Hear a Prehistoric Conch Shell Musical Instrument Played for the First Time in 18,000 Years

Pho­to by C. Fritz, Muséum d’His­toire naturelle de Toulouse

Bri­an Eno once defined art as “every­thing you don’t have to do.” But just because humans can live with­out art doesn’t mean we should—or that we ever have—unless forced by exi­gent cir­cum­stance. Even when we spent most of our time in the busi­ness of sur­vival, we still found time for art and music. Mar­soulas Cave, for exam­ple, “in the foothills of the French Pyre­nees, has long fas­ci­nat­ed researchers with its col­or­ful paint­ings depict­ing bison, hors­es and humans,”  Kather­ine Kornei writes at The New York Times. This is also where an “enor­mous tan-col­ored conch shell was first dis­cov­ered, an incon­gru­ous object that must have been trans­port­ed from the Atlantic Ocean, over 150 miles away.”

The 18,000-year-old shell’s 1931 dis­cov­er­ers assumed it must have been a large cer­e­mo­ni­al cup, and it “sat for over 80 years in the Nat­ur­al His­to­ry Muse­um of Toulouse.” Only recent­ly, in 2016, did researchers sus­pect it could be a musi­cal instru­ment. Philippe Wal­ter, direc­tor of the Lab­o­ra­to­ry of Mol­e­c­u­lar and Struc­tur­al Arche­ol­o­gy at the Sor­bonne, and Car­ole Fritz, who leads pre­his­toric art research at the French Nation­al Cen­ter for Sci­en­tif­ic Research, redis­cov­ered the shell, as it were, when they revised old assump­tions using mod­ern imag­ing tech­nol­o­gy.

Fritz and her col­leagues had stud­ied the cave’s art for 20 years, but only under­stood the shell’s pecu­liar­i­ties after they made a 3D dig­i­tal mod­el. “When Wal­ter placed the conch into a CT scan,” writes Lina Zel­dovich at Smith­son­ian, “he indeed found many curi­ous human touch­es. Not only did the ancient artists delib­er­ate­ly cut off the tip, but they also punc­tured or drilled round holes through the shell’s coils, through which they like­ly insert­ed a small tube-like mouth­piece.” The team also used a med­ical cam­era to look close­ly at the shell’s inte­ri­or and exam­ine unusu­al for­ma­tions. Kornei describes the shell fur­ther:

This shell might have been played dur­ing cer­e­monies or used to sum­mon gath­er­ings, said Julien Tardieu, anoth­er Toulouse researcher who stud­ies sound per­cep­tion. Cave set­tings tend to ampli­fy sound, said Dr. Tardieu. “Play­ing this conch in a cave could be very loud and impres­sive.”

It would also have been a beau­ti­ful sight, the researchers sug­gest, because the conch is dec­o­rat­ed with red dots — now fad­ed — that match the mark­ings found on the cave’s walls.

The dec­o­ra­tion on the shell looks sim­i­lar to an image of a bison on the cave wall, sug­gest­ing it may have been played near that paint­ing for some rea­son. The conch resem­bles sim­i­lar “seashell horns” found in New Zealand and Peru, but it is much, much old­er. It may have orig­i­nat­ed in Spain, along with oth­er objects found in the cave, and may have trav­eled with its own­ers or been exchanged in trade, explains arche­ol­o­gist Mar­garet W. Con­key at the Uni­ver­si­ty of Cal­i­for­nia, who adds, writes Zel­dovich, that “the Mag­dalen­ian peo­ple also val­ued sen­so­ry expe­ri­ences, includ­ing those pro­duced by wind instru­ments.

Many thou­sands of years lat­er, we too can hear what those ear­ly humans heard in their cave: musi­col­o­gist Jean-Michel Court gave a demon­stra­tion, pro­duc­ing the three notes above, which are close to C, C‑sharp and D. The shell may have had more range, and been more com­fort­able to play, with its mouth­piece, like­ly made of a hol­low bird bone. The shell is hard­ly the old­est instru­ment in the world. Some are tens of thou­sands of years old­er. But it is the old­est of its kind. What­ev­er its pre­his­toric own­ers used it for—a call in a hunt, stage reli­gious cer­e­monies, or a cel­e­bra­tion in the cave—it is, like every ancient instru­ment and art­work, only fur­ther evi­dence of the innate human desire to cre­ate.

