A Massive 800-Track Playlist of 90s Indie & Alternative Music, in Chronological Order

800 indie tracksIn the time it’s tak­en me to grow out of my way­ward 90s youth and into most­ly sol­id cit­i­zen adult­hood, cul­tur­al mem­o­ries of that decade have crys­tal­ized around a few gen­res that have seen some renew­al of late. I’m more than pleased to find cur­rent musi­cians reviv­ing shoegaze, 90s elec­tron­i­ca, and neo-soul. And with so many artists who peaked twen­ty or so years ago still releas­ing records or get­ting back togeth­er for impres­sive reunions, it often seems like the music I grew up with nev­er left, even if a whole raft of stars I couldn’t pick out of a line­up have emerged in the mean­time.

And yet, though the ven­er­a­tion of 90s music has become a thing in recent years, the per­spec­tive of it by peo­ple per­haps not even born when the decade end­ed tends to be some­what lim­it­ed. Per­haps all of us for­get how strange and eclec­tic 90s music was. Even at the time, pop and alter­na­tive cul­tures were almost instant­ly reduced in films, com­pi­la­tion albums, and more-or-less every show on MTV. It was an era when sub­cul­tures were quick­ly com­mod­i­fied, san­i­tized, and sold back to us in the­aters and on record shelves.

To remind our­selves of just how wide-rang­ing the 90s were, we might turn to the expan­sive “giant 90s alt/indie/etc” playlist here, com­piled by Aroon Korv­na (born in 1982, but pre­co­cious­ly “musi­cal­ly con­scious” dur­ing the decade). The jour­ney begins with the nasal cham­ber pop of They Might Be Giants’ “Bird­house in Your Soul”—a clas­sic of DIY dork-rock—and ends with Jay Z’s “Big Pimpin,” a song herald­ing the tri­umph of radio-ready rap and club hits over the decades’ many quirky rock and hip-hop guis­es.

Hear the playlist in three parts: Part I (1990–94) and II (1995–96) above; Part III (1997–99) below. (If you need Spo­ti­fy’s soft­ware, down­load it here.) Along the way, we run into for­got­ten songs by under-the-radar bands like The Dwarves, Red House Painters, Guid­ed By Voic­es, The Beta Band, and The Micro­phones; left­field choic­es from one-hit won­ders like Ned’s Atom­ic Dust­bin and Infor­ma­tion Soci­ety; the first stir­rings from now-super­stars like Daft Punk and Jack White; and cuts from just about every oth­er artist on col­lege or alter­na­tive radio through­out the decade.

“The inspi­ra­tion for this playlist,” writes Korv­na, “came from see­ing one too many of those nos­tal­gia-bait pieces aimed at my cohort: ‘You total­ly for­got about these 20 amaz­ing hits from the 90’s.… After the 6th or 7th of these arti­cles all list­ing off the same obvi­ous things, you start to think you real­ly have heard every­thing from the 90s. But we all know that’s not true.”

By doing a bit of inter­net research to fill gaps in mem­o­ry, Korv­na com­piled “a mix of things every­one is famil­iar with, and more obscure arti­facts, the sorts of songs you might have only been famil­iar with if you were, say, lis­ten­ing to col­lege rock in 1991.”

If the 90s is to you an unknown coun­try, you’ll find that this three-part Spo­ti­fy playlist offers a com­pre­hen­sive walk-through of the decades’ diverse musi­cal culture—and it does­n’t just play the hits. If you’re a gen­tle­man or lady of a cer­tain age, it will refresh a few mem­o­ries, make you smile and wince with nos­tal­gia, and per­haps fill you with indig­na­tion over all the songs you think need to be on there but aren’t.

