Watch a 5‑Part Animated Primer on Afrofuturism, the Black Sci-Fi Phenomenon Inspired by Sun Ra

We rec­og­nize its hall­marks in music espe­cial­ly. It is the province of Sun Ra, George Clin­ton and Parliament/Funkadelic, Afri­ka Bam­baataa, and, in recent years, Janelle Mon­ae, Andre 3000, Bey­on­cé, and many oth­er black artists who have updat­ed for the 21st cen­tu­ry the styles and sounds of Afro­fu­tur­ism. Reach­ing back into an Afro­cen­tric past—with heavy empha­sis on Egyptology—and for­ward to an inter­stel­lar future, the genre of Afro­fu­tur­ism reclaims the ter­rain of sci­ence fic­tion for peo­ple of African descent, serv­ing as an “umbrel­la term,” as one con­tem­po­rary Afro­fu­tur­ist com­mu­ni­ty puts it, “for the Black pres­ence in sci-fi, tech­nol­o­gy, mag­ic, and fan­ta­sy.”

One might be sur­prised to learn that the term itself did not orig­i­nate with the vision­ary founder of its aes­thet­ic. Sun Ra (for­mer­ly Her­man Poole Blount)—bandleader of the Arkestra and space alien from Saturn—called his space-themed big band music “cos­mic jazz” or, some­times, “phre music—music of the sun.” Instead, “Afro­fu­tur­ism” was coined by cul­tur­al crit­ic Mark Dery in his sem­i­nal 1994 essay “Black to the Future,” which includ­ed inter­views with sci-fi author Samuel R. Delany, crit­ic and musi­cian Greg Tate, and schol­ar Tri­cia Rose. Afro­fu­tur­ism has tak­en on a vari­ety of mean­ings, not only in music, but also in art, dance, film, and sci­ence fic­tion writ­ing like that of Delany and Octavia But­ler.

But as you’ll learn in the video above, the first in a 5‑part ani­mat­ed series on the genre from Dust, “its roots go back to the late 1930s in Huntsville, Alaba­ma,” the actu­al birth­place of Sun Ra, where he main­tained he was abduct­ed, tak­en to Sat­urn (not Jupiter, as the nar­ra­tor mis­tak­en­ly says), and told by aliens to “trans­port black peo­ple away from the vio­lence and racism of plan­et Earth.” The series traces the growth of Sun Ra’s orig­i­nal mis­sion through the cul­tur­al touch­stones of Lieu­tenant Uhu­ra, George Clin­ton, Jimi Hen­drix, and Mis­sy Elliott.

Sun Ra died in 1993, the year before Dery invent­ed the name for his gen­er­ous lega­cy. “What does it say,” the nar­ra­tor asks, “about how far we have or have not come if this mes­sage still res­onates with each new gen­er­a­tion?” Dery recent­ly took on the ques­tion in a 2016 essay, in which he quotes Tate—now at work on a book on Afro­fu­tur­ism: “Hav­ing ced­ed the racial ground war to Enlight­en­ment-era impe­ri­al­ism some­where back in the 17th cen­tu­ry, black futur­ism deter­mined that the fiery realms of the sym­bol­ic and the myth­ic and the rhetor­i­cal and the spir­i­tu­al and the wicked­ly styl­ish, son­ic, and polyrhyth­mic would become our culture’s baili­wick, rai­son d’être, and cul­tur­al tri­umphal­ist bat­tle­ground.”

Afro­fu­tur­ism trans­forms trau­ma, the era­sure of the black past, and bleak prospects for the future into pow­er­ful dis­plays of cre­ative agency. The strug­gle to claim that agency in the face of impe­r­i­al vio­lence and plun­der con­tin­ues, Dery argues, but now takes place in the midst of tech­no­log­i­cal devel­op­ments even a space alien like Sun Ra could not have fore­seen. While many of the ques­tions once asked about the human­i­ty of enslaved peo­ple have shift­ed to debates over androids, cyborgs, and oth­er posthu­man cre­ations, the con­di­tions for many col­o­nized and mar­gin­al­ized peo­ple all over the world have not con­sid­er­ably improved.

