The Roman Roads and Bridges You Can Still Travel Today

Rare indeed is the ancient-his­to­ry buff who has nev­er dreamed of walk­ing the roads of the Roman Empire. But unlike many long­ings stoked by inter­est in the dis­tant past, that one can actu­al­ly be ful­filled. As explained in the video above from Youtube chan­nel Intrigued Mind, a fair few Roman roads remain in exis­tence today, albeit only in sec­tions, and most­ly ruined ones at that. “Like oth­er incred­i­ble mon­u­ments that still stand, as if to prove the pow­er of the Roman Empire, there are a sur­pris­ing num­ber of Roman roads still in use today,” some con­vert­ed into mod­ern high­ways, but “many still paved with their orig­i­nal cob­ble­stones.”

Of all such roads, none has more impor­tance than the Via Appia, or Appi­an Way, whose con­struc­tion began back in 312 BC. “The first long road out­side of the greater city of Rome that was­n’t Etr­uscan,” it “allowed Romans to make their first major con­quest” and begin their mighty empire’s “con­quest of the world.” With­out under­stand­ing the sto­ried Via Appia, none of us can tru­ly under­stand Roman his­to­ry. But to grasp the con­text of the Roman Empire, we can hard­ly ignore the even old­er roads like the Via Domi­tia, which was “the road Han­ni­bal used to invade Italy, 100 years before the Romans claimed it” — not to men­tion an impor­tant set­ting in the Greek myth of Her­a­cles.

You can still cross one of the Via Domi­ti­a’s bridges, the Pont Julien in the south of France. In that same coun­try stand the more-or-less intact Pont Fla­vian, orig­i­nal­ly built along the Via Julia Augus­ta, and the Pont du Gard, the most famous and ele­gant Roman aque­duct of them all. Nor should enthu­si­asts of Roman infra­struc­ture miss the Alcan­tara Bridge in Spain, the Man­fred Bridge in Ger­many, or the ruins of Tra­jan’s Bridge — made into ruins delib­er­ate­ly, by Tra­jan’s suc­ces­sor Hadri­an — in Roma­nia. The most seri­ous among them will also want to go as far as the Mid­dle East and trav­el the Via Maris, which con­nect­ed Egypt to Syr­ia, and the remains of the bridge across Cae­sar’s Dam in Iran.

Iran belonged, of course, not to the Roman Empire but the Per­sian one. But “leg­end has it that the Per­sian emper­or cap­tured the Roman emper­or and forced him to use his army to build the dam and the beau­ti­ful bridge to cross it.” All was fair, it seems, in the expan­sion and con­flict of ancient empires, and the ruins scat­tered across their vast for­mer ter­ri­to­ries tes­ti­fy to that. Though much less tech­no­log­i­cal­ly advanced than, say, mod­ern free­way sys­tems, the Roman roads that sur­vive have proven sur­pris­ing­ly robust, a phe­nom­e­non exam­ined in the video just above by his­to­ry Youtu­ber Told in Stone — a Chicagoan, inci­den­tal­ly, who acknowl­edges that the Via Appia has nev­er had to take a Windy City win­ter.

Relat­ed con­tent:

The First Tran­sit Map: a Close Look at the Sub­way-Style Tab­u­la Peutin­ge­ri­ana of the 5th-Cen­tu­ry Roman Empire

How Did the Romans Make Con­crete That Lasts Longer Than Mod­ern Con­crete? The Mys­tery Final­ly Solved

How Did Roman Aque­ducts Work?: The Most Impres­sive Achieve­ment of Ancient Rome’s Infra­struc­ture, Explained

The Roads of Ancient Rome Visu­al­ized in the Style of Mod­ern Sub­way Maps

The Roman Roads of Britain Visu­al­ized as a Sub­way Map

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.

The History of Western Art in 23 Minutes: From the Prehistoric to the Contemporary

Among the ranks of Open Cul­ture read­ers, there are no doubt more than a few art-his­to­ry majors. Per­haps you’ve stud­ied the sub­ject your­self, at one time or anoth­er — and per­haps you find that by now, you remem­ber only cer­tain scat­tered artists, works, and move­ments. What you need is a grand nar­ra­tive, a broad sto­ry of art itself, and that’s just what you’ll find in the video above from Youtube chan­nel Behind the Mas­ter­piece. True to its title, “A Brief His­to­ry of Art Move­ments” briefly describes, and pro­vides a host of visu­al exam­ples to illus­trate, 22 phas­es in the devel­op­ment of art in just 23 min­utes.

