Pho­to by Vic­tor Diaz Lamich, via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

Ask a few friends to draw up suf­fi­cient­ly long lists of their favorite albums, and chances are that more than one of them will include Elvis Costel­lo. But today we have for you a list of 500 essen­tial albums that includes no Elvis Costel­lo records at all — not least because it was put togeth­er by Elvis Costel­lo. “Here are 500 albums that can only improve your life,” he writes in his intro­duc­tion to the list, orig­i­nal­ly pub­lished in Van­i­ty Fair. “Many will be quite famil­iar, oth­ers less so.” Costel­lo found it impos­si­ble “to choose just one title by Miles Davis, the Bea­t­les, Joni Mitchell, Dylan, Min­gus, etc.,” but he also made room for less well-known musi­cal names such as David Ack­les, per­haps the great­est unher­ald­ed Amer­i­can song­writer of the late 60s.”

Costel­lo adds that “you may have to go out of your way” to locate some of the albums he has cho­sen, but he made this list in 2000, long before the inter­net brought even the most obscure selec­tions with­in a few key­strokes’ reach with stream­ing ser­vices like Spotify–on which a fan has even made the playlist of Costel­lo’s 500 albums below.

And when Costel­lo writes about hav­ing most­ly exclud­ed “the hit records of today,” he means hit records by the likes of “Mar­i­lyn, Puffy, Korn, Eddie Mon­ey — sor­ry, Kid Rock — Limp Bizk­it, Ricky, Brit­ney, Back­street Boys, etc.” But when he declares “500 albums you need,” described only with a high­light­ed track or two (“When in doubt, play Track 4—it is usu­al­ly the one you want”), all remain enrich­ing lis­tens today. The list begins as fol­lows:

• ABBA: Abba Gold (1992), “Know­ing Me, Know­ing You.”
• DAVID ACKLES: The Road to Cairo (1968), “Down Riv­er” Sub­way to the Coun­try (1969), “That’s No Rea­son to Cry.”
• CANNONBALL ADDERLEY: The Best of Can­non­ball Adder­ley (1968), “Mer­cy, Mer­cy, Mer­cy.”
• AMY ALLISON: The Maudlin Years (1996), “The Whiskey Makes You Sweet­er.”
• MOSE ALLISON: The Best of Mose Alli­son (1970), “Your Mind Is on Vaca­tion.”
• ALMAMEGRETTA: Lin­go (1998), “Gramigna.”
• LOUIS ARMSTRONG: The Com­plete Hot Five and Hot Sev­en Record­ings (2000), “Wild Man Blues,” “Tight Like This.”
• FRED ASTAIRE: The Astaire Sto­ry (1952), “They Can’t Take That Away from Me.”

How many music col­lec­tions, let alone lists of essen­tial records, would put all those names togeth­er? And a few hun­dred albums lat­er, the bot­tom of Costel­lo’s alpha­bet­i­cal­ly orga­nized list proves equal­ly diverse and cul­tur­al­ly cred­i­ble:

