The British Library’s “Sounds” Archive Presents 80,000 Free Audio Recordings: World & Classical Music, Interviews, Nature Sounds & More

Online archives, gal­leries, and libraries offer Vegas-sized buf­fets for the sens­es (well two of them, any­way). All the art and pho­tog­ra­phy your eyes can take in, all the music and spo­ken word record­ings your ears can han­dle. But per­haps you’re still miss­ing some­thing? “Geordies bang­ing spoons” maybe? Or “Tawang lamas blow­ing conch shell trum­pets… Ton­gan tribes­men play­ing nose flutes…,” the sound of “the Assamese wood­worm feast­ing on a win­dow frame in the dead of night”?

No wor­ries, the British Library’s got you cov­ered and then some. In 2009, it “made its vast archive of world and tra­di­tion­al music avail­able to every­one, free of charge, on the inter­net,” amount­ing to rough­ly 28,000 record­ings and, The Guardian esti­mates “about 2,000 hours of singing, speak­ing, yelling, chant­i­ng, blow­ing, bang­ing, tin­kling and many oth­er verbs asso­ci­at­ed with what is a unique­ly rich sound archive.”

But that’s not all, oh no! The com­plete archive, titled sim­ply and author­i­ta­tive­ly “Sounds,” also hous­es record­ings of accents and dialects, envi­ron­ment and nature, pop music, “sound maps,” oral his­to­ry, clas­si­cal music, sound record­ing his­to­ry, and arts, lit­er­a­ture, and per­for­mance (such as J.R.R. Tolkien’s short dis­course on “Wire­less,” ani­mat­ed in the video below).

The 80,000 record­ings avail­able to stream online rep­re­sent just a selec­tion of the British Library’s “exten­sive col­lec­tions of unique sound record­ings,” but what a selec­tion it is. In the short video at the top of the post, The Wire Mag­a­zine takes us on a mini-tour of the phys­i­cal archive’s metic­u­lous dig­i­ti­za­tion meth­ods. As with all such wide-rang­ing col­lec­tions, it’s dif­fi­cult to know where to begin.

One might browse the range of unusu­al folk sounds on aur­al dis­play in the World & Tra­di­tion­al music sec­tion, cov­er­ing every con­ti­nent and a daunt­ing meta­cat­e­go­ry called “World­wide.” For a more spe­cif­ic entry point, Elec­tron­ic Beats rec­om­mends a col­lec­tion of “around 8,000 Afropop tracks” from Guinea, record­ed on “the state-sup­port­ed Syli­phone label” and “released between 1958 and 1984.”

Edison Disc Phonograph

Oth­er high­lights include “Between Two Worlds: Poet­ry & Trans­la­tion,” an ongo­ing project begun in 2008 that fea­tures read­ings and inter­views with “poets who are bilin­gual or have Eng­lish as a sec­ond lan­guage, or who oth­er­wise reflect the project’s theme of dual cul­tures.” Or you may enjoy the exten­sive col­lec­tion of clas­si­cal music record­ings, includ­ing “Hugh Davies exper­i­men­tal music,” or the “Oral His­to­ry of Jazz in Britain.”

The cat­e­go­ry called “Sound Maps” orga­nizes a diver­si­ty of recordings—including region­al accents, inter­views with Holo­caust sur­vivors, wildlife sounds, and Ugan­dan folk music—by ref­er­ence to their loca­tions on Google maps.

Not all of the mate­r­i­al in “Sounds” is sound-based. Record­ing and audio geeks and his­to­ri­ans will appre­ci­ate the large col­lec­tion of “Play­back & Record­ing Equip­ment” pho­tographs (such as the 1912 Edi­son Disc Phono­graph, above ), span­ning the years 1877 to 1992. Also, many of the recordings—such as the won­der­ful first ver­sion of “Dirty Old Town” by Alan Lomax and the Ram­blers, with Ewan Mac­Coll and Peg­gy Seeger (below)—feature album cov­ers, front and back, as well as disc labels.

