Julia Child Shows Fred Rogers How to Make a Quick & Delicious Pasta Dish (1974)

Julia Child and Fred Rogers were titans of pub­lic tele­vi­sion, cel­e­brat­ed for their nat­ur­al warmth, the ease with which they deliv­ered impor­tant lessons to home view­ers, and, for a cer­tain sec­tor of the view­ing pub­lic, how read­i­ly their per­son­al­i­ties lent them­self to par­o­dy.

Child’s cook­ing pro­gram, The French Chef, debuted in 1963, and Roger’s much beloved children’s show, Mis­ter Rogers Neigh­bor­hood, fol­lowed five years lat­er.

Rogers occa­sion­al­ly invit­ed accom­plished celebri­ties to join him for seg­ments where­in they demon­strat­ed their par­tic­u­lar tal­ents:

With our guest’s help, I have been able to show a wide diver­si­ty of self-expres­sion, the extra­or­di­nary range of human poten­tial. I want chil­dren and their fam­i­lies to know that there are many con­struc­tive ways to express who they are and how they feel. 

In 1974, Child paid a call to the neigh­bor­hood bak­ery presided over by “Chef” Don Brock­ett  (whose lat­er cred­its includ­ed a cameo as a “Friend­ly Psy­chopath” in Silence of the Lambs…)

The easy-to-pre­pare pas­ta dish she teach­es Rogers — and, by exten­sion, his “tele­vi­sion friend” — to make takes a sur­pris­ing­ly opti­mistic view of the aver­age pre-school palate.

Red sauce gets a hard pass, in favor of a more sophis­ti­cat­ed blend of fla­vors stem­ming from tuna, black olives, and pimen­tos.

Brock­ett pro­vides an assist with both the cook­ing and, more impor­tant­ly, the child safe­ty rules that aren’t always front and cen­ter with this celebri­ty guest.

Child, who had no off­spring, comes off as a high-spir­it­ed, loosey-goosey, fun aunt, encour­ag­ing child view­ers to toss the cooked spaghet­ti “fair­ly high” after adding but­ter and oil “because it’s dra­mat­ic” and talk­ing as if they’ll be hit­ting the super­mar­ket solo, a flat­ter­ing notion to any tot whose refrain is “I do it mySELF!”

She wise­ly reframes tasks assigned to big­ger, more expe­ri­enced hand — boil­ing water, knife work — as less excit­ing than “the fan­cy busi­ness at the end”, and makes it stick by sug­gest­ing that the kids “order the grown ups to do what you want done,” a verb choice the ever-respect­ful Rogers like­ly would have avoid­ed.

As with The French Chef, her off-the-cuff remarks are a major source of delight.

Watch­ing his guest wipe a wood­en cut­ting board with olive oil, Rogers observes that some of his friends “could do this very well,” to which she replies:

It’s also good for your hands ‘coz it keeps ‘em nice and soft, so rub any excess into your hands.

She shares a bit of stage set scut­tle­butt regard­ing a let­ter from “some woman” who com­plained that the off-cam­era waste­bas­ket made it appear that Child was dis­card­ing peels and stems onto the floor.

She said, “Do you think this is a nice way to show young peo­ple how to cook, to throw things on the floor!?” And I said, “Well, I have a self clean­ing floor! …The self clean­ing is me.”

(Rogers appears both amused and relieved when the ulti­mate punch­line steers things back to the realm of good man­ners and per­son­al respon­si­bil­i­ty.)

Trans­fer­ring the slip­pery pre-cooked noo­dles from pot to serv­ing bowl, Child rem­i­nisces about a won­der­ful old movie in which some­one — “Char­lie Chap­lin or was it, I guess it was, uh, it wasn’t Mick­ey Rooney, maybe it was…” — eats spaghet­ti through a fun­nel.

If only the Inter­net had exist­ed in 1974 so intrigued par­ents could have Googled their way to the Noo­dle Break at the Bull Pup Cafe sequence from 1918’s The Cook, star­ring Roscoe “Fat­ty” Arbuck­le and Buster Keaton!

The fun­nel is but one of many inspired silent spaghet­ti gags in this sure­fire don’t‑try-this-at-home kid-pleas­er.

