Rick Rubin: The Invisibility of Hip Hop’s Greatest Producer

New York-born, L.A.-based record pro­duc­er Rick Rubin start­ed his musi­cal career as a gui­tarist, first in a short-lived high school band, then in the punk band Hose, tour­ing the coun­try with 80s hard­core stal­warts like Hüsker Dü and the Meat Pup­pets. It was an aus­pi­cious begin­ning for the major pro­duc­er Rubin would become in lat­er years, behind albums by Weez­er, Red Hot Chili Pep­pers, Slay­er, Danzig, Metal­li­ca… the list goes on. Not all of his work has been beloved, but hard­ly any of it has been ignored. Rubin’s won 9 Gram­my awards since 1998, includ­ing one this year for the Strokes’ The New Abnor­mal and one in 2009 for Pro­duc­er of the Year; in 2007 he appeared on the cov­er of The New York Times Mag­a­zine, cov­ered in a white blan­ket and sig­na­ture flow­ing beard, med­i­tat­ing over the head­line “Can Rick Rubin Save the Music Busi­ness?”

Rubin revi­tal­ized John­ny Cash’s career, cap­tur­ing the singer’s aching­ly poignant last record­ings in six clas­sic albums. He has appeared in doc­u­men­taries over the past few years with Cash, Dave Grohl, and Paul McCart­ney he’s been a guest of David Letterman’s My Next Guest Needs No Intro­duc­tion with David Let­ter­man; he’s had a four-part doc­u­men­tary made about him in 2019 called Shangri-La.…  And he is also – of course – all over con­tem­po­rary hip-hop, pro­duc­ing Jay Z’s “99 Prob­lems” and piv­otal albums by Kanye West and Eminem. This is no sur­prise, con­sid­er­ing he was a major fig­ure of the genre’s ori­gins, tak­ing time between Hose gigs to found and co-run Def Jam Records with Rus­sell Sim­mons and pro­duce sem­i­nal albums by LL Cool J, Pub­lic Ene­my, Run‑D.M.C., and the Beast­ie Boys.

Giv­en all of the above, in what sense can any­one claim Rick Rubin is “invis­i­ble”? Just such an argu­ment is made in the video above by Soulr. It’s a com­pelling one, due main­ly to Rubin’s pres­ence, a steady calm­ing force – the result of years of tran­scen­den­tal med­i­ta­tion and a relaxed approach to work that favors con­ver­sa­tion over con­trol. “Despite his rep­u­ta­tion as a sol­id-gold hit­mak­er,” a WNYC pro­file not­ed, “Rubin remains stub­born­ly mod­est. He attrib­ut­es his suc­cess to his one rule in the stu­dio. ‘We don’t talk about what’s going to get on the radio [or] how are we going to make our release date,’ he says. ‘We talk about how we make this song as good as it can be.’” In let­ting the artist’s vision emerge, Rubin lets him­self dis­ap­pear, play­ing the role of ther­a­pist, as he him­self describes it:

If you real­ly lis­ten to what peo­ple say, usu­al­ly they tell you every­thing. I just real­ly pay atten­tion to what peo­ple say, and through that I can reflect back thoughts that they’ve told me about them­selves that they don’t know about them­selves. And allow them to unlock those doors to get to the places they want to go artis­ti­cal­ly. 

In a clip tak­en from Shangri-La, we see star rap­per Tyler, the Cre­ator tell Rubin, “You’re so god­damn free.” As Judy Berman writes in a Time review of that Rubin-pro­duced doc­u­men­tary, “com­ing from an artist whose entire career has been a series of shocks to the main­stream, that’s high praise indeed.” The clip also sets the tenor for the fan-made doc­u­men­tary above. There isn’t a sig­nif­i­cant amount of crit­i­cism, to say the least, of Rubin’s role in the so-called “loud­ness wars” or charges from bands like Muse that he’s hard­ly involved in ses­sions at all. Those charges may indeed come from peo­ple who do not under­stand how a man “behind hun­dreds and hun­dreds of beloved records… does­n’t appear to do much, while doing every­thing at the same time.” Find out how Rubin has used his pow­ers of invis­i­bil­i­ty for the good of pop­u­lar music. His super­pow­er, the video’s nar­ra­tor tells us, is “sim­ply his abil­i­ty to lis­ten.”