Feel free to leave your sug­ges­tions in the comments—or to make your own 90s playlist. And while you’re at it, you might want to take a look at Flavorwire’s sur­pris­ing list of “105 ‘90s Alter­na­tive Bands that Still Exist.”

via Metafil­ter/Medi­um

Relat­ed Con­tent:

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

62 Psy­che­del­ic Clas­sics: A Free Playlist Cre­at­ed by Sean Lennon

Radio David Byrne: Stream Free Music Playlists Cre­at­ed Every Month by the Front­man of Talk­ing Heads

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

Carol Kaye, 81-Year-Old Pioneer of Rock, Gives Kiss’ Gene Simmons a Bass Lesson

If you asked me to name the best rep­re­sen­ta­tive of rock and roll as a boy’s club, KISS would be high on my list. Despite their com­mit­ment to a gen­der-bend­ing glam style, Front­men Gene Sim­mons and Paul Stanley’s chest hair rugs, wag­ging tongues, and stud­ded cod­pieces are exag­ger­at­ed exam­ples of sev­en­ties virility—a rock era known for pro­gres­sive music, but not pro­gres­sive gen­der pol­i­tics.

If you asked me to name a musi­cian who had chal­lenged and defied gen­der stereo­types in rock and roll, Car­ol Kaye— bassist and mem­ber of L.A.’s top flight ses­sion musi­cians the Wreck­ing Crew—would be high on my list. Kaye and her crew helped cre­ate the sound of Phil Spec­tor records, the Beach Boys, the Mamas and the Papas, and so many oth­er clas­sic six­ties artists.

Kaye nev­er par­tic­u­lar­ly saw her­self as a pio­neer or path­break­er, but her smooth, unpre­ten­tious pro­fes­sion­al­ism car­ried her through a career most musi­cians, male and female, would envy, even if she nev­er stood in the spot­light her­self. Her atti­tude, approach, and play­ing are pret­ty much the oppo­site of the bom­bas­tic, mer­ce­nary Sim­mons, who has on more than one occa­sion weath­ered charges of sex­ism in his pur­suit of big­ger, loud­er, dumb­er music and more tawdry real­i­ty TV.

In the short clip above, the two leg­ends meet, and Kaye sits Sim­mons down and shows him how it’s done.

She has taught hun­dreds of stu­dents to imi­tate, though nev­er dupli­cate, her chops, and earned the clout to take Sim­mons to school (though she seems sur­prised to be doing so); Kaye large­ly helped invent the sound of rock bass and ele­vat­ed the instru­ment from a sup­port­ing play­er to an indis­pens­able lead one as well.

The clip comes from an unfin­ished doc­u­men­tary that fea­tures over an hour of inter­view footage in which Kaye dis­cuss­es her start in music and long­time suc­cess, and demon­strates more of her phe­nom­e­nal, under­stat­ed play­ing.

via No Tre­ble

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Meet Car­ol Kaye, the Unsung Bassist Behind Your Favorite 60s Hits

7 Female Bass Play­ers Who Helped Shape Mod­ern Music: Kim Gor­don, Tina Wey­mouth, Kim Deal & More

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

Peter Sellers Recites The Beatles’ “A Hard Day’s Night” in the Style of Shakespeare’s Richard III

“Now is the win­ter of our dis­con­tent….” If you know noth­ing else of Shakespeare’s Richard III, you’ll know this famous open­ing line, and it’s like­ly many of us know it through Lau­rence Olivier’s per­for­mance of Richard as a “melo­dra­mat­ic bad­die” in the famous 1955 film. If not, take a look at the clip below to famil­iar­ize your­self with Olivier’s dis­tinc­tive man­ner­isms and speech. The ref­er­ence may large­ly be lost these days, but in 1965, at the very height of The Bea­t­les’ fame, Olivier’s per­for­mance was still fresh in the minds of the TV view­ing pub­lic. And the mer­cu­r­ial Eng­lish come­di­an Peter Sell­ers put it to good use in a Bea­t­les-trib­ute vari­ety pro­gram called The Music of Lennon and McCart­ney that aired in the UK. In the clip above, Sell­ers recites the lyrics to “A Hard Day’s Night” in char­ac­ter as Olivier’s dandy­ish Richard.

Unsur­pris­ing­ly, Sell­ers and the Bea­t­les had hit it off right away when they were intro­duced by George Mar­tin, and as we showed you in a recent post, the come­di­an milked their lyrics for more mate­r­i­al, read­ing “She Loves You,” in a vari­ety of accents. Sell­ers’ ren­di­tion of “A Hard Day’s Night” was hard­ly the first Shake­speare­an turn for the band.

