Watch the Making of a Hand-Crafted Violin, from Start to Finish, in a Beautifully-Shot Documentary

The his­to­ry of the vio­lin can be traced back to 1530, when a vio­lin-like instru­ment first appeared in Gau­den­zio Fer­rar­i’s paint­ing, “Madon­na of the Orange Tree.” By the 1550s, Andrea Amati and his descen­dants began to craft price­less vio­lins, in the form we know them today. And then fol­lowed oth­er fam­i­lies close­ly asso­ci­at­ed with the gold­en age of these stringed instruments–the Bergonzi, the Guarneri, the Stradi­vari.

Today, luthiers like Dominique Nicosia con­tin­ue the same tra­di­tion. Above you can watch Nicosia hand-craft a vio­lin at the Musée de la lutherie et de l’archè­terie français­es in north­east­ern France.

Shot by Bap­tiste Buob, the word­less doc­u­men­tary walks you through the mak­ing of a vio­lin, from start to fin­ish. A process that takes a luthi­er 3–4 weeks, work­ing full-time, gets cov­ered in 33 ele­gant min­utes. Savor each and every one of them.

Bonus: Below, watch anoth­er film by Bap­tiste Buob–this one a 28-minute film detail­ing how French bow mak­er Roch Petit­de­mange prac­tices his craft, again from begin­ning to end. A per­fect com­ple­ment.

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:

Watch Price­less 17-Cen­tu­ry Stradi­var­ius and Amati Vio­lins Get Tak­en for a Test Dri­ve by Pro­fes­sion­al Vio­lin­ists

What Does a $45 Mil­lion Vio­la Sound Like? Vio­list David Aaron Car­pen­ter Gives You a Pre­view

What Makes the Stradi­var­ius Spe­cial? It Was Designed to Sound Like a Female Sopra­no Voice, With Notes Sound­ing Like Vow­els, Says Researcher

The Art and Sci­ence of Vio­lin Mak­ing

Why Vio­lins Have F‑Holes: The Sci­ence & His­to­ry of a Remark­able Renais­sance Design

Behold the “3Dvarius,” the World’s First 3‑D Print­ed Vio­lin

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Miles Davis Dishes Dirt on His Fellow Jazz Musicians: “The Trombone Player Should be Shot”; That Ornette is “F‑ing Up the Trumpet”

Cre­ative Com­mons pho­to by Tom Palum­bo

The wan­der­ing bards of old dis­ap­peared when the print­ing press came to town. So too have the great band­lead­ers large­ly van­ished in the age of the super pro­duc­er and jet-set­ting DJ. But for a time in the jazz and rock worlds, Olympian fig­ures like Frank Zap­pa and Miles Davis played sev­er­al impor­tant roles: find­ing and men­tor­ing the best musi­cians; mas­ter­ing old forms and mak­ing them new again; serv­ing as cura­tors, arbiters, and con­trar­i­ans… issu­ing loud pro­nounce­ments on any­thing and every­thing as unspar­ing cul­tur­al crit­ics.

Do we need tongues as sharp as Zap­pa and Davis’s in con­tem­po­rary pop cul­ture? Maybe, maybe not. They didn’t seem to enjoy much of any­thing they weren’t direct­ly involved in cre­at­ing. But man, was it fun to watch them dis­pense with the niceties and speak their bru­tal truths. We’ve heard from Zap­pa on every­thing from his loathing of the Vel­vet Under­ground to the fas­cism of the PMRC to the mor­bid­i­ty of the entire music indus­try. Davis’ obser­va­tions  were equal­ly cut­ting. “His fas­ci­nat­ing auto­bi­og­ra­phy,” writes Kirk Hamil­ton at Kotaku, “is loaded with shit-talk­ing, dis­missals, and gen­er­al acer­bic jerk­i­ness. It is fan­tas­tic.”

But you needn’t pick up Miles’ book to get an ear­ful of his acid-tongued judg­ments. We need only revis­it the series of “blind­fold tests” he did for Down­beat mag­a­zine in the fifties and six­ties. These exper­i­ments had famous musi­cians lis­ten to new music, “try to pick out who is play­ing,” then offer their off-the-cuff takes. Davis’ first ses­sion, in 1955, began char­i­ta­bly enough, though not with­out some sweep­ing crit­i­cisms. He dis­missed all of the soloists on Clif­ford Brown’s “Falling in Love with Love,” for exam­ple, except for a Swedish pianist whose name escaped him. But he gave the record four stars all the same. “The arrange­ment was pret­ty good.”

