You’re prob­a­bly famil­iar with the scene in Milos Foreman’s Amadeus (or its bril­liant 30 Rock par­o­dy). Thomas Hulce as the irrev­er­ent musi­cal prodi­gy fever­ish­ly dic­tates the “Dies Irae” sec­tion of his final, unfin­ished Requiem Mass in D minor, con­jur­ing it out of thin air. Mozart’s envi­ous rival Salieri puts pen to paper, strug­gling to keep up (“You go too fast!”). The two com­posers hear exact­ly the same thing, the same piece of music the view­er hears play­ing. The Requiem flows through Mozart as though he were a divine avatar; we’re all sup­posed to hear it—the uni­ver­sal lan­guage of music, celes­tial and mag­nif­i­cent.

The cru­el irony of the scene lies in its abil­i­ty to con­vince us of just that, while show­ing us some­thing far dif­fer­ent. As his many per­plexed moments demon­strate, Salieri doesn’t hear the music, he only sees Mozart’s ges­tures and hears him speak­ing a lan­guage most of us don’t know well, if at all. (It prob­a­bly did not hap­pen this way.) The sheet music in the film rep­re­sents the music’s world­ly medi­a­tion, through a lan­guage alien to the unini­ti­at­ed, a col­lec­tion of hiero­glyph­ics as baf­fling as Cyril­lic to the Telagu speak­er and so on. But the unini­ti­at­ed are rare. Most of us have had some musi­cal edu­ca­tion, how­ev­er fleet­ing, whether at church, school, or home.  

So none of us are Mozart—few of us are even Salieri—but we can all learn or relearn to decode and deci­pher the writ­ten lan­guage of music, even if we can’t hear it play­ing while we read it. As always, Youtube hosts its share of instruc­tion­al videos of vary­ing degrees of qual­i­ty. The ani­mat­ed video at the top of the post might make the list of most enter­tain­ing, but bear in mind, it’s a tongue-in-cheek exer­cise, “a help­ful guide cre­at­ed by an unqual­i­fied indi­vid­ual” (who ini­tial­ly declares him­self a 12-year-old). Nev­er had I seen an unre­li­able nar­ra­tor in an instruc­tion­al video before, but here you have it. On the whole, how­ev­er, the video’s frus­trat­ed ama­teur cre­ator Julian Cian­ci­o­lo gets it right, and when he doesn’t, the few hun­dred musi­cians and teach­ers watch­ing let him know. (Cian­ci­o­lo promis­es to cor­rect the bass clef in a fol­low-up.)

While Cian­ci­o­lo gets to work on anoth­er video, you may want to check out some more straight­for­ward resources. The playlist fur­ther up, from youcanplayit.com, offers a very thor­ough expla­na­tion of the staff, clefs, notes, time sig­na­tures, etc. It does not do so in the most excit­ing of ways, and many of its oth­er lessons apply specif­i­cal­ly to the piano or recorder. Just above, we have a les­son on the bass clef from the Music The­o­ry Guy, who makes videos on, you guessed it, music the­o­ry, from begin­ner to advanced. His style is a bit more ellip­ti­cal than that of you­can­play­it, but his deliv­ery more than makes up for it. 

In a cheer­ful British accent, the Music The­o­ry Guy gen­tly coax­es us into a con­cept, like the bass clef, with sim­ple but effec­tive descrip­tions of the things around the bass clef. Anoth­er video, “The Impor­tance of Mid­dle C,” just above, does the same thing. These resources—even the fast-paced, dead­pan “How to Read Sheet Music” at the top—all offer at the very least a refresh­er course on musi­cal lan­guage com­pre­hen­sion. For many, they serve equal­ly well as qual­i­ty first intro­duc­tions to musi­cal sym­bols and some basic com­po­si­tion­al the­o­ry.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

“Hum­ming­bird,” A New Form of Music Nota­tion That’s Eas­i­er to Learn and Faster to Read

Learn to Play Gui­tar for Free: Intro Cours­es Take You From The Very Basics to Play­ing Songs In No Time

Paul McCart­ney Offers a Short Tuto­r­i­al on How to Play the Bass Gui­tar

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

Like Lou Reed, her reluc­tant co-leader in the Vel­vet Under­ground, Ger­man-born mod­el-cum-singer Nico had a pro­nounced mean streak. Or, as Simon Reynolds writes in The Guardian, “talk of her dark side is accu­rate.” At a 1974 con­cert, Nico caused an audi­ence riot by per­form­ing the Ger­man nation­al anthem “com­plete with vers­es that had been banned after 1945 on account of their Nazi asso­ci­a­tions.” A 15-year-long addic­tion to hero­in—“over­whelm­ing,” as key­boardist James Young described it—did not help mat­ters. “Being around Nico was kin­da depress­ing,” recalls pro­duc­er Joe Boyd, “She was a very tor­tured char­ac­ter.” When it comes to rock stars and artists, we typ­i­cal­ly gloss over social fail­ings that would doom oth­er pro­fes­sion­als. That isn’t always easy to do in Nico’s case.