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

The His­to­ry of Hip Hop Music Visu­al­ized on a Turntable Cir­cuit Dia­gram: Fea­tures 700 Artists, from DJ Kool Herc to Kanye West

Enter the The Cor­nell Hip Hop Archive: A Vast Dig­i­tal Col­lec­tion of Hip Hop Pho­tos, Posters & More

How Jazz Became the “Moth­er of Hip Hop”

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

Watch 11-Year-Old Billy Preston Duet with Nat King Cole: A Star is Born (1957)

The Bea­t­les aren’t the only fab tal­ents caus­ing a stir in the recent­ly released Bea­t­les doc­u­men­tary, Get Back.

As has been wide­ly not­ed, soul singer Bil­ly Pre­ston lights up every scene he’s in.

One of the 60’s finest ses­sion key­boardists, Pre­ston con­tributed to the Bea­t­les’ Let It Be and Abbey Road albums, and joined them for their famous final gig on the roof of Apple Records.

He also served as a lev­el­ing influ­ence when ten­sions with­in the band fre­quent­ly explod­ed into fits of tem­per.

“It’s inter­est­ing to see how nice­ly peo­ple behave when you bring a guest in,” George Har­ri­son observed.

In addi­tion to his suc­cess­ful solo career, with a num­ber of funk and R&B hits, Pre­ston gigged for a host of all time greats: Ray Charles, Lit­tle Richard, Sam Cooke, Miles Davis, Aretha Franklin, the Rolling Stones…the list goes on.

A child­hood prodi­gy who nev­er took a music les­son, by 10, he was back­ing gospel lumi­nar­ies like Mahalia Jack­sonJames Cleve­land, and Andraé Crouch.

A year lat­er, he entered America’s liv­ing rooms, when he appeared on The Nat King Cole Show, above, to duet with TV’s first nation­al Black vari­ety show host on “Blue­ber­ry Hill,” a 40s tune Fats Domi­no had pop­u­lar­ized ear­li­er in the decade.

“You have a very excel­lent career ahead of you,” Cole pre­dicts, fol­low­ing their per­for­mance.

Daugh­ter Natal­ie Cole lat­er enthused that the cel­e­brat­ed croon­er “lets this kid have all the glo­ry,” though the self-pos­sessed pre-teen holds his own ably, alter­nat­ing between organ and his own impres­sive pipes.

With­in the year, Cole and Pre­ston shared the big screen, and a mem­o­rable part, when they were cast as “The Father Of The Blues” W.C. Handy, as a child and adult, in the 1958 movie St Louis Blues.

As an adult, Pre­ston’s star was tar­nished by addic­tion, arrests and self-sab­o­tag­ing behav­ior that his man­ag­er, Joyce Moore, and half-sis­ter Let­tie, said was most deeply root­ed in his mother’s refusal to believe that he was being sex­u­al­ly abused by the pianist of a sum­mer tour­ing com­pa­ny, and lat­er a local pas­tor.

It’s part of a lurid, longer tale, call­ing to mind oth­er promis­ing, oft-prodi­gious young tal­ents who nev­er man­aged to get out from under dam­age inflict­ed by adults when they were chil­dren.

He was 9.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch Paul McCart­ney Com­pose The Bea­t­les Clas­sic “Get Back” Out of Thin Air (1969)

The Bea­t­les’ 8 Pio­neer­ing Inno­va­tions: A Video Essay Explor­ing How the Fab Four Changed Pop Music

Is “Rain” the Per­fect Bea­t­les Song?: A New Video Explores the Rad­i­cal Inno­va­tions of the 1966 B‑Side

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is the Chief Pri­maol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine and author, most recent­ly, of Cre­ative, Not Famous: The Small Pota­to Man­i­festo.  Fol­low her @AyunHalliday.