• RICHARD WAGNER: Tris­tan and Isol­de (con­duc­tor: Wil­helm Furt­wan­gler; 1952); Der Ring des Nibelun­gen (con­duc­tor: George Solti; 1983).
• PORTER WAGONER AND DOLLY PARTON: The Right Com­bi­na­tion: Burn­ing the Mid­night Oil (1972), “Her and the Car and the Mobile Home.”
• TOM WAITS: Sword­fishtrom­bones (1983), “16 Shells from a Thir­ty-Ought-Six,” “In the Neigh­bor­hood” Rain Dogs (1985), “Jock­ey Full of Bour­bon,” “Time” Frank’s Wild Years (1987), “Inno­cent When You Dream,” “Hang on St. Christo­pher” Bone Machine (1992), “A Lit­tle Rain,” “I Don’t Wan­na Grow Up” Mule Vari­a­tions (1999), “Take It with Me,” “Geor­gia Rae,” “Fil­ipino Box-Spring Hog.”
• SCOTT WALKER: Tilt (1995), “Farmer in the City.”
• DIONNE WARWICK: The Win­dows of the World (1968), “Walk Lit­tle Dol­ly.”
• MUDDY WATERS: More Real Folk Blues (1967), “Too Young to Know.”
• DOC WATSON: The Essen­tial Doc Wat­son (1973), “Tom Doo­ley.”
• ANTON WEBERN: Com­plete Works (con­duc­tor: Pierre Boulez; 2000).
• KURT WEILL: O Moon of Alaba­ma (1994), Lotte Lenya, “Wie lange noch?”
• KENNY WHEELER with LEE KONITZ, BILL FRISELL and DAVE HOLLAND: Angel Song (1997).
• THE WHO: My Gen­er­a­tion (1965), “The Kids Are Alright” Meaty, Beaty, Big and Boun­cy (1971), “Sub­sti­tute.”
• HANK WILLIAMS: 40 Great­est Hits (1978), “I’m So Lone­some I Could Cry,” “I’ll Nev­er Get out of This World Alive.”
• LUCINDA WILLIAMS: Car Wheels on a Grav­el Road (1998), “Drunk­en Angel.”
• SONNY BOY WILLIAMSON: The Best of Son­ny Boy Williamson (1986), “Your Funer­al and My Tri­al,” “Help Me.”
• JESSE WINCHESTER: Jesse Win­ches­ter (1970), “Qui­et About It,” “Black Dog,” “Pay­day.”
• WINGS: Band on the Run (1973), “Let Me Roll It.”
• HUGO WOLF: Lieder (soloist: Diet­rich Fis­ch­er-Dieskau; 2000), “Alles Endet, Was Entste­het.”
• BOBBY WOMACK: The Best of Bob­by Wom­ack (1992), “Har­ry Hip­pie.”
• STEVIE WONDER: Talk­ing Book (1972), “I Believe (When I Fall in Love It Will Be For­ev­er)” Innervi­sions (1973), “Liv­ing for the City” Ful­fill­ing­ness’ First Finale (1974), “You Haven’t Done Noth­in’.”
• BETTY WRIGHT: The Best of Bet­ty Wright (1992), “Clean Up Woman,” “The Baby Sit­ter,” “The Sec­re­tary.”
• ROBERT WYATT: Mid-Eight­ies (1993), “Te Recuer­do Aman­da.”
• LESTER YOUNG: Ulti­mate Lester Young (1998), “The Man I Love.”
• NEIL YOUNG: Every­body Knows This Is Nowhere (1969), “Down by the Riv­er” After the Gol­drush (1970), “Birds” Time Fades Away (1973), “Don’t Be Denied” On the Beach (1974), “Ambu­lance Blues” Free­dom (1989), “The Ways of Love” Ragged Glo­ry (1990), “Fuckin’ Up.”
• ZAMBALLARANA: Zam­bal­larana (1997), “Ven­tu.”

Zam­bal­larana, for the many who won’t rec­og­nize the name, is a band from the Cor­si­can vil­lage of Pigna whose music, accord­ing to one descrip­tion, com­bines “archa­ic male polypho­ny with ele­ments of jazz, ori­en­tal and latin music as well as the inno­v­a­tive way of play­ing tra­di­tion­al Cor­si­can instru­ments such as the 16-string Cetrea, the drum Colom­bu and the flute Pivana.” That counts as just one of the unex­pect­ed lis­ten­ing expe­ri­ences await­ing those who fire up their favorite music-stream­ing ser­vice and work their way through Costel­lo’s list of 500 essen­tial albums. It may also inspire them to deter­mine their own essen­tial albums, an activ­i­ty Costel­lo endors­es as musi­cal­ly salu­tary: “Mak­ing this list made me lis­ten all over again.”

via Far Out Mag­a­zine

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Hear the 10 Best Albums of the 1960s as Select­ed by Hunter S. Thomp­son

Lou Reed Cre­ates a List of the 10 Best Records of All Time

Tom Waits Makes a List of His Top 20 Favorite Albums of All Time

Elvis Costel­lo Sings “Pen­ny Lane” for Sir Paul McCart­ney

The Stunt That Got Elvis Costel­lo Banned From Sat­ur­day Night Live (1977)

Songs by David Bowie, Elvis Costel­lo, Talk­ing Heads & More Re-Imag­ined as Pulp Fic­tion Book Cov­ers

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall, on Face­book, or on Insta­gram.

