Shane MacÂGowan died yesÂterÂday, less than a month shy of his 66th birthÂday — and thus less than a month shy of ChristÂmas, which hapÂpened to be the same day. Though coinÂciÂdenÂtal, that assoÂciÂaÂtion has made perÂfect sense since 1987, when the Pogues, the Celtic punk band frontÂed by MacÂGowan, released “FairyÂtale of New York.” That duet between MacÂGowan and Kirsty MacÂColl (the stoÂry of whose proÂducÂtion we’ve preÂviÂousÂly feaÂtured here on Open CulÂture) still reigns supreme as the UnitÂed KingÂdom’s ChristÂmas song, and by now it tends also to make it onto more than a few holÂiÂday-seaÂson playlists in AmerÂiÂca and across the world.
GivÂen the popÂuÂlarÂiÂty of “FairyÂtale of New York,” many lisÂtenÂers know MacÂGowan for nothÂing else. But he was, in fact, a figÂure of conÂsidÂerÂable imporÂtance to the punk rock of the nineÂteen-eightÂies and nineties, to which he brought not just a thorÂoughÂly Irish senÂsiÂbilÂiÂty but also a strong sense of litÂerÂary craft.
Few well-known punk rockÂers could inhabÂit a place with a song in the way he could, or tap into the propÂer verÂnacÂuÂlar to inhabÂit a parÂticÂuÂlar charÂacÂter. (Even the words he gave MacÂColl to sing as a hard-bitÂten nineÂteen-forÂties woman of the streets have caused no end of strugÂgles with cenÂsors.) For this reaÂson, he had the respect of many anothÂer seriÂous songÂwriter: Nick Cave, for instance, with whom he recordÂed a covÂer of “What a WonÂderÂful World” in 1992.
DurÂing much of MacÂGowan’s lifeÂtime, his musiÂcal achieveÂments were at risk of being overÂshadÂowed by the harÂrowÂing facts of his life, includÂing his masÂsive, susÂtained conÂsumpÂtion of drugs and alcoÂhol and the variÂety of injuries and ailÂments it brought about. In 2015, British teleÂviÂsion even aired a speÂcial about the replaceÂment of his long-lost teeth — which, to judge by the Pogues’ perÂforÂmance of the folk song “The Irish Rover” with the DublinÂers above, were bareÂly hangÂing on even in the late eightÂies. But in a way, this disÂsolute appearÂance was an insepÂaÂraÂble part of a disÂtincÂtive artisÂtic spirÂit. Shane MacÂGowan was a rare thing in the world of punk rock (to say nothÂing of the world of hit ChristÂmas songs): not just an Irish litÂerÂary voice, but an Irish litÂerÂary charÂacÂter.
Based in Seoul, ColÂin Marshall writes and broadÂcasts on cities, lanÂguage, and culÂture. His projects include the SubÂstack newsletÂterBooks on Cities, the book The StateÂless City: a Walk through 21st-CenÂtuÂry Los AngeÂles and the video series The City in CinÂeÂma. FolÂlow him on TwitÂter at @colinmarshall or on FaceÂbook.
What hapÂpens when Ulysses Owens Jr–a Jazz musiÂcian and jazz eduÂcaÂtor at JuilÂliard–hears NirÂvana’s “In Bloom” for the first time (minus the drum parts), and then attempts to drum along? What is he lisÂtenÂing for? How does he immeÂdiÂateÂly craft an approÂpriÂate drum part? And how does it comÂpare to Dave Grohl’s origÂiÂnal? Watch above, and you can see how it unfolds…
In the fall of 1998, pop music changed forÂevÂer — or at least it seems that way today, a quarÂter-cenÂtuÂry latÂer. The epochal event in quesÂtion was the release of Cher’s comeÂback hit “Believe,” of whose jaggedÂly fracÂtured vocal glisÂsanÂdo no lisÂtenÂer had heard the likes of before. “The glow-and-flutÂter of Cher’s voice at key points in the song announced its own techÂnoÂlogÂiÂcal artiÂfice,” writes critÂic Simon Reynolds at PitchÂfork, “a blend of posthuÂman perÂfecÂtion and angelÂic tranÂscenÂdence ideÂal for the vague reliÂgiosÂiÂty of the choÂrus.” As for how that effect had been achieved, only the tech-savviÂest stuÂdio proÂfesÂsionÂals would have susÂpectÂed a creÂative misÂuse of Auto-Tune, a popÂuÂlar digÂiÂtal audio proÂcessÂing tool brought to marÂket the year before.