Mark Rothko’s Seagram Murals: What Makes Them Great Art

It is pre­cise­ly the pos­si­bil­i­ty of exer­cis­ing choice where­in our lot dif­fers from that of the artists of the past. For choice implies respon­si­bil­i­ty to one’s con­science, and, in the con­science of the artist, the Truth of Art is fore­most. — Mark Rothko

Born Mar­cus Rothkowitz in 1903, the painter Mark Rothko immi­grat­ed with his fam­i­ly from Rus­sia at age 10, flee­ing the per­se­cu­tion of Jews in his home coun­try. He grew up poor in Port­land, Ore­gon, won a schol­ar­ship to Yale in 1921, but “found him­self once more an out­sider, stig­ma­tized as a Jew,” says James Payne in the Great Art Explained video above. Feel­ing alien­at­ed and dis­af­fect­ed, he dropped out and moved to New York (to the dis­may of his fam­i­ly), “to wan­der around,” he lat­er wrote, ”bum about, starve a bit,” and paint. He co-found­ed a group of mod­ern artists who exhib­it­ed fre­quent­ly togeth­er and won crit­i­cal atten­tion, but Rothko strug­gled finan­cial­ly into mid­dle age and only began sell­ing his work dur­ing the “col­or field” peri­od that made him famous in the 1950s.

It wasn’t until 1958 that Rothko received his first major com­mis­sion, for what would become the Sea­gram Murals, so-called because they were meant for the lux­u­ri­ous Four Sea­sons restau­rant in the new­ly-built Sea­gram Build­ing on Park Avenue, a glit­ter­ing sym­bol of New York’s opu­lence, designed by archi­tects Mies van der Rohe and Philip John­son and filled with paint­ings by Rothko’s con­tem­po­raries. Rothko spent two years work­ing on the project, a series of paint­ings to fill the restau­ran­t’s small­er, exclu­sive din­ing room. He pro­duced a total of 30 pan­els, sev­en of which were to fit togeth­er in the restau­rant. Then, almost two years after receiv­ing the com­mis­sion for $35,000 (rough­ly $334,000 today), he abrupt­ly changed his mind, returned the mon­ey, and with­drew the works.

Ten years after Rothko’s deci­sion, “on the 25th of Feb­ru­ary 1970,” Payne tells us, “the Tate gallery in Lon­don received nine Mark Rothko can­vas­es” — pan­els from the Sea­gram Murals col­lec­tion — “a gen­er­ous dona­tion from the artist him­self. A few hours lat­er, Rothko was found dead in his stu­dio on East 69th Street in Man­hat­tan. The 66-year old painter had tak­en his own life…. His sui­cide would change every­thing, and shape the way we respond to his work.” But per­haps it’s not that trag­ic event that best pro­vides us with an under­stand­ing of the artist’s moti­va­tions. “Rothko’s con­tract with soci­ety was not torn up that day in 1970,” argues Jonathan Jones at The Guardian, “but a decade ear­li­er, in 1959,” when Rothko, “intense, soli­tary, left­wing, used to pover­ty and fail­ure,” con­ceived of an art to “har­row” well-heeled din­ers at the Four Sea­sons.

Rothko explic­it­ly mod­eled the Sea­gram Mur­al project after what he called the “somber vault” of Michelangelo’s Lau­rent­ian Library in Flo­rence, which he vis­it­ed on a trip to Italy in 1959. “He achieved just the kind of feel­ing I’m after,” said Rothko. “He makes the view­ers feel that they are trapped in a room where all the doors and win­dows are bricked up, so that all they can do is butt their heads for­ev­er against the wall.” Aban­don­ing the brighter col­or schemes of his past works, he turned to blacks, reds, and maroons, a palette drawn from mosa­ic walls he’d seen in a Pom­pei­ian vil­la. Rothko report­ed­ly told jour­nal­ist John Fis­ch­er, an edi­tor at Harper’s, “I hope to ruin the appetite of every son of a bitch who ever eats in that room.” Aware of how his col­or field paint­ings moved view­ers, often to tears, he hoped the murals would ampli­fy the effect to an unpalat­able degree.

