Édith Piaf’s Moving Performance of ‘La Vie en Rose’ on French Television (1954)

Édith Piaf’s life was any­thing but rosy. Born in a Parisian slum, she was aban­doned by her moth­er and lived for awhile in a broth­el run by her grand­moth­er. As a teenag­er she sang on the streets for mon­ey. She was addict­ed to alco­hol and drugs for much of her life, and her lat­er years were marred by chron­ic pain. Through it all, Piaf man­aged to hold onto a basi­cal­ly opti­mistic view of life. She sang with a lyri­cal aban­don that seemed to tran­scend the pain and sor­row of liv­ing.

On April 3, 1954 Piaf was the guest of hon­or on the French TV show La Joie de Vivre. She was 38 years old but looked much old­er. She had recent­ly under­gone a gru­el­ing series of “aver­sion ther­a­py” treat­ments for alco­holism, and was by that time in the habit of tak­ing mor­phine before going onstage. Cor­ti­sone treat­ments for arthri­tis made the usu­al­ly wire-thin singer look puffy. But when Piaf launch­es into her sig­na­ture song, “La Vie en Rose” (see above), all of that is left behind.

Nine years after this per­for­mance, when Piaf died, her friend Jean Cocteau said of her: “Like all those who live on courage, she did­n’t think about death–she defied it. Only her voice remains, that splen­did voice like black vel­vet.”

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post orig­i­nal­ly appeared on our site in Feb­ru­ary 2013.

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Relat­ed Con­tent:

Iggy Pop Sings Edith Piaf’s “La Vie En Rose” in an Art­ful­ly Ani­mat­ed Video

Serge Gains­bourg & Brigitte Bar­dot Per­form Out­law-Inspired Love Song, ‘Bon­nie and Clyde’ (1968)

French Cou­ple Sings an Aching­ly Charm­ing Ver­sion of VU’s “Femme Fatale”

Hear the Cristal Baschet, an Enchanting Organ Made of Wood, Metal & Glass, and Played with Wet Hands

Play­ing a musi­cal instru­ment with wet hands usu­al­ly falls some­where between a bad idea and a very bad idea indeed. The Cristal Baschet, how­ev­er, requires its play­ers to keep their hands wet at all times, and that’s hard­ly the only sense in which it’s an excep­tion­al musi­cal instru­ment. Have a lis­ten to the per­for­mance above, Erik Satie’s Gnossi­enne No. 1 by Marc Antoine Mil­lon and Frédéric Bous­quet, and you’ll under­stand at once how excep­tion­al it sounds. Both ide­al­ly suit­ed to Satie’s com­po­si­tion and like noth­ing else in the his­to­ry of music — a his­to­ry which may ulti­mate­ly remem­ber it as, among oth­er things, one of the most French musi­cal devices ever cre­at­ed.

“It was invent­ed in France, so per­haps that’s why I have one,” says com­pos­er Marc Chouarain as he pre­pares to demon­strate his Cristal Baschet in the video above. “I put water on my fin­ger and I have to put pres­sure on the glass rods, and the sound is ampli­fied.” That ampli­fi­ca­tion hap­pens, like every oth­er process with­in the instru­ment, with­out the involve­ment of elec­tric­i­ty. Despite being ful­ly acoustic, the Cristal Baschet pro­duces sounds so loud and oth­er­world­ly that few could hear them with­out instinc­tive­ly imag­in­ing a sci-fi movie to go along with the sound­track.

Per­haps it’s no coin­ci­dence that Chouarain is a film com­pos­er, nor that the Cristal Baschet was invent­ed in the ear­ly 1950s, when the cin­e­mat­ic visions of the future as we know them began to take shape. That era also saw the dawn of musique con­crète (1964), with its use of record­ed sounds as com­po­si­tion­al ele­ments, and the influ­ence of the ear­ly Moog syn­the­siz­er, which would go on to change the sound of music for­ev­er. What influ­ence the broth­ers Bernard and François Baschet expect­ed of the Cristal Baschet when they invent­ed it is unclear, but it has sure­ly left more of a lega­cy than their oth­er cre­ations like the inflat­able gui­tar and alu­minum piano.