As its name sugÂgests, Auto-Tune was designed to keep a musiÂcal perÂforÂmance in tune autoÂmatÂiÂcalÂly. This capaÂbilÂiÂty owes to the efforts of one Andy HildeÂbrand, a clasÂsiÂcal flute virÂtuÂoso turned oil-extracÂtion engiÂneer turned music-techÂnolÂoÂgy entreÂpreÂneur. EmployÂing the same mathÂeÂmatÂiÂcal acuÂmen he’d used to assist the likes of Exxon in deterÂminÂing the locaÂtion of prime drilling sites from processed sonar data, he figÂured out a vast simÂpliÂfiÂcaÂtion of the calÂcuÂlaÂtions theÂoÂretÂiÂcalÂly required for an algoÂrithm to put a real vocal recordÂing into a parÂticÂuÂlar key.
RapidÂly adoptÂed throughÂout the music indusÂtry, HildeÂbrand’s invenÂtion soon became a generÂic tradeÂmark, like Kleenex, Jell‑O, or Google. Even if a stuÂdio wasÂn’t using Auto-Tune, it was almost cerÂtainÂly auto-tunÂing, and with such subÂtleÂty that lisÂtenÂers nevÂer noticed.
The proÂducÂers of “Believe,” for their part, turned the subÂtleÂty (or, techÂniÂcalÂly, the “smoothÂness”) down to zero. In an attempt to keep that disÂcovÂery a secret, they claimed at first to have used a vocoder, a synÂtheÂsizÂer that conÂverts the human voice into manipÂuÂlaÂble anaÂlog or digÂiÂtal sigÂnals. Some would also have susÂpectÂed the even more venÂerÂaÂble talkÂbox, which had been made well-known in the sevÂenÂties and eightÂies by Earth, Wind & Fire, SteÂvie WonÂder, and Roger TroutÂman of Zapp. Though the “Cher effect,” as it was known for a time, could plauÂsiÂbly be regardÂed as an aesÂthetÂic descenÂdant of those devices, it had an entireÂly difÂferÂent techÂnoÂlogÂiÂcal basis. A few years after that basis became wideÂly underÂstood, conÂspicÂuÂous Auto-Tune became ubiqÂuiÂtous, not just in dance music but also in hip-hop, whose artists (not least RapÂpa Ternt SanÂga T‑Pain) used Auto-Tune to steer their genre straight into the curÂrents of mainÂstream pop, if not always to high critÂiÂcal acclaim.
Used as intendÂed, Auto-Tune conÂstiÂtutÂed a godÂsend for music proÂducÂers workÂing with any singer less freakÂishÂly skilled than, say, FredÂdie MerÂcury. ProÂducÂer-YoutuÂber Rick Beato admits as much in the video just above, though givÂen his clasÂsic rock- and jazz-oriÂentÂed tastes, it doesÂn’t come as a surÂprise also to hear him lament the techÂnolÂoÂgy’s overuse. But for those willÂing to take it to ever-furÂther extremes, Auto-Tune has givÂen rise to preÂviÂousÂly unimagÂined subÂgenÂres, bringÂing (as emphaÂsized in a recent Arte docÂuÂmenÂtary) the uniÂverÂsal lanÂguage of melody into the linÂguisÂtiÂcalÂly fragÂmentÂed areÂna of globÂal hip-hop. As a means of genÂerÂatÂing “digÂiÂtal soul, for digÂiÂtal beings, leadÂing digÂiÂtal lives,” in Reynolds’ words, Auto-Tune does reflect our time, for betÂter or for worse. Its detracÂtors can at least take some conÂsoÂlaÂtion in the fact that recent releasÂes have come with someÂthing called a “humanÂize knob.”
