“Stay Free: The Story of the Clash” Narrated by Public Enemy’s Chuck D: A New 8‑Episode Podcast

Spo­ti­fy, in part­ner­ship with the BBC, has launched “Stay Free: The Sto­ry of the Clash,” an eight-part pod­cast on the icon­ic punk band, nar­rat­ed by Pub­lic Ene­my front man, Chuck D. It might seem like an unex­pect­ed pair­ing. And yet Spo­ti­fy explains: “Like The Clash, Pub­lic Ene­my open­ly chal­lenged the sta­tus quo in a com­plete­ly orig­i­nal way—this par­al­lel and Chuck D’s per­son­al expe­ri­ences bring a sur­pris­ing new dimen­sion to the sto­ry of The Clash.” Review­ing the pro­duc­tion in The New York­er, Sarah Lar­son adds:

In [“Stay Free: The Sto­ry of the Clash”], we learn that Chuck D, a radio d.j. at the time, co-found­ed Pub­lic Ene­my after a con­ver­sa­tion, in 1986, with a friend at Def Jam, who want­ed him to become “the hip-hop ver­sion of Joe Strum­mer,” of the Clash—to make music with “intel­lec­tu­al heft” that could also “rock the par­ty.” And read­er, he did. His pres­ence as nar­ra­tor adds appeal­ing per­spec­tive and grav­i­tas to the pod­cast, which begins with the sto­ry of the Clash’s ori­gins, in a West Lon­don riot in 1976. With a skill­ful­ly lay­ered pre­sen­ta­tion of punk music, sev­en­ties-Lon­don audio, and inter­view clips, the pod­cast so far thrills me the way that “Mogul,” the Spo­ti­fy-Gim­let pod­cast about the late hip-hop mogul Chris Lighty, did; I’m eager to hear the rest.

Watch the pod­cast trail­er above. Stream the pod­cast episodes–all eight–on Spo­ti­fy here. Also the relat­ed playlist of music. And remem­ber folks, The Clash, they’re still the only band that mat­ters…

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 and BlueSky.

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 Beast­ie Boys Release a New Free­wheel­ing Mem­oir, and a Star-Stud­ded 13-Hour Audio­book Fea­tur­ing Snoop Dogg, Elvis Costel­lo, Bette Midler, John Stew­art & Dozens More

The Clash Live in Tokyo, 1982: Watch the Com­plete Con­cert

Mick Jones Plays Three Favorite Clash Songs at the Library

Doc­u­men­tary Viva Joe Strum­mer: The Sto­ry of the Clash Sur­veys the Career of Rock’s Beloved Front­man

The Clash Star in 1980’s Gang­ster Par­o­dy Hell W10, a Film Direct­ed by Joe Strum­mer

by | Permalink | Make a Comment ( 3 ) |

Watch Lin-Manuel Miranda Perform the Earliest Version of Hamilton at the White House, Six Years Before the Play Hit the Broadway Stage (2009)

Anoth­er immi­grant comin’ up from the bot­tom

His ene­mies destroyed his rep, Amer­i­ca for­got him… 

Holler if you can remem­ber a time when few Amer­i­cans were well-versed enough in found­ing father Alexan­der Hamil­ton’s ori­gin sto­ry to recite it in rhyme at the drop of a hat.

Believe it or not, as recent­ly as the sum­mer of 2015, when Lin-Manuel Miran­da’s Pulitzer Prize-win­ning Hamil­ton: An Amer­i­can Musi­cal explod­ed on Broad­way, Hamil­ton the man was, as the Tony award win­ning lyrics above sug­gest, large­ly for­got­ten, a rel­ic whose por­trait on the $10 bill aroused lit­tle curios­i­ty.

Back then, Hamil­ton was per­haps best known as the hap­less soul embod­ied by Michael Cera in the web series Drunk His­to­ry.

Ron Chernow’s 2005 biog­ra­phy served up a more nuanced por­trait to read­ers with the sta­mi­na to make it through his mas­sive tome.

That’s the book Miran­da famous­ly took along on vaca­tion in the peri­od between his musi­cal In the Heights’ Broad­way and Off-Broad­way runs.

The rest, as they say, is his­to­ry.