The record­ings in the Archive are unfor­tu­nate­ly not down­load­able (unless you are a licensed mem­ber of a UK HE/FE insti­tu­tion), but you can stream them all online and share any of them on your favorite social media plat­form. Per­haps the British Library will extend down­load priv­i­leges to all users in the future. For now, brows­ing through the sheer vol­ume and vari­ety of sounds in the archive should be enough to keep you busy.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

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

Cor­nell Launch­es Archive of 150,000 Bird Calls and Ani­mal Sounds, with Record­ings Going Back to 1929

1,000 Record­ings to Hear Before You Die: Stream a Huge Playlist of Songs Based on the Best­selling Book

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

Wynton Marsalis Takes Louis Armstrong’s Trumpet Out of the Museum & Plays It Again


Louis Arm­strong’s beloved trum­pet sits in the Smith­son­ian–a rel­ic of a grand tra­di­tion of Amer­i­can music. When it first became a muse­um piece, the brass-and-gold instru­ment, made in Paris after World War II, was­n’t in work­ing con­di­tion. Dwan­da­lyn Reece, the cul­ture cura­tor at The Smith­son­ian, notes:  “It wasn’t playable when it got here… There was a lac­quer coat­ing on it to help pre­vent tar­nish. We looked to see if there were any spots where the lac­quer impact­ed the valves. There were areas where the valves were a lit­tle sticky so we want­ed to make sure they would flow freely.” Once restored, they put the instru­ment in the right hands. Above, watch Wyn­ton Marsalis, the nine-time Gram­my win­ner, play­ing Satch­mo’s Selmer trum­pet last fall.

Marsalis lat­er com­ment­ed, “It sound­ed bet­ter than I thought it would sound.” Appar­ent­ly, it’s the first time an his­toric instru­ment from the Smith­so­ni­an’s col­lec­tion has been put back into real ser­vice.

via The Smith­son­ian/@TedGioia

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Clean­est Record­ings of 1920s Louis Arm­strong Songs You’ll Ever Hear

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

Watch the Ear­li­est Known Footage of Louis Arm­strong Per­form­ing Live in Con­cert (Copen­hagen, 1933)

Louis Arm­strong Plays Trum­pet at the Egypt­ian Pyra­mids; Dizzy Gille­spie Charms a Snake in Pak­istan

Louis Arm­strong Plays His­toric Cold War Con­certs in East Berlin & Budapest (1965)

Watch 82-Year-Old Igor Stravinsky Conduct The Firebird, the Ballet Masterpiece That First Made Him Famous (1965)

The Bal­lets Russ­es, found­ed in 1909 by art crit­ic and impre­sario Sergei Diaghilev, staged some tru­ly rev­o­lu­tion­ary pro­duc­tions on the very edge of aes­thet­ic new­ness. Diaghilev’s bal­lets coor­di­nat­ed set designs by artists like Pablo Picas­so, Hen­ri Matisse, and Gior­gio de Chiri­co, chore­og­ra­phy by such mas­ters as George Bal­an­chine and Vaslav Nijin­sky, and scores by such mod­ern com­posers as Sergei Prokofiev and Erik Satie. But of course, when we think of Diaghilev’s Russ­ian bal­lets, we sure­ly think fore­most of Igor Stravin­sky, whose Rite of Spring was so rad­i­cal it famous­ly incit­ed a riot at its 1913 Parisian pre­miere and “would go on,” writes The Verge, “to leave an indeli­ble mark on jazz, min­i­mal­ism, and oth­er con­tem­po­rary move­ments.”

Just three years ear­li­er, how­ev­er, Stravin­sky was most­ly unknown. Still work­ing under the shad­ow of his teacher, Rim­sky-Kor­sakov, he was giv­en his first big break by Diaghilev only after sev­er­al oth­er com­posers refused the job. That com­mis­sion turned out to be one of the works for which Stravin­sky is best known—the score for The Fire­bird, a bal­let based on a Russ­ian folk tale about a prince who frees a mag­i­cal bird held cap­tive by a sor­cer­er. Fit­ting­ly, giv­en the mon­strous nature of the story’s antag­o­nists, Stravinsky’s score turns on a very sin­is­ter-sound­ing musi­cal inter­val, the tri­tone, whose dis­so­nance caused ear­li­er com­posers to dub it “the Devil’s Inter­val” and to avoid it entire­ly in reli­gious music. Just above, you can see Stravin­sky him­self, at age 82, con­duct “The Lul­la­by Suite” from the bal­let.