Instead, when Rothko him­self dined at the Four Sea­sons for the first and only time, he spoiled his own appetite for the com­mis­sion. “Any­body who will eat that kind of food for those kinds of prices will nev­er look at a paint­ing of mine,” he told his assis­tant. That very evening he with­drew the paint­ings. “The fact that Rothko accept­ed the com­mis­sion in the first place is puz­zling,” Shi­ra Wolfe writes at Art­land. “He was revolt­ed by cap­i­tal­ist Amer­i­ca, and felt dis­dain towards any­one who con­tributed to it – and the Four Sea­sons Restau­rant, in New York’s swanki­est sky­scraper, was des­tined to become the very epit­o­me of America’s cap­i­tal­ism.” From its begin­nings, the artist “felt ambiva­lent about the com­mis­sion, and had a con­tract drawn up which would allow him to back out of the deal and retrieve his paint­ings if nec­es­sary.”

It was the neces­si­ty of choice, even in the face of pover­ty and obscu­ri­ty, that most moved Rothko, as he wrote in a man­u­script from the 1940s, posthu­mous­ly pub­lished by his son Christo­pher Rothko as The Artist’s Real­i­ty: Philoso­phies of Art. In the book, Rothko con­trasts the mod­ern artist’s fate with that of artists of the past who lived by the whims of dukes, kings, and popes.

It will be point­ed out that the artist’s lot is the same today, that the mar­ket, through its denial or afford­ing of the means of sus­te­nance, exerts the same com­pul­sion. Yet there is this vital dif­fer­ence: the civ­i­liza­tions enu­mer­at­ed above had the tem­po­ral and spir­i­tu­al pow­er to sum­mar­i­ly enforce their demands. The Fires of Hell, exile, and, in the back­ground, the rack and stake, were cor­rec­tives if per­sua­sion failed. Today the com­pul­sion is Hunger, and the expe­ri­ence of the last four hun­dred years has shown us that hunger is not near­ly as com­pelling as the immi­nence of Hell and Death. Since the pass­ing of the spir­i­tu­al and tem­po­ral patron, the his­to­ry of art is the his­to­ry of men who, for the most part, have pre­ferred hunger to com­pli­ance, and who have con­sid­ered the choice worth­while. And choice it is, for all the trag­ic dis­par­i­ty between the two alter­na­tives. 

Rothko was “obvi­ous­ly torn between his hatred for the wealth and greed of cap­i­tal­ism and his desire to cre­ate his own spe­cial place for his art,” writes Wolfe. In the year after his death, just such a place would open, a mur­al project that real­ized a very dif­fer­ent set of inten­tions.

Orig­i­nal­ly a col­lab­o­ra­tion between Philip John­son and Rothko – until the archi­tect bowed out due to the painter’s pecu­liar vision – the non-sec­tar­i­an Rothko Chapel in Hous­ton debuted in late Feb­ru­ary 1971. An octag­o­nal, clois­tered build­ing with four­teen large Rothko murals, the Chapel was com­mis­sioned by col­lec­tor and patron Dominique de Menil when she saw the Sea­gram Murals tak­ing shape in Rothko’s pur­pose-built New York stu­dio. It’s pos­si­ble, and per­haps mor­bid­ly tempt­ing, to judge Rothko’s work by the tragedy of his final per­son­al act, but he had more to say in his work after death. In the Sea­gram Murals, Rothko attempt­ed to real­ize a phi­los­o­phy of art he had artic­u­lat­ed years ear­li­er in The Artist’s Real­i­ty: “The law of Author­i­ty,” whether that of the Church, the State, or the Mar­ket, “has this sav­ing grace; it can be cir­cum­nav­i­gat­ed.”

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

Watch the Tate Mod­ern Restore Mark Rothko’s Van­dal­ized Paint­ing, Black on Maroon: 18 Months of Work Con­densed Into 17 Min­utes

Great Art Explained: Watch 15 Minute Intro­duc­tions to Great Works by Warhol, Rothko, Kahlo, Picas­so & More

The MoMA Teach­es You How to Paint Like Pol­lock, Rothko, de Koon­ing & Oth­er Abstract Painters

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

 

Albertus Seba’s Cabinet of Natural Curiosities: Discover One of the Most Prized Natural History Books of All Time (1734–1765)

In the eigh­teenth cen­tu­ry, a Euro­pean could know the world in great detail with­out ever leav­ing his home­land. Or he could, at least, if he got into the right indus­try. So it was with Alber­tus Seba, a Dutch phar­ma­cist who opened up shop in Ams­ter­dam just as the eigh­teenth cen­tu­ry began. Giv­en the city’s promi­nence as a hub of inter­na­tion­al trade, which in those days was most­ly con­duct­ed over water, Seba could acquire from the crew mem­bers of arriv­ing ships all man­ner of plant and ani­mal spec­i­mens from dis­tant lands. In this man­ner he amassed a ver­i­ta­ble pri­vate muse­um of the nat­ur­al world.