As is the above video, in which a 29-year-old Miran­da per­forms The Hamil­ton Mix­tape for Pres­i­dent Oba­ma, the First Lady, and oth­er lumi­nar­ies as part of a White House evening of poet­ry, music, and spo­ken word.

There’s your Hamil­ton (the musi­cal) ori­gin sto­ry.

Its cre­ator ini­tial­ly con­ceived of it as a hip hop con­cept album in which cel­e­brat­ed rap­pers would give voice to dif­fer­ent his­tor­i­cal char­ac­ters.

Music direc­tor Alex Lacamoire’s jubi­lant expres­sion at the White House piano con­firms that they had some inkling that they were on to some­thing very big.

A few months lat­er, Miran­da reflect­ed on the expe­ri­ence in an inter­view with Play­bill:

The whole day was a day that will exist out­side any oth­er day in my life. Any day that starts with you shar­ing a van to the White House with James Earl Jones is going to be a crazy day! I was the clos­ing act of the show and I had nev­er done this project in pub­lic before so I was already ner­vous. I looked at the Pres­i­dent and the First Lady only once and when I looked at him he was whis­per­ing some­thing to her and I couldn’t let that get to me. After­wards, George Stephanopou­los came up to me and said, “The Pres­i­dent is back there talk­ing about your song, he’s say­ing ‘Where is (Sec­re­tary of the Trea­sury) Tim­o­thy Geit­ner? We need him to hear the Hamil­ton rap!’” To hear that the Pres­i­dent enjoyed the song was a real dream come true. 

The Oba­mas enjoy­ment was such that they appeared in a pre-taped seg­ment to intro­duce the Hamil­ton cast at the 2016 Tony awards (a tough year for any oth­er musi­cal unlucky enough to have debuted in the same peri­od as this jug­ger­naut).

They also host­ed a Hamil­ton work­shop for DC-area youth, for which the Broad­way cast trav­eled down on their day off, per­form­ing the open­ing num­ber out of cos­tume. Biog­ra­ph­er Ron Cher­now was in the front row for that one, as Oba­ma remarked that “Hamil­ton is the only thing Dick Cheney and I agree on.”

(“Dick Cheney attend­ed the show tonight,” Miran­da tweet­ed after Cheney’s vis­it. “He’s the OTHER vice-pres­i­dent who shot a friend while in office.” Cur­rent Vice Pres­i­dent Mike Pence also took in a per­for­mance short­ly before his swear­ing in, though his appear­ance was met with a much less pithy response.)

As for The Hamil­ton Mix­tape, many of Miran­da’s dream rap­pers turned out for its record­ing, though the tracks they laid down diverge from the one per­formed live for the Oba­mas in 2009, which legions of ador­ing fans can chant along to thanks to the musi­cal’s over­whelm­ing pop­u­lar­i­ty. Instead, this mixtape’s con­tribut­ing artists were invit­ed to reimag­ine and expand upon the themes of the play—immigration, ambi­tion, and stubble—placing them in an explic­it­ly 21st-cen­tu­ry con­text.

Lis­ten to The Hamil­ton Mix­tape and the orig­i­nal cast record­ing of Hamil­ton for free on Spo­ti­fy.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Lin-Manuel Miran­da & Emi­ly Blunt Take You Through 22 Clas­sic Musi­cals in 12 Min­utes

A Whiskey-Fueled Lin-Manuel Miran­da Reimag­ines Hamil­ton as a Girl on Drunk His­to­ry

Hamilton’s Lin-Manuel Miran­da Cre­ates a 19-Song Playlist to Help You Get Over Writer’s Block

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, the­ater mak­er and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine. She has yet to win the Hamil­ton lot­tery. Join her in New York City for the next install­ment of her book-based vari­ety show, Necro­mancers of the Pub­lic Domain, this March. Fol­low her @AyunHalliday.

Jim Morrison Declares That “Fat is Beautiful” .… And Means It

There’s a bit of cog­ni­tive dis­so­nance in a young rock god giv­ing voice to the fat pride move­ment some four decades after his death.

Years before social media ampli­fied celebri­ty weight gain cov­er­age to the realm of nation­al news, The Doors’ lead singer, Lizard King Jim Mor­ri­son, was the sub­ject of intense bod­i­ly scruti­ny.