Stravinsky’s score built on Claude Debussy’s use of the tri­tone twen­ty years ear­li­er in the eerie Pre­lude to an After­noon of a Faun, and the net effect of the inter­val in these two pieces lead to its dark, moody sound becom­ing “the cen­ter of mod­ern music.” So says Carnegie Hall’s Jef­frey Gef­fen in the short video intro­duc­tion to Stravinsky’s Fire­bird. Gef­fen goes on to tell us that Debussy and Stravin­sky “looked to what was con­sid­ered the most dis­so­nant inter­val of the past 200 years and turned it into into some­thing that becomes exot­ic and per­fumed.” Although The Fire­bird’s sto­ry and many of its musi­cal themes are dis­tinct­ly Russ­ian in ori­gin (as you can see in the Khan Acad­e­my video below), the music “would not have been pos­si­ble,” says Carnegie Hall’s David Robert­son, “with­out the influ­ence of Debussy and that of his friend Mau­rice Rav­el.”

Stravin­sky’s music proved polar­iz­ing even before the riots of Rite of Spring. When leg­endary dancer Anna Pavlo­va heard the Fire­bird score, she declared it “noise” and refused to dance to it, forc­ing Diaghilev to cast Tama­ra Karsav­ina in the title role. But the pro­duc­er believed in his new com­pos­er, remark­ing to Karsav­ina on the bal­let’s pre­miere that Stravin­sky was “a man on the eve of celebri­ty.” Even the for­ward-look­ing Diaghilev could­n’t have pre­dict­ed how much influ­ence Stravin­sky would have on the next 100 years of mod­ern music. Since its first incar­na­tion in 1910, The Fire­bird has been restaged and rearranged sev­er­al times. The suite Stravin­sky con­ducts at the top of the post comes from the 1945 arrange­ment. Two years after this filmed per­for­mance, Stravin­sky con­duct­ed his very last record­ing for Colum­bia Records. He again chose to return, for the last time, to the bal­let that first made him famous, The Fire­bird.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Hear 46 Ver­sions of Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring in 3 Min­utes: A Clas­sic Mashup

Stravinsky’s “Ille­gal” Arrange­ment of “The Star Span­gled Ban­ner” (1944)

Stravinsky’s The Rite of Spring, Visu­al­ized in a Com­put­er Ani­ma­tion for Its 100th Anniver­sary

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

Radio Caroline, the Pirate Radio Ship That Rocked the British Music World (1965)

Nowa­days musi­cians can reach hun­dreds, thou­sands, some­times mil­lions of lis­ten­ers with a few, usu­al­ly free, online ser­vices and a min­i­mal grasp of tech­nol­o­gy. That’s not to say there aren’t still eco­nom­ic bar­ri­ers aplen­ty for the strug­gling artist, but true inde­pen­dence is not an impos­si­ble prospect.

In the 1950s and 60s, on the oth­er hand, as pop­u­lar music attained new­found com­mer­cial val­ue, musi­cians found them­selves com­plete­ly behold­en to record com­pa­nies and radio sta­tions in order to have their music heard by near­ly any­one. And those enti­ties schemed togeth­er to pro­mote cer­tain record­ings and ignore or mar­gin­al­ize oth­ers. Pay­ola, in a word, ruled the day.

In the UK, a dif­fer­ent but no less impreg­nable order pre­sent­ed itself to the aspir­ing obscu­ri­ty. Rather than cor­po­rate inter­ests and well-bribed DJs, the BBC and British gov­ern­ment, writes the Modesto Radio Muse­um, “were increas­ing­ly hos­tile toward any com­pe­ti­tion for their radio monop­oly.” (After WWII, the British Broad­cast­ing Ser­vice main­tained a monop­oly on radio, and lat­er tele­vi­sion, broad­cast­ing in the UK.) Enter the pirates.

While the phrase now denotes a class of free­boot­ers who work from their ter­mi­nals, the orig­i­nal music pirates actu­al­ly took to the seas. The first, Radio Mer­cur, “estab­lished by a group of Dan­ish busi­ness­men” in 1958, “trans­mit­ted from a small ship anchored off Copen­hagen, Den­mark.” Mer­cur inspired Radio Nord in 1960, anchored off the Swedish Coast, then the Dutch Radio Veron­i­ca that same year.

Then, in 1962, Irish man­ag­er Ronan O’Rahilly met Aus­tralian busi­ness­man Allan Craw­ford. O’Rahilly had pre­vi­ous­ly attempt­ed to launch the career of musi­cian Georgie Fame, but to no avail. Record com­pa­nies would­n’t record him, and when O’Rahilly fund­ed an album, the BBC refused to play it—he wasn’t on their favored labels, EMI and Dec­ca. So O’Rahilly and Craw­ford con­spired to cre­ate their own pirate sta­tion, Radio Car­o­line (named after the daugh­ter of John F. Kennedy).