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

Hear the World’s Old­est Instru­ment, the “Nean­derthal Flute,” Dat­ing Back Over 43,000 Years

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

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

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

Watch the Food for Love Benefit Concert: David Byrne, The Chicks & Many More Raise Money for New Mexico Food Banks

Ever since COVID-19 struck, pover­ty lev­els have reached a cri­sis point in New Mex­i­co, so much so that New Mex­i­co food banks have become over­loaded with requests, and they can’t keep up with demand. To pro­vide assis­tance, a star-stud­ded line­up of musi­cians band­ed togeth­er this week­end to stage the Food for Love Ben­e­fit Con­cert. Fea­tured in the five hour per­for­mance were David Byrne (he gives a dance les­son), Jack­son Brown, Shawn Colvin, The Chicks, Lyle Lovett, Kurt Vile, and many more. This video (above) will be avail­able for a lim­it­ed time–until mid­night MST on Mon­day, Feb­ru­ary 15. Dona­tions to sup­port New Mex­i­co’s food banks can be made here. To date, they’ve raised $704,000, or enough to pro­vide 2.8 mil­lion meals.

Take a Road Trip Across America with Cartoonist Lynda Barry in the 90s Documentary, Grandma’s Way Out Party

Who wouldn’t love to take a road trip with beloved car­toon­ist and edu­ca­tor Lyn­da Bar­ry? As evi­denced by Grandma’s Way Out Par­ty, above, an ear­ly-90s doc­u­men­tary made for Twin Cities Pub­lic Tele­vi­sion, Bar­ry not only finds the humor in every sit­u­a­tion, she’s always up for a detour, whether to a time hon­ored des­ti­na­tion like Mount Rush­more or Old Faith­ful, or a more impul­sive pit­stop, like a Wash­ing­ton state car repair shop dec­o­rat­ed with sculp­tures made from cast off muf­flers or the Mon­tana State Prison Hob­by Store.

Alter­nat­ing in the driver’s seat with then-boyfriend, sto­ry­teller Kevin Kling, she makes up songs on her accor­dion, clowns around in a cheap cow­girl hat, sam­ples an over­sized gas sta­tion donut, and chats up every­one she encoun­ters.

At the World’s Only Corn Palace in Mitchell, South Dako­ta, she breaks the ice by ask­ing a beard­ed local guy in offi­cial Corn Palace cap and t‑shirt if his job is the ful­fill­ment of a long held dream.

“Nah,” he says. “I thought it was a joke … in Far­go, they call it the world’s biggest bird feed­er. We do have the biggest birds in South Dako­ta. They get fed good.”

He leads them to Cal Schultz, the art teacher who designed over 25 years worth of murals fes­toon­ing the exte­ri­or walls. Nudged by Bar­ry to pick a favorite, Schultz choos­es one that his 9th grade stu­dents worked on.

“I would have loved to have been in his class,” Bar­ry, a teacher now her­self, says emphat­i­cal­ly. “I would have giv­en any­thing to have worked on a Corn Palace when I was 14-years-old.”

This point is dri­ven home with a quick view of her best known cre­ation, the pig­tailed, bespec­ta­cled Marlys, osten­si­bly ren­dered in corn—an hon­or Marlys would no doubt appre­ci­ate.

Bar­ry has long been laud­ed for her under­stand­ing of and respect for children’s inner lives, and we see this nat­ur­al affin­i­ty in action when she befriends Desmond and Jake, two young par­tic­i­pants in the Crow Fair Pow Wowjust south of Billings, Mon­tana.

Frus­trat­ed by her inabil­i­ty to get a han­dle on the pro­ceed­ings (“Why didn’t I learn it in school!? Why wasn’t it part of our cur­ricu­lum?”), Bar­ry retreats to the com­fort of her sketch­book, which attracts the curi­ous boys. Even­tu­al­ly, she draws their por­traits to give them as keep­sakes, get­ting to know them bet­ter in the process.

The draw­ings they make in return are trea­sured by the recip­i­ent, not least for the win­dow they pro­vide on the cul­ture with which they are so casu­al­ly famil­iar.