We learn that Child named her dish Spaghet­ti Mar­co Polo in a nod to a wide­ly cir­cu­lat­ed the­o­ry that pas­ta orig­i­nat­ed in Chi­na and was intro­duced to Italy by the explor­er, a bit of lore food writer Tori Avey of The His­to­ry Kitchen finds dif­fi­cult to swal­low:

A com­mon belief about pas­ta is that it was brought to Italy from Chi­na by Mar­co Polo dur­ing the 13th cen­tu­ry. In his book, The Trav­els of Mar­co Polo, there is a pas­sage that briefly men­tions his intro­duc­tion to a plant that pro­duced flour (pos­si­bly a bread­fruit tree). The Chi­nese used this plant to cre­ate a meal sim­i­lar to bar­ley flour. The bar­ley-like meal Polo men­tioned was used to make sev­er­al pas­ta-like dish­es, includ­ing one described as lagana (lasagna). Since Polo’s orig­i­nal text no longer exists, the book relies heav­i­ly on retellings by var­i­ous authors and experts. This, com­bined with the fact that pas­ta was already gain­ing pop­u­lar­i­ty in oth­er areas of Italy dur­ing the 13th-cen­tu­ry, makes it very unlike­ly that Mar­co Polo was the first to intro­duce pas­ta to Italy.

Ah well.

We’re glad Child went with the Chi­na the­o­ry as it pro­vides an excuse to eat spaghet­ti with chop­sticks.

Noth­ing is more day-mak­ing than see­ing Julia Child pop a small bun­dle of spaghet­ti direct­ly into Fred Rogers’ mouth from the tips of her chopsticks…though after using the same imple­ments to feed some to Chef Brock­ett too, she real­izes that this wasn’t the best les­son in food hygiene.

In 2021, this sort of boo-boo would result in an auto­mat­ic reshoot.

In the wilder, wooli­er 70s, a more press­ing con­cern, at least as far as pub­lic tele­vi­sion was con­cerned, was expand­ing lit­tle Amer­i­cans’ world­view, in part by show­ing them how to get a com­mand­ing grip on their chop­sticks. It’s nev­er too late to learn.

Bon appétit!

JULIA CHILD’S SPAGHETTI MARCO POLO

There are a num­ber of vari­a­tions online, but this recipe, from Food.com, hews close­ly to Child’s orig­i­nal, while pro­vid­ing mea­sure­ments for her eye­balled amounts.

Serves 4–6

INGREDIENTS 

1 lb spaghet­ti 

2 table­spoons but­ter 

2 table­spoons olive oil 

1 tea­spoon salt black pep­per 

1 6‑ounce can tuna packed in oil, flaked, undrained 

2 table­spoons pimien­to, diced or 2 table­spoons roast­ed red pep­pers, sliced into strips 

2 table­spoons green onions with tops, sliced 

2 table­spoons black olives, sliced 

2 table­spoons wal­nuts, chopped

1 cup Swiss cheese, shred­ded 

2 table­spoons fresh pars­ley or 2 table­spoons cilantro, chopped

Cook pas­ta accord­ing to pack­age direc­tions. 

Drain pas­ta and return to pot, stir­ring in but­ter, olive oil, and salt and pep­per. 

Toss with remain­ing ingre­di­ents and serve, gar­nished with pars­ley or cilantro.

Relat­ed Con­tent 

Julia Child Shows David Let­ter­man How to Cook Meat with a Blow Torch

Watch Antho­ny Bourdain’s First Food-and-Trav­el Series A Cook’s Tour Free Online (2002–03)

Tast­ing His­to­ry: A Hit YouTube Series Shows How to Cook the Foods of Ancient Greece & Rome, Medieval Europe, and Oth­er Places & Peri­ods

Sci­ence & Cook­ing: Harvard’s Free Course on Mak­ing Cakes, Pael­la & Oth­er Deli­cious Food

MIT Teach­es You How to Speak Ital­ian & Cook Ital­ian Food All at Once (Free Online Course)

 

- Ayun Hal­l­i­day is the Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine and author, most recent­ly, of Cre­ative, Not Famous: The Small Pota­to Man­i­festo.  Fol­low her @AyunHalliday.