They pur­chased their first ship, the MV Mi Ami­go, in 1963, then set about secur­ing funds and rig­ging up the ves­sel with two 10 Kilo­watt AM trans­mit­ters and a 13-ton, 165 foot anten­na mast. Broad­cast­ing from 6am to 6pm dai­ly, Radio Car­o­line man­aged to break the BBC monop­oly (and launch Georgie Fame to… well actu­al, chart-top­ping fame). In 1965, a British Pathé film crew vis­it­ed the ship, and shot the footage at the top of the post, not­ing in their nar­ra­tion that “for over a year,” Radio Car­o­line had “giv­en pop music to some­thing like 20 mil­lion lis­ten­ers,” chang­ing British pop cul­ture “with the con­nivance of almost every teenag­er in South­east Eng­land.”

The sta­tion kicked off their first broad­cast, which you can hear above, on East­er Sun­day, March 1964, with the announce­ment, “This is Radio Car­o­line on 199, your all day music sta­tion.” The very first tune they played was the Rolling Stones’ cov­er of Bud­dy Hol­ly’s “Not Fade Away” (one of the band’s first major hits). In the mid-60s pirate radio, par­tic­u­lar­ly Radio Car­o­line, helped break a num­ber of bands, intro­duc­ing eager young lis­ten­ers to The Who’s first four sin­gles, for exam­ple. (The band returned the favor by attempt­ing to give 1967’s The Who Sell Out the raw sound and feel of a pirate radio broad­cast.)

Learn more about Radio Caroline’s long and sto­ried exis­tence in the doc­u­men­tary seg­ment fur­ther up, Part 6 of DMC World’s com­pre­hen­sive The His­to­ry of DJ. The Modesto Radio Museum’s thor­ough, mul­ti­part essay series, com­plete with pho­tographs, offers a rich his­to­ry, as does Ray Clark’s book, Radio Car­o­line: The True Sto­ry of the Boat that Rocked. “The world’s most famous off­shore radio sta­tion,” is still on the air today (even though the orig­i­nal ship sank in 1980) or rather, on the web, with stream­ing pro­grams and “gad­gets and wid­gets” for Android devices, iPhones, iPads, and browsers.

It’s some­thing of an irony that they’ve end­ed up just one of hun­dreds of online stream­ing sta­tions vying for lis­ten­ers’ atten­tion, but it’s safe to say that with­out their exploits in the 60s and beyond, pop music as we know it—with all its legal and not-so-legal means of dissemination—may nev­er have spread and evolved into the myr­i­ad forms we now take for grant­ed.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Hear the 1962 Bea­t­les Demo that Dec­ca Reject­ed: “Gui­tar Groups are on Their Way Out, Mr. Epstein”

David Bowie Becomes a DJ on BBC Radio in 1979; Intro­duces Lis­ten­ers to The Vel­vet Under­ground, Talk­ing Heads, Blondie & More

Jimi Hen­drix Wreaks Hav­oc on the Lulu Show, Gets Banned From BBC (1969)

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

The Rolling Stones’ “Gimme Shelter” Played by Musicians Around the World

There’s some­thing dark and apoc­a­lyp­tic about the Rolling Stones’ 1969 song, “Gimme Shel­ter”–from the lyrics (“Oh, a storm is threat’n­ing. My very life today. If I don’t get some shel­ter. Oh yeah, I’m gonna fade away”), to the grim cir­cum­stances sur­round­ing the record­ing of the track, released on the album Let It Bleed. A sense of dread runs through­out the Stones’ orig­i­nal song. Less so the ver­sion above, cre­at­ed by the mul­ti­me­dia project Play­ing for Change, which strives to cre­ate world peace through music. Record­ed back in 2011, this cov­er brings togeth­er artists from around the world: India, Italy, Jamaica, Brazil, Mali, Sier­ra Leone, Sene­gal, and the US. And it’s just one of 21 songs that appears on the DVD/CD com­bo, Songs Around the World.  Oth­er videos by Play­ing for Change can be found in the Relat­eds below.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Mick Jag­ger Tells the Sto­ry Behind ‘Gimme Shel­ter’ and Mer­ry Clayton’s Haunt­ing Back­ground Vocals

The Grate­ful Dead’s “Rip­ple” Played by Musi­cians Around the World

When “Stand By Me” Trav­els Around the World

Watch Paul McCartney Perform Live, with 10-Year-Old Leila on Bass, in Buenos Aires Yesterday

A few weeks ago, I took my kids to see Paul McCart­ney launch his One on One Tour in Fres­no, Cal­i­for­nia. The high­light? See­ing him play “Hard Day’s Night” and “Love Me Do” live for the first time since the 1960s? Not real­ly. Watch­ing Sir Paul wave at my kids when they held up a “Chee­rio Paul” sign? Yeah, that was worth the price of the tick­ets alone.