Bar­ry and Kling also chance upon the Stur­gis Motor­cy­cle Ral­ly, and after a bite at the Road Kill Cafe (“from your grill to ours”), Bar­ry wax­es philo­soph­i­cal about the then-unusu­al sight of so much tat­tooed flesh:

There’s some­thing about the fact that they want some­thing on them that they can’t wash off, that even on days when they don’t want peo­ple to know they’re a bik­er, it’s still there. And I have always loved that about peo­ple, like …drag queens who will shave off their eye­brows so they can draw per­fect eye­brows on, or any­body who knows they’re dif­fer­ent and does some­thing to them­selves phys­i­cal­ly so that even on their bad days, they can’t deny it. Because I think that in the end, that’s sort of what saves your life, that you wear your col­ors. You can’t help it.

The afore­men­tioned muf­fler store prompts some mus­ings that will be very famil­iar to any­one who has immersed them­selves in Mak­ing ComicsPic­ture This, or any oth­er of Barry’s instruc­tion­al books con­tain­ing her won­der­ful­ly loopy, intu­itive cre­ative exer­cis­es:

I think this urge to cre­ate is actu­al­ly our ani­mal instinct. And what’s sad is if we don’t let that come through us, I don’t think we have a full life on this earth. And I think we get sick because of it. I mean, it’s weird that it’s an instinct, but it’s an option, just like you can take a wild ani­mal, a beau­ti­ful, wild ani­mal and put him in a zoo. They live, they’re fine in their cage, but you don’t get to see them do the thing that a chee­tah does best, which is, you know, just run like the wind and be able to jump and do the things… I mean, it’s our instinct, it’s instinc­tu­al, it’s our beau­ti­ful, beau­ti­ful, mag­i­cal, poet­ic, mys­te­ri­ous instinct. And every once in a while, you see the flower of it come right up out of a gas sta­tion. 

After 1653 miles and one squab­ble after over­shoot­ing a sched­uled stop (“You don’t want me to go to Butte!”), the two arrive at their final des­ti­na­tion, Barry’s child­hood home in Seat­tle. The occa­sion? Barry’s Fil­ipino grandmother’s 83rd birth­day, and plans are afoot for a potluck bash at the local VFW hall. Fans will swoon to meet this ven­er­at­ed lady and the rest of Barry’s extend­ed clan, and hear Barry’s reflec­tions on what it was like to grow up in a work­ing class neigh­bor­hood where most of the fam­i­lies were mul­ti-racial.

“I walked in and it was every­thing Lyn­da said,” Kling mar­vels.

Indeed.

The jour­ney is every­thing we could have hoped for, too.

Lis­ten to a post-trip inter­view with Kling on Min­neso­ta Pub­lic Radio.

H/t to read­er Char­lotte Book­er

Relat­ed Con­tent:

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

Car­toon­ist Lyn­da Bar­ry Shows You How to Draw Bat­man in Her UW-Madi­son Course, “Mak­ing Comics”

Lyn­da Barry’s New Book Offers a Mas­ter Class in Mak­ing Comics

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, the­ater mak­er and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine — cur­rent issue: #63 Fol­low her @AyunHalliday.

Watch “The Stroke,” a Hand-Animated Music Video Where the Visuals Came First & the Improvised Music Second

The idea of a film score seems clear enough. Writ­ers, direc­tors, and edi­tors make a visu­al sto­ry, then com­posers enhance it with songs, cues, and themes. But things are nev­er so straight­for­ward in prac­tice. Music is always a part of the process, whether in the screenwriter’s choice of accom­pa­ni­ment (Taran­ti­no choos­es film music as soon as he has an idea for a film), the director’s mood dur­ing film­ing, or the “temp score” edi­tors use. Musi­cals are obvi­ous excep­tions, but on the whole, sto­ry and images come first, if not in the process, then in the viewer’s imag­i­na­tion.

A music video works dif­fer­ent­ly, “scor­ing” pre­re­cord­ed music with images, which then become accom­pa­ni­ment, a sec­ondary part added lat­er as enhance­ment. It is “an under­tak­ing Vin­cent de Boer knows well,” Grace Ebert writes at Colos­sal. “The Nether­lands-based artist has been work­ing with the jazz quar­tet Ill Con­sid­ered since 2017, lis­ten­ing to the band’s large­ly impro­vised melodies and cre­at­ing abstract ani­ma­tions, along­side stills for its 11 album cov­ers, to match.” In his most recent col­lab­o­ra­tion with the band, how­ev­er, de Boer got to take the lead.