“Ravi Shankar, Damon Albarn (Goril­laz), Daft Punk, Radio­head, Tom Waits, and Manu Diban­go are among the musi­cal acts who have used the Cristal Baschet,” writes Colos­sal’s Andrew Lasane, cit­ing the offi­cial Baschet Sound Struc­tures Asso­ci­a­tion brochure. The instru­ment also con­tin­ues to get respect from adven­tur­ous film com­posers like Cliff Mar­tinez, who tick­les the glass rods in the video above. Accord­ing to an inter­view at Vul­ture, Mar­tinez first encoun­tered the instru­ment when com­pos­ing for the Steven Soder­bergh remake of Andrei Tarkovsky’s Solaris. He seems to have become a seri­ous Cristal Baschet fan since: the video’s notes men­tions that he now “incor­po­rates the instru­ment in all of his scores,” for more pic­tures by Soder­bergh, as well as by Nico­las Wind­ing Refn — anoth­er direc­tor of pos­sessed of dis­tinc­tive visions, and thus always in need of sounds to match.

via Colos­sal

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Dis­cov­er the Appre­hen­sion Engine: Bri­an Eno Called It “the Most Ter­ri­fy­ing Musi­cal Instru­ment of All Time”

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

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

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

How the Moog Syn­the­siz­er Changed the Sound of Music

The Musi­cal Instru­ments in Hierony­mus Bosch’s The Gar­den of Earth­ly Delights Get Brought to Life, and It Turns Out That They Sound “Painful” and “Hor­ri­ble”

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall, on Face­book, or on Insta­gram.

Hear the Sound Of Endangered Birds Get Turned Into Electronic Music

Bird-watch­ing is hav­ing a moment, thanks to the pan­dem­ic.

As non-essen­tial work­ers adjust­ed to spend­ing more time at home, their ears adjust­ed to the increas­ing­ly non-for­eign sound of bird­song out­side their win­dows.

Those sweet tweets are no doubt large­ly respon­si­ble for the record break­ing turnout at this year’s Glob­al Big Day, the Cor­nell Lab of Ornithol­o­gy’s annu­al bird­ing event, held ear­li­er this spring.

50,000 par­tic­i­pants logged 2.1 mil­lion indi­vid­ual obser­va­tions, and 6,479 species.

Appar­ent­ly, there are even more birds in this world than there are sour­dough starters

…though for the imme­di­ate future, civic-mind­ed bird­watch­ers will be con­fin­ing their obser­va­tions to the imme­di­ate vicin­i­ty, as a mat­ter of pub­lic health.

We look for­ward to the day when bird enthu­si­asts resid­ing out­side of Belize, Mex­i­co, or Guatemala can again trav­el to the Yucatán Penin­su­la in hopes of a face-to-face encounter with the Black Cat Bird.

Til then, the ani­mat­ed video above, in which a Black Cat­bird unwit­ting­ly duets with Belize’s Gar­i­fu­na Col­lec­tive, makes a sooth­ing place hold­er.

The cat­bird and the col­lec­tive appear along with nine oth­er elec­tron­ic musi­cian / endan­gered native bird teams on the fundrais­ing album, A Guide to the Bird­song of Mex­i­co, Cen­tral Amer­i­ca & the Caribbean.

Black-cheeked Ant-Tan­ag­er joins NILLO, a pro­duc­er and DJ from Cos­ta Rica who draws musi­cal inspi­ra­tion from the trib­al com­mu­ni­ties around him.

Siete Catorce, a pro­duc­er who helped pop­u­lar­ize the pop­u­lar bor­der genre known as rui­dosón—a mix of cumbia and pre­his­pan­ic trib­al sounds—is paired with a Yel­low-head­ed Par­rot.

Jor­dan “Time Cow” Chung of Equiknoxx seam­less­ly inte­grates a Jamaican Black­bird into his unique brand of organ­ic, exper­i­men­tal dance­hall.

The album fol­lows 2015’s Guide to the Bird­song of South Amer­i­ca, and as with its pre­de­ces­sor, 100% of the prof­its will be donat­ed to region­al orga­ni­za­tions focused on birds and con­ser­va­tion—Birds Caribbean, La Aso­ciación Orni­tológ­i­ca de Cos­ta Rica, and Mexico’s Fun­da­cion TXORI.

Birds, as the project’s founder, Robin Perkins, told Gizmodo’s Earth­er, are the most musi­cal ani­mals in the world:

There’s some­thing real­ly nice about focus­ing on endan­gered species and songs that are dis­ap­pear­ing and not being pre­served and to use music to raise aware­ness about the species. I believe music has a big pow­er for social activism and social change and for envi­ron­men­tal change.