The jour­ney begins in pre­his­to­ry, with cave paint­ings from 40,000 years ago appar­ent­ly cre­at­ed “as a way to share infor­ma­tion.” Then comes the art of antiq­ui­ty, when increas­ing­ly lit­er­ate soci­eties “start­ed cre­at­ing the ear­li­est nat­u­ral­is­tic images of human beings,” not least to enforce “reli­gious and polit­i­cal ide­olo­gies.” The reli­gios­i­ty inten­si­fied in the Mid­dle Ages, when artists “depict­ed clear, icon­ic images of reli­gious fig­ures” — as well as their odd­ly aged-look­ing babies — “and dec­o­rat­ed them with exten­sive use of gold and jew­els as a way to attract more peo­ple to the church.”

When many us think of art his­to­ry — whether we stud­ied it or not — our minds go straight to the sub­se­quent peri­od, the Renais­sance, dur­ing which “artists start­ed to appre­ci­ate cul­tur­al sub­jects like art, music, and the­ater” as well. They cre­at­ed “por­trait paint­ings, anatom­i­cal­ly cor­rect sculp­tures, and sym­met­ri­cal archi­tec­ture,” and the inven­tion of the print­ing press great­ly expand­ed the pool of poten­tial appre­ci­a­tors. Then, in the Baroque move­ment, enor­mous­ly skilled artists like Berni­ni and Car­avag­gio “empha­sized extrav­a­gance and emo­tion,” and oth­er forms fol­lowed suit with more intense embell­ish­ments of their own.

From eigh­teenth-cen­tu­ry France emerged the “play­ful and utopi­an” Roco­co peri­od, which was fol­lowed by the back­ward-look­ing “inter­est in renewed sim­plic­i­ty” that char­ac­ter­ized Neo­clas­si­cism, which was fol­lowed by Roman­ti­cism, a move­ment whose artists “looked with­in and found inspi­ra­tion in their own imag­i­na­tions, and the nature around them.” It was the lev­el­ing French Rev­o­lu­tion that brought about the con­di­tions for the rise of Real­ism, with its focus on “depict­ing real peo­ple in every­day life,” the kind of sub­jects to that point over­looked in major works of art.

In the sec­ond half of the nine­teenth cen­tu­ry the devel­op­ment of art hit the gas, bring­ing on the imper­fect vital­i­ty of Impres­sion­ism, the dar­ing sub­jec­tiv­i­ty of Post-Impres­sion­ism, the extreme sub­jec­tiv­i­ty of Expres­sion­ism, and the sin­u­ous lux­u­ry of Art Nou­veau. Tech­nol­o­gy had always been a fac­tor in how art changes, but in the twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry — as Cubism gave way to Futur­ism, Dadaism, Sur­re­al­ism, and the Bauhaus — it came to the fore. This brings us up to liv­ing mem­o­ry: move­ments like Abstract Expres­sion­ism, Pop Art, Min­i­mal­ism, and the incli­na­tion of today’s artists to deal in “ideas rather than aes­thet­ics,” all on dis­play in most any muse­um you care to vis­it. Or at least they are in the muse­ums of the West, there being, after all, a whole world of oth­er art his­to­ries out there to under­stand besides.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Free Art & Art His­to­ry Cours­es

An Online Guide to 350 Inter­na­tion­al Art Styles & Move­ments: An Invalu­able Resource for Stu­dents & Enthu­si­asts of Art His­to­ry

100,000 Free Art His­to­ry Texts Now Avail­able Online Thanks to the Get­ty Research Por­tal

An Intro­duc­tion to 100 Impor­tant Paint­ings with Videos Cre­at­ed by Smarthis­to­ry

One Minute Art His­to­ry: Cen­turies of Artis­tic Styles Get Packed Into a Short Exper­i­men­tal Ani­ma­tion

Tate Kids Presents Intro­duc­tions to Art Move­ments: Cubism, Impres­sion­ism, Sur­re­al­ism & More

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.