“The Stroke” began with a painstak­ing ani­ma­tion that took two years to com­plete, a process you can see doc­u­ment­ed in the mak­ing-of video above. “With the help of his cre­ative part­ner Hans Schut­ten­beld, de Boer hand-drew 4,056 frames that range from dark, geo­met­ric shapes to gan­g­ly crea­tures to scenes that morph from one trip­py com­po­si­tion to the next.” De Boer describes the six and a half-minute piece as “the sto­ry of a brush­stroke: a trace of a move­ment per­formed by the artist with his instru­ment, the paint­brush.”

Once de Boer fin­ished the film, he passed it on to Ill Con­sid­ered, “who record­ed an entire­ly impro­vised track on its first view­ing.” The two come togeth­er at the top in a music video that “match­es the jazzy riffs with de Boer’s shapeshift­ing sequences in a cohe­sive con­ver­sa­tion between the two art­forms.” Can we call it a “music video” in a tra­di­tion­al sense? Or a kind of ekphra­sis in sound? Would we know, with­out the back­sto­ry, that the images came first?

Ill Con­sid­ered has also released “The Stroke” as an LP, “pack­aged with 12 of de Boer’s orig­i­nal art­works on the cov­er and inside” (see a selec­tion above and below)–a fur­ther chal­lenge to our seem­ing desire to rank sound and image. Which came first? Does it mat­ter? Can we see what Ill Con­sid­ered heard when they impro­vised over de Boer’s swirling draw­ings? Can we hear what de Boer was play­ing with the “instru­ment” of his brush? One thinks of the synes­the­sia of Kandin­sky, who saw music in his paint­ings, and of David Bowie, sit­ting in his blue room, won­der­ing about the gift of sound and vision….

via Colos­sal

Relat­ed Con­tent:  

Watch Clas­si­cal Music Come to Life in Art­ful­ly Ani­mat­ed Scores: Stravin­sky, Debussy, Bach, Beethoven, Mozart & More

Watch Ani­mat­ed Scores to Music by Radio­head, Talk­ing Heads, LCD Soundsys­tem, Photek & Oth­er Elec­tron­ic/­Post-Punk/A­vant-Garde Musi­cians

Spheres Dance to the Music of Bach, Per­formed by Glenn Gould: An Ani­ma­tion from 1969

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

Why Public Transit Sucks in the United States: Four Videos Tell the Story

Many dif­fer­ent words could describe the state of pub­lic trans­porta­tion in Amer­i­ca today. In recent decades, more and more of a con­sen­sus seems to have set­tled around one word in par­tic­u­lar: that it “sucks.” Giv­en its “anti­quat­ed tech­nol­o­gy, safe­ty con­cerns, crum­bling infra­struc­ture,” and often “nonex­is­tence,” says the nar­ra­tor of the video above, “it’s not hard to argue that the U.S. pub­lic trans­porta­tion net­work is just not good.” That nar­ra­tor, Sam Den­by, is the cre­ator of Wen­dover Pro­duc­tions, a Youtube chan­nel all about geog­ra­phy, tech­nol­o­gy, eco­nom­ics, and the infra­struc­ture where all three inter­sect. He believes not only that Amer­i­ca’s pub­lic tran­sit sucks, but that the coun­try’s “lack of sol­id pub­lic trans­porta­tion almost defines Amer­i­can cul­ture.”

This would make a cer­tain sense in a poor, small, strug­gling coun­try — but not in the Unit­ed States of Amer­i­ca, described not long ago by Anne Apple­baum in the Atlantic as “accus­tomed to think­ing of itself as the best, most effi­cient, and most tech­no­log­i­cal­ly advanced soci­ety in the world.”

As any­one mak­ing their first vis­it will expe­ri­ence, Amer­i­ca’s still-for­mi­da­ble wealth and pow­er does­n’t square with the expe­ri­ence on the ground, or indeed under it: whether by sub­way, bus, or street­car, the task of nav­i­gat­ing most U.S. cities is char­ac­ter­ized by incon­ve­nience, dis­com­fort, and even impos­si­bil­i­ty. This in a coun­try whose pub­lic trans­porta­tion once real­ly was the envy of the world: at the turn of the 20th cen­tu­ry, its cities boast­ed 11,000 miles of street­car track alone.

