in the ear­li­est exper­i­ments in col­or pho­tog­ra­phy.

In fact, the very first col­or pho­to­graph ever tak­en, by physi­cist James Clerk Maxwell in 1861, used a very ear­ly ver­sion of the tech­nique Hub­ble sci­en­tists now use to col­orize images of space, com­bin­ing three black and white pho­tos of the same object, tak­en through three dif­fer­ent-col­ored fil­ters. Giv­en the advances in imag­ing tech­nol­o­gy over the past 100+ years, why doesn’t the pow­er­ful space tele­scope just take col­or pic­tures?

It would com­pro­mise the Hubble’s pri­ma­ry pur­pose, to mea­sure the inten­si­ty of light reflect­ing off objects in space, a mea­sure­ment best tak­en in black and white. But the sci­en­tif­ic instru­ment can still be used as cos­mic paint­brush, cre­at­ing jaw-drop­ping images that them­selves serve a sci­en­tif­ic pur­pose. If you were dis­ap­point­ed to learn that the pho­tog­ra­phy fuel­ing our our space imag­i­na­tion has been doc­tored, watch this video and see if a sense of won­der isn’t restored.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Beau­ty of Space Pho­tog­ra­phy

NASA Releas­es a Mas­sive Online Archive: 140,000 Pho­tos, Videos & Audio Files Free to Search and Down­load

NASA Dig­i­tizes 20,000 Hours of Audio from the His­toric Apol­lo 11 Mis­sion: Stream Them Free Online

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

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