Based in Seoul, ColÂin Marshall writes and broadÂcasts on cities, lanÂguage, and culÂture. His projects include the SubÂstack newsletÂterBooks on Cities, the book The StateÂless City: a Walk through 21st-CenÂtuÂry Los AngeÂles and the video series The City in CinÂeÂma. FolÂlow him on TwitÂter at @colinmarshall or on FaceÂbook.
The invenÂtion of sibÂlings MikÂlĂłs and ÉtiÂenne Vadász, the world’s first pockÂet record playÂer caused a stir when it was introÂduced a cenÂtuÂry ago, nabÂbing first prize at an interÂnaÂtionÂal music exhiÂbiÂtion and findÂing favor with modÂernist archiÂtect Le CorÂbusier, who hailed it for embodyÂing the “essence of the esprit nouÂveau.”
Unlike more recent portable audio innoÂvaÂtions, some assemÂbly was required.
It’s fair to assume that the StanÂford Archive of RecordÂed Sound staffer deftÂly unpackÂing antique Mikiphone comÂpoÂnents from its cunÂning Sony DisÂcÂman-sized case, above, has more pracÂtice putting the thing togethÂer than a nerÂvous young felÂla eager to woo his gal al fresÂco with his just purÂchased, cutÂting edge 1924 techÂnolÂoÂgy.
A periÂod adverÂtiseÂment extols the Mikiphone’s portaÂbilÂiÂty …
Fits in a jackÂet pockÂet
Goes in a lady’s handÂbag
Will hang on a cycle frame
Goes in a car door pockÂet
IdeÂal for picÂnics, car jaunts, rivÂer trips
…but fails to menÂtion that in order to enjoy it, you’d also have to schlep along a fair amount of 78 RPM records, whose 10-inch diamÂeÂters aren’t nearÂly so pockÂet and purse-comÂpatÂiÂble.
MaiÂson PailÂlard proÂduced approxÂiÂmateÂly 180,000 of these hand-cranked wonÂders over the course of three years. When sales dropped in 1927, the remainÂing stock was sold off at a disÂcount or givÂen away to conÂtest winÂners.
These days, an authenÂtic MikÂphone can fetch $500 and upward at aucÂtion. (Beware of MikiÂphonies!)
Pink FloyÂd’s The Dark Side of the Moonturned 50 earÂliÂer this year, which perÂhaps makes it seem easy to disÂmiss as an artiÂfact of a bygone era. It belongs to a periÂod in popÂuÂlar music hisÂtoÂry when musiÂcians and bands were approachÂing their albums with ever-greater aesÂthetÂic and intelÂlecÂtuÂal ambiÂtions — what I’ve come to call the mediÂum’s “heroÂic age” — whose prodÂucts can strike twenÂty-first-cenÂtuÂry lisÂtenÂers as excesÂsive, preÂtenÂtious, and even unhinged. But in spite of the ambiÂence of dorm-room THC haze that has long hung around it, The Dark Side of the Moon remains relÂeÂvant today, dealÂing as it does with such eterÂnal themes as youth, choice, morÂtalÂiÂty, and madÂness — to say nothÂing of time and monÂey.
That’s how PolyÂphonÂic creÂator Noah Lefevre frames it in the video above, an hour-long track-by-track analyÂsis of the FloyÂd’s best-known album. It’s actuÂalÂly a comÂpiÂlaÂtion of all eight episodes of a series origÂiÂnalÂly released in 2020, which, much like The Dark Side of the Moon Itself, benÂeÂfits from being expeÂriÂenced not in parts but as a whole.
Lefevre describes the album as “about the stressÂes and strugÂgles that make human exisÂtence what it is. It’s about all the noise that conÂstantÂly surÂrounds us, and about tryÂing to cut through that noise to find truth, beauÂty, and meanÂing.” He also quotes Pink Floyd frontÂman Roger Waters ascribÂing to it the stateÂment that “all the good things life can offer are there for us to grasp, but that the influÂence of some dark force in our natures preÂvents us from seizÂing them.”
