Stephen Fry Hates Dancing: Watch Fry’s Rant Against Dancing Get Turned into a Wonderful Interpretative Dance

Danc­ing, says Stephen Fry in a vehe­ment dia­tribe, is “not so much an accom­plish­ment as an afflic­tion.” He deliv­ers this pro­nounce­ment against danc­ing in one of his “pod­grams,” as he calls them, pod­casts in which the actor/writer/comedian/media per­son­al­i­ty rants, rhap­sodizes, and ram­bles on about his favorite—and least favorite—subjects. Danc­ing falls so far afoul of Stephen Fry that he devotes near­ly an entire episode to his hatred of this uni­ver­sal form of human phys­i­cal expres­sion.

“I hate doing it myself,” he begins, “which I can’t do any­way, but I loathe and detest the neces­si­ty to try.” He would deny oth­ers the plea­sure as well, at least in his com­pa­ny, of “that sloven­ly mix­ture of sex­u­al exhi­bi­tion­ism, strut­ting con­tempt, and repel­lant nar­cis­sism.” Is Fry a dance snob? Does he hate pop­u­lar dance but love ball­room and bal­let? No. “I hate it when it’s form­less, mean­ing­less bop­ping,” he seethes, “and I hate it even more when it’s for­mal and chore­o­graphed into gen­res like ball­room and schooled dis­co. Those cavort­ings are so embar­rass­ing and dread­ful as to force my hand to my mouth.”

We get it, Stephen, give it a rest! But no, he isn’t done. He goes on, for eleven whole min­utes, in the anti-danc­ing harangue above, excerpt­ed from his “Bored of the Dance.” How could one pos­si­bly respond to such a tor­rent of dis­gust and dis­dain? By danc­ing to it, of course. In the video at the top of the post, that’s exact­ly what L.A.-based dancer and film­mak­er Jo Roy does, for near­ly two and half minutes—enough time, I’m sure, to make Stephen Fry die of embar­rass­ment.

Maybe Fry has the good humor to appre­ci­ate this offen­sive rejoin­der, but I doubt he could stand to watch Roy twist, twirl, hop, pop, lock, and ges­ture expres­sive­ly to his vicious attack on the dance.

But there’s much more to Fry’s hatred of dance than cur­mud­geon­ly prud­ery. His anti-danc­ing man­i­festo is almost a digres­sion, real­ly, in the scope of his longer “pod­gram,” which you can read in full at his web­site. What he’s get­ting at is why he prefers clas­si­cal music to modern—and it is not, he insists, because of snob­bery, but because pop­u­lar music—“country, blues, rock and roll, gospel, zyde­co, jazz, swing, Tin Pan Alley, roots, blue­grass, hill­bil­ly… funk, soul, mo’town, rap, hip-hop, house, R and B”—is dance music. And Stephen Fry hates danc­ing. He is “aller­gic” to danc­ing.

“Clas­si­cal music,” on the oth­er hand, he says, “is there to be lis­tened to. It doesn’t make it bet­ter. I real­ly, real­ly mean that I do not believe that it makes it bet­ter, and I despise the snob­bery and igno­rance that is con­vinced oth­er­wise. But it does make it bet­ter suit­ed to Stephens.” As he says, quot­ing Riv­er Phoenix’s char­ac­ter in Sid­ney Lumet’s Run­ning on Emp­ty, “You can’t dance to Beethoven.” And that’s just fine with Stephen. By the end of his pro­lix apol­o­gy for his clas­si­cal pref­er­ence (not snobbery!)—which ranges in ref­er­ence from Lumet to Led Zep­pelin and Abba to Jane Austen—we believe him.