In 1958, Davis sat for his sec­ond blind­fold test, with mixed results. He near­ly oblit­er­at­ed Tiny Grimes and Cole­man Hawkins’ “A Smooth One,” giv­ing it “half a star just because… Hawkins is on it.” But in an effu­sive moment, he gush­es over John Lewis’ “Wareme­land (Dear Old Stock­holm)” with a ten star rat­ing. “All the stars are for John,” he says. By 1964, lit­tle evi­dence of that rare enthu­si­asm remained in the third blind­fold test. Davis was at that moment, writes Richard Brody, “torn apart.” In a par­tic­u­lar­ly irri­ta­ble state of mind he “flung insults at Eric Dol­phy,” Son­ny Rollins, Cecil Tay­lor, and a few more greats. His com­men­tary “per­fect­ly cap­tures his gen­er­al dis­taste,” writes Hamil­ton, “for, well, every­thing.”

Of Dolphy’s “Miss Ann” (above), he says, “nobody else could sound that bad!” Of the Jazz Cru­saders’ “All Blues”: “What’s that sup­posed to be? That ain’t noth­in’.” Of Duke Elling­ton, Max Roach and Charles Min­gus’ “Car­a­van”: “What am I sup­posed to say to that? That’s ridicu­lous. You see the way they can fuck up music?” Like anoth­er infa­mous trash-talk­er who cur­rent­ly dom­i­nates every con­ver­sa­tion with his unbe­liev­able  ego­ma­nia, Davis toss­es out the con­de­scend­ing adjec­tive “sad” at every oppor­tu­ni­ty. Clark Terry’s “Cieli­to Lin­do” is a “sad record.” Dol­phy is “a sad moth­er­fuck­er.” Cecil Taylor’s “Lena” is “some sad shit, man.”


It’s not all bad. Miles loves Stan Getz and Joao Gilberto’s “Desa­fi­nan­do,” giv­ing the record five stars and its two star play­ers the high­est of praise. Four years lat­er, his typ­i­cal mood had not improved. In 1968, Davis sat for his last blind­fold test. He tore into Ornette Cole­man, mis­tak­ing him for Archie Shepp on “Funer­al.” Of Fred­die Hubbard’s “On the Que-Tee,” he says, “I wouldn’t even put that shit on a record.” Sun Ra’s “Brainville” gets a seri­ous slam: “They must be joking—the Flori­da A&M band sounds bet­ter than that. They should record them, rather than this shit.” It ain’t all pure cat­ti­ness. Davis tends to like music that stays out of his musi­cal lane, like The Elec­tric Flag’s “Over Lovin’ You,”—a “nice record,” he says. “It’s a plea­sure to get a record like that.” Like­wise, the pro­logue from the Fifth Dimension’s Mag­ic Gar­den gets a thumbs up.

When Down­beat­’s Leonard Feath­er vis­it­ed the iras­ci­ble trum­pet play­er in his hotel room for the last test, the crit­ic “seemed shocked to find records by the Byrds, James Brown, Dionne War­wick, Aretha Franklin, Tony Ben­nett, and the Fifth Dimen­sion scat­tered around his room,” notes Davis biog­ra­ph­er John Szwed. “Miles seemed to have lost all inter­est in what was then con­sid­ered jazz.” No doubt about it, no musi­cian then or now would want to be on the receiv­ing end of his crit­i­cal barbs. Per­haps the only jazz play­er he nev­er put down was the “young savant drum­mer” Tony Williams. Oth­er­wise, “at some point or anoth­er,” writes Hamil­ton, “Davis lays low just about every oth­er lumi­nary in the his­to­ry of jazz.” But behind the vit­ri­ol lay true genius. No one was as competitive—or as demand­ing of him­self as he was of others—as Miles Davis.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Miles Davis Opens for Neil Young and “That Sor­ry-Ass Cat” Steve Miller at The Fill­more East (1970)

Chuck Berry (RIP) Reviews Punk Songs by The Ramones, Sex Pis­tols, The Clash, Talk­ing Heads & More (1980)

Frank Zap­pa Explains the Decline of the Music Busi­ness (1987)

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

Watch 12-Year-Old Joe Bonamassa Shred the Blues as He Opens for B.B. King in 1989