The musician’s drug of choice—alcohol—swiftly added some extra cush­ion­ing to the sexy, shirt­less young lion image pho­tog­ra­ph­er Joel Brod­sky man­aged to cap­ture in 1967.

That lean, leather-pant­ed ver­sion is the one the Mor­ri­son direc­tor Patrick Smith went with for the Blank on Blank ani­ma­tion above, using audio from a 1969 inter­view with the Vil­lage Voice’s Howard Smith (no rela­tion).

Occa­sion­al­ly ani­ma­tor Smith bal­loons the 2‑D Morrison’s bel­ly for humor­ous effect, but let’s be frank. By today’s stan­dards, the 5’11 Mor­ri­son, who by his own esti­mate tipped the scales at 185lb, was hard­ly “fat.”

Pleas­ing­ly plump per­haps…

Fill­ing out…

Eat­ing (and drink­ing) like some­one whose bank account did­n’t require belt tight­en­ing.

His com­pas­sion toward gen­er­ous­ly pro­por­tioned bod­ies like­ly sprang from ear­ly expe­ri­ence.

As pho­tog­ra­ph­er Lin­da McCart­ney recalled in Lin­da McCartney’s The Sixties—Portrait Of An Era:

He … told me that he’d grown up as a fat kid that no one want­ed to know and that this had caused him a lot of emo­tion­al pain.

Then he explained what had brought it all to the sur­face. Appar­ent­ly he had been walk­ing around Green­wich Vil­lage that morn­ing and a girl who he knew as a child had spot­ted him and start­ed going crazy over him. That both­ered him because he sensed the hypocrisy of it all. When he was a fat mil­i­tary brat these peo­ple had reject­ed and ignored him but now, because of his new pub­lic image, they were fawn­ing over him.

That “new pub­lic image” is the one most of us think of first when think­ing of Jim Mor­ri­son, but as a flesh and blood exem­plar, it was unsus­tain­able. Pho­tog­ra­ph­er Brod­sky reflects:

The shot on the inner sleeve of the Great­est Hits album was pret­ty near the end, I think. By that time, he was so drunk he was stum­bling into the lights and we had to stop the ses­sion. Mor­ri­son nev­er real­ly looked that way again, and those pic­tures have become a big part of The Doors’ leg­end. I think I got him at his peak.

Mor­ri­son didn’t dwell on child­hood mis­eries in his Vil­lage Voice inter­view, nor did he show any self-loathing or regret for physiques past.

Rather, he gave voice to the pos­i­tive effects of his increased size. He felt like a tank, a beast—a body of con­se­quence.

(To con­sid­er the impli­ca­tions of bod­i­ly size for a female in Morrison’s world, have a look at car­toon­ist Péné­lope Bagieu’s Cal­i­for­nia Dreamin’: Cass Elliot before the Mamas and The Papas.)

Relat­ed Con­tent:

“The Lost Paris Tapes” Pre­serves Jim Morrison’s Final Poet­ry Record­ings from 1971

The Last Known Pho­tos of Jim Mor­ri­son, Tak­en Days Before His Death in Paris (June 1971)

The Doors Play Live in Den­mark & LA in 1968: See Jim Mor­ri­son Near His Charis­mat­ic Peak

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, the­ater mak­er and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine.  Join her in New York City March 11 for the next install­ment of her book-based vari­ety show, Necro­mancers of the Pub­lic Domain. Fol­low her @AyunHalliday.

Hear Underground 12, the Earliest Known Case of Musicians Recording While Under the Influence of LSD (1966)

Music and LSD: after “Tomor­row Nev­er Knows” and Sgt. Pep­per, we knew what an acid trip should sound like. Oth­er folks need­ed to know more. Some­where in Los Ange­les in 1966 a group of musi­cians were dos­ing and record­ing while trip­ping.

The result­ing recording–credited to “Under­ground 12” and con­sid­ered the ear­li­est known case of musi­cians record­ing while under the influ­ence of LSD–was only avail­able, as the leg­end goes, by mail order–you can see a copy of it here on discogs, a plain red label with only an address: 12457 Ven­tu­ra Blvd. in Stu­dio City, CA. A lit­tle bit of Google snoop­ing revealed this to be an office for Hunt­ing­ton Park First Sav­ings and Loan in 1966, but assum­ing there was anoth­er office there, an issue of Bill­board from that year also men­tions an artist man­ag­er called Bob Reed at the same address. (Bob, we’re on to you!).