Stephen Fry hates danc­ing, per­haps more than any­one has ever hat­ed danc­ing. See him go on record again in the clip above from the BBC’s The One Show, and imag­ine how appalled he would be, if he could bring him­self to watch it, by the dance-off response at the top.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Stephen Fry, Lan­guage Enthu­si­ast, Defends The “Unnec­es­sary” Art Of Swear­ing

Stephen Fry Launch­es Pin­dex, a “Pin­ter­est for Edu­ca­tion”

Stephen Fry Explains Human­ism in 4 Ani­mat­ed Videos: Hap­pi­ness, Truth and the Mean­ing of Life & Death

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

Lena Dunham Shows Why It’s So Damn Hard to Meditate: A Four-Minute Comedy

Sit, focus on your breath, let errant thoughts drift past — we know how med­i­ta­tion sup­pos­ed­ly works in the­o­ry, but how does it work in prac­tice? Here we have one exam­ple, which comed­ical­ly plays out at Sun­set Boule­vard’s show-biz-sto­ry-sat­u­rat­ed Chateau Mar­mont. It stars Lena Dun­ham, film­mak­er, writer, cre­ator of the HBO series Girls, and, depend­ing on who’s writ­ing about her, the embod­i­ment of the aspi­ra­tions, delu­sions, or anx­i­eties of a gen­er­a­tion. Any way the pro­files frame it, Dun­ham has a com­pli­cat­ed life, which makes her as suit­able a can­di­date as any for a dai­ly med­i­ta­tion reg­i­men.

Or as one of her assis­tants puts it after run­ning down the day’s sched­ule — a pho­to shoot, an inter­view with Rihan­na, a bap­tism, a Celi­acs for Hillary Clin­ton din­ner — “You do have to med­i­tate twice or your brain will explode.” But just as soon as Dun­ham finds the right “om” to chant to her­self, ques­tions beset her con­scious­ness: “Does my hand feel weird?” “Are Jack and I ready for adult­hood? What if we have kids and it all goes wrong?” “Am I neglect­ing my friend­ships?” “What am I going to do after Girls ends?” “Do I spend enough time with my fam­i­ly? Is the inter­net right about me? Do all dogs secret­ly hate me?” Sure­ly we all get caught in such tan­gled webs when first we prac­tice med­i­tat­ing, but Dun­ham’s expe­ri­ence with short films empow­ers her to take the depic­tion one step fur­ther.

“Should we do, like, Thai tonight?” asks Dun­ham’s boyfriend, the musi­cian Jack Antonoff, not just inside Dun­ham’s head but from a chair on the oth­er side of the room. Oth­er med­i­ta­tion-inter­rupt­ing appari­tions fol­low, tak­ing the form of Dun­ham’s best friend (who’s found a new, also-famous best friend for her­self), an infu­ri­at­ed fel­low play­er on Girls, her mis­be­hav­ing future daugh­ter, and a cou­ple of assis­tants about to defect for jobs with Mindy Kaling. And if you think using med­i­ta­tion as a way of deal­ing with the exi­gen­cies of a show­biz career, let alone doing it at the Chateau Mar­mont, seems like a pre­pos­ter­ous­ly south­ern Cal­i­forn­ian con­cept, wait until you see the solu­tion at which Dun­ham ulti­mate­ly arrives.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Free Guid­ed Med­i­ta­tions From UCLA: Boost Your Aware­ness & Ease Your Stress

Med­i­ta­tion 101: A Short, Ani­mat­ed Beginner’s Guide

Moby Lets You Down­load 4 Hours of Ambi­ent Music to Help You Sleep, Med­i­tate, Do Yoga & Not Pan­ic

Dai­ly Med­i­ta­tion Boosts & Revi­tal­izes the Brain and Reduces Stress, Har­vard Study Finds

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and style. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, the video series The City in Cin­e­ma, the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future?, and the Los Ange­les Review of Books’ Korea Blog. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Brian Eno Answers Deep Questions from Music Journalist Dick Flash: The Best Eno Interview You’ll See

Sure­ly you’re famil­iar with the work of Dick Flash, the tire­less writer for Pork mag­a­zine who asks the most bril­liant minds in music today the deep­est, most seri­ous, most prob­ing ques­tions. Take, for instance, his inter­view of artist/pro­duc­er/am­bi­ent-music-inven­tor Bri­an Eno. “I was going to ask you whether you thought tech­nol­o­gy had affect­ed music very deeply,” Flash begins, “but then I thought, ‘Well, that’s a bloody stu­pid ques­tion to ask Bri­an Eno. I know you’ll agree that you just can’t imag­ine rock music with­out all the tech­nol­o­gy which goes into mak­ing it and get­ting it heard. How do you think that process has affect­ed what you’re doing?”