Sun Tzu’s The Art of War: An Animated Chapter-by-Chapter Breakdown of the Ancient Chinese Treatise

Though not a long book, The Art of War is nev­er­the­less an intim­i­dat­ing one. Com­posed in the Chi­na of the fifth cen­tu­ry BC, it comes down to us as per­haps the defin­i­tive analy­sis of mil­i­tary strat­e­gy, applic­a­ble equal­ly to East, West, antiq­ui­ty, and moder­ni­ty alike. Hence the minor but still-pro­duc­tive indus­try that puts forth adap­ta­tions, exten­sions, and rein­ter­pre­ta­tions of The Art of War for non-mil­i­tary set­tings, trans­pos­ing its lessons into law, busi­ness, sports, and oth­er realms besides. But if you want a han­dle on what its author, the gen­er­al and strate­gist Sun Tzu, actu­al­ly wrote, watch the illus­trat­ed video above.

A pro­duc­tion of Youtube chan­nel Eudai­mo­nia, pre­vi­ous­ly fea­tured here on Open Cul­ture for a sim­i­lar­ly ani­mat­ed exe­ge­sis of Machi­avel­li’s The Prince, it runs more than two and a half hours in full. Far though it exceeds the length of the aver­age explain­er video, it does reflect the ten­den­cy of Sun Tzu’s suc­cinct obser­va­tions to expand, when seri­ous­ly con­sid­ered, into much wider and more com­plex dis­cus­sions. To each of the orig­i­nal tex­t’s chap­ters the Eudai­mo­nia video devotes a ten-to-fif­teen-minute sec­tion, con­vey­ing not just the con­tent of its lessons but also their rel­e­vance to the his­to­ry of human con­flict in the rough­ly two and a half mil­len­nia since they were writ­ten.

In chap­ter two, on wag­ing war, Sun Tzu writes that “in order to kill the ene­my, our men must be roused to anger.” It was in this spir­it that, dur­ing the Sec­ond World War, the Unit­ed King­dom’s Min­istry of Infor­ma­tion launched a media “anger cam­paign” meant to “increase resolve against the Ger­mans, as until then, the British had lit­tle sense of real hos­til­i­ty towards the aver­age Ger­man.” In the chap­ter on weak­ness­es and strengths, Sun Tzu rec­om­mends “the divine art of sub­tle­ty and secre­cy” as a means of becom­ing invis­i­ble and inaudi­ble to the ene­my — much as Julius Cae­sar did in the Gal­lic Wars, when he sent scout­ing ships “paint­ed in Venet­ian blue, which was a sim­i­lar col­or to that of the sea.”

Oth­er exam­ples come from diverse chap­ters of his­to­ry. These include the Amer­i­can Civ­il War, Gand­hi’s nego­ti­a­tion of Indi­an inde­pen­dence, the Napoleon­ic Wars, the British defeat in Zul­u­land, Joan of Arc’s siege of Orléans, the revolt against the Turk­ish led by T. E. Lawrence (bet­ter known as Lawrence of Ara­bia), and even Steve Jobs’ turn­around of a near­ly bank­rupt Apple. Most of us will nev­er find our­selves in sit­u­a­tions of quite these stakes. But giv­en that none of us can entire­ly avoid deal­ing with con­flict, we’d could do worse than to keep the guid­ance of Sun Tzu on our side.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Machiavelli’s The Prince Explained in an Illus­trat­ed Film

10 Rea­sons Why Hannibal’s Mil­i­tary Genius Still Cap­tures Our Imag­i­na­tion Today

What Ancient Chi­nese Phi­los­o­phy Can Teach Us About Liv­ing the Good Life Today: Lessons from Harvard’s Pop­u­lar Pro­fes­sor, Michael Puett

Hear an Ancient Chi­nese His­to­ri­an Describe The Roman Empire (and Oth­er Voic­es of the Past)

How Many U.S. Marines Could Bring Down the Roman Empire?

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities, 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.