As “Afro­fu­tur­ism is all too aware,” Dery writes, “objects can have inner lives…. Con­se­quent­ly, it is less con­cerned with knock­ing the human off its onto­log­i­cal perch than it is in forg­ing alliances with Oth­ers of any species, human or posthu­man.”

Afro­fu­tur­ism speaks to our moment because it alone – not the ahis­tor­i­cal, apo­lit­i­cal cor­po­rate pre­cogs at TED talks; not the fatu­ous Hol­ly­wood fran­chis­es that have noth­ing to say about our times – offers a mythol­o­gy of the future present, an explana­to­ry nar­ra­tive that recov­ers the lost data of his­tor­i­cal mem­o­ry, con­fronts the dystopi­an real­i­ty of black life in Amer­i­ca, demands a place for peo­ple of col­or among the mono­rails and the Hugh Fer­ris mono­liths of our tomor­rows, insists that our Visions of Things to Come live up to our pieties about racial equal­i­ty and social jus­tice. 

You can see three short episodes of Dust’s Afro­fu­tur­ism series above, with parts four and five to come. (You will be able to find them all here.) Until then, watch the short Vox video explain­er on Afro­fu­tur­ism below.

via Elec­tron­ic Beats

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Sun Ra’s Full Lec­ture & Read­ing List From His 1971 UC Berke­ley Course, “The Black Man in the Cos­mos”

Sun Ra Plays a Music Ther­a­py Gig at a Men­tal Hos­pi­tal; Inspires Patient to Talk for the First Time in Years

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

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

Leonard Bernstein Introduces 7‑Year-Old Yo-Yo Ma: Watch the Youngster Perform for John F. Kennedy (1962)

Asked to think of a vir­tu­oso cel­list, many of us imme­di­ate­ly imag­ine Yo-Yo Ma, not just because of his con­sid­er­able skill but also because of the sheer length of his res­i­den­cy in pop­u­lar cul­ture. Though only 61 years old, bare­ly mid­dle-aged by clas­si­cal musi­cian stan­dards, he’s been famous for well over half a cen­tu­ry, start­ing with his entry into the pres­ti­gious child-prodi­gies-who-per­form-for-Amer­i­can-pres­i­dents cir­cuit. Sev­en years after his birth in Paris, Ma’s fam­i­ly relo­cat­ed to New York, by which time he’d already been at the cel­lo for near­ly half his short life. From there, it took him no time at all to com­mand an audi­ence whose mem­bers includ­ed Dwight D. Eisen­how­er and John F. Kennedy.

The event, a ben­e­fit con­cert called “The Amer­i­can Pageant of the Arts,” hap­pened on Novem­ber 29, 1962. Its oth­er guests, a who’s-who of the Cold War cul­tur­al scene, includ­ed Mar­i­an Ander­son, Van Cliburn, Robert Frost, Fredric March, Ben­ny Good­man, and Bob Newhart. As mas­ter of cer­e­monies, Leonard Bern­stein intro­duced the evening’s wee enter­tain­ers.

“Yo-Yo came to our atten­tion through the great mas­ter Pablo Casals, who had recent­ly heard him play the cel­lo. Yo-Yo is, as you may have guessed, Chi­nese, and has lived up to now in France — a high­ly inter­na­tion­al type.” The same could be said of his sis­ter Yeou-Cheng, who accom­pa­nies him on the piano in a per­for­mance of Jean-Bap­tiste Bré­val’s Con­certi­no No. 3 in A Major.

Three years lat­er, the still extreme­ly young but much more famous Ma would write a let­ter to the con­duc­tor:

Dear Mr. Bern­stein,

Do you still remem­ber me? Now I am ten years old. This year I learned with Prof. Leonard Rose three con­cer­tos: Saint-Saëns’, Boc­cherini’s and Lalo’s. Last week my sis­ter and I played in a Christ­mas Con­cert in Juil­liard School. We are invit­ed to give a joint recital in Brear­ley School on Jan­u­ary 19 1966 at 1:45 p.m.

If you have time, I would be glad to play for you.