“Well —”

“I mean, when you’re mak­ing music, what even­tu­al­ly comes out has almost noth­ing to do with per­for­mance at all. I mean, I won­der if you some­times feel more like a painter than a com­pos­er.”

“The thing about this new record —”

“Because after all, your music is basi­cal­ly scenic. It’s not only that you make it more like a painter than a com­pos­er, but also, it does­n’t have a nar­ra­tive. There’s no sort of tele­o­log­i­cal struc­ture to it. It’s not goal-direct­ed. Instead it’s a bit like a sort of emo­tion­al micro­cli­mate, a place more than an event. Does that make any sense to you?”

“Yeah, well, I —”

“I mean, I’m not try­ing to put words into your mouth, but the real ques­tion is, should this stuff be called music at all, or is it a new art form? Do you think that this and oth­er media suf­fer from the car­ry­over of their orig­i­nal names, when in fact they’ve changed into some­thing com­plete­ly dif­fer­ent.”

“Well, I like paint­ing, yeah. I real­ly like it. Um…”

The inter­view, con­duct­ed at the time of the release of Eno’s album Small Craft on a Milk Sea (which Flash calls Milk Crate on a Small Sea) con­sti­tutes a true meet­ing of the minds. The con­ver­sa­tion cov­ers all the sub­jects that mat­ter: ecol­o­gy, film scores, the 1956 Copy­right Act, the human need for sur­ren­der, “the inter­net and all that,” the Edge’s hat, and why Eno does so much col­lab­o­ra­tion in the stu­dio. As to that last, the inter­view­er has a the­o­ry: “You love play­ing with what some­body else is play­ing as much as you enjoy play­ing with your­self.”

But wait — you say you’ve nev­er heard of Dick Flash? Watch the inter­view again: does­n’t he sound and look, behind that hip hair and spec­ta­cles, at least a lit­tle bit famil­iar? And does­n’t Eno him­self, con­fus­ing Mal­colm McLaren with Mar­shall McLuhan and going on about Annie Lennox’s neck, seem unchar­ac­ter­is­ti­cal­ly inar­tic­u­late, almost as if he’s pok­ing fun at him­self? (And who’s that in the pic­ture on his com­put­er desk­top, any­way?) Like all the finest inter­views through­out the his­to­ry of jour­nal­ism, this one leaves us with more ques­tions than answers.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Bri­an Eno on Why Do We Make Art & What’s It Good For?: Down­load His 2015 John Peel Lec­ture

The Genius of Bri­an Eno On Dis­play in 80 Minute Q&A: Talks Art, iPad Apps, ABBA, & More

Jump Start Your Cre­ative Process with Bri­an Eno’s “Oblique Strate­gies”

Bri­an Eno on Cre­at­ing Music and Art As Imag­i­nary Land­scapes (1989)

David Bowie & Bri­an Eno’s Col­lab­o­ra­tion on “Warsza­wa” Reimag­ined in Com­ic Ani­ma­tion

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and style. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, the video series The City in Cin­e­ma, the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future?, and the Los Ange­les Review of Books’ Korea Blog. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

The Night John Belushi Cartwheeled Onstage During a Grateful Dead Show & Sang “U.S. Blues” with the Band (1980)

Sure, I know ice truck­ers and snow crab fish­er­men have it rough, but I’ve always thought the hard­est job in the world is to be a come­di­an. You walk out on stage, night after night, throw­ing your­self on the mer­cy of the fick­le crowd, with noth­ing but your wits to keep you afloat. It’s nev­er been any won­der to me that so many come­di­ans turn to var­i­ous sub­stances to cope with the heck­ling, chilly silences, and dis­in­ter­est­ed, half-emp­ty rooms. Even suc­cess­ful, beloved comics face tremen­dous per­for­mance pres­sures. Some of them crack. And some, like John Belushi, hop onstage dur­ing a Grate­ful Dead show at the Capi­tol The­atre, cart­wheel over to a micro­phone before the cho­rus of “U.S. Blues,” and join in on back­ing vocals.