Enter the Franz Kafka Caption Contest for a Chance to Win a New Book of the Author’s Drawings (Until June 13)

Imag­ine if Franz Kaf­ka were charged with pick­ing the win­ning entries in The New York­er’s week­ly car­toon cap­tion con­test.

The punch­lines might become a lit­tle more obscure.

If that idea fills you with per­verse plea­sure, per­haps you should tod­dle over to Yale Uni­ver­si­ty Press’s Insta­gram to con­tribute some pos­si­ble cap­tions for eight of the inky draw­ings the tor­tured author made in a black note­book between 1901 and 1907.

The intend­ed mean­ing of these images, includ­ed in the new book, Franz Kaf­ka: The Draw­ings, are as up for grabs as any uncap­tioned car­toon on the back page of The New York­er.

In Con­ver­sa­tions with Kaf­ka, author Gus­tav Janouch recalled how their sig­nif­i­cance proved elu­sive even to their cre­ator, and also the frus­tra­tion his friend expressed regard­ing his artis­tic abil­i­ties:

I should so like to be able to draw. As a mat­ter of fact, I am always try­ing to. But noth­ing comes of it. My draw­ings are pure­ly per­son­al pic­ture writ­ing, whose mean­ing even I can­not dis­cov­er after a time.

Kaf­ka seems to have gone eas­i­er on him­self in a 1913 let­ter to fiancée Felice Bauer:

I was once a great drafts­man, you know… These draw­ings gave me greater sat­is­fac­tion in those days—it’s years ago—than any­thing else.

Artist Philip Har­ti­gan, who ref­er­enced the draw­ings in a jour­nal and sketch­book class for writ­ing stu­dents nails it when he describes how Kafka’s “quick min­i­mum move­ments … con­vey the typ­i­cal despair­ing mood of his fic­tion in just a few lines.”

You have until June 13 to make explic­it what Kaf­ka did not by leav­ing your pro­posed cap­tion for each draw­ing as a com­ment on Yale Uni­ver­si­ty Press’s Insta­gram, along the hash­tag #Kafka­Cap­tion­Con­test.

Win­ners will receive a copy of  Franz Kaf­ka: The Draw­ings. Entries will be judged by edi­tor Andreas Kilch­er of and the­o­rist Judith But­ler, who con­tributed an essay that you might con­sid­er min­ing for mate­r­i­al:

Was it a muf­fled death? Or per­haps it was no death at all, just a tum­bling of inter­course, a sex­u­al flur­ry?

Yes, that might go nice­ly with Kafka’s draw­ing of a seat­ed fig­ure col­lapsed over a table, below.

https://images.app.goo.gl/mGfZzLcpRXuyqqU68

Some alter­nate pro­pos­als from con­test hope­fuls:

I need­ed to bathe my bat­tered knuck­les with my tears.

He stud­ied his new­ly acquired rare stamp with a pow­er­ful loupe.

How can I make sure that all my let­ters and papers will be destroyed after my death? I know — I’ll ask my clos­est friend to take care of it!

This last is a ref­er­ence to Kafka’s lit­er­ary execu­tor, Max Brod, who defied Kafka’s explic­it wish that all of his work be burned upon his death, save The Meta­mor­pho­sis, and five short sto­ries: The Judg­ment, The Stok­er, In the Penal Colony, A Coun­try Doc­tor and A Hunger Artist.

Brod cut Kafka’s draw­ing of the stand­ing fig­ure, above, from his sketch­book and kept in an enve­lope with a few oth­ers. Some of the cur­rent cap­tion sug­ges­tions for this haunt­ing, nev­er before seen image:

my face is an umbrel­la to my tears

I could­n’t face myself.

I am the Wal­rus goo goo g’joob

https://images.app.goo.gl/e6v8xbuRin3qWcS56

Of the eight draw­ings in the cap­tion con­test, Drinker, may offer the most nar­ra­tive pos­si­bil­i­ties. A rep­re­sen­ta­tive sam­pling of the inven­tive­ness that’s come over the tran­som thus­far:

I, peri­od

Angered by the impu­dence of the caber­net, i had only the courage to berate its shad­ow

Wait­er! There’s a roach in my wine.