How to Get Dressed & Fight in 14th Century Armor: A Reenactment

For a medieval knight, phys­i­cal com­bat in a full suit of armor could hard­ly have been a sim­ple mat­ter — but then, nor could the task of putting it on in the first place. You can see the lat­ter depict­ed in the video above from Nor­we­gian his­to­ry buff Ola Onsrud. He describes the armor as a “detailed recon­struc­tion based on the effi­gy of the Black Prince (1330–1376) in the Can­ter­bury Cathe­dral, oth­er rel­e­vant effi­gies, paint­ings in four­teenth-cen­tu­ry man­u­scripts and late four­teenth-cen­tu­ry armor dis­played in The Roy­al Armories in Leeds.” If you’ve so much as glanced at such imagery, Onsrud’s armor should strike you as look­ing quite like the real deal.

But this is func­tion­al cloth­ing, after all, and as such must be put to the test. Onsrud does so in the video just below, a demon­stra­tion of how the wear­er of such armor would actu­al­ly do hand-to-hand com­bat. “To make com­ments, the visor of my hel­met is open through most of the video,” he notes.

“This will of course make my face an inter­est­ing tar­get for my adver­sary.” In a real medieval bat­tle, of course, the hel­met would be closed, and thus the com­bat­ants would­n’t sim­ply aim for the face. As Onsrud explains, the idea is to use one’s sword “against the weak spots of the armor. After find­ing a weak spot, I can put all my body weight behind it and dri­ve it in.”

Medieval suits of armor turn out not to be as impen­e­tra­ble as they look. Onsrud runs down a few of their major weak points, includ­ing the insides of the gloves, the armpits, and — most wince-induc­ing­ly of all — the groin. The defense capa­bil­i­ty of armor also var­ied depend­ing upon the weapons used; even the best-suit­ed-up had rea­son to fear an ene­my with a poleaxe. “But the absolute best way to take down an armored knight is by using a lance from a horse,” espe­cial­ly a horse “gal­lop­ing up to 40 kilo­me­ters an hour” whose com­bined weight with its rid­er could reach 700 kilo­grams. Sure­ly even the most com­mit­ted reen­ac­tor won’t do that on Youtube.

Relat­ed con­tent:

How to Make and Wear Medieval Armor: An In-Depth Primer

What It’s Like to Actu­al­ly Fight in Medieval Armor

How Well Can You Move in Medieval Armor?: Medieval­ist Daniel Jaquet Gives It a Try in Real Life

What’s It Like to Fight in 15th Cen­tu­ry Armor?: A Sur­pris­ing Demon­stra­tion

How Women Got Dressed in the 14th & 18th Cen­turies: Watch the Very Painstak­ing Process Get Cin­e­mat­i­cal­ly Recre­at­ed

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.

The Disturbing Paintings of Hieronymus Bosch: A Short Introduction

Most casu­al view­ers of Hierony­mus Bosch’s paint­ings must acknowl­edge his artis­tic skill, and many must also won­der whether he was com­plete­ly out of his mind. But insan­i­ty, how­ev­er vivid­ly sug­gest­ed by his imagery, isn’t an espe­cial­ly com­pelling expla­na­tion for that imagery. Bosch paint­ed in a par­tic­u­lar place and time — the Nether­lands of the late fif­teenth and ear­ly six­teenth cen­tu­ry, to be spe­cif­ic — but he also paint­ed with­in a dom­i­nant worldview.“He grew up in a time of deep reli­gious anx­i­ety,” says Youtu­ber Hochela­ga in the video essay above. “Ideas about sin, death, and the dev­il were becom­ing more sophis­ti­cat­ed,” and “there was a gen­uine fear that demon­ic forces lived amongst the pop­u­la­tion.”

Hence the analy­ses like that of Great Art Explained, which frames Bosch’s best-known paint­ing The Gar­den of Earth­ly Delights as an expres­sion of “hard­core Chris­tian­i­ty.” But some­thing about the trip­ty­ch’s sheer elab­o­rate­ness and grotes­querie demands fur­ther inquiry. Hochela­ga explores the pos­si­bil­i­ty that Bosch worked in a con­di­tion of not just fear­ful piety, but psy­cho­log­i­cal afflic­tion.

“There is a dis­ease called St. Antho­ny’s fire,” he says, con­tract­ed “by eat­ing a poi­so­nous black fun­gus called ergots that grow on rye crops. Symp­toms include sores, con­vul­sions, and a fierce burn­ing sen­sa­tion in limbs and extrem­i­ties,” as well as “fright­en­ing and over­pow­er­ing hal­lu­ci­na­tions that can last for hours at a time.”