There are gui­tar play­ers, who can play a hand­ful of songs and pick out some pleas­ing riffs, and there are gui­tarists: play­ers who’ve mas­tered sev­er­al styles, have a back pock­et full of stan­dards, and tour and record for a liv­ing. And then there are gui­tar gods, god­dess­es, heroes, or what­ev­er… men and women like St. Vin­cent, Joe Satri­ani, Jeff Beck, Nan­cy Wil­son, Steve Vai, Ste­vie Ray Vaughn, Mer­le Travis, Jimi Hen­drix, and Joe Bona­mas­sa, elec­tric blues wun­derkind who, in a way, is a suc­ces­sor to some the past mas­ters. Many gui­tar heroes are child prodi­gies, and many of them had the oppor­tu­ni­ty to learn from genius musi­cians in their youth. Bona­mas­sa is no excep­tion in either case, as you can see in the video up top, in which a 12-year-old “Smokin’ Joe Bona­mas­sa” opens for B.B. King.

Bona­mas­sa start­ed play­ing at 4 and stud­ied under the late, great Wash­ing­ton, DC gui­tarist Dan­ny Gat­ton at 11, per­haps the most unsung, most nat­u­ral­ly gift­ed gui­tarist of all time. In 1989, he had the oppor­tu­ni­ty to tour with King, play­ing over 20 shows, after he had already made a name for him­self in “places like Buf­fa­lo and Scran­ton, PA,” writes For­got­ten Gui­tar.

In the video above, you can see Bona­mas­sa, 12 years old, destroy on Gatton’s sig­na­ture but­ter­scotch Tele­cast­er. It takes him and the band a cou­ple min­utes to get going, and the skep­ti­cal audi­ence begins to shuf­fle their feet impa­tient­ly. Then he pro­ceeds to blow their minds, just as he blew the minds of tele­vi­sion audi­ences who saw the news seg­ment below on Bona­mas­sa that same year.

At thir­teen, Bona­mas­sa attract­ed the nation­al atten­tion of a pro­gram called Real Life, host­ed by Jane Pauley. In the clip below, we have the plea­sure of see­ing the awk­ward mid­dle school­er in his oth­er ele­ment, the lock­er-lined hall­ways and the libraries at his day job. But the live footage of Bona­mas­sa removes any doubt about how extra­or­di­nary his abil­i­ties are.

An ear­ly child­hood affin­i­ty for the instru­ment and parental urg­ing has had a lot to do with Bonamassa’s phe­nom­e­nal skill, but as he often acknowl­edges, so has his tute­lage under some of the great­est gui­tar heroes to ever live. (See him pay trib­ute to B.B. King below.) And as every­one who plays gui­tar will acknowl­edge, what often dis­tin­guish­es gui­tar play­ers from gui­tarists and gui­tar heroes is an awful lot of prac­tice. Read Bonamassa’s top 5 prac­tice tips for gui­tarists here.

via For­got­ten Gui­tar

Relat­ed Con­tent:

B.B. King Plays Live at Sing Sing Prison in One of His Great­est Per­for­mances (1972)

Ste­vie Ray Vaugh­an Plays the Acoustic Gui­tar in Rare Footage, Let­ting Us See His Gui­tar Vir­tu­os­i­ty in Its Purest Form

Hear Iso­lat­ed Gui­tar Tracks From Some of Rock’s Great­est: Slash, Eddie Van Halen, Eric Clap­ton & More

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

Meet Clara Rockmore, the Pioneering Electronic Musician Who First Rocked the Theremin in the Early 1920s

Fas­ci­na­tion with the theremin, the oth­er­world­ly elec­tron­ic musi­cal instru­ment devel­oped in the late 1910s and ear­ly 1920s out of Sovi­et research into prox­im­i­ty sen­sors, may nev­er cease. Some of that has to do with the unusu­al nature of its touch­less inter­face, con­sist­ing of twin anten­nas that the play­er moves their hands around in order to con­trol the tone. More of it has to do with what the few who have dared to mas­ter the theremin have achieved with it, and no dis­cus­sion of the mas­ters of the theremin can be com­plete with­out the name Clara Rock­more.