Enter Yale Uni­ver­si­ty Press’ Kaf­ka Cap­tion Con­test (or get a feel for the com­pe­ti­tion) here. Entries will be accept­ed through June 13. Full con­test rules are here. Good luck!

Explore the draw­ings and oth­er con­tents of Franz Kafka’s black note­book here.

Pur­chase Franz Kaf­ka: The Draw­ings, the first book to pub­lish the entire­ty of the author’s graph­ic out­put, here.

- Ayun Hal­l­i­day is the Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine and author, most recent­ly, of Cre­ative, Not Famous: The Small Pota­to Man­i­festo.  Fol­low her @AyunHalliday.

Werner Herzog’s New Novel, The Twilight World, Tells the Story of the WWII Japanese Soldier Who Famously Refused to Surrender

As every­one knows, Japan con­ced­ed defeat in the Sec­ond World War on August 15, 1945. But as many also know, cer­tain indi­vid­ual Japan­ese sol­diers refused to sur­ren­der, each con­tin­u­ing to fight the war for decades in his own way. The most famous was Lieu­tenant Ono­da Hiroo, who hid out in the Philip­pines mount­ing guer­ril­la attacks — at first with a few fel­low sol­diers, and final­ly alone — until 1974. Ono­da became a celebri­ty upon retun­ing to his home­land, and his admir­ers weren’t only Japan­ese. In Tokyo to direct an opera in 1997, Wern­er Her­zog request­ed an intro­duc­tion to one man only: the sol­dier who’d fought the war for 30 years.

Now Ono­da has become the sub­ject of one of Her­zog’s lat­est projects: not a film, but a nov­el called The Twi­light World. In his native Ger­man (brought into Eng­lish by trans­la­tor-crit­ic Michael Hof­mann), Her­zog has writ­ten of not just his own meet­ing with Ono­da but nar­rat­ed Onoda’s own long expe­ri­ence in the Philip­pines.

“Onoda’s war is of no mean­ing for the cos­mos, for his­to­ry, for the course of the war,” goes one pas­sage quot­ed by A. O. Scott in The Atlantic. “Onoda’s war is formed from the union of an imag­i­nary noth­ing and a dream, but Onoda’s war, sired by noth­ing, is nev­er­the­less over­whelm­ing, an event extort­ed from eter­ni­ty.”

One thinks of the pro­tag­o­nists of Her­zog’s films, both imag­ined and real: the steamship-drag­ging rub­ber baron Bri­an Sweeney Fitzger­ald, the downed Navy pilot Dieter Den­gler, the delud­ed con­quis­ta­dor Lope de Aguirre, the ill-fat­ed wildlife activist Tim­o­thy Tread­well. In Onoda’s case as well, Scott writes, “Her­zog declines to treat him as a joke. He is clear­ly fas­ci­nat­ed by the absur­di­ty of this hero’s sit­u­a­tion, and also deter­mined to defend the dig­ni­ty of a man who had no choice but to per­se­vere in an impos­si­ble mis­sion.” Any­one famil­iar with Her­zog’s career, full of har­row­ing encoun­ters and unpre­dictable turns but clear­ly oper­at­ing by an iron log­ic all its own, can imag­ine why he saw in Ono­da a kin­dred spir­it.

Eight years after his death at the age of 91, Ono­da remains a fig­ure of gen­er­al fas­ci­na­tion, the sub­ject of his­to­ry videos viewed by mil­lions as well as last year’s Ono­da: 10,000 Nights of the Jun­gle, a fea­ture by French direc­tor Arthur Harari. Of course,  “the guy who stays in the field long after the war is over is, to mod­ern eyes, a com­i­cal, cau­tion­ary fig­ure, an avatar of patri­o­tism car­ried to ridicu­lous extremes,” writes Scott. “We rarely pause to look for motives oth­er than blind obe­di­ence, or to imag­ine what those years of phan­tom com­bat in the wilder­ness must have felt like.” Per­haps we twen­ty-first cen­tu­ry West­ern­ers sim­ply lack the imag­i­na­tive pow­er nec­es­sary to do so — all of us, that, is except Wern­er Her­zog. You can pre-order his nov­el, The Twi­light World, now. It hits the shelves next week, on June 14th.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Wern­er Her­zog Offers 24 Pieces of Film­mak­ing and Life Advice