The “cab­i­nets of curiosi­ties” Seba put togeth­er — as col­lec­tors of won­ders did in those days — ranked among the largest on the con­ti­nent. But when he died in 1736, his mag­nif­i­cent col­lec­tion did not sur­vive him. He’d already sold much of it twen­ty years ear­li­er to Peter the Great, who used it as the basis for Rus­si­a’s first muse­um, the Kun­stkam­mer in St. Peters­burg.

What remained had to be auc­tioned off in order to fund one of Seba’s own projects: the Locu­pletis­si­mi rerum nat­u­ral­i­um the­sauri accu­ra­ta descrip­tio, or “Accu­rate descrip­tion of the very rich the­saurus of the prin­ci­pal and rarest nat­ur­al objects,” pages of which you can view at the Pub­lic Domain Review and the Met­ro­pol­i­tan Muse­um of Art.

This four-vol­ume set of books con­sti­tut­ed an attempt to cat­a­log the vari­ety of liv­ing things on Earth, a for­mi­da­ble endeav­or that Seba was nev­er­the­less well-placed to under­take, ren­der­ing each one in engrav­ings made life­like by their depth of col­or and detail. The lav­ish pro­duc­tion of the The­saurus (more recent­ly repli­cat­ed in the con­densed form of Taschen’s Cab­i­net of Nat­ur­al Curiosi­ties) pre­sent­ed a host of chal­lenges both phys­i­cal and eco­nom­ic. But there was also the intel­lec­tu­al prob­lem of how, exact­ly, to orga­nize all its tex­tu­al and visu­al infor­ma­tion. As orig­i­nal­ly pub­lished, it groups its spec­i­mens by phys­i­cal sim­i­lar­i­ties, in a man­ner vague­ly sim­i­lar to the much more influ­en­tial sys­tem pub­lished by Swedish sci­en­tist Carl Lin­naeus in 1735.

Lin­naeus, as it hap­pens, twice vis­it­ed Seba to exam­ine the lat­ter’s famous col­lec­tion. It sure­ly had an influ­ence on his think­ing on how to name every­thing in the bio­log­i­cal realm: not just the likes of trees, owls, snakes, and jel­ly­fish, but also the “parax­o­da,” crea­tures whose exis­tence was sus­pect­ed but not con­firmed. These includ­ed not only the hydra and the phoenix, but also the rhi­noc­er­os and the pel­i­can.

Eigh­teenth-cen­tu­ry Euro­peans pos­sessed much more infor­ma­tion about the world than did their ances­tors, but facts were still more than occa­sion­al­ly inter­mixed with fan­ta­sy. Giv­en the strange­ness of what had recent­ly been doc­u­ment­ed, no one dared put lim­its on the strange­ness of what had­n’t.

Note: A num­ber of the vibrant images on this page come from the Taschen edi­tion.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Bio­di­ver­si­ty Her­itage Library Makes 150,000 High-Res Illus­tra­tions of the Nat­ur­al World Free to Down­load

Ernst Haeckel’s Sub­lime Draw­ings of Flo­ra and Fau­na: The Beau­ti­ful Sci­en­tif­ic Draw­ings That Influ­enced Europe’s Art Nou­veau Move­ment (1889)

Behold an Inter­ac­tive Online Edi­tion of Eliz­a­beth Twining’s Illus­tra­tions of the Nat­ur­al Orders of Plants (1868)

A Curi­ous Herbal: 500 Beau­ti­ful Illus­tra­tions of Med­i­c­i­nal Plants Drawn by Eliz­a­beth Black­well in 1737 (to Save Her Fam­i­ly from Finan­cial Ruin)

Explore a New Archive of 2,200 His­tor­i­cal Wildlife Illus­tra­tions (1916–1965): Cour­tesy of The Wildlife Con­ser­va­tion Soci­ety

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.