Fred­die Mer­cury, now gone for more than a quar­ter-cen­tu­ry, seems to have become a star again in the late 2010s. It has hap­pened in not just the Eng­land where he grew up and first hit it big with his band Queen, but in Amer­i­ca (where Queen took longer to catch on) and indeed most of the rest of the world as well: the release of the Mer­cury biopic Bohemi­an Rhap­sody last year renewed inter­est in him even in South Korea, where I live, and where any­one of the age to have lis­tened to Queen’s “Bohemi­an Rhap­sody” at the time of its release would have need­ed to pirate a copy. All this has nat­u­ral­ly prompt­ed a return to the stu­dio vaults in search of more Mer­cury mate­r­i­al, the lat­est find from that expe­di­tion being “Time Waits for No One.”

Astute fans will rec­og­nize the song as a ver­sion of “Time,” the title song Mer­cury record­ed for the 1986 sci-fi musi­cal by Dave Clark of the Dave Clark Five. Elab­o­rate­ly pro­duced with 96 tracks in total, the ver­sion that came out at the time did well enough, but “Clark had always remem­bered that per­for­mance of Fred­die Mer­cury at Abbey Road Stu­dios from 1986,” says Mer­cury’s web site.

“The orig­i­nal had sold mil­lions, and in his own words ‘worked.’  But the feel­ing he had dur­ing the orig­i­nal rehearsal, expe­ri­enc­ing ‘goose­bumps,’ hadn’t dis­si­pat­ed over the decades, and he want­ed to hear this orig­i­nal record­ing — just Fred­die on vocals and Mike Moran on piano.” And so, three decades lat­er, Clark brought Moran back into the stu­dio to re-record his piano part for Mer­cury’s orig­i­nal vocal track.

Like every big song of the 2010s, the stripped-down “Time Waits for No One” (the orig­i­nal title of “Time”) need­ed an impres­sive video to go with it. Mer­cury, who died in the mid­dle of the first music-video era, would sure­ly appre­ci­ate the way that the inter­net has restored a cer­tain vital­i­ty to the form. Clark, who still pos­sessed the neg­a­tives from the orig­i­nal “Time” video shoot, used the mate­r­i­al he did­n’t the first time around to cre­ate a pre­vi­ous­ly unseen Mer­cury per­for­mance to go with this pre­vi­ous­ly unheard — or at least not prop­er­ly heard — Mer­cury song. Like few rock singers before him, Fred­die Mer­cury under­stood the impor­tance of the star­tling, the elab­o­rate, and the oper­at­ic to his craft. But it takes a rel­a­tive­ly sim­ple pro­duc­tion like the new “Time Waits for No One” and its accom­pa­ny­ing video to reveal just why he has endured in a way so many of his con­tem­po­raries haven’t.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Sci­en­tif­ic Study Reveals What Made Fred­die Mercury’s Voice One of a Kind; Hear It in All of Its A Cap­pel­la Splen­dor

What Made Fred­die Mer­cury the Great­est Vocal­ist in Rock His­to­ry? The Secrets Revealed in a Short Video Essay

A Stun­ning Live Con­cert Film of Queen Per­form­ing in Mon­tre­al, Dig­i­tal­ly Restored to Per­fec­tion (1981)

Lis­ten to Fred­die Mer­cury and David Bowie on the Iso­lat­ed Vocal Track for the Queen Hit ‘Under Pres­sure,’ 1981

Scenes from Bohemi­an Rhap­sody Com­pared to Real Life: A 21-Minute Com­pi­la­tion

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall, on Face­book, or on Insta­gram.

Unpro­fes­sion­al, obnox­ious, rude, bor­ing, bullying—all adjec­tives that can apply when mid­dle-aged men com­ment inces­sant­ly on a woman’s looks, when that woman has met with them to talk about her career. The cringe-fac­tor is mag­ni­fied a thou­sand­fold when it’s broad­cast over air­waves, or fiber and 4G. The actress­es and singers who have endured such abuse in front of audi­ences spans the his­to­ry of radio and TV.

Blondie’s Deb­o­rah Har­ry got the treat­ment. Sub­ject­ed to “years of super­fi­cial, tedious, and demean­ing ques­tions from jour­nal­ists,” notes doc­u­men­tary pro­duc­tion com­pa­ny Pub­lic Inter­est, she final­ly “devis­es a bril­liant way to turn inter­views on their head.” The video above pulls togeth­er a mon­tage of inter­view clips in which both male and female talk­ing heads start near­ly every con­ver­sa­tion with Har­ry by refer­ring to her as “a rein­car­na­tion of Mar­i­lyn Mon­roe” or some­thing to that effect. She is vis­i­bly annoyed but keeps her cool, which a cou­ple inter­view­ers take as an invi­ta­tion for near-harass­ment.