This psy­choac­tive pow­er is now “believed to be behind the many Danc­ing Plagues record­ed through­out the Mid­dle Ages.” This expla­na­tion came togeth­er when, “in the mid-twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry, it was dis­cov­ered that when ergots are baked in an oven, they trans­form into a form of lyser­gic acid diethy­lamide, also known as LSD.” Did Bosch him­self receive the bizarre visions he paint­ed from inad­ver­tent­ly con­sum­ing that now well-known hal­lu­cino­genic sub­stance? The many paint­ings he made of St. Antho­ny “may have been a form of devo­tion­al prayer, done so in the hopes that the saint would rid him of his debil­i­tat­ing ill­ness.” Look at The Gar­den of Earth­ly Delighteven today, and you’ll feel that if you saw these mur­der­ous bird-human hybrids around you, you’d try what­ev­er you could to get rid of them, too.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Take a Vir­tu­al Tour of Hierony­mus Bosch’s Bewil­der­ing Mas­ter­piece The Gar­den of Earth­ly Delights

A Dig­i­tal Archive of Hierony­mus Bosch’s Com­plete Works: Zoom In & Explore His Sur­re­al Art

The Mean­ing of Hierony­mus Bosch’s The Gar­den of Earth­ly Delights Explained

Hierony­mus Bosch’s Medieval Paint­ing The Gar­den of Earth­ly Delights Comes to Life in a Gigan­tic, Mod­ern Ani­ma­tion

New App Lets You Explore Hierony­mus Bosch’s The Gar­den of Earth­ly Delights in Vir­tu­al Real­i­ty

The Musi­cal Instru­ments in Hierony­mus Bosch’s The Gar­den of Earth­ly Delights Get Brought to Life, and It Turns Out That They Sound “Painful” and “Hor­ri­ble”

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 a 15th-Century Italian Manuscript Featuring Medicinal Plants with Fantastical Human Faces

No mat­ter where you may stand on herbal med­i­cine as a viable 21st-cen­tu­ry option, it’s not hard to imag­ine we’d have all been true believ­ers back in the 15th-cen­tu­ry.

In an arti­cle for Heart Views, car­di­ol­o­gist Rachel Hajar lists some com­mon herbal treat­ments of the Mid­dle Ages:

Headache and aching joints were treat­ed with sweet-smelling herbs such as rose, laven­der, sage, and hay. A mix­ture of hen­bane and hem­lock was applied to aching joints. Corian­der was used to reduce fever. Stom­ach pains and sick­ness were treat­ed with worm­wood, mint, and balm. Lung prob­lems were treat­ed with a med­i­cine made of liquorice and com­frey. Cough syrups and drinks were pre­scribed for chest and head-colds and coughs.

If noth­ing else, such approach­es sound rather more pleas­ant than blood­let­ting.

Monks were respon­si­ble for the study and cul­ti­va­tion of med­i­c­i­nal herbs.

You may recall how one of Fri­ar Lawrence’s dai­ly tasks in Romeo and Juli­et involved ven­tur­ing into the monastery gar­den, to fill his bas­ket full “bale­ful weeds and pre­cious-juicèd flow­ers.”

(The pow­er­ful sleep­ing potion he con­coct­ed for the young lovers may have had dis­as­trous con­se­quences, but no one can claim it wasn’t effec­tive.)

Monks pre­served their herbal knowl­edge in illus­trat­ed books and man­u­scripts, many of which cleaved close­ly to works of clas­si­cal antiq­ui­ty such as Pliny the Elder’s Nat­u­ralis His­to­ria and Dioscordes’ De Mate­ria Med­ica.

These ear­ly med­ical texts can still be appre­ci­at­ed as art, par­tic­u­lar­ly when they con­tain fan­tas­ti­cal embell­ish­ments such as can be seen in Erbario, above, a hand­made 15th-cen­tu­ry herbal from north­ern Italy that was recent­ly added to the Uni­ver­si­ty of Penn­syl­va­nia Library’s col­lec­tion of rare books and man­u­scripts.

In addi­tion to straight­for­ward botan­i­cal illus­tra­tions, there are some roots, leaves, flow­ers and fruit (par­don the pro­noun) of a decid­ed­ly anthro­po­mor­phic bent.

Fan­cy­ing up draw­ings of plants with human faces and or drag­on-shaped roots was a medieval con­ven­tion.

Man­drake roots —  pre­scribed as an anes­thet­ic, an aphro­disi­ac, a fer­til­i­ty boost­er, and a sleep aid — were fre­quent­ly ren­dered as humans.