The pre­vi­ous year, they appeared in anoth­er vari­ety tele­vi­sion spe­cial called Around the Bea­t­les, “pro­duced con­cur­rent­ly,” writes Dan­ger­ous Minds, “while A Hard Day’s Night was being shot.” (Around the Bea­t­les was direct­ed by pro­duc­er and man­ag­er Jack Good, a “Shake­speare fan,” who also, it turns out, con­vinced rock­a­bil­ly star Gene Vin­cent to dress up like Richard III.) In this ear­li­er pro­gram, the band—always good sports about this kind of thing—dressed up in Shake­speare­an garb and staged a rau­cous per­for­mance of a scene from A Mid­sum­mer Night’s Dream.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Peter Sell­ers Reads The Bea­t­les’ “She Loves You” in 4 Dif­fer­ent Accents: Dr. Strangelove, Cock­ney, Irish & Upper Crust

The Bea­t­les Sat­ur­day Morn­ing Car­toon Show: The Com­plete 1965–1969 Series

The 15 Worst Cov­ers of Bea­t­les Songs: William Shat­ner, Bill Cos­by, Tiny Tim, Sean Con­nery & Your Excel­lent Picks

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

Watch Édith Piaf Sing Her Most Famous Songs: “La Vie en Rose,” “Non, Je Regrette Rien” & More


On the 100th anniver­sary of Édith Piaf’s birth last Decem­ber, writes Jere­my Allen at The Guardian, “cel­e­bra­tions… were low key…. Piaf is a lit­tle out of fash­ion with today’s jeunesse dorée.” That’s a lit­tle hard to believe, but if Piaf has fall­en out of favor with wealthy French youth, her star has con­tin­ued to shine, year after year, for much of the music- and film-lov­ing world.

Her sto­ry has been told in numer­ous doc­u­men­taries and biopics, includ­ing the mul­ti­ple-award-win­ning La Vie en rose in 2007, whose lead actress, Mar­i­on Cotil­lard, received the first Oscar giv­en for a French-speak­ing role.

Cel­e­brat­ed in song, in print, in pho­tographs, and in many a stage tribute—such as Lady Gaga’s per­for­mance of her sig­na­ture song, “La Vie en rose,” at last year’s Gram­my awards—Piaf has “influ­enced every­one from Mar­i­anne Faith­full to Anna Calvi, and Elton John,” not all of whom are them­selves in fash­ion these days.

And yet, writes Allen, “to para­phrase an old foot­balling cliché, fash­ion is tem­po­rary, class is per­ma­nent.” If there’s any­thing Piaf’s voice and pres­ence have exem­pli­fied over many decades, it is that inde­fin­able qual­i­ty of “class,” which tran­scends eco­nom­ic divi­sions and the ram­blings of tacky would-be politi­cians and encom­pass­es rather a mix of grace­ful self-pos­ses­sion, artis­tic integri­ty, and time­less ele­gance.

She cer­tain­ly would not have been mis­tak­en, in her youth, for one of those fash­ion­able jeunesse dorée. The daugh­ter of a street singer who aban­doned her, Piaf learned her craft by also singing on the streets, “in a Bellevil­loise argot appar­ent­ly not dis­sim­i­lar to a Parisian ver­sion of old cock­ney,” Allen writes. The dra­mat­ic cir­cum­stances of her life were “a punk opera decades before the genre explod­ed….. From grow­ing up in a bor­del­lo, to spend­ing four years blind­ed by ker­ati­tis in her infan­cy, to join­ing her acro­bat father on the road in her teens, to shoot­ing up mor­phine, cor­ti­sone and falling into alco­holism to alle­vi­ate a dodgy back sus­tained in a car crash as an adult (pre­cip­i­tat­ing what she described as her ‘years of hell’).”