Wern­er Her­zog Tells a Book Club Why The Pere­grine Is One of His Favorite Books, a 20th-Cen­tu­ry Mas­ter­piece

Wern­er Her­zog Dis­cov­ers the Ecsta­sy of Skate­board­ing: “That’s Kind of My Peo­ple”

The Dream Dri­ven Film­mak­ing of Wern­er Her­zog: Watch the Video Essay, “The Inner Chron­i­cle of What We Are: Under­stand­ing Wern­er Her­zog”

Time Trav­el Back to Tokyo After World War II, and See the City in Remark­ably High-Qual­i­ty 1940s Video

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities, 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.

What Happened to the Missing Half of the Roman Colosseum?

What hap­pened to the miss­ing half of the Colos­se­um? It may be a ques­tion about ancient Rome you were afraid to ask in school, as the title of Dr. Gar­ret Ryan’s video above sug­gests. Or maybe, after see­ing the mas­sive ancient ruin’s jagged pro­file all your life on piz­za box­es and soft­ball t‑shirts spon­sored by your local Ital­ian eatery, you nev­er thought much of the Colos­se­um’ shape at all. You could spend hun­dreds of dol­lars and build a LEGO Colos­se­um, hun­dreds more and vis­it it your­self, or dri­ve past it every day on your com­mute, and nev­er think much about it.

Despite cur­rent­ly host­ing more vis­i­tors per year than Tre­vi Foun­tain and the Sis­tine Chapel com­bined, the mon­u­ment to bread and cir­cus impe­r­i­al Rome suf­fered from severe neglect in the mil­len­nia and a‑half after it was used as a glad­i­a­tor are­na – “some 1,500 years of neglect and hap­haz­ard con­struc­tion projects,” Tom Mueller writes at Smith­son­ian, “lay­ered one upon anoth­er.” Used as a quar­ry after the 6th cen­tu­ry, for most of its long, decay­ing life, the amphithe­ater and its “hypogeum” (the intri­cate sys­tem of tun­nels and earth­works under­neath) went ful­ly to seed.

For most of its his­to­ry, that is to say, humans most­ly ignored the Colos­se­um. But curios­i­ty about its his­to­ry pays:

Down through the cen­turies, peo­ple filled the hypogeum with dirt and rub­ble, plant­ed veg­etable gar­dens, stored hay and dumped ani­mal dung. In the amphithe­ater above, the enor­mous vault­ed pas­sages shel­tered cob­blers, black­smiths, priests, glue-mak­ers and mon­ey-chang­ers, not to men­tion a fortress of the Frangi­pane, 12th-cen­tu­ry war­lords. By then, local leg­ends and pil­grim guide­books described the crum­bling ring of the amphitheater’s walls as a for­mer tem­ple to the sun. Necro­mancers went there at night to sum­mon demons.

In the late 16th cen­tu­ry — before popes parad­ed through the are­na to hon­or Chris­tians fed to wild beasts — “Pope Six­tus V, the builder of Renais­sance Rome, tried to trans­form the Colos­se­um into a wool fac­to­ry.” The ven­ture failed, and soon after the huge vari­ety of wild plant life began to attract botanists, who cat­a­logued some 337 dif­fer­ent species. The hypogeum, the archi­tec­tur­al mech­a­nism that once pow­ered spec­ta­cles on the floor above, was only cleared in the 1930s by Ben­i­to Mus­soli­ni in his glo­ri­fi­ca­tion of clas­si­cal Rome.

Restora­tion on the Colos­se­um did not begin until the 1990s and vis­i­tors have only been allowed to see the ruin’s inner work­ings since 2011, almost 2000 years since it was first con­struct­ed between 72 and 80 AD. Orig­i­nal­ly called the Fla­vian Amphithe­atre, the build­ing’s name was changed to reflect its prox­im­i­ty to the Colos­sus of Nero, a mon­u­ment to impe­r­i­al hubris that has itself long dis­ap­peared. So, what about that miss­ing half? “The short answer,” writes Dr. Ryan, “is: earth­quakes and popes, in that order.”