In the mid-2010s, by Den­by’s reck­on­ing, “the com­bined mileage of every tram, sub­way, light rail, and com­muter rail sys­tem” added up only to 5,416. What hap­pened in the hun­dred or so years between? He cites among oth­er fac­tors the pro­duc­tion of the first wide­ly afford­able auto­mo­biles in the 1920s, and lat­er that of bus­es, with their low­er oper­at­ing costs than street­cars — but as com­mon­ly oper­at­ed today, their low­er-qual­i­ty tran­sit expe­ri­ence as well. (Resent­ment about this large-scale replace­ment of urban street­car sys­tems runs deep enough to make some con­sid­er it a con­spir­a­cy.) The U.S. “grew up as the car grew up, so its cities were built for cars,” espe­cial­ly in its more recent­ly set­tled west. Indi­rect sub­sides low­ered the cost of gas, and from the 1950s the build­ing of the Inter­state High­way Sys­tem made it easy, at least for at time, to com­mute between city and sub­urb.

As point­ed out in the Vox videos “Why Amer­i­can Pub­lic Tran­sit Is So Bad” and “How High­ways Wrecked Amer­i­can Cities,” these mas­sive roads ran not around or under cities (as they do in much of Europe and Asia) but straight through their cen­ters, part of a larg­er process of “urban renew­al” that iron­i­cal­ly destroyed quite a few of what dense urban neigh­bor­hoods the U.S. had. More than half a cen­tu­ry of high­way-build­ing, sub­ur­ban­iza­tion, and strict zon­ing lat­er, most Amer­i­cans find them­selves unable to get where they need to go with­out buy­ing a car and dri­ving them­selves. The sit­u­a­tion is even worse for those trav­el­ing between cities, as exam­ined above in Wen­dover Pro­duc­tions’ “Why Trains Suck in Amer­i­ca.” As an Amer­i­can, I take a cer­tain sat­is­fac­tion in hear­ing these ques­tions addressed — but I take an even greater one in being an Amer­i­can liv­ing abroad.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

A Sub­way Ride Through New York City: Watch Vin­tage Footage from 1905

Design­er Mas­si­mo Vignel­li Revis­its and Defends His Icon­ic 1972 New York City Sub­way Map

Archive of 5,000 Images Doc­u­ment the His­to­ry of San Fran­cis­co and the Vehi­cles That Put It in Motion

Trips on the World’s Old­est Elec­tric Sus­pen­sion Rail­way in 1902 & 1917 Show How a City Changes Over a Cen­tu­ry

A Brief His­to­ry of the Great Amer­i­can Road Trip

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities, 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 Prince Perform “Purple Rain” in the Rain in His Transcendent Super Bowl Half-Time Show (2007)

Prince is hav­ing an after­life the oppo­site of most rock stars. Where the years after death seems to bring our gods down to human size, the more sto­ries I hear about Prince, the more I am con­vinced he was either beyond human or one of the very few con­stant­ly work­ing at max­i­mum poten­tial. But not only that, he also helped oth­ers real­ize their own poten­tial, espe­cial­ly mem­bers of his tour­ing band.

I hope that’s your take­away after hav­ing watched not just this mini-doc of his 2007 Super Bowl Half­Time show, but read­ing this thor­ough­ly enter­tain­ing oral his­to­ry of the event from The Ringer. Even if foot­ball is not your thing, and you con­sid­er the half­time show to be cheesy, this one year was not. Prince con­sid­ered it one of his crown­ing achieve­ments, and it was going to be the end point of the mem­oirs he planned to write.

Half-time shows had tra­di­tion­al­ly been the venue for march­ing bands and col­or guard, but by the 1990s they had turned into Hol­ly­wood pro­duc­tions, with pop stars and dancers. How­ev­er, they had also been dealt a blow with Nip­ple­gate, when Justin Tim­ber­lake ripped open Janet Jackson’s corset and exposed a met­al pastie in 2004. Mid­dle Amer­i­ca reeled, peo­ple thought of the chil­dren, the FCC levied some fines, and the NFL went into defen­sive mode, pro­gram­ming the kind of Boomer-safe artists that would please as many peo­ple as pos­si­ble: The Rolling Stones and Paul McCart­ney. (I mean, all amaz­ing artists, mind you. Just noth­ing dan­ger­ous.)