Breaking Down the Beatles’ Get Back Documentary: Stream Episode #111 of the Pretty Much Pop Podcast

Your host Mark Lin­sen­may­er is joined by musi­cian David Brook­ings, Gig Gab pod­cast host Dave Hamil­ton, and Open­Cul­ture writer Col­in Mar­shall to dis­cuss Peter Jack­son’s doc­u­men­tary Get Back and the endur­ing pop­u­lar­i­ty of The Bea­t­les.

This was record­ed on 12/8, the anniver­sary of John Lennon’s death. We con­sid­er the arc of their career, the var­i­ous post-mortem releas­es that keep our inter­est, why Bea­t­les solo work remains a cult inter­est, and much more.

Fol­low @davidbrookings. Hear him sing every Bea­t­les song. Hear him talk­ing about his own tunes with Mark on Naked­ly Exam­ined Music.

Fol­low @DaveHamilton. Hear him on PMP talk­ing about Live Music.

Fol­low @colinmarshall. Hear him on PMP talk­ing about Scors­ese films.

This episode includes bonus dis­cus­sion you can access by sup­port­ing the pod­cast at patreon.com/prettymuchpop or by choos­ing a paid sub­scrip­tion through Apple Pod­casts. This pod­cast is part of the Par­tial­ly Exam­ined Life pod­cast net­work.

Pret­ty Much Pop: A Cul­ture Pod­cast is the first pod­cast curat­ed by Open Cul­ture. Browse all Pret­ty Much Pop posts.

What Makes Salvador Dalí’s Iconic Surrealist Painting “The Persistence of Memory” a Great Work of Art

Sal­vador Dalí paint­ed melt­ing clocks. This is not as dras­tic an over­sim­pli­fi­ca­tion as it sounds: after first paint­ing such a coun­ter­in­tu­itive image, “Dalí, who knew the impor­tance of brand­ing, would use the melt­ing clocks for his entire career.” So says no less an expert than James Payne, the gal­lerist and video essay­ist behind the Youtube chan­nel Great Art Explained. In its lat­est episode Payne takes on the unre­lent­ing­ly pro­lif­ic Dalí’s most famous can­vas of all, The Per­sis­tence of Mem­o­ry. Com­plet­ed in 1931, this work of art has by now spent about half a cen­tu­ry adorn­ing the walls of col­lege dorm rooms, among oth­er spaces inhab­it­ed by view­ers inter­est­ed in the alter­ation of their own per­cep­tive fac­ul­ties.

The Per­sis­tence of Mem­o­ry does­n’t mark Dalí’s first use of melt­ing clocks, though it’s with­out doubt his most impor­tant. Yet “despite its huge cul­tur­al impact,” says Payne, the paint­ing is “quite small, about the size of a sheet of paper.” Against the back­ground of “a huge desert land­scape with vast depths of field, reduced to a shrunk­en world” — one har­bor­ing ref­er­ences to Goya, De Chiri­co, and Bosch — it vivid­ly real­izes a moment in the process of meta­mor­pho­sis.

“A key con­cept in the Sur­re­al­ist move­ment,” meta­mor­pho­sis is here “exem­pli­fied by the para­dox of Dalí’s ren­der­ing of the hard­est and most mechan­i­cal objects, watch­es, into a soft and flac­cid form.” Like all of the artist’s best work, it thus “exploits the ambi­gu­i­ty of our per­cep­tu­al process and plays with our own fears.” But what do the melt­ing clocks mean?