Through it all, writes Open Cul­ture’s Mike Springer, “Piaf man­aged to hold onto a basi­cal­ly opti­mistic view of life.” Such a view, always tinged with rue­ful sad­ness, comes through in her per­for­mances of, for exam­ple, “La Vie en rose” (which rough­ly trans­lates to “life through rose-col­ored glass­es”). See her per­form the song at the top of the post on French TV in 1954. “She was 38 years old,” writes Springer, “but looked much old­er” due to her alco­holism and var­i­ous treat­ments for her drink­ing and arthri­tis. Below this video, in a filmed per­for­mance of “Non, je regrette rien” (“I regret noth­ing”), Piaf’s hard life seems etched on her expres­sive­ly sor­row­ful face, but her voice did not suf­fer for it, nor her will­ing­ness to per­form until the end of her short life (she died in 1963 at age 47).

Piaf ded­i­cat­ed “Non, je regrette rien”—composed for her in 1956 by Charles Dumont and Michel Vaucaire—to the French For­eign Legion, who adopt­ed it as their anthem. Its title becomes par­tic­u­lar­ly poignant in light of Piaf’s sto­ried life, espe­cial­ly giv­en the accu­sa­tions after the Nazi occu­pa­tion that she had col­lab­o­rat­ed with the Ger­mans. Instead, it was revealed, writes a New York Times pro­file, that while she per­formed for Ger­man troops, she “was instru­men­tal in help­ing a num­ber of pris­on­ers escape,” ren­der­ing “aid that lat­er saved her from any charges of col­lab­o­ra­tion.” Piaf became an emblem of Parisian cul­ture, and appeared in sev­er­al films, such as 1951’s Paris Chante Tou­jours (“Paris still sings,” above—she sings “Hymne à l’amour.”)

She also became—after sur­viv­ing a first, dis­as­trous 1947 appear­ance in New York—a star in the U.S. in the 50s. In 1959, she appeared on The Ed Sul­li­van Show and sang “Milord” (above), part­ly in Eng­lish, a song that briefly reached the Bill­board top 100. Piaf would appear a few times on Sul­li­van’s pro­gram through­out the decade. In 1952, she held her own with Amer­i­can audi­ences in a line­up that includ­ed the huge­ly pop­u­lar Bob­by Darin and the fiery Ike and Tina Turn­er. Despite her diminu­tive stature (she stood just 4′8″) and often frail phys­i­cal con­di­tion, Piaf’s world-weary demeanor and smol­der­ing voice stood out in any com­pa­ny. She was a true orig­i­nal and there has nev­er been anoth­er per­former quite like her.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Édith Piaf’s Mov­ing Per­for­mance of ‘La Vie en Rose’ on French TV, 1954

Watch Clas­sic Per­for­mances from Maria Callas’ Won­drous and Trag­i­cal­ly-Short Opera Career

Bertolt Brecht Sings ‘Mack the Knife’ From The Three­pen­ny Opera, 1929

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

Peter Sellers Reads The Beatles’ “She Loves You” in 4 Different Accents: Dr. Strangelove, Cockney, Irish & Upper Crust

Back in the late 1950s, George Mar­tin (may he rest in peace) began his career as a pro­duc­er record­ing two albums with the come­di­an Peter Sell­ersThe Best Of Sell­ers and Songs for Swing­ing Sell­ers. When he joined forces with the Bea­t­les a few years lat­er, Mar­tin put the come­di­an in touch with the lads from Liv­er­pool, and they became fast friends. This rela­tion­ship paved the way for some good com­e­dy. As you might recall, Sell­ers made a cameo appear­ance on “The Music of Lennon and McCart­ney” in 1964, and read “A Hard Day’s Night” in a way that com­i­cal­ly recalls Lau­rence Olivier’s 1955 per­for­mance in Richard III. (Watch the spoof here.) And then, also dur­ing the mid 60s, Sell­ers record­ed a com­ic read­ing of “She Loves You” — once in the voice of Dr. Strangelove (above), again with cock­ney and upper-crusty accents (both right below), and final­ly with an Irish twist (the last item). The record­ings were all released posthu­mous­ly between 1981 and 1983 on albums no longer in cir­cu­la­tion. Sell­ers clear­ly had a thing for accents. Here you can also explore his Com­plete Guide to the Accents of the British Isles.