Some might claim the crude inter­est in Harry’s looks was jus­ti­fied, giv­en her ear­ly per­sona as a punk-rock pin­up, but note that most of the inter­view­ers nev­er get around to talk­ing about the music—the rea­son we know and admire her in the first place. Instead, one British TV pre­sen­ter fol­lows up the Mar­i­lyn Mon­roe ques­tion (if it can be so called) by ask­ing if Har­ry is “think­ing about going into mar­riage.”

The ques­tions aren’t always lech­er­ous but they are always inane. Har­ry is clear about one thing. It’s an oblig­a­tion; she’s there to sell a prod­uct. How does she turn the tables? A stuffed ani­mal mas­cot, a few well-placed “can you believe this shit?” looks at the cam­era, and a flat-out refusal to answer any ques­tions about Madon­na, for a start. Lou Reed and Bob Dylan get cred­it for being some of the cranki­est inter­view sub­jects in rock and roll, but Har­ry had more rea­son than either of them to hate this part of the job.

See how she han­dles it, and for con­trast, read an inter­view she did with Bill Brew­ster in 2014, when Blondie released the reunion album Ghosts of Down­load. Brew­ster keeps the focus on the music, and she seems total­ly thrilled to get the chance to talk about it.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Hear Deb­bie Harry’s Stun­ning Ethe­re­al Vocal Tracks from “Heart of Glass,” “Call Me,” “Rap­ture,” and “One Way or Anoth­er”

Watch Iggy Pop & Deb­bie Har­ry Sing a Swelli­gant Ver­sion of Cole Porter’s “Did You Evah,” All to Raise Mon­ey for AIDS Research (1990)

Blondie Plays CBGB in the Mid-70s in Two Vin­tage Clips

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

Jazz is a col­lab­o­ra­tive art, no mat­ter how big the egos and out­sized the per­son­al­i­ties involved. Even band­lead­ers as auto­crat­ic as Miles Davis are referred to in the con­text of their ensem­bles and in the com­pa­ny of their finest play­ers. Davis knew how good his col­lab­o­ra­tors were. He gave them ample space to prove it and pushed them to improve. Usu­al­ly pushed them out the door, to leg­endary solo careers and new musi­cal dynas­ties: John Coltrane and Her­bie Han­cock come to mind imme­di­ate­ly.

As the 80s dawned, pop­u­lar music on the whole became increas­ing­ly pro­duc­er-dri­ven. Dig­i­tal syn­the­siz­ers and sam­plers took promi­nence, and jazz greats like Davis and Han­cock fol­lowed suit. (Would Coltrane have made com­put­er music in the 80s had he lived to see them?) In 1986, Davis’s album Tutu fierce­ly “divid­ed fans and crit­ics,” notes Jazz­wise mag­a­zine. “Miles record­ed his trum­pet parts over a lush elec­tric sound­scape, pro­duced from a bat­tery of sam­plers, syn­the­siz­ers, sequencers and drum machines.”

Most­ly “pro­duced, arranged, played, and com­posed,” by bassist Mar­cus Miller—anticipating the cur­rent phe­nom­e­non of pro­duc­er-cre­at­ed albums—Tutu “was a prod­uct of the 80s, a decade where music was often in dan­ger of becom­ing sub­servient to tech­nol­o­gy.” In Davis’ hands, the tech­no­log­i­cal approach to jazz pro­duced a clas­sic that “con­tin­ues to thrive” in the jazz world, cov­ered by sev­er­al major artists. Anoth­er album Davis record­ed around the same time, Rub­ber­band, nev­er got the chance to have this kind of impact—but we will soon get to imag­ine what might have hap­pened had he released the 1986 funk, soul, dance album at the time.

In its fin­ished form—finished, that is, by orig­i­nal pro­duc­ers Randy Hall and Zane Giles, and Davis’ nephew Vince Wilburn, Jr., who played drums on the album—Rub­ber­band sounds ahead of its time, seem­ing to fore­cast the smooth neo-soul sound of a decade lat­er. But who knows how much this is an arti­fact of recent stu­dio deci­sions. The impres­sion, in any case, comes only from the title track, released last year in five dif­fer­ent ver­sions on the Rub­ber­band EP. Fea­tur­ing singer Ledisi, the song presages the hip-hop-adja­cent, horn-and-female-vocal-dri­ven funk of the Brand New Heav­ies, Erykah Badu, and Meshell Nde­geo­cel­lo.