But it also isn’t easy to gloss over Nico’s musi­cal lega­cy. Her flat, dron­ing vocals on the Velvet’s debut album remain cen­tral to that band’s last­ing influ­ence. Songs like “All Tomorrow’s Par­ties” and “I’ll be Your Mir­ror” defined the emerg­ing under­ground sound of the late six­ties that grew into punk and new wave in the sev­en­ties. Nico’s Chelsea Girl stands alone as an artis­tic achieve­ment. Her and pro­duc­er John Cale’s inter­pre­ta­tions of songs like Jack­son Browne’s “These Days” (mem­o­rably used in Wes Anderson’s The Roy­al Tenen­baums) served as neo-folk tem­plates for decades to come.

When she began writ­ing her own songs, inspired by one­time boyfriend Jim Mor­ri­son, Nico “eclipsed the Doors’ dark­ness” with her album The Mar­ble Index, replac­ing “the sum­mer of love with the win­ter of despair,” and deliv­er­ing an album of pro­found­ly beau­ti­ful bleakness—the songs, writes Reynolds, “glit­ter­ing in their immac­u­late, life­less majesty of some­one cut off from the thaw­ing warmth of human con­tact and fel­low­ship.” A favorite of goths every­where, The Mar­ble Index fre­quent­ly appears on lists of the most depress­ing albums of all time. Asked about the record’s dis­mal sales, Cale remarked, “you can’t sell sui­cide.”

Nico’s songs and Cale’s pro­duc­tion gave us a com­plete­ly Euro­pean sound, “sev­ered from rhythm-and-blues… hark­ing back to some­thing pre-Chris­t­ian and atavis­tic.” That first album of orig­i­nal songs led to five more, cul­mi­nat­ing in 1985’s Cam­era Obscu­ra. At what would fate­ful­ly be her final con­cert in 1988, Nico per­formed songs from that album, includ­ing the hyp­not­ic, swirling “I Will Be Sev­en,” below. She died just a few months lat­er while vaca­tion­ing in Ibiza. Now, her final album forms the cen­ter­piece of a trib­ute from anoth­er pio­neer­ing woman in path­break­ing­ly orig­i­nal under­ground music, Pat­ti Smith.

Smith’s album, Killer Road—A Trib­ute to Nico, made with her daugh­ter Jesse Paris Smith and the ambi­ent trio Sound­walk Col­lec­tive, includes the song “Fear­ful­ly in Dan­ger,” which you can see live in Ger­many in the video at the top of the post. Below it, hear the title track, a chill­ing, atmos­pher­ic song meant to “approx­i­mate what the for­mer Vel­vet Under­ground col­lab­o­ra­tor might have heard when she col­lapsed while bicy­cling in Ibiza in 1988,” writes Rolling Stone. Over the sounds of chirp­ing insects and oscil­lat­ing synths, Smith intones lyrics from Nico’s last album: “The Killer Road is wait­ing for you… I have come to die with you.”

As in her trib­utes to oth­er artis­tic heroes like Vir­ginia Woolf, Smith makes col­lage art from Nico’s words, weav­ing in strains of her own verse. In this case, she ties her frag­ment­ed phras­es and Nico’s haunt­ed lyri­cism to the spe­cif­ic moment of the singer’s death, giv­ing lyrics like “I will be sev­en when I meet you in heav­en” a res­o­nance both mor­dant and vivid, made all the more so when we know that the birds, insects, break­ing waves, and breezes that weave through Smith’s songs come from field record­ings tak­en in sun­ny Ibiza at the site of Nico’s death. Hear Smith’s “cov­er” of “I Will Be Sev­en” below.

It’s a macabre con­cept album, to be sure, but Smith’s con­nec­tion with Nico goes beyond mor­bid fas­ci­na­tion. The two were mutu­al admirers—Nico called Smith “a female Leonard Cohen” for her suc­cess­ful inte­gra­tion of poet­ry and music, and Smith “lat­er played an impor­tant role in Nico’s life,” buy­ing back the singer’s prized har­mo­ni­um at “‘an obscure shop’ in Paris, as Nico put it, after it had gone miss­ing.” Nico remem­bered that Smith refused pay­ment for the recov­ered instru­ment and “insist­ed the organ was a present.” The icy, depres­sive Ger­man singer was moved to tears. She would play the har­mo­ni­um on her final album, and at her final concert—the per­fect accom­pa­ni­ment to her strange, haunt­ing voice and dis­turb­ing, dark lyri­cism.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch Pat­ti Smith Read from Vir­ginia Woolf, and Hear the Only Sur­viv­ing Record­ing of Woolf’s Voice