That, to Dalí’s own mind, is the wrong ques­tion: “I am against any kind of mes­sage,” he declared in one of his many tele­vi­sion appear­ances. Indeed, his fre­quent appear­ances on tele­vi­sion (What’s My Line?, The Mike Wal­lace Inter­view, The Dick Cavett Show) and in oth­er media assured that, at a cer­tain point, “Dalí the artist had become a pris­on­er of Dalí the celebri­ty.” But his appear­ances in the spot­light also gave him the chance to dis­sem­i­nate the chaff of con­flict­ing expla­na­tions of his own work. Per­haps the melt­ing clocks refer to Ein­stein’s then-nov­el the­o­ry of rel­a­tiv­i­ty; per­haps they sym­bol­ize impo­tence. Or it may all come down to Dalí’s obses­sion with death, which even in 1931 had long since tak­en both his moth­er and the younger broth­er of whom he believed him­self a rein­car­na­tion. In the event, Dalí could­n’t escape mor­tal­i­ty. None of us can, of course, and that, as much as any­thing else, may illu­mi­nate why The Per­sis­tence of Mem­o­ry nev­er quite pass­es into the realm of kitsch.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Take a Jour­ney Through 933 Paint­ings by Sal­vador Dalí & Watch His Sig­na­ture Sur­re­al­ism Emerge

Walk Inside a Sur­re­al­ist Sal­vador Dalí Paint­ing with This 360º Vir­tu­al Real­i­ty Video

The Most Com­plete Col­lec­tion of Sal­vador Dalí’s Paint­ings Pub­lished in a Beau­ti­ful New Book by Taschen: Includes Nev­er-Seen-Before Works

Sal­vador Dalí Explains Why He Was a “Bad Painter” and Con­tributed “Noth­ing” to Art (1986)

Sal­vador Dalí’s Melt­ing Clocks Paint­ed on a Lat­te

Great Art Explained: Watch 15 Minute Intro­duc­tions to Great Works by Warhol, Rothko, Kahlo, Picas­so & More

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.

Watch Frank Zappa Play Michael Nesmith (RIP) on The Monkees–and Vice Versa (1967)

In Decem­ber 1967, The Mon­kees blew their audi­ence’s minds by host­ing Frank Zap­pa, “par­tic­i­pant in and per­haps even leader of” the Moth­ers Of Inven­tion.

Or did they?

The tidal wave of affec­tion that com­pris­es twen­ty-first cen­tu­ry Mon­kees mania makes us for­get that chil­dren were the pri­ma­ry audi­ence for The Mon­kees’ tit­u­lar sit­com. (One might also say that The Mon­kees were the sitcom’s tit­u­lar band.)

But even if the kids at home weren’t suf­fi­cient­ly con­ver­sant in the musi­cal under­ground to iden­ti­fy the spe­cial guest star of the episode, “The Mon­kees Blow Their Minds,” we are.

It’s a joy to see Zap­pa and The Mon­kees’ supreme­ly laid back Michael Nesmith (RIP) imper­son­at­ing each oth­er.

Zappa’s idea, appar­ent­ly. He’s in com­plete con­trol of the gim­mick from the get go, where­as Nesmith strug­gles to keep their names straight and his pros­thet­ic nose in place before get­ting up to speed.

It’s impor­tant to remem­ber that it’s not Frank, but Nesmith play­ing Frank who accus­es The Mon­kees’ music of being banal and insipid.

Zap­pa him­self was a great sup­port­er of The Mon­kees. “When peo­ple hat­ed us more than any­thing, he said kind things about us,” Nesmith recalled in Bar­ry Miles’ Zap­pa biog­ra­phy. Zap­pa attempt­ed to teach Nesmith how to play lead gui­tar, and offered drum­mer Micky Dolenz a post-Mon­kees gig with The Moth­ers of Inven­tion.

Their mutu­al warmth makes lines like “You’re the pop­u­lar musi­cian! I’m dirty gross and ugly” palat­able. It put me in mind of come­di­an Zach Gal­i­fi­anakis’ Between Two Ferns, and count­less oth­er loose­ly rehearsed web series.