At the same time, “Rub­ber­band” incor­po­rates some of the more banal ele­ments of the genre, such as an upbeat, some­what insipid cho­rus about mak­ing a bet­ter life. The track cross­es ful­ly over into con­tem­po­rary dance music—it is no longer jazz at all, real­ly. Whether or not we can say that about the entire album remains to be seen. The full, com­plet­ed, album will be released on Sep­tem­ber 6th (pre-order here), with a cov­er paint­ing by Davis him­self. “Set to be his first album for Warn­er Bros. Records fol­low­ing his depar­ture from long­time label Colum­bia,” reports Pitch­fork, “that record was ulti­mate­ly shelved” in favor of Tutu.

The record fea­tures oth­er guest singers, so we might expect more jams like “Rub­ber­band,” but one nev­er real­ly knows with Davis, who arguably invented—or at least perfected—producer-driven, stu­dio-made jazz records many years ear­li­er, first on the ground­break­ing In a Silent Way in 1969, then on the even more ground­break­ing Bitch­es Brew in 1970. Even as his music began to sound more com­mer­cial, its roots in four decades of rad­i­cal­ly chang­ing jazz every few years made it whol­ly orig­i­nal to the minds of Miles Davis and his col­lab­o­ra­tors.

via Pitch­fork

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Kind of Blue: How Miles Davis Changed Jazz

Hear a 65-Hour, Chrono­log­i­cal Playlist of Miles Davis’ Rev­o­lu­tion­ary Jazz Albums

Lis­ten to The Night When Miles Davis Opened for the Grate­ful Dead in 1970

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

This strat­e­gy will not work in most ran­somware attacks—if your per­son­al data is stolen, releas­ing all of it to the pub­lic for a small fee might dif­fuse the blackmailer’s bomb, but your prob­lems will only have just begun. But for Radio­head, releas­ing 18 hours of demo mate­r­i­al from mini­disks record­ed between 1995 and 1998, dur­ing the mak­ing of their land­mark OK Com­put­er, turned out to be just the thing. For a lim­it­ed time, 18 days from the announce­ment, you can buy all 18 hours of that mate­r­i­al on Band­camp for the low price of £18 (about $23), with all pro­ceeds ben­e­fit­ing the cli­mate change advo­ca­cy group Extinc­tion Rebel­lion. The music can also be streamed for free (click on the play­er above) dur­ing that time.

The mini­disk archive was stolen from Thom Yorke by a hack­er who demand­ed $150,000 or threat­ened to release them. Gui­tarist Jon­ny Green­wood announced the theft on Twit­ter and Face­book. “We got hacked last week—someone stole Thom’s mini­disk archive from around the time of OK Com­put­er…. For £18 you can find out if we should have paid that ran­som.”

He pref­aced the demos with some mod­est com­men­tary: “Nev­er intend­ed for pub­lic con­sump­tion (though some clips did reach the cas­sette in the OK Com­put­er reis­sue) it’s only tan­gen­tial­ly inter­est­ing. And very, very long. Not a phone down­load. Rainy out, isn’t it though?”

Although bands release demo mate­r­i­al all the time—or their record com­pa­nies do, at least—few go out of their way to talk up alter­nate takes, sketch­es, skele­tal ear­ly ver­sions, and reject­ed songs. But fan com­mu­ni­ties often treat such mate­r­i­al as akin to find­ing lost ancient lit­er­ary sources. Wit­ness the 65-page doc­u­ment titled OK Mini­disc already pub­lished online, a detailed analy­sis of the demos by a group from online Radio­head fan­dom that will like­ly now for­ev­er fea­ture in the band’s accu­mu­lat­ed lore.

The demo col­lec­tion, sim­ply called MINIDISCS [HACKED], will give Radio­head schol­ars lay and pro­fes­sion­al a wealth of evi­dence to draw on for decades—insights into their pro­duc­tion process and the evo­lu­tion of Thom Yorke’s writ­ing. (The first track is an ear­ly ver­sion of OK Com­put­er’s “Exit Music (For a Film)” with mopey, self-pity­ing lyrics that might have fit bet­ter on the band’s debut album).