Cock­ney

Upper Crust

Irish

A ver­sion of this post first appeared on Open Cul­ture in Feb­ru­ary, 2012.

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Relat­ed Con­tent:

Peter Sell­ers Per­forms The Bea­t­les “A Hard Day’s Night” in Shake­speare­an Voice

Here Comes The Sun: The Lost Gui­tar Solo by George Har­ri­son

Gui­tarist Randy Bach­man Demys­ti­fies the Open­ing Chord of ‘A Hard Day’s Night’

Hear the Unique, Orig­i­nal Com­po­si­tions of George Mar­tin, Beloved Bea­t­les Pro­duc­er (RIP)

Peter Sell­ers Presents The Com­plete Guide To Accents of The British Isles

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An Inside Look at How the Fantastic “Wintergatan Marble Machine” Makes Music with 2000 Marbles & 3000 Handmade Parts

Swedish musi­cian Mar­tin Molin’s Mar­ble Machine, above, looks like the kind of top heavy, enchant­ed con­trap­tion one might find in a Miyaza­ki movie, gal­lop­ing through the coun­try­side on its skin­ny legs.

Those slen­der stems are but one of the design flaws that both­er its cre­ator, who notes that he hadn’t real­ly tak­en into account the destruc­tive pow­er of 2000 flow­ing mar­bles (or more accu­rate­ly, 11mm steel ball bear­ings).

It’s nat­ur­al for some­one so close to the project to fix­ate on its imper­fec­tions, but I think it’s safe to say that the rest of us will be bedaz­zled by all the giant musi­cal Rube Gold­berg device gets right. Hannes Knutsson’s “mak­ing of” videos below detail some of Molin’s labors, from recre­at­ing the sound of a snare drum with coast­ers, a con­tact mic and a box of bas­mati rice, to cut­ting wood­en gears from a cus­tomiz­able tem­plate that any­one can down­load off the Inter­net.

If it looks like a time con­sum­ing endeav­or, it was. Molin wound up devot­ing 14 months to what he had con­ceived of as a short term project, even­tu­al­ly design­ing and fab­ri­cat­ing 3,000 inter­nal parts.

The fin­ished prod­uct is a feat of dig­i­tal, musi­cal, and phys­i­cal skill. As Molin told Wired,

I grew up mak­ing music on Midi, and every­one makes music on a grid nowa­days, on com­put­ers. Even before dig­i­tal they made fan­tas­tic, pro­gram­ma­ble music instru­ments. In bell tow­ers and church tow­ers that play a melody they always have a pro­gram­ming wheel exact­ly like the one that is on the mar­ble machine.

The “mak­ing of” videos high­light the dif­fer­ence between the record­ed audio sig­nal and the sound in the room where the machine is being oper­at­ed. There’s some­thing immense­ly sat­is­fy­ing about the insect-like click of all those mar­bles work­ing in con­cert as they acti­vate the var­i­ous instru­ments and notes.

The machine also appears to give its inven­tor a rather brisk car­dio work­out.

You can read more about the con­struc­tion of the Mar­ble Machine on Molin’s Win­ter­gatan web­site. Its tune is avail­able for down­load here.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

See the First “Drum Machine,” the Rhyth­mi­con from 1931, and the Mod­ern Drum Machines That Fol­lowed Decades Lat­er

New Order’s “Blue Mon­day” Played with Obso­lete 1930s Instru­ments

Two Gui­tar Effects That Rev­o­lu­tion­ized Rock: The Inven­tion of the Wah-Wah & Fuzz Ped­als

Discovering Electronic Music: 1983 Documentary Offers a Fun & Educational Introduction to Electronic Music

The late six­ties and sev­en­ties pro­duced an explo­sion of elec­tron­ic music that arrived on the scene as an almost entire­ly new art form. So much so that when com­pos­er Wendy Car­los released an album of Bach com­po­si­tions played on the Moog syn­the­siz­er, it was as though she had invent­ed anoth­er genre of music, rather than played baroque pieces on a new instru­ment. We had fore­moth­ers like Delia Der­byshire, exper­i­men­tal bands like Sil­ver Apples and Sui­cide, inno­va­tors like Bri­an Eno and David Bowie and Kraftwerk, dis­co pio­neers like Gior­gio Moroder and Don­na Sum­mer… the list of elec­tron­ic musi­cians at work cre­at­ing the genre before the 1980s could go on and on.