Yo-Y0 Ma

Not only did Bern­stein remem­ber him, he also, by pre­sent­ing him as a vision of human­i­ty’s artis­tic future, ensured that every­one else at The Amer­i­can Pageant of the Arts would as well. “Now here’s a cul­tur­al image for you to pon­der as you lis­ten,” he said just before let­ting Yo-Yo and Yeou-Cheng take it away. “A sev­en-year-old Chi­nese cel­list play­ing old French music for his new Amer­i­can com­pa­tri­ots.” Did Ma recall those words of decades and decades ago when he formed the Silk Road Ensem­ble, sub­ject of the recent doc­u­men­tary The Music of Strangers, which brought into the fold musi­cians from Syr­ia, Mon­go­lia, Japan, Arme­nia, Gali­cia, and else­where, all to share, mix, and rein­ter­pret the music of one anoth­er’s home­lands? Now there’s a cul­tur­al image for you.

via Peter B. Kauf­man

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Yo-Yo Ma & the Goat Rodeo Ses­sions

Col­lab­o­ra­tions: Spike Jonze, Yo-Yo Ma, and Lil Buck

Leonard Bernstein’s Mas­ter­ful Lec­tures on Music (11+ Hours of Video Record­ed at Har­vard in 1973)

Leonard Bern­stein Demys­ti­fies the Rock Rev­o­lu­tion for Curi­ous (if Square) Grown-Ups in 1967

Leonard Bernstein’s First “Young People’s Con­cert” at Carnegie Hall Asks, “What Does Music Mean?”

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, 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.

Hear the Earliest Known Piece of Polyphonic Music: This Composition, Dating Back to 900 AD, Changed Western Music

Like dig­ging for fos­sils or pan­ning for gold, the research process can be a tedious affair. But for any researcher, long days of search­ing and read­ing will even­tu­al­ly result in dis­cov­ery. These are the moments schol­ars cher­ish. It’s the chance dis­cov­ery, how­ev­er rare, that makes the long hours and bleary late nights worth­while. And some finds can change an entire field. Such was the dis­cov­ery of St. John’s Col­lege PhD stu­dent Gio­van­ni Varel­li, who, in 2014, found what is now believed to be, writes Cam­bridge Uni­ver­si­ty, “the ear­li­est known prac­ti­cal exam­ple of poly­phon­ic music,” that is, music con­sist­ing of two or more melod­ic lines work­ing togeth­er simul­ta­ne­ous­ly.

You can hear the short composition—written in praise of the patron saint of Ger­many, Saint Boniface—performed above by St. John’s under­grad­u­ates Quintin Beer and John Clapham. Pri­or to Varelli’s dis­cov­ery of this piece of music, the ear­li­est poly­phon­ic music was thought to date to the year 1000, from a col­lec­tion called The Win­ches­ter Trop­er. Varelli’s dis­cov­ery may date to 100 years ear­li­er, around the year 900, and was found at the end of a man­u­script of the Life of Bish­op Mater­ni­anus of Reims. One rea­son musi­col­o­gists had so far over­looked the piece, Varel­li says, is that “we are not see­ing what we expect­ed.”

Typ­i­cal­ly, poly­phon­ic music is seen as hav­ing devel­oped from a set of fixed rules and almost mechan­i­cal prac­tice. This changes how we under­stand that devel­op­ment pre­cise­ly because who­ev­er wrote it was break­ing those rules. It shows that music at this time was in a state of flux and devel­op­ment. 

Varelli’s spe­cial­iza­tion in ear­ly music nota­tion also pro­vid­ed him with the train­ing need­ed to rec­og­nize the piece, which was writ­ten using “an ear­ly form of nota­tion that pre­dates the inven­tion of the stave” (see the piece below). Accord­ing to British Library cura­tor Nico­las Bell, “when this man­u­script was first cat­a­logued in the eigh­teenth cen­tu­ry, nobody was able to under­stand these unusu­al sym­bols.” Varelli’s dis­cov­ery shows a devi­a­tion from “the con­ven­tion laid out in trea­tis­es at the time” and points toward the devel­op­ment of a musi­cal tech­nique that “defined most Euro­pean music up until the 20th cen­tu­ry.”

Varel­li gives us a sense of how impor­tant this dis­cov­ery is to schol­ars of ear­ly music: “the rules being applied here laid the foun­da­tions for those that devel­oped and gov­erned the major­i­ty of west­ern music his­to­ry for the next thou­sand years. This dis­cov­ery shows how they were evolv­ing, and how they exist­ed in a con­stant state of trans­for­ma­tion, around the year 900.”