“Born in Rus­sia, March 9, 1911, Clara inher­it­ed the fam­i­ly trait of per­fect pitch and could pick out melodies on the piano at age two,” says the Nadia Reis­berg and Clara Rock­more Foun­da­tion’s biog­ra­phy. Accept­ed into the pres­ti­gious St. Peters­burg Impe­r­i­al Con­ser­va­to­ry as a vio­lin stu­dent at the unprece­dent­ed­ly young age of four, it seemed like she’d already found her path to musi­cal star­dom — until the Russ­ian Rev­o­lu­tion got in the way.

The fam­i­ly fled to Amer­i­ca, with Clara and her pianist sis­ter Nadia giv­ing con­certs to make mon­ey through­out the ardu­ous jour­ney. They arrived in New York in Decem­ber 1921, but before Clara could con­tin­ue her stud­ies there, “she devel­oped an arthrit­ic prob­lem with her bow arm, and had to give up the vio­lin.”

But all was not lost: she met Leon Theremin, inven­tor and name­sake of the theremin (pre­vi­ous­ly fea­tured here), and found her­self “fas­ci­nat­ed by the aes­thet­ic part of it, the visu­al beau­ty, the idea of play­ing in the air.” Soon devel­op­ing “her own fin­ger tech­nique, allow­ing her infi­nite­ly greater con­trol of pitch and phras­ing” and lat­er sug­gest­ing mod­i­fi­ca­tions to the instru­ment to improve its range and sen­si­tiv­i­ty, she could with­in years play clas­si­cal pieces on the theremin, mak­ing sounds no clas­si­cal com­pos­er could have imag­ined. Her per­for­mances, some­times accom­pa­nied by Nadia and some­times as a part of an orches­tra, led to the release of her first album (record­ed by Robert Moog, whose name also echoes down the halls of elec­tron­ic music), The Art of the Theremin in 1977. (Stream it on Spo­ti­fy below.)

Rock­more passed away in 1998, hav­ing been brought back into the pub­lic eye a few years ear­li­er, at least to an extent, by Steve M. Mar­t­in’s doc­u­men­tary Theremin: an Elec­tron­ic Odyssey. Just last year, count­less many more of us learned not just the word theremin but the name Clara Rock­more when Google’s front-page “doo­dle” cel­e­brat­ed her 105 birth­day. Those who clicked on it could receive a brief, game-like theremin les­son from an ani­mat­ed ver­sion of Rock­more her­self, all while hear­ing sounds pre­cise­ly engi­neered to repli­cate her dis­tinc­tive play­ing style. You can see the real Rock­more play­ing Saint-Saëns’ “The Swan” at the top of the post. Any­one who’s heard the theremin knows that no oth­er instru­ment sounds quite like it — and any­one who’s heard Rock­more play­ing the theremin knows no oth­er theremin has ever sound­ed quite like hers.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch Jim­my Page Rock the Theremin, the Ear­ly Sovi­et Elec­tron­ic Instru­ment, in Some Hyp­not­ic Live Per­for­mances

Sovi­et Inven­tor Léon Theremin Shows Off the Theremin, the Ear­ly Elec­tron­ic Instru­ment That Could Be Played With­out Being Touched (1954)

See Japan­ese Musi­cians Play “Amaz­ing Grace” with 273 Theremins Placed Inside Matryosh­ka Dolls–Then Learn How They Per­form Their Mag­ic

Hear Sev­en Hours of Women Mak­ing Elec­tron­ic Music (1938–2014)

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. He’s at work on the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les, the video series The City in Cin­e­ma, the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future?, and the Los Ange­les Review of Books’ Korea Blog. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

65,000 Fans Break Into a Singalong of Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody” at a Green Day Concert in London’s Hyde Park

Last week, Green Day played a mas­sive con­cert in Lon­don’s Hyde Park. But arguably the cli­max hap­pened before the band even took the stage. Pri­or to the show, the sta­di­um piped Queen’s “Bohemi­an Rhap­sody” through the speak­ers, at which point a mas­sive sin­ga­long got under­way. As one YouTu­ber put it, “Only Queen can rock a sta­di­um with­out even being there,” a tes­ta­ment to their endur­ing influ­ence. Enjoy the show.