You won’t learn any of that from the 1983 doc­u­men­tary above, Dis­cov­er­ing Elec­tron­ic Music, which is not at all to damn the short film; on the con­trary, what this pre­sen­ta­tion offers us is some­thing entire­ly dif­fer­ent from the usu­al sur­vey course in great men and women of com­mer­cial music. With an under­stat­ed, ped­a­gog­i­cal tone, Dis­cov­er­ing Elec­tron­ic Music gen­tly leads its view­ers through a thought­ful intro­duc­tion to elec­tron­ic music itself—what it con­sists of, how it dif­fers from acoustic music, what kind of equip­ment pro­duces it, and how that equip­ment works.

There are many musi­cians fea­tured here, but none of them stars. They demon­strate, with com­pe­ten­cy and pro­fes­sion­al­ism, the ways var­i­ous elec­tron­ic instru­ments and (now seem­ing­ly pre­his­toric) com­put­er sys­tems work. We do hear lots of clas­si­cal music played on syn­the­siz­ers, though not by the enig­mat­ic and reclu­sive Wendy Car­los. And we hear mod­ern com­po­si­tions as well, though few you’re like­ly to rec­og­nize, from “Jean-Claude Ris­set, Dou­glas Leedy, F.R. Moore, Stephan Soomil, Rory Kaplan, Ger­al Strang and more for­got­ten genius­es of ear­ly elec­tron­ic music,” writes Elec­tron­ic Beats.

Ear­ly in the film, its pre­sen­ter talks about the specif­i­cal­ly mod­ern appeal of elec­tron­ic music: com­posers can work direct­ly with sound like a sculp­tor or painter, rather than com­pos­ing on paper and wait­ing to hear that writ­ten music per­formed by musi­cians. Much of Dis­cov­er­ing Elec­tron­ic Music shows us com­posers and musi­cians doing just that, with the thor­ough­ly mat­ter-of-fact man­ner of the most com­pelling­ly dry pub­lic tele­vi­sion doc­u­men­taries and with the strange­ly sooth­ing qual­i­ty com­mon to both Mr. Rogers’ Neigh­bor­hood and Bob Ross’s paint­ing lessons. Like the sound of the ana­log syn­the­siz­ers and antique com­put­er sequencers it fea­tures, the doc­u­men­tary has an eerie beau­ty all its own.

Find more doc­u­men­taries in our col­lec­tion, 4,000+ Free Movies Online: Great Clas­sics, Indies, Noir, West­erns, Doc­u­men­taries & More.

via Elec­tron­ic Beats

Relat­ed Con­tent:

How the Moog Syn­the­siz­er Changed the Sound of Music

The His­to­ry of Elec­tron­ic Music in 476 Tracks (1937–2001)

Two Doc­u­men­taries Intro­duce Delia Der­byshire, the Pio­neer in Elec­tron­ic Music

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

Hear John Malkovich Read Plato’s “Allegory of the Cave,” Set to Music Mixed by Ric Ocasek, Yoko Ono & Sean Lennon, OMD & More

So, imag­ine that you’re John Malkovich. I know, you’ve seen this movie before, but hear me out: you’re one of the most ven­er­at­ed actors of your gen­er­a­tion. You are enter­ing your sixth decade and could prob­a­bly coast into your gold­en years on acco­lades and pres­tige parts. But do you rest on your lau­rels? Or do you become a mod­el and col­lab­o­ra­tor with pho­tog­ra­ph­er San­dro Miller, appear in an Eminem video… read Plato’s “Alle­go­ry of the Cave” over an ambi­ent piece of music called “Cryo­ge­nia X,” then have the results remixed by Yoko Ono and Sean Lennon, Ric Ocasek, new wave icons Orches­tral Maneu­vers in the Dark, and oth­er musi­cal leg­ends?