There’s noth­ing par­tic­u­lar­ly groovy about this music. There’s no sitars, no fuzz ped­als, no incense, no pep­per­mints. There is, how­ev­er, a lot of echo and delay, a lot of sped up tape (which in parts sounds a bit like Zappa’s “King Kong”), plen­ty of aton­al laugh­ing, and welp, that’s about it for side one.

Side two is a bit bet­ter, with an actu­al piano played at nor­mal speed, and an elec­tric gui­tar solo­ing against it. This sounds a bit prog­gy, about five years ahead of its time. But then the pro­duc­er (Bob Reed, is that you again?) starts speed­ing up the tape again.

Con job or bad trip? Did these musi­cians know what they were in for? Did they real­ly dose, or was stu­dio trick­ery seen as a good enough place­bo? Did the LSD pro­duce some pret­ty ordi­nary stu­dio jam­ming and the LP is a sal­vage job? So many mys­ter­ies, so lit­tle time.

Lyser­gia, a Swedish label that re-releas­es rare grooves such as this has also put out The Psy­che­del­ic Expe­ri­ence: The Ulti­mate Jour­ney Through Late 60s Psy­che­delia, Acid Burns and Drug­gy Grooves by Patrick Lund­borg, a Swedish writer whose sub­ject was LSD, and rere­leased the only album by Madri­gal, a Mor­ris­town, New Jer­sey two­some which has a 13-minute track called “Stoned Freak­out.”

How­ev­er if the above sam­pler thrills you and you would like to own an orig­i­nal copy of this dubi­ous clas­sic by the Under­ground 12, it will set you back $666. The sell­er, obvi­ous­ly, knows what’s up.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

When Aldous Hux­ley, Dying of Can­cer, Left This World Trip­ping on LSD, Expe­ri­enc­ing “the Most Serene, the Most Beau­ti­ful Death” (1963)

Artist Draws 9 Por­traits While on LSD: Inside the 1950s Exper­i­ments to Turn LSD into a “Cre­ativ­i­ty Pill”

Watch The Bicy­cle Trip: An Ani­ma­tion of The World’s First LSD Trip Which Took Place on April 19, 1943

Ted Mills is a free­lance writer on the arts who cur­rent­ly hosts the artist inter­view-based FunkZone Pod­cast and is the pro­duc­er of KCR­W’s Curi­ous Coast. You can also fol­low him on Twit­ter at @tedmills, read his oth­er arts writ­ing at tedmills.com and/or watch his films here.

The 100 Top Punk Songs of All Time, Curated by Readers of the UK’s Sounds Magazine in 1981

When did punk rock die? Every­one knows it hap­pened some­time in recent his­to­ry, but few peo­ple agree on when. The music still exists, in know­ing quo­ta­tion marks, but its win­ning com­bi­na­tion of unforced abra­sive­ness and cal­cu­lat­ed offen­sive­ness seems to have dis­ap­peared. Maybe pick a year at ran­dom; say, 2010, the year the last great punk song­writer, Jay Reatard, died. It also hap­pens to be the year the last great punk band, OFF!, formed, but they’re a super­group of clas­sic punk musi­cians.

One could push that date back into any decade and make rea­soned argu­ments. One snarling purist even once wrote that punk died in 1977 when the Clash signed to CBS. Maybe he was on to some­thing. The fol­low­ing year, it was post-punk, with John­ny Rot­ten, aka Lydon, releas­ing his post-Sex Pistol’s project Pub­lic Image Limited’s first album, First Issue. Also in 1978, Siouxsie and the Ban­shees released their debut album, a state­ment for the spik­i­ness and melo­dra­ma of post punk if there ever was one.