Prince was dif­fer­ent. He wasn’t going to do this like an aging rock star, just come on out and play the hits. He could have done and he cer­tain­ly had the back cat­a­log to do so. Instead, he put togeth­er a show that could stand on its own, a mix of his hits and a wild selec­tion of cov­er ver­sions: Queen’s “We Will Rock You”, “Proud Mary”, Hendrix/Dylan’s “All Along the Watch­tow­er”, and the Foo Fight­ers’ “Best of You.”

The day of the Super Bowl in Mia­mi it rained, Flori­da-style. Mon­soon weath­er. Yet, Prince and his band went ahead, defy­ing the ele­ments. The dancers—Maya and Nan­cy McClean—put grips on their high heel boots so as not to slip on the glass-like stage, formed in the shape of Prince’s “sym­bol”. There was an under­stand­able pan­ic: would some­body be elec­tro­cut­ed? Would this be Prince’s last con­cert?

But no. Prince seemed to tran­scend the ele­ments. Ruth Arzate, Prince’s per­son­al assistant/manager asked the musician’s hair­styl­ist: “Am I hal­lu­ci­nat­ing or is there no rain on him?” You could see a cou­ple of droplets on his shoul­der. And we’re look­ing and she’s like, “It just looks like a fine mist on his face.””

Prince end­ed the con­cert with “Pur­ple Rain,” which you can see above, singing *in the rain* and then bust­ing out a solo for the ages behind bil­low­ing fab­ric as a shad­ow, wield­ing that sym­bol gui­tar like a glo­ri­ous phal­lus.

Half­time show pro­duc­tion design­er Bruce Rogers says it best:

“To me, it’s about one guy in the mid­dle of a hun­dred thou­sand peo­ple and a hun­dred mil­lion peo­ple on tele­vi­sion, and it’s your moment to be Prince at the Super Bowl and Moth­er Nature is drop­ping thou­sands and thou­sands of gal­lons of rain. I always thought how cool the guy is to rise up and just get stormed upon, and just bring what he brought. That was so spe­cial.”

There are sev­er­al take­aways from the Ringer piece: how Prince would glide around on cus­tom-made Heelys. How he would per­form in meet­ings with a full band instead of just play­ing a CD. How when a cable acci­den­tal­ly got run over before the show a road­ie lit­er­al­ly held the stripped cable togeth­er for 20 or so min­utes, run­ning the risk of elec­tro­cu­tion, to keep the show going. But my favorite take­away is this quote, from Chica­go Tribune’s Mark Caro: “He took this mas­sive­ly over­scaled event and just sort of bent it to his will.”

Super Bowl XLI became a Prince con­cert with a foot­ball game on either side of it, and that’s because he made it so.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Prince’s First Tele­vi­sion Inter­view (1985)

Four Clas­sic Prince Songs Re-Imag­ined as Pulp Fic­tion Cov­ers: When Doves Cry, Lit­tle Red Corvette & More

Prince Plays a Mind-Blow­ing Gui­tar Solo On “While My Gui­tar Gen­tly Weeps”

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.

A Tour of U.S. Accents: Bostonian, Philadelphese, Gullah Creole & Other Intriguing Dialects

You don’t have an accent — or rather, every­one has an accent, but we don’t notice our own, espe­cial­ly if we asso­ciate most­ly with peo­ple of sim­i­lar cul­tur­al back­grounds. For how­ev­er we might like to describe our­selves, the way we speak reveals who we are: as dialect coach Erik Singer puts it in the Wired video above, “Accent is iden­ti­ty.” Among the forces shap­ing that iden­ti­ty he names not just geog­ra­phy but socioe­co­nom­ic back­ground, gen­er­a­tion, eth­nic­i­ty and race, and oth­er “indi­vid­ual fac­tors.”  The result is that a large and var­ied con­ti­nent like North Amer­i­ca has giv­en rise to a wide vari­ety of accents in the Eng­lish lan­guage alone.