Lis­ten to A Guide to the Bird­song of Mex­i­co, Cen­tral Amer­i­ca & the Caribbean for free on Spo­ti­fy.

Buy the album or indi­vid­ual tracks on Band­camp to ben­e­fit the char­i­ties above.

Robin Perkins’ lim­it­ed edi­tion prints of the fea­tured birds also ben­e­fit the bird-focused region­al char­i­ties and can be pur­chased here.

via MyMod­ern­Met

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Explore an Inter­ac­tive Ver­sion of The Wall of Birds, a 2,500 Square-Foot Mur­al That Doc­u­ments the Evo­lu­tion of Birds Over 375 Mil­lion Years

The Bird Library: A Library Built Espe­cial­ly for Our Fine Feath­ered Friends

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

What Kind of Bird Is That?: A Free App From Cor­nell Will Give You the Answer

Down­load 435 High Res­o­lu­tion Images from John J. Audubon’s The Birds of Amer­i­ca

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, the­ater mak­er and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine. Fol­low her @AyunHalliday.

Why Fleetwood Mac’s Peter Green (RIP) Was the Most Underrated Guitarist in British Blues

Debates about whether a gui­tarist is under­rat­ed often involve a lot of pos­tur­ing and need­less name-dropping—they don’t tend to go any­where, in oth­er words. This is not the case with Peter Green, founder and for­mer singer, song­writer, and gui­tarist for Fleet­wood Mac, who died this past week­end. He is, prob­a­bly most def­i­nite­ly, “the most under­rat­ed gui­tarist in British Blues,” argues the Hap­py Blues­man, or at least he became so in the last decades of his life.

Green expe­ri­enced a trag­ic end to his career with Fleet­wood Mac when his men­tal health declined pre­cip­i­tous­ly in 1970, and he was even­tu­al­ly diag­nosed with schiz­o­phre­nia. His leg­end lived long among musi­cians (and fans of the band who pre­ferred their ear­ly work), but Green more or less dis­ap­peared from pub­lic view, even after releas­ing a hand­ful of solo albums in a peri­od of recov­ery.

Fleet­wood Mac, the group he found­ed and car­ried to its first years of major star­dom became, of course, “a house­hold name, wide­ly rec­og­nized as one of the best soft rock bands ever for hits like ‘The Chain,’ ‘Go Your Own Way,’ and ‘Everywhere’”—songs Peter Green had noth­ing to do with, though he had the soft rock chops, as the melan­choly “Man of the World” beau­ti­ful­ly demon­strates. Hear him in some of his oth­er finest moments in the band, includ­ing a phe­nom­e­nal “Black Mag­ic Woman” at the top, before Car­los San­tana made the song his sig­na­ture.

The argu­ment for Green’s most under­rat­ed-ness as a blues gui­tarist is more than com­pelling, with endorse­ments from B.B. King—who said Green had “the sweet­est tone I ever heard”—and John May­all, who said he was bet­ter than Clap­ton when Green joined the Blues­break­ers at age 20. After found­ing Fleet­wood Mac, Green wrote “Black Mag­ic Woman,” sent a gui­tar instru­men­tal, “Alba­tross,” to the top of the British Charts in 1969 and, that same year, record­ed at Chess Records with, among oth­er blues leg­ends, Willie Dixon and Bud­dy Guy.

Was he the “best” British blues gui­tarist? He was “the only one who gave me the cold sweats,” King con­fessed, which sure is some­thing, even if you pre­fer Clap­ton or Jeff Beck. Is he the most under­rat­ed? Prob­a­bly most def­i­nite­ly. “With­in a few short years, Peter Green had achieved greater com­mer­cial suc­cess than two of the world’s most famous bands,” sell­ing more records in 1969 than “both The Rolling Stones and The Bea­t­les, com­bined.” Then he dis­ap­peared.

Green is receiv­ing the recog­ni­tion in death that elud­ed him in his last years, though fame nev­er seemed to tru­ly moti­vate him at any time in his life. Fel­low musi­cians have spared no superla­tives in online memo­ri­als, includ­ing Metallica’s Kirk Ham­mett, not known for going any­where near an ear­ly Fleet­wood Mac sound. But Green was a con­sum­mate musician’s musi­cian (he named his band after the rhythm sec­tion!), and he earned the respect of seri­ous rock artists and seri­ous blues artists and seri­ous met­al artists.