By 1981, a year some­one might also choose to etch on punk’s tomb­stone, sur­viv­ing mem­bers of post-punk dar­lings Joy Divi­sion had reformed into New Order and released their first album, Move­ment. Declar­ing the death of punk sounds like a bum­mer, but many peo­ple found solace in the arms of new wave syn­th­pop and acid house. Still, 1981 didn’t care about anyone’s punk opin­ions. A slew of now-clas­sic punk and hard­core albums coex­ist­ed with the likes of Gary Numan—Black Flag’s Dam­aged and D.O.A.’s Hard­core ’81, clas­sic albums from Crass, The Adicts, Ado­les­cents, T.S.O.L., and, of course, The Exploited’s Punk’s Not Dead.

The list above (view it in a larg­er for­mat here), the “All-Time Punk Top 100”—voted on in 1981 by read­ers of the “music paper” Sounds—con­tains a hand­ful of songs from Siouxsie and the Ban­shees and Pub­lic Image Lim­it­ed. Some peo­ple might choose to split hairs. The Exploit­ed make many appear­ances, as do the Sex Pis­tols, The Clash, UK Subs, Dis­charge and oth­er British stal­warts. The heavy UK lean is to be expect­ed from read­ers of the short-lived UK music mag, but the fact that there are no Ramones, no Dead Boys, no Stooges, no Blondie, no Black Flag even… can begin to feel down­right insult­ing.

Maybe punk just looked dif­fer­ent on the oth­er side of the pond in 1981. If it looked like the all-time top 100 list, then it sound­ed like the playlist above (stream it on Spo­ti­fy here), which col­lects these 100 best-ofs, or greats, or not so greats, or clear­ly mis­guid­ed choic­es, or what­ev­er. Enjoy it as you furi­ous­ly cor­rect it with your own picks.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The His­to­ry of Punk Rock in 200 Tracks: An 11-Hour Playlist Takes You From 1965 to 2016

33 Songs That Doc­u­ment the His­to­ry of Fem­i­nist Punk (1975–2015): A Playlist Curat­ed by Pitch­fork

Hear the 50 Best Post-Punk Albums of All Time: A Nos­tal­gia-Induc­ing Playlist Curat­ed by Paste Mag­a­zine

Stream a Playlist of 68 Punk Rock Christ­mas Songs: The Ramones, The Damned, Bad Reli­gion & More

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

Watch Marc Martel, Who Supplied Vocals for the Award-Winning Queen Film, Sing Just Like Freddie Mercury: “Bohemian Rhapsody,” “We Are The Champions” & More

Under­stand­ably, giv­en a moviego­ing pub­lic seem­ing­ly starved for real­i­ty, all of the biggest win­ners at this year’s Acad­e­my Awards were based on true events. And near­ly all of them have gen­er­at­ed huge con­tro­ver­sies for the lib­er­ties they took with those true sto­ries. While some of the crit­i­cism can sound cen­so­ri­ous, none of it is about cen­sor­ship, but about the larg­er social ques­tion of how much truth we should sac­ri­fice for the sake of com­merce and enter­tain­ment, two human endeav­ors with which edu­ca­tion can­not com­pete.

One of those big Oscar con­tenders, the Fred­die Mer­cury biopic Bohemi­an Rhap­sody, strays from the facts in ways some have even deemed “harm­ful.” But in one respect, at least—and per­haps the most impor­tant giv­en its subject—it is faith­ful.

The film gets the music right, in part by sync­ing best actor-win­ner Rami Malek’s onstage per­for­mances as Mer­cury with Mercury’s actu­al voice, and some­times with the voice of Marc Mar­tel, “a vocal dop­pel­gänger for the Queen front­man,” as Gavin Edwards writes at The New York Times, with a “promi­nent but invis­i­ble role in Bohemi­an Rhap­sody.”

Audi­ences will not know when it’s Mer­cury or Mar­tel, though the singer has received “fleet­ing ‘addi­tion­al vocals’ billing” in the film. A nondis­clo­sure agree­ment keeps Mar­tel from telling—and he did­n’t know until the film pre­miered which scenes would fea­ture his voice. But the fact that audi­ences will like­ly nev­er tell the dif­fer­ence is remark­able. Even Queen drum­mer Roger Tay­lor told Mar­tel, “When I lis­ten to you sing it’s like Fred­die walked into the room.” This was the moment, the singer says, when he embraced the like­ness, which he hadn’t thought very much of in the past. “It’s dif­fer­ent from what I envi­sioned doing as a young musi­cian.”