Belushi’s impromp­tu 1980 prank per­for­mance with the Dead was not, ini­tial­ly, wel­comed. He had, reports Live for Live Music, “met with some resis­tance from the band” when he asked to join in dur­ing the encore, and drum­mer Bill Kreutz­mann “had to nix Belushi’s wish­es.”

So Belushi, true to form, took mat­ters into his own anar­chic hands, stag­ing what Kreutz­mann called in his 2015 auto­bi­og­ra­phy a “comedic ambush.”

He had on a sport coat with small Amer­i­can flags stuffed into both of his breast pock­ets and he land­ed his last cart­wheel just in time to grab a micro­phone and join in on the cho­rus. The audi­ence and every­one in the band—except for Phil—ate it up. It could­n’t have been rehearsed bet­ter. Belushi had impec­ca­ble comedic tim­ing, musi­cal­i­ty, balls, the works. And appar­ent­ly, he did­n’t take no for an answer.

Belushi’s musi­cal antics, and sur­pris­ing acro­bat­ic agili­ty, are already well-known to fans of The Blues Broth­ers. His pen­chant for real-life musi­cal chaos—such as his stag­ing of an authen­ti­cal­ly riotous punk show on Sat­ur­day Night Live—have also become part of his estimable com­ic leg­end.

Sad­ly, no video of the stunt seems to exist, but you can see Kreutz­mann tell the Belushi sto­ry in the inter­view at the top of the post and, just above, hear that night’s encore per­for­mance of “U.S. Blues.” Lis­ten close­ly at around the 1:50 mark and you’ll hear Belushi join in on the cho­rus. We’ll have to imag­ine the cart­wheels, but it prob­a­bly looked some­thing like this.


Hear the full Dead show from that night here. And if you’re crav­ing more musi­cal Belushi, check out his spas­mod­ic impres­sion of the late, great Joe Cock­er.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Young John Belushi Imi­tates Tru­man Capote & Per­forms Live on Sec­ond City Stage (1972)

The Night John Belushi Booked the Punk Band Fear on Sat­ur­day Night Live, And They Got Banned from the Show

Stream 36 Record­ings of Leg­endary Grate­ful Dead Con­certs Free Online (aka Dick’s Picks)

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

Thomas Edison’s Silent Film of the “Fartiste” Who Delighted Crowds at Le Moulin Rouge (1900)

In 1900, Thomas Edi­son trav­eled to Paris to doc­u­ment the many won­ders of the Expo­si­tion Uni­verselle, and the city itself. Among the sights cap­tured with his kine­to­scope cam­eras were the Expo’s mov­ing side­walks, the Champs-Élysées, and the pre­vi­ous Expo­si­tion Uni­verselle’s crown jew­el, the Eif­fel Tow­er, now eleven years old.

It wasn’t all so high-mind­ed. Edi­son and his kine­to­scope also caught a per­for­mance by for­mer Moulin Rouge star, Joseph Pujol, aka Le Pétomane, above. This ele­gant­ly attired gen­tle­men achieved fame and for­tune with a series of impres­sions, car­ried out by a rather eccen­tric ori­fice. He was not so much artiste as fartiste, a title he wore with pride.