After a cou­ple of min­utes, Nesmith gets his hat back to con­duct as Zap­pa smash­es up a car to the tune of the Moth­er’s Of Inven­tion’s “Moth­er Peo­ple.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

A Young Frank Zap­pa Turns the Bicy­cle into a Musi­cal Instru­ment on The Steve Allen Show (1963)

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

Watch the Last Time Peter Tork (RIP) & The Mon­kees Played Togeth­er Dur­ing Their 1960s Hey­day: It’s a Psy­che­del­ic Freak­out

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

 

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Stephen Sondheim’s 40 Favorite Films

A true cineaste, a friend once told me, will have the most eclec­tic “best of” list, forged from a deep love of cin­e­ma and an absolute con­fi­dence in their choic­es. There will be no look­ing at a Great Movies book, no con­sid­er­a­tion of pub­lic taste. They have not a care for lega­cies or film schools. That’s why this recent­ly unearthed list of Stephen Sondheim’s favorite films is such a fas­ci­nat­ing read.

The com­pos­er passed away last month at 91, hav­ing changed Broad­way musi­cals from big and brassy pop­u­lar fare into some­thing that could tack­le strange and exper­i­men­tal themes and sto­ries yet be just as suc­cess­ful. He pro­vid­ed the lyrics for West Side Sto­ry and Gyp­sy, and then went on to a string of chal­leng­ing hits: Com­pa­ny, Fol­lies, A Lit­tle Night Music, Sweeney Todd, Into the Woods, Assas­sins.

The sub­ject mat­ters he tack­led were often dark and com­plex. He watched many of his musi­cals get the Hol­ly­wood treat­ment, occa­sion­al­ly wrote songs for cin­e­ma, and toyed with adapt­ing sev­er­al films for the stage, includ­ing Being There and Sun­set Boule­vard. So what must his film list be like?

Real­ly odd, is the answer. The pub­lished list is in alpha­bet­i­cal order, and there are very few clas­sics in there—Welles’ Cit­i­zen Kane, Bergman’s Smiles on a Sum­mer Night, Bresson’s Au Hasard Balt­haz­ar, and Kurosawa’s High and Low.

Con­spic­u­ous­ly miss­ing: oth­er musi­cals.

“The only kind of movie that held no inter­est for me what­so­ev­er was musi­cal,” he told the New York Times in 2003. ”We’re talk­ing about from the age of 10 to the age of 25. I knew the musi­cals because I would hear the songs, but I nev­er went out of my way to see them. Not the fab­u­lous Arthur Freed MGM unit, and it’s not that I thought they were bad. It’s what I loved were west­erns. Melo­dra­mas, even roman­tic come­dies. High dra­ma.’’

The inter­view sug­gests a method to the list—these were films Sond­heim loved but most had not seen; he would insist friends and col­lab­o­ra­tors watch them. That’s how he describes 1980’s The Con­tract, direct­ed by Krzysztof Zanus­si, a “movie of his I find so extra­or­di­nary, I want to share it with every­body,’’ he said.

Born in 1930, Sondheim’s favorite decade (by movie count) is his teenage years, from the fan­ta­sy of Michael Powell’s The Thief of Bag­dad to the hor­ror of Dead of Night. Lat­er years are more scat­ter­shot, with Lynch’s The Ele­phant Man and Rob Reiner’s This Is Spinal Tap being stand-out choic­es. His 1990s selec­tions, right up through the mid-2000s show his con­tin­u­ing inter­est in dark themes (Gus Van Zant’s school shoot­ing mood piece Ele­phant), large nov­el­is­tic inter­twin­ing nar­ra­tives (John Sayles’ Lone Star) and com­pli­cat­ed fam­i­ly dra­mas (Denys Arcand’s The Bar­bar­ian Inva­sions).

Sond­heim fans will find much to chew over on this list, that is, if they’ve even seen most of them. My per­cent­age is admit­ted­ly low, let us know yours in the com­ments.

via @j_fassler

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch Stephen Sond­heim (RIP) Teach a Kid How to Sing “Send In the Clowns”

James Tay­lor Teach­es You to Play “Car­oli­na in My Mind,” “Fire and Rain” & Oth­er Clas­sics on the Gui­tar

Mar­tin Scors­ese Names His Top 10 Films in the Cri­te­ri­on Col­lec­tion

Ted Mills is a free­lance writer on the arts who cur­rent­ly hosts the Notes from the Shed pod­cast and is the pro­duc­er of KCR­W’s Curi­ous Coast. You can also fol­low him on Twit­ter at @tedmills, and/or watch his films here.

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