A long­time friend and admir­er, Ham­mett owns Green’s ’59 Gib­son Les Paul (nick­named “Gree­ny”). He recent­ly cov­ered Green’s last Fleet­wood Mac song—“The Green Man­al­ishi (With the Two Prong Crown)”—live onstage and was col­lab­o­rat­ing on new mate­r­i­al with his idol. “Our loss is total,” Ham­mett wrote in trib­ute, per­haps the most suc­cinct and dev­as­tat­ing trib­ute among so many. Fleet­wood Mac would nev­er have exist­ed with­out him. And his influ­ence on the British Blues and beyond goes even deep­er. See Green revis­it his love­ly “Man of the World” in a more recent per­for­mance, just below. He steps back from the fiery leads, play­ing sub­tle rhythm parts, but he still has the old mag­ic in his fin­gers.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch Clas­sic Per­for­mances by Peter Green (RIP), Founder of Fleet­wood Mac & the Only British Blues Gui­tarist Who Gave B.B. King “the Cold Sweats”

How Fleet­wood Mac Makes A Song: A Video Essay Explor­ing the “Son­ic Paint­ings” on the Clas­sic Album, Rumours

The Thrill is Gone: See B.B. King Play in Two Elec­tric Live Per­for­mances

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

Watch the Last, Transcendent Performance of “Echoes” by Pink Floyd Keyboardist Richard Wright & David Gilmour (2006)

“Gen­tle, unas­sum­ing and pri­vate.” These are the words David Gilmour chose in his eulo­gy of Richard Wright, Pink Floyd’s key­board play­er and co-song­writer, who joined the band in 1964 and stayed with them through all of their major albums, leav­ing after The Wall and rejoin­ing for A Momen­tary Lapse of Rea­son. Wright was the qui­et one; drum­mer Nick Mason com­pared him to George Har­ri­son, and like Har­ri­son, he was also Pink Floy­d’s secret weapon, help­ing to deliv­er many of their most career-defin­ing songs.

Wright may rarely get much men­tion in song­writ­ing trib­utes to Pink Floyd’s war­ring lead­ers or its trag­ic elfin first singer/songwriter Syd Bar­rett (“had his pro­file been any low­er,” one obit­u­ary put it, “he would have been report­ed miss­ing.”), but his “soul­ful voice and play­ing were vital, mag­i­cal com­po­nents of our most rec­og­nized Pink Floyd sound,” Gilmour went on. “In my view, all of the great­est PF moments are the ones where he is in full flow.”

Wright’s jazz train­ing gave an impro­visato­ry bent. His for­mal music edu­ca­tion gave him an ear for com­po­si­tion. He was the band’s most ver­sa­tile musi­cian, play­ing dozens of instru­ments in addi­tion to his sig­na­ture Farfisa organ, and he was equal­ly at home writ­ing orches­tral pieces or falling into what­ev­er groove the band cooked up, as on their sixth stu­dio album, Med­dle, which emerged from sev­er­al stages of exper­i­men­tal meth­ods and hap­py acci­dents like the “ping” sound Wright’s piano makes at the begin­ning of the sprawl­ing epic “Echoes,” the 23-minute sec­ond side of the album.

The song con­tin­ued to grow, over­dub by over­dub. Waters wrote lyrics, Gilmour exper­i­ment­ed with a sound effect he’d stum­bled on by plug­ging his wah-wah ped­al in back­wards. If you ask Wright, as Mojo did in their final inter­view with him in 2008, the year of his death, it was large­ly his piece. Or at least, “the whole piano thing at the begin­ning and the chord struc­ture for the song is mine.”

Like so many of Wright’s com­po­si­tions, “Echoes” is also a show­case for Gilmour’s soar­ing solos and del­i­cate rhythm play­ing. The inter­play between the two musi­cians is on tran­scen­dent dis­play in Wright’s final, live 2006 per­for­mance of the song before he suc­cumbed to can­cer two years lat­er, for an audi­ence of 50,000 at the Gdańsk Ship­yard in Poland, record­ed on the last show of Gilmour’s On an Island tour.

This is real­ly great stuff. The filmed per­for­mance, which appears on Gilmour’s album and con­cert film Live in Gdańsk, shows both Wright and Gilmour in top form, trad­ing solos and cre­at­ing the kind of atmos­phere only those two could. Gilmour has said he’ll nev­er per­form the song again with­out Wright. It’s hard to imag­ine that he even could.