But none of that com­pares to the scene that played out ear­li­er this week in Buenos Aires. Above, watch lit­tle Leila sweet­ly ask Paul to play a lit­tle bass, get her wish grant­ed, and rock to some “Get Back.” It’s pret­ty adorable.

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!

Behold the Sea Organ: The Massive Experimental Musical Instrument That Makes Music with the Sea

If you ever find your­self in Zadar, Croa­t­ia, pay a vis­it to The Sea Organ, the exper­i­men­tal musi­cal instru­ment cre­at­ed by the archi­tect Niko­la Bašić. Unveiled in 2005, the organ–made of 35 poly­eth­yl­ene pipes tucked under white mar­ble steps–turns the wind and the waves into a nev­er-end­ing stream of avant-garde sounds. In 2006, the Sea Organ won the 2006 Euro­pean Prize for Urban Pub­lic Space. Hear it make its music above.

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!

by | Permalink | Make a Comment ( 3 ) |

The Night John Belushi Cartwheeled Onstage During a Grateful Dead Show & Sang “U.S. Blues” with the Band (1980)

Sure, I know ice truck­ers and snow crab fish­er­men have it rough, but I’ve always thought the hard­est job in the world is to be a come­di­an. You walk out on stage, night after night, throw­ing your­self on the mer­cy of the fick­le crowd, with noth­ing but your wits to keep you afloat. It’s nev­er been any won­der to me that so many come­di­ans turn to var­i­ous sub­stances to cope with the heck­ling, chilly silences, and dis­in­ter­est­ed, half-emp­ty rooms. Even suc­cess­ful, beloved comics face tremen­dous per­for­mance pres­sures. Some of them crack. And some, like John Belushi, hop onstage dur­ing a Grate­ful Dead show at the Capi­tol The­atre, cart­wheel over to a micro­phone before the cho­rus of “U.S. Blues,” and join in on back­ing vocals.

Belushi’s impromp­tu 1980 prank per­for­mance with the Dead was not, ini­tial­ly, wel­comed. He had, reports Live for Live Music, “met with some resis­tance from the band” when he asked to join in dur­ing the encore, and drum­mer Bill Kreutz­mann “had to nix Belushi’s wish­es.”

So Belushi, true to form, took mat­ters into his own anar­chic hands, stag­ing what Kreutz­mann called in his 2015 auto­bi­og­ra­phy a “comedic ambush.”

He had on a sport coat with small Amer­i­can flags stuffed into both of his breast pock­ets and he land­ed his last cart­wheel just in time to grab a micro­phone and join in on the cho­rus. The audi­ence and every­one in the band—except for Phil—ate it up. It could­n’t have been rehearsed bet­ter. Belushi had impec­ca­ble comedic tim­ing, musi­cal­i­ty, balls, the works. And appar­ent­ly, he did­n’t take no for an answer.

Belushi’s musi­cal antics, and sur­pris­ing acro­bat­ic agili­ty, are already well-known to fans of The Blues Broth­ers. His pen­chant for real-life musi­cal chaos—such as his stag­ing of an authen­ti­cal­ly riotous punk show on Sat­ur­day Night Live—have also become part of his estimable com­ic leg­end.

Sad­ly, no video of the stunt seems to exist, but you can see Kreutz­mann tell the Belushi sto­ry in the inter­view at the top of the post and, just above, hear that night’s encore per­for­mance of “U.S. Blues.” Lis­ten close­ly at around the 1:50 mark and you’ll hear Belushi join in on the cho­rus. We’ll have to imag­ine the cart­wheels, but it prob­a­bly looked some­thing like this.


Hear the full Dead show from that night here. And if you’re crav­ing more musi­cal Belushi, check out his spas­mod­ic impres­sion of the late, great Joe Cock­er.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Young John Belushi Imi­tates Tru­man Capote & Per­forms Live on Sec­ond City Stage (1972)

The Night John Belushi Booked the Punk Band Fear on Sat­ur­day Night Live, And They Got Banned from the Show

Stream 36 Record­ings of Leg­endary Grate­ful Dead Con­certs Free Online (aka Dick’s Picks)

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.