So there you have it. If you’re stuck in the dol­drums of a research project, wait­ing for the wind to pick up, don’t despair. The next rare arti­fact, trea­tise, or man­u­script may be wait­ing for some­one with exact­ly your spe­cial­ized insights to deci­pher its secrets.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Hear a 9,000 Year Old Flute—the World’s Old­est Playable Instrument—Get Played Again

Lis­ten to the Old­est Song in the World: A Sumer­ian Hymn Writ­ten 3,400 Years Ago

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

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

When East Meets West: Hear What Happened When Ravi Shankar & Philip Glass Composed Music Together

There were the Beats, with their inter­est in Bud­dhism and East­ern phi­los­o­phy. Then the Bea­t­les and Rolling Stones mined East­ern music and tra­di­tions for their psy­che­del­ic head trips, and turned a lot of peo­ple on to the sitar and the Nehru jack­et. But in many sig­nif­i­cant East meets West moments, the empha­sis skewed heav­i­ly toward West­ern artists. These cul­tur­al moments cre­at­ed some tru­ly inspired rock and roll and writ­ing, but not much in the way of a gen­uine con­gress of artists of equal recog­ni­tion.

Though we might expect to find some­thing like this in the Col­lab­o­ra­tions box set, cred­it­ed to Ravi Shankar and George Har­ri­son, what we get instead are four discs of most­ly Shankar com­po­si­tions and clas­si­cal Indi­an inter­pre­ta­tions, which Har­ri­son pro­duced and played on as a guest artist. These albums refresh­ing­ly reverse the usu­al dynam­ic: “The music here,” writes the Bea­t­les Bible, “is far from West­ern pop musi­cians dab­bling with sitars in the 1960s.” But for a tru­ly col­lab­o­ra­tive work, we should look else­where, and we’ll per­haps find few fin­er exam­ples than Shankar’s work with Philip Glass.

The two giants of their respec­tive musi­cal worlds first met in Paris in 1965, but it was only 25 years lat­er that they decid­ed to work togeth­er on an album. You can hear the result, Pas­sages, at the top of the post and in the Spo­ti­fy playlist just above. Although it took over two decades for Glass and Shankar to record togeth­er, their col­lab­o­ra­tion began even “before The Bea­t­les had met Ravi,” remem­bered Glass in a lec­ture at the Red Bull Music Acad­e­my. “This music would’ve been very exot­ic, at that time… in the ‘60s, this was the first time this kind of music had been heard. At least in the West.”

In his mid-twen­ties at the time, Glass was hired to tran­scribe Shankar’s score for the cult film Chap­paqua. He began to com­bine what he had been learn­ing in his master’s pro­gram at Juil­liard “with the work I had been doing with Ravi Shankar. Almost imme­di­ate­ly I began doing that.” And so audi­ences heard Shankar’s influ­ence on West­ern min­i­mal­ism before they heard it in pop music. “It was through Shankar’s music,” NPR notes, “that the Amer­i­can com­pos­er came to real­ize that music could be con­struct­ed with rhythm as its very foun­da­tion…. That real­iza­tion became a cor­ner­stone of Glass’ own work.”

Since his first meet­ing with Glass, Shankar influ­enced and col­lab­o­rat­ed with many oth­er West­ern musi­cians in his long and var­ied career, inspir­ing John Coltrane and oth­er jazz greats and releas­ing three albums with vio­lin­ist Yehu­di Menuhin, each called West Meets East, in 1967, 1968, and 1976. Pas­sages is a shar­ing of both musi­cal vocab­u­lar­ies and com­po­si­tion­al meth­ods: Shankar and Glass each com­posed themes that the oth­er arranged. “There is a great deal of tech­ni­cal data involved here,” writes Jim Bren­holts at All­mu­sic. “Both of these artists have long tak­en intel­lec­tu­al approach­es to music.”