Pujol claimed to have dis­cov­ered his unusu­al tal­ent as a child, and soon set about achiev­ing dif­fer­ent effects by using his abdom­i­nal mus­cles to expel not gas, but odor­less air. By vary­ing the pres­sure, he was able to play sim­ple tunes. By the time he turned 30, his act had expand­ed to include imper­son­ations of celebri­ties, musi­cal instru­ments, birds, a thun­der­storm and such stock char­ac­ters as a ner­vous bride. His grand finale includ­ed such feats as blow­ing out can­dles, smok­ing cig­a­rettes and play­ing an oca­ri­na (below), all with the aid of a rub­ber hose insert­ed into his anus via a mod­est trouser slit.

oc-fluted-top

What a tragedy that Edison’s short film is silent! No live piano accom­pa­ni­ment could do jus­tice to this mag­i­cal artis­tic fruit, and if there were oth­er record­ings of Pujol, they’ve been lost to his­to­ry.

He lives on in the imag­i­na­tions of artists who fol­lowed him.

Actor Ugo Tog­nazzi, below, assumed the title role in a 1983 Ital­ian lan­guage fea­ture.

Direc­tor Mel Brooks inject­ed a bit of sub­tle­ty into Blaz­ing Sad­dles’  beans-around-the-camp­fire humor when he appeared as a char­ac­ter named Gov­er­nor William J. LeP­etomane.

Sad­ly, Pujol was left on the cut­ting room floor of direc­tor Baz Luhrmann’s Moulin Rouge, but all is not lost. Report­ed­ly, John­ny Depp has indi­cat­ed inter­est in bring­ing this his­toric fig­ure back to life. (Gen­tle­men, start your screen­plays…)

Fartiste

Then there is the half hour biopic, below, direct­ed by Mon­ty Python alum Ian McNaughton and star­ring Leonard Rossiter as Pujol. Pre­pare to hear the open­ing ses­sion of the Con­gress of Vien­na, a toad, and a four-part har­mo­ny.

via Messy Nessy Chic

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Hear Thomas Edison’s Creepy Talk­ing Dolls: An Inven­tion That Scared Kids & Flopped on the Mar­ket

Thomas Edison’s Box­ing Cats (1894), or Where the LOL­Cats All Began

Thomas Edi­son Recites “Mary Had a Lit­tle Lamb” in Ear­ly Voice Record­ing

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

Monty Python’s Philosopher’s Football Match: The Epic Showdown Between the Greeks & Germans (1972)

Last year, we wit­nessed a very tense, unpleas­ant show­down between Ger­many and Greece as the top­most nation in the Euro­pean Union drove its most indebt­ed coun­try to make painful, per­haps pun­ish­ing com­pro­mis­es. In one analy­sis of this hard-to-watch eco­nom­ic humiliation—for Greece, that is—The Wash­ing­ton Post made use of a much more light­heart­ed con­test between the two coun­tries, one in which Greece emerged the vic­tor after scor­ing the only goal of the match.

The soc­cer match, that is, or, if you must, football—played between Ger­man and Greek philoso­phers in 1972 and staged by Mon­ty Python. On one side, Hegel, Leib­niz, Kant, Marx, Niet­zsche, Wittgen­stein, and more (includ­ing actu­al foot­baller Franz Beck­en­bauer, a “sur­prise inclu­sion”)… on the oth­er, Socrates, Archimedes, Her­a­cli­tus, Pla­to, Dem­ocri­tus, Epicte­tus, etc…. On the side­lines of this show­down between West­ern schools of thought, Con­fu­cius served as the ref­er­ee. Even after that sin­gle goal, scored after two full halves of mean­der­ing, the two teams came into conflict—in heat­ed argu­ments about the nature of exis­tence….

I won’t con­tin­ue to bore you by explain­ing the gags—watch the sketch above. It’s great fun, if by some chance you haven’t seen it, and great fun to watch again if you have.

Filmed at the Grün­walder Sta­dion in Munich (pre­sum­ably giv­ing the Ger­mans home field advan­tage), the sketch, Ter­ry Jones recalled many years lat­er, is about the “clash of oppo­sites.” No, not the two Euro­pean coun­tries, but the oppo­sites of sports and intel­lec­tu­al exer­cise. “You can’t think about foot­ball too much,” said Jones, “you just have to do it.” This proves chal­leng­ing for our deep thinkers.