Wired’s Matt Simon writes that man­drake roots “can look bizarrely like a human body and leg­end holds that it can even come in male and female form:”

It’s said to spring from the drip­ping fat and blood and semen of a hanged man. Dare pull it the from the earth and it lets out a mon­strous scream, bestow­ing agony and death to all those with­in earshot.

Yikes! Can we get a spoon­ful of sug­ar to help that go down?

No won­der Juli­et, prepar­ing to quaff Fri­ar Lawrence’s sleep­ing potion in the fam­i­ly tomb, fret­ted that it might wear off pre­ma­ture­ly, leav­ing her sub­ject to “loath­some smells” and “shrieks like man­drakes torn out of the earth.”

Methinks some chamomile might have calmed those nerves…

View a dig­i­tized copy of Erbario here, or at the Pub­lic Domain Review.

 

via the Pub­lic Domain Review

Relat­ed Con­tent 

1,000-Year-Old Illus­trat­ed Guide to the Med­i­c­i­nal Use of Plants Now Dig­i­tized & Put Online

A Beau­ti­ful 1897 Illus­trat­ed Book Shows How Flow­ers Become Art Nou­veau Designs

The New Herbal: A Mas­ter­piece of Renais­sance Botan­i­cal Illus­tra­tions Gets Repub­lished in a Beau­ti­ful 900-Page Book by Taschen

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

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

The “Shadow” of a Hiroshima Victim, Etched into Stone, Is All That Remains After 1945 Atomic Blast


At 8:15 on the morn­ing of August 6, 1945, a per­son sat on a flight of stone stairs lead­ing up to the entrance of the Sum­it­o­mo Bank in Hiroshi­ma, Japan. Sec­onds lat­er, an atom­ic bomb det­o­nat­ed just 800 feet away, and the per­son sit­ting on the stairs was instant­ly incin­er­at­ed. Gone like that. But not with­out leav­ing a mark.

As the Google Cul­tur­al Insti­tute explains it, “Receiv­ing the rays direct­ly, the vic­tim must have died on the spot from mas­sive burns. The sur­face of the sur­round­ing stone steps was turned whitish by the intense heat rays. The place where the per­son was sit­ting became dark like a shad­ow.”

That shad­ow last­ed for years, until even­tu­al­ly rain and wind began to erode it. When a new Sum­it­o­mo Bank was built, the steps were relo­cat­ed to the Hiroshi­ma Peace Memo­r­i­al Muse­um, where they’re now pre­served. You can see the “Human Shad­ow Etched in Stone” above.

If you would like to sign up for Open Culture’s free email newslet­ter, please find it here. Or fol­low our posts on Threads, Face­book, BlueSky or Mastodon.

If you would like to sup­port the mis­sion of Open Cul­ture, con­sid­er mak­ing a dona­tion to our site. It’s hard to rely 100% on ads, and your con­tri­bu­tions will help us con­tin­ue pro­vid­ing the best free cul­tur­al and edu­ca­tion­al mate­ri­als to learn­ers every­where. You can con­tribute through Pay­Pal, Patre­on, and Ven­mo (@openculture). Thanks!

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Sto­ry of Akiko Takaku­ra, One of the Last Sur­vivors of the Hiroshi­ma Bomb­ing, Told in a Short Ani­mat­ed Doc­u­men­tary

The “Shad­ow” of a Hiroshi­ma Vic­tim, Etched into Stone Steps, Is All That Remains After 1945 Atom­ic Blast

This 392-Year-Old Bon­sai Tree Sur­vived the Hiroshi­ma Atom­ic Blast & Still Flour­ish­es Today: The Pow­er of Resilience

Watch Chill­ing Footage of the Hiroshi­ma & Nagasa­ki Bomb­ings in Restored Col­or

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How to Read Ancient Egyptian Hieroglyphs: A British Museum Curator Explains

If you want to learn to read hiero­glyph­ics, you must first learn that (with apolo­gies to the artists behind “You Nev­er Knew”) there are no such things as hiero­glyph­ics. There are only hiero­glyphs, as the British Muse­um’s cura­tor of ancient writ­ing Ilona Regul­s­ki explains in the video just above, and hiero­glyph­ic is the adjec­ti­val form. You may remem­ber Regul­s­ki from anoth­er British Muse­um video we’ve fea­tured here on Open Cul­ture, about what the Roset­ta Stone actu­al­ly says — which she knows because she can actu­al­ly read it, not just in the ancient Greek lan­guage, but in the ancient Egypt­ian one. Here, she explains how to inter­pret its once utter­ly mys­te­ri­ous sym­bols.