The­o­ry aside, “the music is bril­liant,” whether we under­stand its vir­tu­os­i­ty or not, though it trends large­ly in a sym­phon­ic direc­tion. Those inter­est­ed in a more beat-ori­ent­ed but also bril­liant “East meets West” col­lab­o­ra­tion would do well to check out table play­er Zakir Hus­sain and bassist Bill Laswell’s project Tabla Beat Sci­ence, which, All­mu­sic writes, fus­es the “rich and time-hon­ored tra­di­tion of the tabla” with “con­tem­po­rary elec­tron­i­ca stu­dio wiz­ardry.” And, of course, don’t miss Hus­sain’s work with gui­tarist extra­or­di­naire John McLaugh­lin.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Ravi Shankar Gives George Har­ri­son a Sitar Les­son … and Oth­er Vin­tage Footage

‘The Bal­lad of the Skele­tons’: Allen Ginsberg’s 1996 Col­lab­o­ra­tion with Philip Glass and Paul McCart­ney

Watch “Geom­e­try of Cir­cles,” the Abstract Sesame Street Ani­ma­tion Scored by Philip Glass (1979)

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

All of the Music from Martin Scorsese’s Movies: Listen to a 326-Track, 20-Hour Playlist

Mar­tin Scors­ese’s cin­e­mat­ic real­i­ty, pop­u­lat­ed by hus­tlers, wise guys, prize fight­ers, vig­i­lantes, law­men, mad­men, and moguls, demands set­tings as vivid as its char­ac­ters. His movies, often peri­od pieces root­ed in par­tic­u­lar parts of 20th-cen­tu­ry Amer­i­ca (and increas­ing­ly, ear­li­er eras and far­ther-flung lands), evoke their times and places most notably with songs. Among their twen­ty great­est musi­cal moments Indiewire lists War­ren Zevon’s “Were­wolves of Lon­don” in The Col­or of Mon­ey, The Clash’s “Janie Jones” in Bring­ing out the Dead, Mick­ey & Sylvi­a’s “Love Is Strange” in Casi­no, and the Rolling Stones’ “Gimme Shel­ter” in The Depart­ed (one of its three uses so far in Scors­ese’s fil­mog­ra­phy).

But Scors­ese’s involve­ment with music goes far beyond lay­er­ing it below, or indeed above, the scenes he shoots. In addi­tion to direct­ing his wide­ly acclaimed fea­tures from the “New Hol­ly­wood” 1970s to the present day, he’s also led some­thing of a par­al­lel career mak­ing films whol­ly ded­i­cat­ed to music and musi­cians, includ­ing 1978’s The Last Waltz, which cap­tured The Band’s “farewell con­cert appear­ance”; the 2003 mul­ti-direc­tor doc­u­men­tary series The Blues on that ven­er­a­ble Amer­i­can musi­cal tra­di­tion; 2005’s No Direc­tion Home on Bob Dylan, 2008’s Rolling Stones bio­graph­i­cal con­cert film Shine a Light, and 2011’s Liv­ing in the Mate­r­i­al World on George Har­ri­son.

Some of the pow­er of Scors­ese’s musi­cal selec­tions owes to his long friend­ship with The Band’s gui­tarist Rob­bie Robert­son, which began with The Last Waltz and con­tin­ues to this day. “We’ve always had this rela­tion­ship going back and forth,” a Telegram arti­cle on their qua­si-col­lab­o­ra­tion quotes the direc­tor as say­ing. “We start­ed a kind of rela­tion­ship in which we’d touch base as to every film I was doing and the type of music I was using.”

In his new mem­oir Tes­ti­mo­ny, Robert­son touch­es on a par­tic­u­lar­ly impor­tant job in Scors­ese’s career that sure­ly did some­thing to shape his friend’s musi­cal-cin­e­mat­ic con­scious­ness: assis­tant-direct­ing and par­tial­ly edit­ing his NYU film school class­mate Michael Wadleigh’s Wood­stock. “We were all, nat­u­ral­ly, pas­sion­ate about film-mak­ing, but Wad­leigh and I were equal­ly pas­sion­ate about rock music,” Scors­ese writes in the fore­word to Wood­stock: Three Days that Rocked the World. “I thought then, and I still think, that it formed the score for many of our lives; we moved through the days to its swag­ger­ing rhythms.”