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:

1910 Fair­ground Organ Plays Queen’s “Bohemi­an Rhap­sody,” and It Works Like a Charm

Inside the Rhap­sody: A Short Doc­u­men­tary on the Mak­ing of Queen’s Clas­sic Song, ‘Bohemi­an Rhap­sody’ (2002)

Bohemi­an Grav­i­ty: String The­o­ry Explored With an A Cap­pel­la Ver­sion of Bohemi­an Rhap­sody

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Women of Jazz: Stream a Playlist of 91 Recordings by Great Female Jazz Musicians

Browse through an archive of jazz writ­ing from the last, oh, hun­dred years, and you’ll get the dis­tinct impres­sion that jazz, like the NFL, has been a man’s‑man’s‑man’s‑man’s world. “Of course,” writes Mar­garet Howze at NPR, “we have Bil­lie, Ella, and Sarah,” and many oth­er pow­er­house female vocal­ists every­one knows and loves. These unfor­get­table voic­es seem to stand out as excep­tions, and what’s more, “when we think of women in jazz, we auto­mat­i­cal­ly think of singers,” not instru­men­tal­ists.

Part of the mar­gin­al­iza­tion of women in jazz has to do with the same kinds of cul­tur­al blind spots we find in dis­cus­sions on every sub­ject. We’ve been as guilty here as any­one of neglect­ing many great women in jazz, sad­ly. But women in jazz have also his­tor­i­cal­ly faced sim­i­lar social bar­ri­ers and stig­mas as oth­er women in all the arts. There are more than enough female vocal­ists, pianists, gui­tarists, trum­peters, drum­mers, sax­o­phon­ists, band­lead­ers, teach­ers, pro­duc­ers to form a “wor­thy pan­theon,” yet until fair­ly recent­ly, a great many women jazz musi­cians have worked in the shad­ows of more famous men.

Howze’s two-part sketch of women in jazz offers a suc­cinct chrono­log­i­cal intro­duc­tion, not­ing that “the piano, one of the ear­li­est instru­ments that women played in jazz, allowed female artists” in the 20s and 30s “a degree of social accep­tance.” In those years, “female instru­men­tal­ists usu­al­ly formed all-women jazz bands or played in fam­i­ly-based groups.” One ear­ly stand­out musi­cian, Dol­ly Hutchin­son, née Jones, played the trum­pet and cor­net in bands all over the coun­try. Hutchin­son doesn’t appear in the Women of Jazz playlist below, but you can see her at the top in a clip from Oscar Michaux’s 1938 film Swing!

The Spo­ti­fy playlist Women of Jazz does, how­ev­er, offer sam­ples from many oth­er female jazz greats in its 91 tracks, from the very well-known—Nina Simone, Norah Jones, Diana Krall, “Bil­lie, Ella, and Sarah”—to the very much over­looked. In that lat­ter cat­e­go­ry falls a woman whose last name is famil­iar to us all. Lil Hardin Arm­strong nev­er achieved close to the degree of fame as her hus­band Louis, but the pianist, writes Howze, “helped shape Satchmo’s ear­ly career,” play­ing in “King Oliver’s Cre­ole Jazz Band, a group Arm­strong joined in 1922. He and Hardin began a romance and even­tu­al­ly mar­ried and it was Hardin who encour­aged Arm­strong to embark on a solo career.”

Hardin’s “Clip Joint,” fea­tured in the playlist, show­cas­es her sweet, clear con­tral­to, dis­tin­guished by a ten­den­cy to wrap sur­pris­ing hooks around the end of each line, pulling us for­ward to the next or keep­ing us hang­ing on for more. (Equal­ly charm­ing and effort­less­ly swing­ing, see her on the piano, above, accom­pa­nied by drum­mer Mae Barnes.) Anoth­er huge­ly influ­en­tial woman in jazz, whose lega­cy “has also been some­what occlud­ed,” writes Alexa Peters at Paste, “by the lega­cy of her hus­band,” harpist and pianist Alice Coltrane deserves far more acclaim than she receives (at least in this writer’s hum­ble opin­ion).

“An incred­i­bly gift­ed avant-garde musi­cian, com­pos­er, and arranger,” Coltrane’s solo com­po­si­tions and her col­lab­o­ra­tions with sax­o­phon­ist Pharoah Sanders, “are as sub­lime as they are indeli­bly impor­tant” to the devel­op­ment of spir­i­tu­al jazz. Her incor­po­ra­tion of Hin­dus­tani instru­men­ta­tion “like drones, ragas, Tabla drum, and sitar,” togeth­er with long hyp­not­ic free jazz pas­sages and the unusu­al choice of harp, con­tributed a new son­ic vocab­u­lary to the form.