It would take an incu­ri­ous view­er indeed not to be cap­ti­vat­ed by their first glimpse of hiero­glyphs, which pos­sess a kind of detail and beau­ty lit­tle seen in oth­er writ­ing sys­tems. Or at least they do when carved into stone, Regul­s­ki explains; in more every­day con­texts, the impres­sive arrange­ments of owls, ankhs, bas­kets, eyes, and bread loaves took on a more sim­pli­fied, abstract­ed form.

Either way, it makes use of a com­plex and dis­tinc­tive gram­mat­i­cal sys­tem about which we can draw a good deal of insight from exam­in­ing a sin­gle inscrip­tion: in this case, an inscrip­tion on a lin­tel glo­ri­fy­ing Amen­emhat III, “one of the most famous kings of ancient Egypt.”

Those who feel their his­tor­i­cal-lin­guis­tic curios­i­ty piqued would do well to vis­it the British Muse­um’s cur­rent exhi­bi­tion “Hiero­glyphs: Unlock­ing Ancient Egypt,” which runs until Feb­ru­ary 19th of next year. If you can’t make it to Lon­don, you can still go a bit deep­er with the video below. Drawn the Great Cours­es series “Decod­ing the Secrets of Egypt­ian Hiero­glyphs,” it fea­tures Egyp­tol­o­gist Bob Brier’s break­down of such rel­e­vant con­cepts as phonet­ics, deter­mi­na­tives, and ideograms, as well as guid­ed exer­cis­es in sen­tence trans­la­tion and name translit­er­a­tion. After demon­strat­ing admirable hiero­glyph­ic pen­man­ship (cer­tain­ly com­pared to most mod­erns), Brier leaves us with a home­work assign­ment — just the sort of thing the ancient Egyp­tians them­selves were doing a few mil­len­nia ago.

Relat­ed con­tent:

An Ani­mat­ed His­to­ry of Writ­ing: From Ancient Egypt to Mod­ern Writ­ing Sys­tems

You Could Soon Be Able to Text with 2,000 Ancient Egypt­ian Hiero­glyphs

What Ancient Egypt­ian Sound­ed Like & How We Know It

An Ancient Egypt­ian Home­work Assign­ment from 1800 Years Ago: Some Things Are Tru­ly Time­less

3,200-Year-Old Egypt­ian Tablet Records Excus­es for Why Peo­ple Missed Work: “The Scor­pi­on Bit Him,” “Brew­ing Beer” & More

A 4,000-Year-Old Stu­dent ‘Writ­ing Board’ from Ancient Egypt (with Teacher’s Cor­rec­tions in Red)

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.

The Untold Story of Disco and Its Black, Latino & LGBTQ Roots

As a white Mid­west­ern child of the ‘70s, I received two mes­sages loud and clear: dis­co was a breath­tak­ing­ly glam­orous, sexy urban scene, and “dis­co sucks.”

Cul­tur­al­ly, the lat­ter pre­vailed.

It was the opin­ion voiced most loud­ly by the pop­u­lar boys.

Dis­senters pushed back at their own per­il.

I didn’t know what YMCA was about, and I’m not con­vinced the ski jack­et­ed, puka-neck­laced alpha males at my school did either.

(My father, who sang along joy­ful­ly when­ev­er it came on the car radio, def­i­nite­ly did.)

Disco’s been dead for a long time now.

In the four plus decades since dis­grun­tled Chica­go radio DJ Steve Dahl com­man­deered a base­ball sta­di­um for a Dis­co Demo­li­tion Night where fans tossed around homo­pho­bic and racist epi­thets while destroy­ing records, there’s been notable social progress.

This progress is the lens that makes Noah Lefevre’s Poly­phon­ic video essay The Untold His­to­ry of Dis­co, and oth­er inves­ti­ga­tions into the racial and sex­u­al under­pin­nings of dis­co pos­si­ble.

I cer­tain­ly nev­er heard of Stonewall as a kid, but many con­tem­po­rary view­ers, com­ing of age in a coun­try that is, on the whole, much more LGBTQ-friend­ly than the world of their par­ents and grand­par­ents, are famil­iar with it as a gay rights mile­stone.