Now you can move to all the rhythms of Scors­ese’s days, and there­fore of his fil­mog­ra­phy to date, in a 326-Track, 20-Hour Spo­ti­fy playlist. (If you don’t have Spo­ti­fy’s free soft­ware, you can down­load it here.) It comes assem­bled by Thril­list, whose Anna Sil­man writes that, “as might be expect­ed, The Rolling Stones take the crown for most fea­tured artist with a total of 14 appear­ances,” but “Ray Charles, Eric Clap­ton, and Louis Pri­ma all put up some decent num­bers, too.” She sug­gests you enjoy it “on shuf­fle with some egg noo­dles and ketchup,” and if you get the ref­er­ence right away, the playlist will cer­tain­ly bring back some of your most vivid cin­e­mat­ic mem­o­ries — and maybe even a few his­tor­i­cal ones.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Mavis Sta­ples and The Band Sing “The Weight” In Mar­tin Scorsese’s The Last Waltz (1978)

The Film­mak­ing of Mar­tin Scors­ese Demys­ti­fied in 6 Video Essays

Mar­tin Scors­ese Reveals His 12 Favorite Movies (and Writes a New Essay on Film Preser­va­tion)

Mar­tin Scorsese’s Very First Films: Three Imag­i­na­tive Short Works

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, 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.

Talking Heads Featured on The South Bank Show in 1979: How the Groundbreaking New Wave Band Made Normality Strange Again

“I think sub­ur­ban life is some­thing that almost any Amer­i­can can under­stand,” says Talk­ing Heads drum­mer Chris Frantz near the begin­ning of The South Bank Show’s 1979 episode on the band. “They might dis­like or like it, but they can relate to it. It’s a nice metaphor, or what­ev­er, for mod­ern life.” That obser­va­tion func­tions as well as any as an intro­duc­tion to the band who, after hav­ing debuted as open­ers for the Ramones just four years ear­li­er at CBGB, went on to build a world­wide fan base enthralled with the way their music, their per­for­mances, and even their self-pre­sen­ta­tion ren­dered Amer­i­can nor­mal­i­ty and banal­i­ty new and strange.

Orig­i­nal­ly called “The Artis­tics,” the band found its true name through a dis­so­lu­tion, ref­or­ma­tion, and glance at the pages of TV Guide. “All of us could imme­di­ate­ly relate to that name,” says bassist Tina Wey­mouth. “We also thought it could have many con­no­ta­tions, the most impor­tant of which was that it had no con­no­ta­tion with any exist­ing music form. It’s TV, video — sup­pos­ed­ly the most bor­ing for­mat.” This ethos extend­ed to the song­writ­ing pro­ce­dure of lead vocal­ist and gui­tarist David Byrne, who delib­er­ate­ly used lan­guage and ref­er­ences “that were no more inter­est­ing than nor­mal speech and no more dra­mat­ic and yet some­how, in the song con­text, might become more inter­est­ing.”

The result: albums like 1978’s More Songs About Build­ings and Food. From a dis­tance of near­ly forty years, the Talk­ing Heads of those days look a bit like pio­neers of “norm­core,” the fash­ion, much dis­cussed in recent years, of delib­er­ate­ly look­ing as aes­thet­i­cal­ly aver­age as pos­si­ble. “I’m glad we don’t have to dress up in uni­forms every day,” says Frantz of their refusal of the duel­ing “punk” and “glam” modes of dress sport­ed by so many rock­ers at the time. Byrne speaks of orig­i­nal­ly want­i­ng to wear the most nor­mal out­fits pos­si­ble, as deter­mined by observ­ing peo­ple out on the street, but it turned out that “a lot of aver­age clothes require more upkeep than I’m will­ing to do. Like, they need iron­ing and things like that.”

The idea of norm­core draws its pow­er from the con­tra­dic­tion at its core, and Talk­ing Heads nev­er feared con­tra­dic­tion. “We write songs that have a par­tic­u­lar point of view, and we’re not wor­ried if the next song has the oppo­site point of view,” says key­board and gui­tar play­er Jer­ry Har­ri­son. “We feel that peo­ple have dif­fer­ent ideas, feel dif­fer­ent at dif­fer­ent times of the day as well as at dif­fer­ent times of their life, and we don’t real­ly want to have a man­i­festo or, you know, an ide­ol­o­gy.” (“We’ve gone through so many ide­olo­gies late­ly,” he adds.)