Martel’s oth­er gig was as the lead singer of a Chris­t­ian rock band called Down­here (he says noth­ing about how his par­tic­u­lar sect views Mer­cury’s sex­u­al­i­ty). He began per­form­ing Queen cov­ers dur­ing a hia­tus and has since appeared on Amer­i­can Idol, released an album of Queen cov­ers, and is now tour­ing in a trib­ute show, “The Ulti­mate Queen Cel­e­bra­tion.” Mar­tel is not a Mer­cury clone, nor has he ever attempt­ed to be. He can “item­ize the sub­tle dif­fer­ences” between his voice and Freddie’s, Edwards writes:

I’m not British, so I don’t usu­al­ly sing with an accent. I don’t have extra teeth like he did, so my Ss come out nor­mal­ly — his were very pierc­ing. But even if I don’t try to sing like Fred­die Mer­cury, peo­ple still hear him in my voice, no mat­ter what I do. I have this weird unique thing where I can sound like him, so why wouldn’t I?

It has become a high­ly mar­ketable skill that’s “pay­ing the bills right now,” as his man­ag­er put it, though Mar­tel is eager to get back to his own song­writ­ing. But even if he wasn’t cel­e­brat­ed at the Oscars, he’s proud of his con­tri­bu­tion to the film, and to the lives of Queen fans. “It brings peo­ple so much joy and nos­tal­gia,” Mar­tel says, “and fre­quent­ly I see peo­ple tear­ing up in the front row.” Whether or not you are a fan of Bohemi­an Rhap­sody, the movie, you’ll be bowled over by the uncan­ny fideli­ty of Martel’s Mer­cury ren­di­tions (his fea­tures even resem­ble Mer­cury’s when he starts singing). Here, see Mar­tel sing “Bohemi­an Rhap­sody,” at the top, “We Are the Cham­pi­ons,” fur­ther up, and, above, a stun­ning ren­di­tion of “Love of My Life.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Mak­ing of “Bohemi­an Rhap­sody”: Take a Deep Dive Into the Icon­ic Song with Queen’s 2002 Mini Doc­u­men­tary

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

Hear Fred­die Mercury’s Vocals Soar in the Iso­lat­ed Vocal Track for “Some­body to Love”

Hear Fred­die Mer­cury & Queen’s Iso­lat­ed Vocals on Their Endur­ing Clas­sic Song, “We Are The Cham­pi­ons”

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

Hear a Six-Hour Mix Tape of Hunter S. Thompson’s Favorite Music & the Songs Name-Checked in His Gonzo Journalism

Of all the musi­cal moments in Hunter S. Thomp­son’s for­mi­da­ble cor­pus of “gonzo jour­nal­ism,” which one comes most read­i­ly to mind? I would elect the scene in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas when Thomp­son’s alter-ego Raoul Duke finds his attor­ney “Dr. Gonzo” in the bath­tub, “sub­merged in green water — the oily prod­uct of some Japan­ese bath salts he’d picked up in the hotel gift shop, along with a new AM/FM radio plugged into the elec­tric razor sock­et. Top vol­ume. Some gib­ber­ish by a thing called ‘Three Dog Night,’ about a frog named Jere­mi­ah who want­ed ‘Joy to the World.’ First Lennon, now this, I thought. Next we’ll have Glenn Camp­bell scream­ing ‘Where Have All the Flow­ers Gone?’ ”

But Dr. Gonzo, his state even more altered than usu­al, real­ly wants to hear only one song: Jef­fer­son Air­plane’s “White Rab­bit.” He wants “a ris­ing sound,” and what’s more, he demands that “when it comes to that fan­tas­tic note where the rab­bit bites its own head off,” Duke throw the radio in the tub with him.

Duke refus­es, explain­ing that “it would blast you right through the wall — stone-dead in ten sec­onds.” Yet Dr. Gonzo, who insists he just wants to get “high­er,” will have none of it, forc­ing Duke to engage in trick­ery that takes to a new depth the book’s already-deep lev­el of crazi­ness. Such, at the time, was the pow­er of not just drugs but of the even more mind-alter­ing prod­uct known as music.