Lefevre ties the birth of dis­co to the 1969 Stonewall Upris­ing, and a sub­cul­ture born of neces­si­ty, where­in gay men impro­vised under­ground dance clubs where they could cut freely loose with same sex part­ners.

Instead of live dance music, these venues boast­ed DJs, crate dig­gers open to any groove that would keep the par­ty going on the dance floor: psy­che­del­ic, clas­sic soul, pro­gres­sive soul, jazz fusion, Latin Amer­i­can dance music, African pop…

(Thus the name dis­cotheque)

A dis­co sound began to coa­lesce around exist­ing hits as the O‑jays’ Love Train and Isaac Hayes’ Theme from Shaft.

You can hear it in Jim­my Nolen’s chick­en scratch lead gui­tar for James Brown and ses­sion drum­mer Earl Young’s open high hat and four-to-the-floor beat on Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes’ The Love I Lost.

In the begin­ning, crowds were pri­mar­i­ly Black, Lati­no and gay at New York City dis­cos like The Loft, which start­ed out as a rent par­ty, and The Sanc­tu­ary, housed in a decon­se­crat­ed mid­town Ger­man Bap­tist church. Map­plethor­pe mod­el Leigh Lee recalled The Sanctuary’s cachet to the Vil­lage Voice’s Peter Braun­stein:

It was sup­posed to be a secret, but I don’t know how secret it could have been when fag­gots and les­bians can come out of a church from mid­night till sun­rise.

As dis­cotheque DJs began dri­ving the record charts, main­stream pro­duc­ers took note, open­ing the gates for such mon­ster hits as the Bar­ry White-helmed Love Unlim­it­ed Orchestra’s Love’s Theme, Don­na Summer’s Love to Love Ya, and Chic’s Le Freak.

A glit­ter-bedecked nude man rode a white horse into Bian­ca Jagger’s birth­day par­ty at Stu­dio 54 on the stroke of mid­night, while hin­ter­land squares did The Hus­tle at their local Hol­i­day Inns. 

By the time celebs like the Rolling Stones and Rod Stew­art start­ing horn­ing in on the act, dis­co had already reached its tip­ping point.


Lit­tle twerps like me, whose moth­ers wouldn’t let them see the R‑rated Sat­ur­day Night Fever bought Bee Gees 45s from our local Peach­es and sang along to Glo­ria Gaynor’s I Will Sur­vive, as did some of our dads…

(An unex­pect­ed plea­sure of Lefevre’s video is see­ing all those famil­iar record labels spin­ning just the way they did on our pre­cious stere­os — Atlantic! Casablan­ca! Poly­dor! RSO!  Some­body pass me a Dr. Pep­per and a yel­low plas­tic insert!)

Radio DJ Rick Dees’ nov­el­ty hit with Dis­co Duck seemed so harm­less at the time, but it was sure­ly music to the main­stream “dis­co sucks” crowd’s ears. (Good luck to any punk who betrayed a fond­ness for Dis­co Duck )

Disco’s reign was brief — Lefevre notes that its end coin­cides with the begin­ning of the AIDS cri­sis — but its impact has been greater than many assume at first blush.

Disco’s empha­sis on turnta­bles and long play ver­sions influ­enced hip hop and elec­tron­ic dance music.

Near­ly half a cen­tu­ry after dis­co­ma­nia seized the land, its deep con­nec­tion to Black, Lati­no and LGBTQ his­to­ry must not be tossed aside light­ly.

Watch more of Noah Lefevre’s Poly­phon­ic video essays here.

Relat­ed Con­tent 

Dis­co Demo­li­tion Night: Scenes from the Night Dis­co Died (or Did It?) at Chicago’s Comiskey Park, 1979

Two Decades of Fire Island DJ Sets Get Unearthed, Dig­i­tized & Put Online: Stream 232 Mix­tapes Online (1979–1999)

How Gior­gio Moroder & Don­na Summer’s “I Feel Love” Cre­at­ed the “Blue­print for All Elec­tron­ic Dance Music Today” (1977)

- Ayun Hal­l­i­day is the Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine and author, most recent­ly, of Cre­ative, Not Famous: The Small Pota­to Man­i­festo. Her Indi­ana ties result­ed in an invi­ta­tion to Rick “Dis­co Duck” Dees’ 1977 wed­ding. Fol­low her @AyunHalliday.

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