Despite that, Talk­ing Heads always seemed to adhere to cer­tain prin­ci­ples: “I believe a lot of those moral clich­es,” admits Byrne, “like ‘Two wrongs don’t make a right’ or ‘There’s no free lunch’ or ‘If you do bad things it’ll come back to you,’ and all those sort of stu­pid things.” But they nev­er real­ly inhab­it­ed main­stream Amer­i­ca; cul­tur­al­ly hyper-aware urban­ites made up much of their audi­ence, and the band mem­bers them­selves — play­ers, one says, of quin­tes­sen­tial­ly “city music” — were very much denizens of pre-gen­tri­fi­ca­tion Man­hat­tan. “It’s stim­u­lat­ing to go out and see dirt every­where and peo­ple falling over,” says Byrne. “I lived out in the sub­urbs and had a nice place with a big lawn or what­ev­er — although I can’t afford that — if I did live some­where like that, I would be afraid that I would get too com­fort­able and would­n’t work.”

But work they did, so dili­gent­ly and whol­ly with­out the extrav­a­gances of the rock star lifestyle that Frantz, after describ­ing his ear­ly-to-rise lifestyle, says he some­times con­sid­ers him­self “just a glo­ri­fied man­u­al labor­er, and that if any­body it’s the oth­er mem­bers of the band that are that artists. Anoth­er day I’ll think, wow, these peo­ple, the Talk­ing Heads, work­ing togeth­er — some day it’s going to be remem­bered in music his­to­ry, and I think it’s a very artis­tic thing we’re doing. I’m not try­ing to sound high­fa­lutin’, but this is the way I real­ly feel some­times.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Talk­ing Heads’ First TV Appear­ance Was on Amer­i­can Band­stand, and It Was Pret­ty Awk­ward (1979)

Watch Talk­ing Heads Play Live in Dort­mund, Ger­many Dur­ing Their Hey­day (1980)

Watch Talk­ing Heads Play a Vin­tage Con­cert in Syra­cuse (1978)

Hear the Ear­li­est Known Talk­ing Heads Record­ings (1975)

Talk­ing Heads Live in Rome, 1980: The Con­cert Film You Haven’t Seen

Talk­ing Heads Play CBGB, the New York Club that Shaped Their Sound (1975)

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, 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.

Stream 8,000 Vintage Afropop Recordings Digitized & Made Available by The British Library

Sta­bil­i­ty or cul­tur­al vital­i­ty: many nations seem as if they can only have one or the oth­er. The Repub­lic of Guinea, for instance, has endured quite a tur­bu­lent his­to­ry, yet its musi­cians have also enjoyed roles as “pio­neers in the cre­ation of African pop­u­lar music styles and as the voice of a new Africa.” That’s the view of the Uni­ver­si­ty of Mel­bourne’s Graeme Coun­sel, who over the past decade has made a series of trips to the Guinean cap­i­tal of Conakry on a mis­sion to pre­serve the great vari­ety of music, part of the tra­di­tion now broad­ly labeled “Afropop,” record­ed dur­ing the decades of state-spon­sored cul­tur­al abun­dance after the coun­try gained inde­pen­dence from France in 1958.

“Under the lead­er­ship of music lover Pres­i­dent Ahmed Sék­ou Touré,” writes Hyper­al­ler­gic’s Alli­son Meier, “the gov­ern­ment was soon send­ing out gui­tars, sax­o­phones, and brass instru­ments to 35 state-fund­ed pre­fec­ture orches­tras as part of a new authen­tic­ité pol­i­cy.

This direc­tive encour­aged a cul­tur­al revival that mixed tra­di­tion­al sounds with con­tem­po­rary music, par­tic­u­lar­ly Cuban and Latin rhythms.” The effort had its own record label called Syli­phone, which record­ed and dis­trib­uted this new Guinean music until the mid-1980s, and the pow­er­ful radio sig­nal of Radiod­if­fu­sion Télévi­sion Guinée (RTG) turned lis­ten­ers on to it well beyond the new coun­try’s bor­ders.