Noth­ing evokes a peri­od of recent his­to­ry more vivid­ly than its songs, espe­cial­ly in the case of the 1960s and ear­ly 1970s that Thomp­son’s prose cap­tured with such improb­a­ble elo­quence. Now, thanks to Lon­don’s NTS Radio (they of the spir­i­tu­al jazz and Haru­ki Muraka­mi mix­es), you can spend a good six hours in that Thomp­son­ian peri­od when­ev­er you like by stream­ing their Hunter S. Thomp­son Day, con­sist­ing of two three-hour mix­es com­posed by Edu Vil­lar­roel, cre­ator of the Spo­ti­fy playlist “Gonzo Tapes: Too Weird To Live, Too Rare To Die!” Both that playlist and these mix­es fea­ture many of the 60s names you might expect: not just Jef­fer­son Air­plane but Buf­fa­lo Spring­field, Jimi Hen­drix, the Rolling Stones, Bob Dylan, Cream, Cap­tain Beef­heart, and many more besides.

Those artists appear on one par­tic­u­lar­ly impor­tant source for these mix­es, Thomp­son’s list of the ten best albums of the 60s. But Hunter S. Thomp­son Day also offers deep­er cuts of Thomp­so­ni­ana as well, includ­ing pieces of Ter­ry Gilliam’s 1998 film adap­ta­tion of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas as well as clips from oth­er media in which the real Thomp­son appeared, in ful­ly gonzo char­ac­ter as always. Vil­lar­roel describes these mix­es as “best served with a cou­ple tabs of sun­shine acid, tall glass of Wild Turkey with ice and Mez­cal on the side,” but you may well derive a sim­i­lar expe­ri­ence from lis­ten­ing while par­tak­ing of anoth­er pow­er­ful sub­stance: Thomp­son’s writ­ing, still so often imi­tat­ed with­out ever repli­cat­ing its effect, which you can get start­ed read­ing here on Open Cul­ture.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

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

Bill Mur­ray Explains How He Pulled Him­self Out of a Deep, Last­ing Funk: He Took Hunter S. Thompson’s Advice & Lis­tened to the Music of John Prine

Hunter S. Thomp­son Remem­bers Jim­my Carter’s Cap­ti­vat­ing Bob Dylan Speech (1974)

Hunter S. Thomp­son Inter­views Kei­th Richards, and Very Lit­tle Makes Sense

Read 11 Free Arti­cles by Hunter S. Thomp­son That Span His Gonzo Jour­nal­ist Career (1965–2005)

Haru­ki Muraka­mi Day: Stream Sev­en Hours of Mix­es Col­lect­ing All the Jazz, Clas­si­cal & Clas­sic Amer­i­can Pop Music from His Nov­els

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 or on Face­book.

Watch the Last Time Peter Tork (RIP) & The Monkees Played Together During Their 1960s Heyday: It’s a Psychedelic Freakout

Peter Tork died yes­ter­day at age 77. You might not have heard the news over the deaf­en­ing alarms in your social media feeds late­ly. But a mut­ed response is also note­wor­thy because of the way Tork’s fame implod­ed at the end of the six­ties, at a time when he might have become the kind of rock star he and his fel­low Mon­kees had proved they could become, all on their own, with­out the help of any stu­dio trick­ery, thanks very much. The irony of mak­ing this bold state­ment with a fea­ture film was not lost on the band at all.

The film was Head, co-writ­ten and co-pro­duced by Jack Nichol­son, who appears along­side the Mon­kees, Teri Garr, Annette Funi­cel­lo, Frank Zap­pa, Son­ny Lis­ton, Jer­ry Lee Lewis, Fats Domi­no, and Lit­tle Richard, among many oth­er famous guest stars and musi­cians. Den­nis Hop­per and Toni Basil pop up, and the sound­track, large­ly writ­ten and played by the band, is a tru­ly groovy psych rock mas­ter­piece and their last album to fea­ture Tork until a reunion in the mid-80s.

Head was a weird, cyn­i­cal, embit­tered, yet bril­liant, attempt to tor­pe­do every­thing the Mon­kees had been to their fans—teen pop idols and goofy Bea­t­les rip-offs at a time when The Bea­t­les had maybe got­ten too edgy for some folks. And while it may have tak­en too much of a toll on the band, espe­cial­ly Tork, for them to recov­er, it’s clear that they had an absolute blast mak­ing both the movie and the record, even as their pro­fes­sion­al rela­tion­ships col­lapsed.