The answer is all of the above. You’re John Malkovich. You can do what­ev­er you want. “When I have an idea for some­thing,” says Malkovich, “I expect my col­lab­o­ra­tors to col­lab­o­rate on that idea and if some­one else has an idea, then I’ll cer­tain­ly col­lab­o­rate with them.” It’s that kind of dis­ci­plined, yet genial flex­i­bil­i­ty that made Malkovich per­fect for the role of him­self in Spike Jonze’s sur­re­al com­e­dy. Now the last of the projects in that extracur­ric­u­lar list above brings more sur­re­al­i­ty into Malkovich’s reper­toire, in the form of a dou­ble LP’s‑worth of dream­like recita­tions of Pla­to’s clas­si­cal myth, called Like a Pup­pet Show, released on Black Fri­day of last year.

With orig­i­nal music com­posed by Eric Alexan­drakis, the album came out on vinyl as a 2 LP pic­ture disk fea­tur­ing pho­tos from Malkovich and Miller’s pho­to project “Malkovich, Malkovich, Malkovich.” The col­lab­o­ra­tion recalls oth­er lit­er­ary musi­cal projects, such as Kurt Cobain and William S. Bur­roughs’ “The Priest They Called Him” (and Bur­roughs’ ear­li­er work with Throb­bing Gris­tle),  as well as a recent joint project on Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass, with Iggy Pop and elec­tron­ic com­pos­er Alva Noto. But there’s also a dis­ori­ent­ing strange­ness here those oth­er exper­i­ments lack.

Ono and Lennon’s ver­sion “Cry­olife 7:14,” the sec­ond track above, is, odd­ly, the most con­ven­tion­al of the three dig­i­tal uploads we get to hear for free. Malkovich reads a por­tion of the text straight through, over word­less moans from Yoko and psy­che­del­ic lounge music from Lennon. In OMD and Ric Ocasek’s ren­di­tions, how­ev­er, Malkovich’s voice gets cut-up into a series of dis­joint­ed sam­ples. Rather than tell a story—that ancient 2,500-year-old sto­ry from Plato’s Repub­lic about igno­rance and awakening—these pieces sug­gest painful pos­es, emo­tion­al shocks, repet­i­tive con­di­tions, and weird onto­log­i­cal angles. What does it all mean for Malkovich?

It’s hard to say. He’s more steeped in process than inter­pre­ta­tion. “Music,” says Malkovich, “cre­ates its own kind of dream state.” If there’s any polit­i­cal sub­text, you’ll have to sup­ply it your­self. Malkovich—who game­ly dressed as Che Gue­vara in one of his San­dro Miller recre­ations of famous pho­tographs—has also been described as “so Right-wing you have to won­der if he’s kid­ding.” We know, of course, how Yoko feels about things. It’s part of what makes the col­lab­o­ra­tion so fresh and compelling—it doesn’t feel like one of those “of course these peo­ple got togeth­er” projects that, while sat­is­fy­ing, can suf­fer the fate of the super­group: too many cooks.

Here, each collaborator—the 2,000-years-dead philoso­pher, the cel­e­brat­ed actor and pho­tog­ra­ph­er, and the leg­endary musicians—comes from such a dif­fer­ent realm of expe­ri­ence and tal­ent that their meet­ing seems more like a moun­tain­top con­fer­ence of wiz­ards than a celebri­ty jam ses­sion. If you like what you hear (and see), Malkovich, Alexan­drakis, and Miller promise more. They’ve found­ed a record label, Cryo­ge­nia, and plant to release more musical/photographic projects in the near future.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Hear John Malkovich Read From Break­fast of Cham­pi­ons, Then Hear Kurt Von­negut Do the Same

Plato’s Cave Alle­go­ry Ani­mat­ed Mon­ty Python-Style

Two Ani­ma­tions of Plato’s Alle­go­ry of the Cave: One Nar­rat­ed by Orson Welles, Anoth­er Made with Clay

Orson Welles Nar­rates Plato’s Cave Alle­go­ry, Kafka’s Para­ble, and Free­dom Riv­er

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

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Open Culture was founded by Dan Colman.