Though hard­ly com­pre­hen­sive, the Women of Jazz playlist does an excel­lent job of out­lin­ing a list of great female singers and instru­men­tal­ists through­out the his­to­ry of jazz. As some­one might point out, the com­pi­la­tion has its own blind spots. Though firm­ly root­ed in the tra­di­tions of the Amer­i­can South, jazz has, since its gold­en age, been an inter­na­tion­al phe­nom­e­non. Yet the major­i­ty of the artists here are from the U.S. For a con­tem­po­rary cor­rec­tive, check out The Guardian’s list, “Five of the Best Young Female Jazz Musi­cians” from the U.K. and Scan­di­navia, or Afripop’s “Five South African Female Jazz Instru­men­tal­ists You Should Know,” or NPR’s list of four great “Lati­na Jazz Vocal­ists”.…

And we should not neglect to men­tion great French women in jazz. In the short film above on French jazz and trum­pet duo Nel­son Veras and Airelle Besson, the two musi­cians dis­cuss their col­lab­o­ra­tive process. Any men­tion of gen­der would prob­a­bly seem awk­ward­ly irrel­e­vant to the con­ver­sa­tion. Per­haps all jazz talk should be like that. But it seems that first most jazz fans and writ­ers need to spend some time get­ting caught up. We’ve got a wealth of resources above to get them start­ed.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The His­to­ry of Spir­i­tu­al Jazz: Hear a Tran­scen­dent 12-Hour Mix Fea­tur­ing John Coltrane, Sun Ra, Her­bie Han­cock & More

Hear 2,000 Record­ings of the Most Essen­tial Jazz Songs: A Huge Playlist for Your Jazz Edu­ca­tion

1,000 Hours of Ear­ly Jazz Record­ings Now Online: Archive Fea­tures Louis Arm­strong, Duke Elling­ton & Much More

Her­bie Han­cock to Teach His First Online Course on Jazz

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

Hear Chris Cornell’s Masterful Vocals in the Isolated Track for Soundgarden’s “Black Hole Sun”

Since Soundgar­den and Audioslave front­man Chris Cornell’s recent, trag­ic sui­cide, trib­ute after trib­ute has affirmed his sta­tus as a tow­er­ing icon of 90s grunge and a pow­er­ful pres­ence in con­tem­po­rary music ever since his first band emerged from Seat­tle with their sludgy met­al riffs and oper­at­ic cho­rus­es. Sure, all of the mem­bers of Soundgar­den deserve cred­it for that band’s thun­der­ing awe­some­ness. But as for Cornell’s con­tin­ued suc­cess and renown long after most 90s stal­warts had burned out or fad­ed away—well, you already know the answer: it’s that voice, an instru­ment over which, as Luke O’Neil writes at Esquire, the singer had “com­plete mas­tery.” Though it defined a spe­cif­ic time and place, Cornell’s voice also “tran­scend­ed gen­er­a­tions.”

The singer’s near four-octave range “made his live per­for­mances an incred­i­ble sight to watch” and his record­ings a stir­ring expe­ri­ence to lis­ten to, whether they show­cased his own mate­r­i­al or his unique tal­ent for cov­er­ing songs across a spec­trum of styles and gen­res. “The impos­ing archi­tec­ture” of Cornell’s voice, writes Pitch­fork in a ret­ro­spec­tive of some of his finest record­ed moments, “was part and par­cel to his lega­cy, but it would be noth­ing if he didn’t also know how to bril­liant­ly arrange it.”

Hit­ting every note on the beat, “build­ing ten­sion until the exact moment it unlocks.” Hear that dynam­ic con­trol above, stripped bare of instru­men­ta­tion, in the reverb-drenched, iso­lat­ed vocal tracks for Supe­run­k­nown’s “Black Hole Sun,” a song—with its dis­turb­ing video—that widened Soundgarden’s already con­sid­er­able fan­base when it debuted in 1994.