The band closed with the 20-plus-minute “Echoes” every night of the tour, and Wright brought out his old Farfisa just for the song. Giv­en how long Gilmour and Wright had been com­plet­ing each other’s vir­tu­oso strengths as co-cre­ators of instru­men­tal moods, every per­for­mance on the tour was sure­ly some­thing spe­cial. But in hind­sight, none are as mov­ing as this one—the last time fans would ever have the expe­ri­ence of see­ing Pink Floyd, or one ver­sion of them, recre­ate the mag­ic of “Echoes” live onstage.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Pink Floyd Stream­ing Free Clas­sic Con­cert Films, Start­ing with 1994’s Pulse, the First Live Per­for­mance of Dark Side of the Moon in Full

Pink Floyd Films a Con­cert in an Emp­ty Audi­to­ri­um, Still Try­ing to Break Into the U.S. Charts (1970)

Clare Torry’s Rare Live Per­for­mances of “Great Gig in the Sky” with Pink Floyd

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

Revisit Six of Elton John’s Most Iconic Concerts, Streaming in Their Entirety for 72 Hours

Just as Bohemi­an Rhap­sody intro­duced Fred­dy Mer­cury to an unsus­pect­ing gen­er­a­tion of young fans, last year’s Elton John biopic, Rock­et­manhas net­ted its sub­ject a host of fresh admir­ers.

John’s newest fans were born into a far dif­fer­ent world than the one that was astound­ed when he declared, in a 1976 inter­view with Rolling Stone, that he was bisex­u­al.

Now a knight (the first open­ly gay musi­cian to be so anoint­ed), Sir Elton is using his enor­mous pub­lic plat­form to encour­age youth who may be strug­gling with their sex­u­al­i­ty or gen­der iden­ti­ty and to end the glob­al AIDS epi­dem­ic.

To date, the Elton John AIDS Foun­da­tion has raised over $450,000,000 to sup­port HIV-relat­ed pro­grams in fifty-five coun­tries, and is now dou­bling down with coro­n­avirus relief efforts for the pop­u­la­tion it has long served.

To that end, Sir Elton is revis­it­ing six of his most icon­ic per­for­mances over the last half-cen­tu­ry, post­ing a con­cert in its entire­ty to his Youtube chan­nel every week in hope that view­ers will be moved to make a dona­tion at con­cert’s end.

(As fur­ther incen­tive, an anony­mous sup­port­er has pledged to match dona­tions up to $250,000.)

Each con­cert streams for 72 hours, but clips of indi­vid­ual songs linger longer.

Last week the Clas­sic Con­cert Series turned the dial back 30 years to find Sir Elton play­ing a 1st-cen­tu­ry Roman amphitheater—Italy’s Are­na di Verona—as part of his 130-show Reg Strikes Back tour. His inter­play with singers Mor­tonette Jenk­ins, Mar­lena Jeter, and Kud­is­an Kai dur­ing an 8‑minute gospel-tinged spin on “Sad Songs (Say So Much),” above, is a high­light of the 22-song set.

The series kicked off at the Play­house The­ater in Edin­burgh in 1976 as “Don’t Go Break­ing My Heart” was top­ping the charts, and con­tin­ues to the Syd­ney Enter­tain­ment Cen­ter ten years fur­ther on, when Sir Elton defied doc­tor’s orders, per­form­ing despite vocal nod­ules.

On July 24, John takes us along to Rio’s Esta­dio Do Fla­men­go when the release of 1995’s Made In Eng­land prompt­ed his first ever tour of Brazil.

The fol­low­ing week, we’ll enter the 21st-cen­tu­ry with a pit­stop at Madi­son Square Gar­den before the series comes to a close at the Great Amphithe­ater in Eph­esus, Turkey.

Watch Elton John’s Clas­sic Con­cert Series on his Youtube chan­nel, and even though it’s not oblig­a­tory,  seek out the blue dona­tion but­ton that appears on every post. You can also make a tax deductible dona­tion via the Elton John AIDS Foun­da­tion’s web­site.

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

Elton John Proves He Can Turn any Text into a Song: Watch Him Impro­vise with Lines from Hen­rik Ibsen’s Play, Peer Gynt

Elton John Takes Us Through the Cre­ative Process of His Ear­ly Hit “Tiny Dancer” (1970)

Elton John Sings His Clas­sic Hit ‘Your Song’ Through the Years

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, the­ater mak­er and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine. Fol­low her @AyunHalliday.