In the video Singer and four oth­er spe­cial­ist lan­guage experts demon­strate a great many of these North Amer­i­can accents, iden­ti­fy­ing the most dis­tinc­tive char­ac­ter­is­tics of each. The clas­sic Boston accent, for exam­ple, is “non-rhot­ic,” refer­ring to the drop­ping of “R” sounds that make pos­si­ble such clas­sic phras­es as “pahk yah cah in Havahd Yard.” It dif­fers in many ways from those com­mon in places like Rhode Island and New York City, rel­a­tive­ly close togeth­er though all three areas may seem: the diver­si­ty of accents on the U.S. east coast ver­sus its more recent­ly set­tled west coast under­scores the fact that region­al accents need time, usu­al­ly a mat­ter of gen­er­a­tion upon gen­er­a­tion, to emerge.

The way Philadel­phi­ans talk illus­trates what Singer calls “the ‘on’ line,” north of which most pro­nounce “on” as if it rhymes with “don,” and south of which — Philly and below — most pro­nounce “on” as if rhymes with “dawn.” You don’t even have to cross the Penn­syl­va­nia bor­der to find anoth­er unique accent. Only in Pitts­burgh do peo­ple “smooth the ‘mouth’ dipthong,” a dipthong being a syl­la­ble com­posed of two dis­tinct vow­els — here, the “ou” in “mouth” — the “smooth­ing out” of which turns it into a sin­gle (and to non-Pitts­burghers, unusu­al-sound­ing) vow­el.

By the end of these 20 min­utes, Singer and his crew have made it only as far as the “Piney Woods Belt” of the Amer­i­can south, whose accents bring to many of our minds the voice of Scar­lett O’Hara and Blanche DuBois. They’ve also touched on such lin­guis­tic curiosi­ties as Gul­lah cre­ole; the Eliz­a­bethan inflec­tion of Ocra­coke Island, North Car­oli­na,” pre­vi­ous­ly fea­tured here on Open Cul­ture; and in some ways the most curi­ous of all, the broad­ly des­ig­nat­ed “gen­er­al Amer­i­can” speech that has emerged in recent decades. This is only the first video of a series [update: it’s now avail­able below], so keep an eye on Wired’s Youtube chan­nel for the next install­ment of the lin­guis­tic jour­ney — and keep an ear out for all the sub­tle vari­eties of Eng­lish you can catch in the mean­time.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Map­ping the Dif­fer­ences in How Amer­i­cans Speak Eng­lish: A Geo­graph­ic Look at Words, Accents & Dialects

A Brief Tour of British & Irish Accents: 14 Ways to Speak Eng­lish in 84 Sec­onds

One Woman, 17 British Accents

The Speech Accent Archive: The Eng­lish Accents of Peo­ple Who Speak 341 Dif­fer­ent Lan­guages

Meet the Amer­i­cans Who Speak with Eliz­a­bethan Eng­lish Accents: An Intro­duc­tion to the “Hoi Toi­ders” from Ocra­coke, North Car­oli­na

Why Do Peo­ple Talk Fun­ny in Old Movies?, or The Ori­gin of the Mid-Atlantic Accent

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities, 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.

Behold All 42 Maps from Jules Verne’s Extraordinary Voyages, the Author’s 54-Volume Collection of “Geographical Fictions”

Jules Verne’s tales of adven­ture take his char­ac­ters around the world, through the deep­est seas, even into the cen­ter of the Earth—on jour­neys, that is, dif­fi­cult or impos­si­ble in the 19th cen­tu­ry. Verne him­self, how­ev­er, spent most his life in France, writ­ing of places he had not seen. In one apoc­ryphal sto­ry, the young Jules Verne is caught try­ing to sneak aboard a ship bound for the Indies and promis­es his father he will hence­forth trav­el “only in his imag­i­na­tion.” Whether or not he made such a vow, he seemed to keep it, though the idea that he nev­er trav­eled at all is a “tire­some canard,” writes Ter­ry Har­pold in an essay titled “Verne’s Car­togra­phies.”

Verne’s famed nov­els Twen­ty Leagues Under the Sea, Jour­ney to the Cen­ter of the Earth, and Around the World in Eighty Days con­sti­tute only a frac­tion of the 54-vol­ume Voy­ages Extra­or­di­naires, a col­lec­tion of fic­tion con­ceived on the basis of a sci­ence we might not think of as a rich field for mate­r­i­al.