Pat­ti Smith on Vir­ginia Woolf’s Cane, Charles Dick­ens’ Pen & Oth­er Cher­ished Lit­er­ary Tal­is­mans

The Crazy, Icon­ic Life of Nico; Andy Warhol Muse, Vel­vet Under­ground Vocal­ist, Enig­ma in Amber

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

Way back when, we fea­tured an ani­ma­tion that doc­u­ment­ed the first acid trip of nov­el­ist Ken Kesey. In Kesey’s case, it all hap­pened in a care­ful, cal­cu­lat­ed way in 1959, under the care and con­trol of the U.S. gov­ern­ment. Six years lat­er and 5,000+ miles away, John Lennon’s maid­en voy­age went down in a very dif­fer­ent way. A dentist–yes, a den­tist of all people–slipped LSD into John and George’s cof­fee, unbe­knownst to them. Next thing they knew build­ings were burst­ing into fire, and rooms mor­ph­ing into sub­marines. So began the Bea­t­les’ exper­i­men­ta­tion with psy­che­delics and new musi­cal sounds, which, togeth­er, shaped their 1965 mas­ter­piece, Revolver (stream it free on Spo­ti­fy).

John Lennon recounts that first acid trip in the ani­mat­ed video above. The link between psy­che­delics and Revolver gets cov­ered in a new piece in Rolling Stone.

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Relat­ed Con­tent:

Ken Kesey’s First LSD Trip Ani­mat­ed

Artist Draws Nine Por­traits on LSD Dur­ing 1950s Research Exper­i­ment

R. Crumb Describes How He Dropped LSD in the 60s & Instant­ly Dis­cov­ered His Artis­tic Style

Watch The Bicy­cle Trip: An Ani­ma­tion of The World’s First LSD Trip in 1943

It’s hard to imag­ine a time when Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spir­it” didn’t belong to all of us. One day it didn’t exist. And then one day it did, and for so many of us who heard that churn­ing open­ing chord, that was it. Maybe it took one lis­ten, or five, but it was clear this song was going to mean some­thing. And as the autumn of 1991 wore on, it would take on the weight of many things—expectations of a new gen­er­a­tion, a new decade, the end of hair met­al, the begin­ning of grunge, the return of rock, or just as cor­rect­ly, rock’s last gasp.

The song was released to radio sta­tions in August, issued as a sin­gle on Sep­tem­ber 10, 1991, and then offi­cial­ly released on Sep­tem­ber 24, 1991. But “Smells Like Teen Spir­it” real­ly broke a month lat­er, when MTV pre­miered it on 120 Min­utes. Then the band watched as it became a day­time MTV hit, then a hit on every rock radio playlist, from “mod­ern rock” to “col­lege rock” and all the mar­ket­ing divi­sions in between.

The above video shows the band play­ing the song before any of this hap­pened, just two days after the release of Nev­er­mind. As Jason Kot­tke said on his site when he post­ed this, “There’s a freight train bear­ing down on those boys and they don’t even know it.”

The per­for­mance comes from a gig at The Moon in New Haven, Con­necti­cut (see it all above), the band play­ing on a small stage, with such a low ceil­ing that bassist Krist Novosel­ic looks like he’s going to bang his head on the ceil­ing. The audi­ence is one huge mosh pit, all male, it seems, and you can smell the sweat and stale beer through the screen. Did the crowd know they were see­ing a band on the cusp? Is it too much to read into that yelp from the audi­ence, dur­ing the sec­ond qui­et pas­sage, that they’re wit­ness­ing a fine­ly con­struct­ed hit, the kind of loud-soft dynam­ic that would be copied and echoed through the nineties.

By April of the fol­low­ing year the song would be so pop­u­lar Weird Al Yankovic would have made his par­o­dy ver­sion (one of his best). And soon Kurt Cobain would be swal­lowed by fame, see­ing only a few ways out of his predica­ment. But here they are for a brief moment in time, per­haps think­ing that there would be more clubs like The Moon, just a bit big­ger, maybe just a bit small­er, on the hori­zon.

via Kot­tke

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Nirvana’s Last Con­cert: Audio/ Video Record­ed on March 1, 1994

Kurt Cobain’s Home Demos: Ear­ly Ver­sions of Nir­vana Hits, and Nev­er-Released Songs

Nir­vana Plays in a Radio Shack, the Day After Record­ing its First Demo Tape (1988)

The 120 Min­utes Archive Com­piles Clips & Playlists from 956 Episodes of MTV’s Alter­na­tive Music Show (1986–2013)

Ted Mills is a free­lance writer on the arts who cur­rent­ly hosts the FunkZone Pod­cast. You can also fol­low him on Twit­ter at @tedmills, read his oth­er arts writ­ing at tedmills.com and/or watch his films here.