How Ornette Coleman Freed Jazz with His Theory of Harmolodics

The term free jazz may have exist­ed before Ornette Cole­man’s The Shape of Jazz to Come arrived in 1959. Yet, how­ev­er inno­v­a­tive the modal exper­i­ments of Coltrane or Davis, jazz still adhered to its most fun­da­men­tal for­mu­las before Cole­man. “Con­ven­tion­al jazz har­mo­ny is reli­gious­ly chord-based,” writes Josephine Liv­ing­stone at New Repub­lic, “with soloists impro­vis­ing with­in each key like balls ping­ing through a pin­ball machine. Cole­man, in con­trast, imag­ined har­mo­ny, melody, and rhythm as equal con­stituents.”

This phi­los­o­phy, jazz crit­ic Mar­tin Williams wrote upon hear­ing Coleman’s debut, was nec­es­sary to free jazz from its for­mal con­straints. “Some­one had to break through the walls that those har­monies have built and restore melody.” Melody was every­thing to Coleman—even drum­mers can play like melod­ic instru­men­tal­ists. In a 1987 inter­view, he described how Ed Black­well “plays the drums as if he’s play­ing a wind instru­ment. Actu­al­ly, he sounds more like a talk­ing drum. He’s speak­ing a cer­tain lan­guage that I find is very valid in rhythm instru­ments.”

Cole­man con­nect­ed his musi­cal the­o­ry back to the ori­gins of rhyth­mic music: “the drums, in the begin­ning, used to be like the telephone—to car­ry the mes­sage.” Inter­view­er Michael Jar­rett ven­tures that Coleman’s ensem­ble record­ings are more like a “par­ty line,” to which the sax­o­phon­ist agrees. Music, he believed, was a rad­i­cal­ly democratic—“beyond democratic”—form of com­mu­ni­ca­tion. “If you decid­ed to go out today and get you an instru­ment,” he says, “and do what­ev­er it is that you do, no one can tell you how you’re going to do it but when you do it.”

This approach seemed irre­spon­si­ble to many of Coleman’s peers. Alto sax­o­phon­ist Jack­ie McLean described the gen­er­al reac­tion as “spend[ing] your whole life mak­ing a three-piece suit that’s incred­i­ble, and this guy comes along with a jump­suit, and peo­ple find that it’s eas­i­er to step into a jump­suit than to put on three pieces.” Col­lec­tive impro­vi­sa­tion, how­ev­er, can­not in any way be described as “easy,” and Cole­man was a bril­liant play­er who could do it all.

“I could play and sound like Char­lie Park­er note-for-note,” he has said, “but I was only play­ing it from method. So I tried to fig­ure out where to go from there,” Loos­en­ing the con­stric­tions did not mean that Cole­man lacked “req­ui­site vir­tu­os­i­ty,” as Maria Golia writes in a new Cole­man biog­ra­phy. Instead, he “pro­posed an alter­na­tive means for its expres­sion.” (In Thomas Pynchon’s V, a char­ac­ter says of a Cole­man-like sax­o­phon­ist, “he plays all the notes Bird missed.”) This emerged in exper­i­men­tal impro­vi­sa­tions like 1961’s land­mark Free Jazz, an album that “prac­ti­cal­ly defies superla­tives in its his­tor­i­cal impor­tance,” Steve Huey writes at All­mu­sic.

The album fea­tures play­ers like Black­well, Don Cher­ry, and Eric Dol­phy in a “dou­ble-quar­tet for­mat,” with two rhythm sec­tions play­ing simul­ta­ne­ous­ly, one on the right stereo chan­nel, one on the left. Com­posed on the spot, “there was no road map for this kind of record­ing.” But there was a the­o­ry that held it all togeth­er. Cole­man even­tu­al­ly called the the­o­ry “Har­molod­ics,” a word that sums up his ideas about the equal­i­ty of rhythm, har­mo­ny, and melody—a com­po­si­tion­al method that freed jazz from its depen­dence on Euro­pean forms and returned it, in a way, to its roots in a call-and-response tra­di­tion.

Cole­man described his long-sim­mer­ing ideas in a 1983 man­i­festo titled “Prime Time for Har­molod­ics.” The title ref­er­ences the band, Prime Time, he formed in 1975 that fea­tured two bassists, two gui­tarists, and—like his ensem­ble on Free Jazz, or like the Grate­ful Dead—two drum­mers. Jer­ry Gar­cia joined the band for its 1988 album Vir­gin Beau­ty, expand­ing Coleman’s fanbase—already sig­nif­i­cant in var­i­ous rock circles—to Dead­heads. (See Prime Time in Ger­many in 1981 below.) Har­molod­ic play­ing could be dis­so­nant, aton­al, and cacoph­o­nous, and it could be sub­lime, often in the same moment.