Why foot­ball? Because it’s “a team activ­i­ty,” Jones answered, “which phi­los­o­phy, as a gen­er­al rule, isn’t.” Well, most­ly. The Pythons weren’t the first to make the “incon­gru­ous” con­nec­tion. Albert Camus played the game, as a goal­keep­er, and played it quite well by all accounts. He once wrote, “all I know most sure­ly about moral­i­ty and oblig­a­tions, I owe to foot­ball.”

The injunc­tion to “just do it” wouldn’t present too much of a chal­lenge for an exis­ten­tial­ist, one would think. Philoso­pher Julian Bag­gi­ni puts the Pythons firm­ly in that school of thought, their take on it a “coher­ent, Anglo-Sax­on” one. Indeed, like Camus, the British come­di­ans rec­og­nized the absur­di­ty of life, and showed us that “the right response is to laugh at it.” They also showed us that phi­los­o­phy could be hilar­i­ous, and made a clas­sic sketch aca­d­e­mics could use to refute charges they’re a dour, humor­less lot.

It should come as no sur­prise that the Python “most inter­est­ed in the sub­ject” of phi­los­o­phy and com­e­dy was John Cleese—whom we’ve fea­tured here many times for his tal­ents in com­bin­ing the two. Cleese, writes Bag­gi­ni, is “on record as say­ing that com­e­dy and deep thought can go hand in hand. ‘You and I could talk about the mean­ing of life, or edu­ca­tion, or mar­riage,’ Cleese once told a jour­nal­ist, ‘and we could be laugh­ing a lot, and it doesn’t mean that what we’re talk­ing about isn’t seri­ous.’”

Inspired by the Pythons’ serio-com­ic love of learn­ing, Bag­gi­ni, and oth­er philoso­phers like A.C. Grayling and Nigel War­bur­ton, along with come­di­ans, his­to­ri­ans, and jour­nal­ists, decid­ed to restage the Ger­many-Greek match in 2010. Where the Pythons indi­rect­ly boost­ed intel­lec­tu­al pur­suits in the course of mock­ing them, the par­tic­i­pants in this “game”—such as it was—explicitly sought to pro­mote “Rea­son­ing,” the “fourth R” in “Read­ing, W®iting, and A®ithmetic.”

See them bum­ble around on the pitch here and gen­er­al­ly have a good time mak­ing philo­soph­i­cal fools of them­selves to the strains of Mon­ty Python’s row­dy anthem “The Philoso­pher’s Song.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Mon­ty Python Sings “The Philosopher’s Song,” Reveal­ing the Drink­ing Habits of Great Euro­pean Thinkers

John Cleese Touts the Val­ue of Phi­los­o­phy in 22 Pub­lic Ser­vice Announce­ments for the Amer­i­can Philo­soph­i­cal Asso­ci­a­tion

Mon­ty Python and the Holy Grail Re-Imag­ined as an Epic, Main­stream Hol­ly­wood Film

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

Al Jaffee, the Longest Working Cartoonist in History, Shows How He Invented the Iconic “Folds-Ins” for Mad Magazine

Keep copy­ing those Sun­day fun­nies, kids, and one day you may beat Al Jaf­fee’s record to become the Longest Work­ing Car­toon­ist in His­to­ry.

You’ll need to take extra good care of your health, giv­en that the Guin­ness Book of World Records noti­fied Jaf­fee, above, of his hon­orif­ic on his 95th birth­day.

Much of his leg­endary career has been spent at Mad Mag­a­zine, where he is best known as the father of Fold-ins.

Con­ceived of as the satir­i­cal inverse of the expen­sive-to-pro­duce, 4‑color cen­ter­folds that were a sta­ple of glossier mags, the first Fold-In spoofed pub­lic per­cep­tion of actress Eliz­a­beth Tay­lor as a man-eater. Jaffe had fig­ured it as a one-issue gag, but edi­tor Al Feld­stein had oth­er ideas, demand­ing an imme­di­ate fol­low up for the June 1964 issue.