“Of the 80 nov­els and oth­er short sto­ries he pub­lished,” geo­g­ra­ph­er Lionel Dupuy writes, “62 make up the cor­pus of Extra­or­di­nary Voy­ages (Voy­ages Extra­or­di­naires). These books, in which imag­i­na­tion played a vital role, were termed ‘geo­graph­i­cal nov­els,’ a cat­e­go­ry the author him­self used for them.”

Verne would also use the term “sci­en­tif­ic nov­el,” but he made it clear which sci­ence he meant:

I always had a pas­sion for study­ing geog­ra­phy, as oth­ers did for his­to­ry or his­tor­i­cal research. I real­ly believe that it is my pas­sion for maps and great explor­ers around the world that led me to write the first of my long series of geo­graph­i­cal nov­els.

As a geo­graph­i­cal nov­el­ist, and mem­ber of the Geo­graph­i­cal Soci­ety from 1865 to 1898, it was only fit­ting that Verne include as many maps as he could in his quest, as he put it, “to depict the Earth, and not just the Earth, but the uni­verse, for I have some­times car­ried my read­ers far away from the Earth in my nov­els.” To that end, “thir­ty of the nov­els” in the first edi­tion of Voy­ages Extra­or­di­naires” pub­lished by Pierre-Jules Het­zel, “include one or more engraved maps,” Har­pold points out. “There are forty-two such engrav­ings in all.” View them here.

“These images and design ele­ments are nuanced, grace­ful, and evoca­tive; draft­ed and engraved by some of the finest artists of the time,” Har­pold writes. “They rep­re­sent the pin­na­cle of late nine­teenth-cen­tu­ry pop­u­lar-sci­en­tif­ic car­tog­ra­phy.” They also rep­re­sent the author of geo­graph­i­cal fic­tions who, as both a sci­en­tist and artist, refused to let either form of think­ing take over the text, com­bin­ing myth and poet­ry with obser­va­tion and mea­sure­ment. As Dupuy puts it, “in Extra­or­di­nary Voy­ages, the pas­sage from real­i­ty to imag­i­na­tion and back is encour­aged by the emer­gence of a ‘mar­velous’ that we can call ‘geo­graph­i­cal.’”

In one sense, we might think of most kinds of fic­tion as geo­graph­i­cal, in that they describe places we have nev­er seen. This is par­tic­u­lar­ly so in fic­tions that include maps of their imag­ined ter­ri­to­ries, such as those of William Faulkn­er, J.R.R. Tolkien, Robert Louis Steven­son, and so on. We might look to Jules Verne as their tow­er­ing for­bear. “Sev­er­al of the maps appear­ing in the Het­zel Voy­ages were draft­ed under Verne’s close super­vi­sion or were based on his sketch­es or designs. Maps in three of the nov­els (20,000 Leagues [top], Hat­teras [fur­ther up], Three Rus­sians) were draft­ed by Verne him­self, whose tal­ents in this regard were appre­cia­ble,” writes Har­pold.

Verne’s maps mix real and fic­tion­al place names and are “always ambigu­ous and semi­ot­i­cal­ly unsta­ble objects.” They appear almost as admis­sions of the myth­mak­ing that goes into the sci­ence of geog­ra­phy and the act of explo­ration. Near the end of his life, maps became more real to Verne than the world out­side. As he grew too weary even to leave the neigh­bor­hood, he wrote to Alexan­dre Dumas fils, “If I have main­tained a taste for work… , noth­ing remains of my youth. I live in the heart of my province and nev­er budge from it, even to go to Paris. I trav­el only by maps.” See all of Verne’s maps from the Het­zel edi­tion of Extra­or­di­nary Voy­ages, such as those for Around the World in Eighty Days (above) and Five Weeks in a Bal­loon (below), here.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Jules Verne’s Most Famous Books Were Part of a 54-Vol­ume Mas­ter­piece, Fea­tur­ing 4,000 Illus­tra­tions: See Them Online

An Atlas of Lit­er­ary Maps Cre­at­ed by Great Authors: J.R.R Tolkien’s Mid­dle Earth, Robert Louis Stevenson’s Trea­sure Island & More

William Faulkn­er Draws Maps of Yok­na­p­ataw­pha Coun­ty, the Fic­tion­al Home of His Great Nov­els

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

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