The Dark Side of the Moon has endured not just by dealÂing with those themes, but also by doing so with a cinÂeÂmatÂic sonÂic richÂness. That owes much to the work of Alan ParÂsons, who engiÂneered the recordÂing, but most of the album’s long conÂcepÂtion hapÂpened outÂside the stuÂdio. “It startÂed out with a few weeks in a rehearsal space durÂing which Pink Floyd wrote a rough outÂline for the piece,” says Lefevre. “Then the band took that on tour, even though it was far from comÂpleÂtion. They perÂformed sixÂteen dates in the UK, playÂing the album in full each night”; all the while, they “worked through the album, fine-tunÂing it and develÂopÂing it.” This explains why the result — which, like all of Pink FloyÂd’s albums, you can hear free on Youtube — sounds painstakÂingÂly proÂduced yet organÂic. Give The Dark Side of the Moon anothÂer lisÂten today, and you’ll underÂstand why it’s perÂsistÂed like the conÂdiÂtion of modÂern life itself.
Based in Seoul, ColÂin Marshall writes and broadÂcasts on cities, lanÂguage, and culÂture. His projects include the SubÂstack newsletÂterBooks on Cities, the book The StateÂless City: a Walk through 21st-CenÂtuÂry Los AngeÂles and the video series The City in CinÂeÂma. FolÂlow him on TwitÂter at @colinmarshall or on FaceÂbook.
He would push himÂself to the limÂit all the time. He made it look easy, but everyÂthing that looked easy was three months’ rehearsal. It was nevÂer easy.
The above rehearsal footage from the sumÂmer of 1984 doesn’t show the sweat, but the choreÂogÂraÂphy is obviÂousÂly demandÂing. Prince leaps, squats, pirouÂettes, throws himÂself into James Brown splits, and exeÂcutes a flurÂry of preÂciÂsion dance moves — in wicked high heeled boots.
“He ruined his hips on those damn high heels he used to wear” accordÂing to MinÂneapoÂlis-area choreÂoÂgÂraÂphÂer, John ComÂmand, who worked with Prince and the cast of PurÂple Rain, for nearÂly a year before shootÂing began:
We would do BroadÂway stuff, Bob FosÂse, JerÂry RobÂbins who did West Side StoÂry. A lot of that is very difÂfiÂcult stuff and he loved it.
Glover recalled how Prince would visÂit dance clubs to check parÂtyÂgoÂers’ response to his music:
For one of his songs to get recordÂed it had to come with everyÂthing. If your feet aren’t tapÂping, if your feet aren’t bopÂping, it’s not good enough. If you can’t dance with music then it’s no good.
In 1989, when he opened his Glam Slam nightÂclub, he insistÂed on a resÂiÂdent dance troupe, and made them a priÂorÂiÂty. Its choreÂoÂgÂraÂphÂer, Kat CarÂroll rememÂbered how dancers were held to the same exactÂing stanÂdards Prince set for himÂself:
We worked very hard, and he treatÂed us very well and he paid us very well. But he also expectÂed us to be on top of things, just like his musiÂcians. We worked long hours, many times durÂing the week.
Prince kept up with the proÂfesÂsionÂal dance world, offerÂing to write a piece for Chicago’s JofÂfrey BalÂlet, and waivÂing his royÂalÂties when they perÂformed to it, a move that liftÂed the comÂpaÂny from finanÂcial disÂasÂter in the 90s and increased their audiÂence base.
He recruitÂed balÂleÂriÂna Misty Copeland to tour with him beginÂning in 2009, six years before she made hisÂtoÂry as the first Black prinÂciÂpal dancer in the AmerÂiÂcan BalÂlet TheÂater, anothÂer comÂpaÂny to which he donatÂed genÂerÂousÂly.
He was a fan of avant-garde choreÂoÂgÂraÂphÂer Moses PendleÂton, founder of MOMIX and co-founder of PiloboÂlus Dance TheÂater, but also the dance stylings of Paul “Pee-wee HerÂman” Reubens.