Jaffe oblig­ed with the Richard Nixon Fold-in, which set the tone for the oth­er 450 he has hand ren­dered in sub­se­quent issues.

Al Jaffee Mad

For those who made it to adult­hood with­out the sin­gu­lar plea­sure of creas­ing Mad’s back cov­er, you can dig­i­tal­ly fold-in a few sam­ples using this nifty inter­ac­tive fea­ture, cour­tesy of The New York Times.

With all due respect, it’s not the same, just enough to give a feel for the thrill of draw­ing the out­er­most pan­el in to reveal the visu­al punch­line lurk­ing with­in the larg­er pic­ture. The print edi­tion demands pre­ci­sion fold­ing on the reader’s part, if one is to get a sat­is­fac­to­ry answer to the rhetor­i­cal text posed at the out­set.

Jaffe must be even more pre­cise in his cal­cu­la­tions. In an inter­view with Sean Edgar of Paste Mag­a­zine, he described how he turned a Repub­li­can pri­ma­ry stage shared by Nel­son Rock­e­feller and Bar­ry Gold­wa­ter into a sur­prise por­trait of the man who would become pres­i­dent five years hence:

The first thing I did was draw Richard Nixon’s face, not in great detail, just a very rough estab­lish­ment of where the eyes, nose and mouth would be, and the gen­er­al shape. I did an exag­ger­at­ed car­i­ca­ture of Nixon and then I cut it in half, and moved it apart. Once the face was cut in half, it didn’t have the integri­ty of a face any­more — it was sort of a half of face. Then I looked at what the eyes were like, and I said, ‘what can I make out of the eyes?’ He had these heavy eye­brows. I played around with many things, but I had to keep in mind all the time what the big pic­ture was. So there they (Gold­wa­ter and Rock­e­feller) were up on a stage some­where, doing a debate, and I thought, ‘What kind of stage prop can I put along­side these guys that would seem nat­ur­al there?’ I decid­ed that I could make eyes out of the lamps, and as far as the nose was con­cerned, that could come out of the fig­ures — their cloth­ing. Then I fig­ured the mouth; I could use some sort of table that could give me those two sides. That’s how it all came about. You have to have some kind of visu­al imag­i­na­tion to see the pos­si­bil­i­ties. I had to con­cen­trate on stuff that looked nat­ur­al on a stage.

Each Fold-In is a reflec­tion of the zeit­geist. Past pre­oc­cu­pa­tions have includ­ed Viet­nam, fem­i­nism, ille­gal drug use and, more recent­ly, the Jer­sey Shore.

via Gothamist

Relat­ed Con­tent:

A Gallery of Mad Magazine’s Rol­lick­ing Fake Adver­tise­ments from the 1960s

Watch Mad Magazine’s Edgy, Nev­er-Aired TV Spe­cial (1974)

A Look Inside Char­lie Heb­do, Their Cre­ative Process & the Mak­ing of a Fate­ful Car­toon

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

Car­toon­ists Draw Their Famous Car­toon Char­ac­ters While Blind­fold­ed (1947)

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

The Night John Belushi Booked the Punk Band Fear on Saturday Night Live, And They Got Banned from the Show

Punk rock has a robust tra­di­tion of gross-out, offen­sive comedy—one car­ried into the present by bands like Fat White Fam­i­ly and Diar­rhea Plan­et, who may not exist were it not for Fear, an unsta­ble L.A. band lead by an obnox­ious provo­ca­teur who goes by the name Lee Ving. Like fel­low L.A. punks the Germs, Cir­cle Jerks, and Black Flag, Fear gets cred­it for pio­neer­ing a Cal­i­for­nia punk sound known for ado­les­cent brat­ti­ness and a total lack of pre­ten­sion to any kind of art­ful­ness or cool.