Tork’s best song­writ­ing con­tri­bu­tion to Head, and maybe to the Mon­kees cat­a­log on the whole, is “Can You Dig It,” a med­i­ta­tion on “it” that takes what might have been cheap hip­ster appro­pri­a­tion in a funky, pseu­do-deep, vague­ly East­ern direc­tion free of guile—it’s light and breezy, like the Mon­kees, but also sin­is­ter and slinky, like Dono­van or the folk rock of Bri­an Jones, and also spi­dery and jan­g­ly like Roger McGuinn. In the esti­ma­tion of many a psy­che­del­ic rock fan, this is music that deserves a place beside its obvi­ous influ­ences. That Mon­kees fans could not dig it at the time only reflects poor­ly on them, but since some of them were fans of what they thought was a slap­stick com­e­dy troupe or a back­up act for dreamy Davy Jones, they can hard­ly be blamed.

Cast as the Ringo of the gang (The Mon­kees and Head direc­tor Bob Rafel­son com­pared him to Har­po Marx), Tork brought to it a sim­i­lar­ly seri­ous whim­sy, and when he was final­ly allowed to show what he could do—both as a musi­cian and a songwriter—he more than acquit­ted him­self. Where Ringo mas­tered idiot savant one-lin­ers, Tork excelled in the kind of oblique riffs that char­ac­ter­ized his playing—he was the least tal­ent­ed vocal­ist in the band, but the most tal­ent­ed musi­cian and the only one allowed to play on the band’s first two records. Tork played bass, gui­tar, key­boards, ban­jo, harp­si­chord, and oth­er instru­ments flu­ent­ly. He honed his craft, and his “lov­able dum­my” per­sona on Green­wich Vil­lage cof­fee­house stages.

It’s not hard to argue that the Mon­kees rose above their TV ori­gins to become bona fide pop stars with the song­writ­ing and pro­mo­tion­al instincts to match, but Head, both film and album, make them a band worth revis­it­ing for all sorts of oth­er rea­sons. Now a wide­ly-admired cult clas­sic, in 1968, the movie “sur­faced briefly and then sank like a cos­tumed dum­my falling into a Cal­i­for­nia canal,” writes Petra May­er at NPR, in ref­er­ence to Head’s first scene, in which Micky Dolenz appears to com­mit sui­cide. If the Mon­kees had been try­ing in earnest to do the same to their careers, they couldn’t have had more suc­cess. Head cost $750,000 and made back $16,000. “It was clear they were in free fall,” Andy Greene writes at Rolling Stone.

“After that deba­cle,” writes Greene, they could have tried a return to the orig­i­nal for­mu­la to recoup their loss­es, but instead “they decid­ed to dou­ble down on psy­che­del­ic insan­i­ty” in an NBC tele­vi­sion spe­cial, 33⅓ Rev­o­lu­tions per Mon­kee, green­light­ed that year after the huge chart suc­cess of “Day­dream Believ­er.” Tork had already announced that he was leav­ing the band as the cam­eras rolled on the very loose­ly plot­ted vari­ety show. He stuck around till the end of film­ing, how­ev­er, and played the last live per­for­mance with The Mon­kees for almost 20 years in the bang-up finale of “Lis­ten to the Band” (top) which “quick­ly devolves into a wild psy­che­del­ic freak­out crammed with guest stars.” Tork, behind the keys, first turns the down­beat Neil Young-like, Nesmith-penned tune into the rave-up it becomes. It’s a glo­ri­ous send-off for a ver­sion of the Mon­kees peo­ple weren’t ready to hear in ’68.

via Rolling Stone

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch Frank Zap­pa Play Michael Nesmith on The Mon­kees (1967)

Jimi Hen­drix Opens for The Mon­kees on a 1967 Tour; Then After 8 Shows, Flips Off the Crowd and Quits

Watch The Bea­t­les Per­form Their Famous Rooftop Con­cert: It Hap­pened 50 Years Ago Today (Jan­u­ary 30, 1969)

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

« Go BackMore in this category... »
Quantcast
Open Culture was founded by Dan Colman.