Coun­sel, already a col­lec­tor of Syli­phone records, dis­cov­ered dur­ing his PhD research in 2001 that the Guinean gov­ern­ment still held a col­lec­tion of that era’s music (though “a large part of the archive had been destroyed in 1985 when the RTG was bombed by Guinean artillery dur­ing an unsuc­cess­ful coup”). Apply­ing for and receiv­ing, ulti­mate­ly, three rounds of fund­ing from the British Library’s Endan­gered Archives Pro­gramme, he set about dig­i­tiz­ing and cat­a­loging the unex­pect­ed­ly numer­ous and per­haps expect­ed­ly dis­or­ga­nized and poor­ly main­tained reels of mag­net­ic tape he found, work­ing through bureau­crat­ic has­sles, coups d’é­tat, and even a mas­sacre.

“Noth­ing would deter me,” writes Coun­sel in a series of essays (part one, part two, part three) on the project, “not the author­i­ties’ indif­fer­ence towards the sound archive, not the recal­ci­trance of their atti­tudes, nor the tragedies of every­day life in Guinea. Noth­ing.” The fruits of his labors have now become avail­able at the British Library’s online Syli­phone archive, which boasts over 8,000 Guinean Afropop tracks record­ed over 26 years. Meier names among the “leg­endary” music it makes avail­able “the loose rhythms of the Bem­beya Jazz Nation­al, the horn-heavy melodies of the Super Boiro Band, the Latin-influ­enced beats of Orchestre de la Pail­lote, and the all-women Cuban-infused les Ama­zones de Guinée.” Those musi­cians’ names may not ring a bell for you now, but a lit­tle time with the archive will guar­an­tee a long-term inabil­i­ty to get their songs out of your head.

Find the 8,000 record­ings here.

via Hyper­al­ler­gic/Elec­tron­ic Beats

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Every­thing Is Rhythm

New Doc­u­men­tary Brings You Inside Africa’s Lit­tle-Known Punk Rock Scene

The Alan Lomax Sound Archive Now Online: Fea­tures 17,000 Blues & Folk Record­ings

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, 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.

Icelandic Folk Singers Break Into an Impromptu Performance of a 13th Century Hymn in a Train Station, and It’s Delightful

Ice­landic folk group Árstíðir know a good acoustic cathe­dral when they see one, even when it’s in a train sta­tion. In the above video, the sex­tet was return­ing from a con­cert in Wup­per­tal, Ger­many, when they were struck by the acoustic prop­er­ties of this one sec­tion of the train ter­mi­nal.

Indeed, this was a fine place to stop and offer a spe­cial encore to their show, a per­for­mance of the ear­ly 13th cen­tu­ry Ice­landic hymn “Heyr him­na smiður” (“Hear, Smith of Heav­ens”) by Kol­beinn Tuma­son.

Hear­ing this music strips away the con­crete and the indus­tri­al rev­o­lu­tion and we are sud­den­ly back in the mists of time…even when the tan­noy speak­ers in the back­ground announce a train depar­ture. In fact, it just adds anoth­er lay­er of atmos­phere to this beau­ti­ful work. The sparse crowd stops and just lis­tens. It’s a beau­ti­ful video that has earned over six mil­lion views in the near­ly four years it has been online.

Com­pos­er Kol­beinn Tuma­son is best known for this hymn–you can see a trans­la­tion of the lyrics here–and was both a deeply reli­gious man and one of the most pow­er­ful chief­tains in Ice­land. He met his mak­er at age 34 in a bat­tle between reli­gious and sec­u­lar clans, where his head was bashed in by a rock. Still, the his­to­ry goes, he held on long enough to write this hymn on his deathbed, and it remains an oft-per­formed work.

Hope­ful­ly no such bat­tle­field fate awaits the group Árstíðir, who formed in Reyk­javik in 2008 and con­tin­ue to per­form, though their style is clos­er to Fleet Fox­es than this 13th cen­tu­ry times­lip might indi­cate.

Look­ing for free, pro­fes­­sion­al­­ly-read audio books from Audible.com? Here’s a great, no-strings-attached deal. If you start a 30 day free tri­al with Audible.com, you can down­load two free audio books of your choice. Get more details on the offer here.

via Atlas Obscu­ra

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Learn What Old Norse Sound­ed Like, with UC Berkeley’s “Cow­boy Pro­fes­sor, Dr. Jack­son Craw­ford

Wear­able Books: In Medieval Times, They Took Old Man­u­scripts & Turned Them into Clothes

The Mys­ti­cal Poet­ry of Rumi Read By Til­da Swin­ton, Madon­na, Robert Bly & Cole­man Barks

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.

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