As a lis­ten­ing expe­ri­ence, sit­ting through 18 hours of out­takes may be “only tan­gen­tial­ly inter­est­ing” and cer­tain­ly “very, very long.” But when it comes to an album as wide­ly and deeply wor­shipped as OK Com­put­er, this mate­r­i­al might as well be Dead Sea Scrolls.

Sure­ly the mini­disk archive’s kidnapper(s) count­ed on the mas­sive pro­file of the 1997 album when they named their price, but they didn’t know quite who they were deal­ing with. Con­tribute to cli­mate action and become an inde­pen­dent Ok Com­put­er schol­ar your­self by buy­ing and down­load­ing (with a sol­id broad­band con­nec­tion) all 18 hours of the MINIDISCS [HACKED] col­lec­tion at Band­camp. Or stream it all above.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The 10 Most Depress­ing Radio­head Songs Accord­ing to Data Sci­ence: Hear the Songs That Ranked High­est in a Researcher’s “Gloom Index”

Clas­sic Radio­head Songs Re-Imag­ined as a Sci-Fi Book, Pulp Fic­tion Mag­a­zine & Oth­er Nos­tal­gic Arti­facts

Radiohead’s Thom Yorke Gives Teenage Girls Endear­ing Advice About Boys (And Much More)

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

Owing to its sim­plic­i­ty and inex­pen­sive­ness, the recorder has become one of the most com­mon­ly taught instru­ments in grade-school music class­es. But that very posi­tion has also, per­haps, made it a less respect­ed instru­ment than it could be. We may vivid­ly remem­ber the hours spent fum­bling with the holes on the front of our plas­tic recorders in an attempt to mas­ter the basic melodies assigned to us as home­work, but did we ever learn any­thing of the instru­men­t’s long his­to­ry — or, for that mat­ter, any­thing of what it can sound like in the hands of a vir­tu­oso instead of those of a frus­trat­ed ten-year-old?

The recorder goes back at least as far as the Mid­dle Ages, and with its pas­toral asso­ci­a­tions it remained a pop­u­lar instru­ment through­out the Renais­sance and Baroque peri­ods. But then came a peri­od of wide­spread dis­in­ter­est in the recorder that last­ed at least until the 20th cen­tu­ry, when musi­cians start­ed per­form­ing pieces with instru­ments from the same his­tor­i­cal peri­ods as the music itself.

Despite the instru­men­t’s going in and out of style, the list of com­posers who have writ­ten for the recorder does boast some for­mi­da­ble names, includ­ing Johann Sebas­t­ian Bach, George Frid­er­ic Han­del, Clau­dio Mon­tever­di, Hen­ry Pur­cell, and Anto­nio Vival­di, whose Recorder Con­cer­to in C Major you can see per­formed in the video at the top of the post.

“After a few mea­sures, musi­cian Mau­rice Ste­ger stepped up to the micro­phone and with amaz­ing skill, shred­ded sev­er­al seri­ous solos on the recorder,” Laugh­ing Squid’s Lori Dorn reports of the spec­ta­cle. “Ste­ger rest­ed for a few bars to catch his breath and then start all over again. Sim­ply a won­der to behold.” We also, in the video just above, have Lucie Horsch’s also-vir­tu­osic per­for­mance of Vivaldi’s Flauti­no Con­cer­to in C Major, albeit trans­posed to G major trans­po­si­tion for sopra­no recorder. Even among those who learned to despise the recorder in school, there will be some who now can’t get enough. But even if it has­n’t become your favorite instru­ment, you’ve got to admit that we’re a long way indeed from “Hot Cross Buns.”

via Laugh­ing Squid

Relat­ed Con­tent:

14-Year-Old Girl’s Blis­ter­ing Heavy Met­al Per­for­mance of Vival­di

Why We Love Vivaldi’s “Four Sea­sons”: An Ani­mat­ed Music Les­son

Stream 58 Hours of Free Clas­si­cal Music Select­ed to Help You Study, Work, or Sim­ply Relax

The World Con­cert Hall: Lis­ten To The Best Live Clas­si­cal Music Con­certs for Free

Watch John Bonham’s Blis­ter­ing 13-Minute Drum Solo on “Moby Dick,” One of His Finest Moments Live Onstage (1970)

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

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall, on Face­book, or on Insta­gram.