Simul­tane­ity, rad­i­cal democ­ra­cy, inti­mate communication—these were the prin­ci­ples of “uni­son” that Cole­man found essen­tial to his impro­vi­sa­tions.

Ques­tion: “Where can/will I find a play­er who can read (or not read) who can play their instru­ment to their own sat­is­fac­tion and accept the chal­lenge of the music envi­ron­ment?” For Har­molod­ic Democ­ra­cy — the play­er would need the free­dom to express what Har­molod­ic infor­ma­tion they found to work in com­posed music. There is always a rhythm — melody — har­mo­ny con­cept. All ideas have lead res­o­lu­tions. Each play­er can choose any of the con­nec­tions from the com­posers work for their per­son­al expres­sion, etc. Prime Time is not a jazz, clas­si­cal, rock or blues ensem­ble. It is pure Har­molod­ic where all forms that can, or could exist yes­ter­day, today, or tomor­row can exist in the now or moment with­out a sec­ond.

In har­molod­ic impro­vi­sa­tion musi­cians con­tribute equal­ly on their own terms, Cole­man believed. “From Ornet­te’s point of view,” writes Robert Palmer in lin­er notes to the Com­plete Atlantic Record­ings, “each con­tri­bu­tion is equal­ly essen­tial to the whole. One tends to hear the horn play­er as a soloist, backed by a rhythm sec­tion, but this is not Cole­man’s per­spec­tive. ‘In the music we play,’ he said of the per­for­mances col­lect­ed in this box, ‘no one play­er has the lead. Any­one can come out with it at any time.’ ” Jer­ry Gar­cia remem­bers feel­ing con­fused when first record­ing with the sax­o­phon­ist. “Final­ly,” says Gar­cia, “he said, ‘Oh, just go ahead and play, man.’ And I thought, ‘Oh, I get it now.’”

But of course, Gar­cia was the kind of musi­cian who could “just go ahead and play.” This was the essen­tial ele­ment, and it was here, per­haps, that Cole­man dif­fered least from his fel­low jazz artists—in his sense of hav­ing just the right ensem­ble. “You real­ly have to have play­ers with you who will allow your instincts to flour­ish in such a way that they will make the same order as if you had sat down and writ­ten a piece of music,” he writes. “To me, that is the most glo­ri­fied goal of the impro­vis­ing qual­i­ty of play­ing – to be able to do that.”

In “har­molod­ic democ­ra­cy” no one ever takes the lead, or not for long, and there are no “side­men.” Rather than fol­low­ing a chord chart or band­leader, the musi­cians must all lis­ten close­ly to each oth­er. Con­ven­tion­al riffs and pro­gres­sions pop up, only to veer wild­ly in unex­pect­ed direc­tions. “Its clear that [har­molod­ics] is based on tak­ing motifs,” says avant-garde gui­tarist Marc Ribot, “and free­ing it up to become poly­ton­al, melod­i­cal­ly and rhyth­mi­cal­ly.” Rather than aban­don­ing form, Cole­man invent­ed new ways to com­pose and new ways, he wrote, to play.

I was out at Mar­garet Mead­’s school and was teach­ing some kids how to play instant­ly. I asked the ques­tion, ‘How many kids would like to play music and have fun?’ And all the lit­tle kids raised up their hands. And I asked,‘Well, how do you do that?’ And one lit­tle girl said, ‘You just apply your feel­ings to sound.’ She was right — if you apply your feel­ings to sound, regard­less of what instru­ment you have, you’ll prob­a­bly make good music.

Cole­man formed a label called Har­molod­ic in 1995 with his son and drum­mer Denar­do. In 2005, he record­ed the live album Sound Gram­mar in Ger­many, which would go on to win a Pulitzer Prize two years lat­er. The record became the first release on his new label, also called Sound Gram­mar, and rep­re­sent­ed a refine­ment of the har­molod­ic the­o­ry, now called “sound gram­mar,” in which Cole­man re-empha­sizes the impor­tance of music as the ur-form of human com­mu­ni­ca­tion. “Music,” he says, “is a lan­guage of sounds that trans­forms all human lan­guages.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

How Ornette Cole­man Shaped the Jazz World: An Intro­duc­tion to His Irrev­er­ent Sound