There was one Pee-wee HerÂman movie that he was obsessed with. It was silÂly, like him, and funÂny, and quirky—watching Pee-wee HerÂman dance he just thought was the funÂniÂest thing.
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For those wonÂderÂing about the soundÂtrack to the rehearsal footage at the top of the page, it’s Prince’s origÂiÂnal stuÂdio verÂsion of “NothÂing ComÂpares 2 U” recordÂed in that same room, that same sumÂmer. Six years latÂer, Sinead O’Connor’s covÂer became a globÂal hit.
Alice’s RestauÂrant. It’s now a ThanksÂgivÂing clasÂsic, and someÂthing of a traÂdiÂtion around here. RecordÂed in 1967, the 18+ minute counÂterÂculÂture song recounts Arlo Guthrie’s real encounter with the law, startÂing on ThanksÂgivÂing Day 1965. As the long song unfolds, we hear all about how a hipÂpie-batÂing police offiÂcer, by the name of William “Obie” ObanÂhein, arrestÂed Arlo for litÂterÂing. (CulÂturÂal footÂnote: Obie preÂviÂousÂly posed for sevÂerÂal NorÂman RockÂwell paintÂings, includÂing the well-known paintÂing, “The RunÂaway,” that graced a 1958 covÂer of The SatÂurÂday Evening Post.) In fairÂly short order, Arlo pleads guilty to a misÂdeÂmeanor charge, pays a $25 fine, and cleans up the thrash. But the stoÂry isn’t over. Not by a long shot. LatÂer, when Arlo (son of Woody Guthrie) gets called up for the draft, the petÂty crime ironÂiÂcalÂly becomes a basis for disÂqualÂiÂfyÂing him from milÂiÂtary serÂvice in the VietÂnam War. Guthrie recounts this with some bitÂterÂness as the song builds into a satirÂiÂcal protest against the war: “I’m sitÂtin’ here on the Group W bench ’cause you want to know if I’m moral enough to join the Army, burn women, kids, housÂes and vilÂlages after bein’ a litÂterÂbug.” And then we’re back to the cheery choÂrus again: “You can get anyÂthing you want, at Alice’s RestauÂrant.”
We have feaÂtured Guthrie’s clasÂsic durÂing past years. But, for this ThanksÂgivÂing, we give you the illusÂtratÂed verÂsion. HapÂpy ThanksÂgivÂing to everyÂone who plans to celÂeÂbrate the holÂiÂday today.
If you would like to supÂport the misÂsion of Open CulÂture, conÂsidÂer makÂing a donaÂtion to our site. It’s hard to rely 100% on ads, and your conÂtriÂbuÂtions will help us conÂtinÂue proÂvidÂing the best free culÂturÂal and eduÂcaÂtionÂal mateÂriÂals to learnÂers everyÂwhere. You can conÂtribute through PayÂPal, PatreÂon, and VenÂmo (@openculture). Thanks!
That wasn’t the case in the 1940s, when psyÂcholÂoÂgist Cecil A. Stokes used chemÂistry and polarÂized light to invent soothÂing abstract music videos, a sort of cinÂeÂmatÂic synesÂtheÂsia experÂiÂment such as can be seen above, in his only known surÂvivÂing AuroÂraÂtone.
(The name was sugÂgestÂed by Stokes’ acquainÂtance, geolÂoÂgist, ArcÂtic explorÂer and Catholic priest, Bernard R. HubÂbard, who found the result remÂiÂnisÂcent of the AuroÂra BoreÂalis.)
The tripÂpy visuÂals may strike you as a bit of an odd fit with Bing CrosÂby’s covÂer of the senÂtiÂmenÂtal crowdÂpleasÂer “Oh Promise Me,” but trauÂmaÂtized WWII vets felt difÂferÂentÂly.
Army psyÂcholÂoÂgists HerÂbert E. Rubin and Elias Katz’s research showed that AuroÂraÂtone films had a therÂaÂpeuÂtic effect on their patients, includÂing deep relaxÂation and emoÂtionÂal release.