Like many of their peers, Fear rose to promi­nence when Pene­lope Spheeris fea­tured them in her 1981 punk doc­u­men­tary The Decline of West­ern Civ­i­liza­tion, Part I. But before that sem­i­nal film’s release, Fear was dis­cov­ered by John Belushi, who first caught the band on a local L.A. music show called New Wave The­atre in 1980. He tracked down Ving, who tells Rolling Stone, “we had a cou­ple of beers and became fast friends.” At the time, Belushi was at work on his com­e­dy Neigh­bors with Dan Aykroyd and con­tract­ed the band to record a song for the film (his last before his death in 1982).

The film’s pro­duc­ers, Rolling Stone writes, “were appalled” by the song “and refused to use it,” so to make it up to Ving and com­pa­ny, Belushi pushed to have the band booked on Sat­ur­day Night Live on Hal­loween, 1981. The result­ing per­for­mance has become leg­endary for what hap­pened, and what didn’t, and led to Fear becom­ing, says Ving, “one of the esteemed mem­bers of the per­ma­nent­ly banned.” You can watch a clip above of the band play­ing “Beef Boloney” and “New York’s Alright if You Like Sax­o­phones” above (intro­duced by Don­ald Pleas­ance), and just below see Ving in a clip from a recent inter­view show dis­cussing the ill-fat­ed gig.

Belushi stage man­aged the band’s appear­ance, striv­ing for authen­tic­i­ty by bring­ing into the stu­dio what Ving calls “an actu­al punk rock audi­ence rather than just Mr. and Mrs. Mis­souri.” (That audi­ence includ­ed now-leg­ends Ian MacK­aye of Minor Threat and Fugazi, mem­bers of New York hard­core band the Cro-Mags, and Tesco Vee of the Meat­men.)  The result­ing mosh pit was noth­ing out of the ordi­nary for the typ­i­cal punk show. But, unsur­pris­ing­ly, “the real audi­ence at Sat­ur­day Night Live was scared to death,” says Ving, “They didn’t know what was hap­pen­ing with all the may­hem.”

Dur­ing the riotous pro­ceed­ings, SNL pro­duc­er Dick Eber­sol “got hit in the chest with a pump­kin,” some equip­ment was dam­aged, and dur­ing the final song, “Let’s Have a War,” an audi­ence mem­ber grabbed the micro­phone and yelled out “F*ck New York!” The pro­fan­i­ty freaked out NBC, who cut the broad­cast short and shelved the footage for sev­er­al years. The New York Post lat­er quot­ed an unnamed NBC tech­ni­cian as say­ing, “This was a life-threat­en­ing sit­u­a­tion. They went crazy. It’s amaz­ing no one got killed.” The paper also quot­ed a fig­ure of $400,000 for dam­ages to the Rock­e­feller Cen­ter set.

But as Bill­board report­ed two weeks lat­er, the fig­ure was total­ly erro­neous (sup­plied to the Post by Ving as a prac­ti­cal joke, as he says above). “We had to pay $40 in labor penal­ties. That was the extent of it,” said SNL spokesman Peter Hamil­ton. As for the shock to view­ers, it seems the net­work received “all of 12 com­plaints” after the broad­cast. Ving him­self found the over­re­ac­tion ridicu­lous, and NBC’s long shelv­ing of the footage—only recent­ly made avail­able in a trun­cat­ed version—a humor­less mis­take. “They seem to be… los­ing the sense of humor about the whole idea,” he told Rolling Stone, “I had a sense of humor at the whole idea of start­ing Fear. It was extreme­ly humor­ous to me, and I think John saw that humor.”

Indeed he did, but Belushi’s appre­ci­a­tion for Fear’s antics was ahead of its time. Now we can see, at least in part, what all the fuss was about. And we can also final­ly hear the long-shelved sin­gle for Neigh­bors that Belushi record­ed with the band.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Young John Belushi Imi­tates Tru­man Capote & Per­forms Live on Sec­ond City Stage (1972)

The Stunt That Got Elvis Costel­lo Banned From Sat­ur­day Night Live

5 Musi­cal Guests Banned From Sat­ur­day Night Live: From Elvis Costel­lo to Frank Zap­pa

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

 

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