For con­trast, and to get a sense of just how rhyth­mi­cal­ly attuned Cor­nell was, lis­ten to the stu­dio release before and/or after the stripped ver­sion at the top to hear how the vocal gives the song its spine, bear­ing the meter, melody, and mood. L.A. Times crit­ic Mikael Wood describes Cornell’s voice as a “brawny yet soul­ful wail, ground­ed in sor­row but always reach­ing upward for a way out of the muck.” I can hard­ly think of a bet­ter way to char­ac­ter­ize such a unique­ly mov­ing singer, one who, for many of us, remained a bench­mark for rock vocals—in var­i­ous bands and solo projects—for a sol­id thir­ty years.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Soundgarden’s Chris Cor­nell Sings Haunt­ing Acoustic Cov­ers of Prince’s “Noth­ing Com­pares 2 U,” Michael Jackson’s “Bil­lie Jean” & Bob Marley’s “Redemp­tion Song”

7‑Foot Tall Clown with a Gold­en Voice Sings Chris Cornell’s “When I’m Down:” A Trib­ute Filled with Raw Emo­tion

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

The Music from Jack Kerouac’s Classic Beat Novel On the Road: Stream Tracks by Miles Davis, Dexter Gordon & Other Jazz Legends

When read­ers talk about the “music” of On the Road, they usu­al­ly mean the dis­tinc­tive qual­i­ties of its prose, all typed out by Jack Ker­ouac, so lit­er­ary leg­end has it, on a three-week writ­ing ben­der in April of 1951. “Time being of the essence in the puri­ty of speech, sketch­ing lan­guage is undis­turbed flow from the mind of per­son­al secret idea-words, blow­ing (as per jazz musi­cian) on sub­ject of image,” he wrote, spon­ta­neous­ly, in his “Essen­tials of Spon­ta­neous Prose.” He also insist­ed on “no peri­ods sep­a­rat­ing sen­tence-struc­tures already arbi­trar­i­ly rid­dled by false colons and timid usu­al­ly need­less com­mas-but the vig­or­ous space dash sep­a­rat­ing rhetor­i­cal breath­ing (as jazz musi­cian draw­ing breath between out­blown phras­es).”

But actu­al music, and espe­cial­ly jazz music, also forms an inte­gral part of the back­ground — or rather, an inte­gral part of the ever-shift­ing back­grounds — of the sto­ry of Sal Par­adise and Dean Mori­ar­ty’s auto­mo­tive criscross­ing of Amer­i­ca. “Ker­ouac often made it clear that the sound of jazz in the 1940s had a lot to do with the kind of tone, inten­si­ty and unpremed­i­tat­ed dri­ve he was try­ing to cap­ture in the rhythms of his book,” writes the Guardian’s John Ford­ham. “In Los Ange­les, Ker­ouac describes ‘the wild hum­ming night of Cen­tral Avenue — the night of Ham­p’s (that’s swing-band leader Lionel Hamp­ton’s) ‘Cen­tral Avenue Break­down’ — howled and boomed … they were singing in the halls, singing from their win­dows, just hell and be damned and look out.’ ”

An evoca­tive pas­sage, to be sure, and one drawn from just one of many jazz-infused sec­tions of the nov­el. After enough of them, though, read­ers will want to hear some of this music, with its pow­er to bring the cops “swarm­ing from the near­est precinct,” for them­selves. The 25-track Youtube playlist at the top of the post comes packed with selec­tions drawn straight from the text, such as Miles Davis and the Char­lie Park­er Septet’s “Ornithol­o­gy,” which Ker­ouac uses to estab­lish the peri­od of bop in which the nov­el opens, and Dex­ter Gor­don and Wardell Gray’s The Hunt, so invig­o­rat­ing a live record­ing that Neal and Sal put it on the turntable in two sep­a­rate chap­ters. The playlist even includes Red Nor­vo’s Con­go Blues, the record that a girl at one point breaks over Dean’s head — and at Sal’s sug­ges­tion, no less — a mem­o­rable moment that shows that, how­ev­er much Ker­ouac loved and drew inspi­ra­tion from jazz, he cer­tain­ly did­n’t feel the need to keep rev­er­ent about it.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Jack Ker­ouac Reads from On the Road (1959)

Jack Kerouac’s Hand-Drawn Map of the Hitch­hik­ing Trip Nar­rat­ed in On the Road

Jack Ker­ouac Lists 9 Essen­tials for Writ­ing Spon­ta­neous Prose

Hear All Three of Jack Kerouac’s Spo­ken-World Albums: A Sub­lime Union of Beat Lit­er­a­ture and 1950s Jazz

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. He’s at work on the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les, the video series The City in Cin­e­ma, the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future?, and the Los Ange­les Review of Books’ Korea Blog. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

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