The music sureÂly conÂtributed to this posÂiÂtive outÂcome. OthÂer AuroÂraÂtone films feaÂtured “MoonÂlight Sonata,” “Clair de Lune,” and an organ solo of “I Dream of JeanÂnie with the Light Brown Hair.”
Drs. Rubin and Katz reportÂed that patients reliÂably wept durÂing AuroÂraÂtones set to “The Lost Chord,” “Ave Maria,” and “Home on the Range” — anothÂer CrosÂby numÂber.
In fact, CrosÂby, always a chamÂpiÂon of techÂnolÂoÂgy, conÂtributed recordÂings for a full third of the fifÂteen known AuroÂraÂtones free of charge and footÂed the bill for overÂseas shipÂping so the films could be shown to solÂdiers on active duty and medÂical leave.
[Stokes’] proÂceÂdure was to cut a tape recordÂed melody into short segÂments and splice the resultÂing pieces into tape loops. The audio sigÂnal from the first loop was sent to a radio transÂmitÂter. The radio waves from the radio transÂmitÂter were conÂfined to a tube and focused up through a glass slide on which he had placed a chemÂiÂcal mixÂture. The radio waves would interÂact with the soluÂtion and trigÂger the forÂmaÂtion of the crysÂtals. In this way each slide would develÂop a shape interÂpreÂtive of the loop of music it had been exposed to. Each loop, in sequence, would be conÂvertÂed to a slide. EvenÂtuÂalÂly a set of slides would be comÂpletÂed that was the natÂurÂal interÂpreÂtaÂtion of the comÂplete musiÂcal melody.
Vets sufÂferÂing from PTSD were not the only ones to embrace these unlikeÂly experÂiÂmenÂtal films.
Patients diagÂnosed with othÂer menÂtal disÂorÂders, youthÂful offendÂers, indiÂvidÂuÂals plagued by chronÂic migraines, and develÂopÂmenÂtalÂly delayed eleÂmenÂtary schoolÂers also benÂeÂfitÂed from AuroÂraÂtones’ soothÂing effects.
The genÂerÂal pubÂlic got a taste of the films in departÂment store screenÂings hyped as “the nearÂest thing to the AuroÂra BoreÂalis ever shown”, where the soporifÂic effect of the colÂor patÂterns were toutÂed as havÂing been creÂatÂed “by MOTHER NATURE HERSELF.”
AuroÂraÂtones were also shown in church by canÂny ChrisÂtÂian leadÂers eager to deploy any bells and whisÂtles that might hold a modÂern flock’s attenÂtion.
The GuggenÂheim MuseÂum’s brass was vastÂly less impressed by the AuroÂraÂtone FounÂdaÂtion of America’s attempts to enlist their supÂport for this “new techÂnique using non-objecÂtive art and musiÂcal comÂpoÂsiÂtions as a means of stimÂuÂlatÂing the human emoÂtions in a manÂner so as to be of valÂue to neuÂro-psyÂchiÂaÂtrists and psyÂcholÂoÂgists, as well as to teachÂers and stuÂdents of both objecÂtive and non-objecÂtive art.”
Co-founder Hilla Rebay, an abstract artist herÂself, wrote a letÂter in which she advised Stokes to “learn what is decÂoÂraÂtion, acciÂdent, intelÂlecÂtuÂal conÂfuÂsion, patÂtern, symÂmeÂtry… in art there is conÂceived law only –nevÂer an acciÂdent.”
A plan for proÂjectÂing AuroÂraÂtones in materÂniÂty wards to “do away with the pains of child-birth” appears to have been a simÂiÂlar non-starter.
While only one AuroÂraÂtone is known to have surÂvived — and its disÂcovÂery by Robert Martens, curaÂtor of Grandpa’s PicÂture ParÂty, is a fasÂciÂnatÂing tale unto itself — you can try cobÂbling togethÂer a 21st-cenÂtuÂry DIY approxÂiÂmaÂtion by plugÂging any of the below tunes into your preÂferred music playÂing softÂware and turnÂing on the visuÂalÂizÂer:
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