Philoso­pher Jacques Der­ri­da Inter­views Jazz Leg­end Ornette Cole­man: Talk Impro­vi­sa­tion, Lan­guage & Racism (1997)

When Jazz Leg­end Ornette Cole­man Joined the Grate­ful Dead Onstage for Some Epic Impro­vi­sa­tion­al Jams: Hear a 1993 Record­ing

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

Devo De-Evolves the Rolling Stones’ “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction”: See Their Groundbreaking Music Video and Saturday Night Live Performance (1978)

In 1978, the debut album by a force­ful­ly idio­syn­crat­ic new wave band out of Akron, Ohio both asked and answered a ques­tion: Q: Are We Not Men? A: We Are Devo! When we look back on the still-active group’s career more than 40 years lat­er, we may still ask our­selves who, or what, Devo are. Giv­en that they’re a rock band — albeit only just rec­og­niz­able as one at the time they hit it big — we could define them by their songs. Were Devo made Devo by their their first sin­gle, “Mon­goloid”? Or was it “Whip It,” their biggest hit and the Devo song we all know today?

There’s also a case to be made that few of us would ever have heard of Devo if they had­n’t record­ed their cov­er of anoth­er band’s defin­ing song: the Rolling Stones’ “(I Can’t Get No) Sat­is­fac­tion.” Devo’s “wicked decon­struc­tion,” writes All­mu­sic crit­ic Steve Huey, “reworks the orig­i­nal’s alien­ation into a spas­tic freak-out that’s near­ly unrec­og­niz­able.” At The New York­er, Ron Pad­gett tells the sto­ry of the record­ing and release of Devo’s “Sat­is­fac­tion,” a process that began with a rhythm track co-founder Ger­ald Casale calls “some kind of mutat­ed devolved reg­gae.” Aes­thet­i­cal­ly, this tied neat­ly in with the band’s cen­tral con­cept: “that instead of evolv­ing, soci­ety was in fact regress­ing (‘de-evolv­ing’) as humans embraced their baser instincts.”

It was Casale, by day a cat­a­log design­er for a jan­i­to­r­i­al sup­ply com­pa­ny, who dis­cov­ered the bag­gy yel­low waste-dis­pos­al suits Devo would wear in the “Sat­is­fac­tion” music video — a dar­ing enough medi­um to begin with, giv­en the pauci­ty of venues for such pro­duc­tions in the late 70s. But “when MTV launched, in 1981,” writes Pad­gett, “very few bands had videos ready for the net­work to play. As a result, Devo’s ‘Sat­is­fac­tion’ video earned end­less rota­tions.” But the big break came “when they per­formed the song on Sat­ur­day Night Live, wear­ing the suits and pitch-black sun­glass­es, and doing the same jerky robo-motions, as in the video.”

You can see their SNL per­for­mance, intro­duced by the late Fred Willard, in the clip above.  Nego­ti­at­ed by the band’s man­ag­er Elliot Roberts in exchange for bring­ing Neil Young on a lat­er broad­cast, the appear­ance exposed Devo to an audi­ence that includ­ed no few view­ers hun­gry for just the kind of sub­ver­sive­ness the band’s music exud­ed. All this only hap­pened because Mick Jag­ger him­self had giv­en Devo’s spas­tic freak­out his bless­ing — and, as record­ed in the book Devo: Unmasked, some­how man­aged to dance to it as he did so. Lat­er, as Casale remem­bers it, Roberts claimed to have sug­gest­ed in advance to Jag­ger’s peo­ple that he “just says he likes it, because it’s going to make him a lot of mon­ey.” Or could that liv­ing embod­i­ment of rock star­dom be a clos­et sub­scriber to the the­o­ry of de-evo­lu­tion?

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Phi­los­o­phy & Music of Devo, the Avant-Garde Art Project Ded­i­cat­ed to Reveal­ing the Truth About De-Evo­lu­tion

The Mas­ter­mind of Devo, Mark Moth­ers­baugh, Presents His Per­son­al Syn­the­siz­er Col­lec­tion

DEVO Is Now Sell­ing COVID-19 Per­son­al Pro­tec­tive Equip­ment: Ener­gy Dome Face Shields

Watch Phish Play All of The Rolling Stones’ Clas­sic Album, Exile on Main Street, Live in Con­cert

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

A Big 44-Hour Chrono­log­i­cal Playlist of Rolling Stones Albums: Stream 613 Tracks

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall, on Face­book, or on Insta­gram.

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