The longer answer, as you might imag­ine, is far more col­or­ful, and far blood­i­er, involv­ing events like the Emper­or Tra­jan’s 123-day cel­e­bra­tion of his vic­to­ry in Dacia, “in the course of which 5,000 pairs of glad­i­a­tors fought and 11,000 ani­mals were killed.” After around 500 years of this kind of blood­sport (and oth­er amuse­ments) and anoth­er 1,500 years of dete­ri­o­ra­tion, I’d say the Colos­se­um has held up remark­ably well, a trib­ute to Roman archi­tec­tur­al engi­neer­ing, the one thing the Roman Empire seemed to love more than vio­lent death.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

When the Colos­se­um in Rome Became the Home of Hun­dreds of Exot­ic Plant Species

The Roman Colos­se­um Has a Twin in Tunisia: Dis­cov­er the Amphithe­ater of El Jem, One of the Best-Pre­served Roman Ruins in the World

An Ani­mat­ed Recon­struc­tion of Ancient Rome: Take A 30-Minute Stroll Through the City’s Vir­tu­al­ly-Recre­at­ed Streets

An 8‑Minute Ani­mat­ed Flight Over Ancient Rome

How Did Roman Aque­ducts Work?: The Most Impres­sive Achieve­ment of Ancient Rome’s Infra­struc­ture, Explained

The His­to­ry of Ancient Rome in 20 Quick Min­utes: A Primer Nar­rat­ed by Bri­an Cox

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

Watch the First Movie Ever Streamed on the Net: Wax or the Discovery of Television Among the Bees (1991)

When the World Wide Web made its pub­lic debut in the ear­ly nine­teen-nineties, it fas­ci­nat­ed many and struck some as rev­o­lu­tion­ary, but the idea of watch­ing a film online would still have sound­ed like sheer fan­ta­sy. Yet on May 23rd, 1993, report­ed the New York Times’ John Markoff, “a small audi­ence scat­tered among a few dozen com­put­er lab­o­ra­to­ries gath­ered” to “watch the first movie to be trans­mit­ted on the Inter­net — the glob­al com­put­er net­work that con­nects mil­lions of sci­en­tists and aca­d­e­m­ic researchers and hith­er­to has been a medi­um for swap­ping research notes and an occa­sion­al still image.”

That expla­na­tion speaks vol­umes about how life online was per­ceived by the aver­age New York Times read­er three decades ago. But it was hard­ly the aver­age New York Times read­er who tuned into the inter­net’s very first film screen­ing, whose fea­ture pre­sen­ta­tion was Wax or the Dis­cov­ery of Tele­vi­sion Among the Bees. Com­plet­ed in 1991 by artist David Blair, this hybrid fic­tion and essay-film offered to its view­ers what Times crit­ic Stephen Hold­en called “a mul­ti-gen­er­a­tional fam­i­ly saga as it might be imag­ined by a cyber­punk nov­el­ist. It flash­es all the way back to the sto­ry of Cain and Abel and the Tow­er of Babel and for­ward to the nar­ra­tor’s own death, birth and rebirth in an act of vio­lence.”

Jacob Mak­er, the nar­ra­tor, was once a hum­ble mis­sile-guid­ance sys­tem engi­neer. But increas­ing dis­en­chant­ment with his line of work pushed him into the api­ar­i­an arts, in homage to his famous bee­keep­er grand­son Jacob Hive Mak­er. That the lat­ter is played by William S. Bur­roughs sug­gests that Wax has the mak­ings of a “cult clas­sic,” as does the film’s con­struc­tion, in large part out of found footage, jux­ta­posed and manip­u­lat­ed into a dig­i­tal psy­che­delia. Its nar­ra­tive — amus­ing, ref­er­ence-rich, and bewil­der­ing­ly com­plex for an 85-minute run­time — has Jacob men­tal­ly over­tak­en by his own bees, who implant a tele­vi­sion into his brain and repro­gram him as an assas­sin.

With Wax, writes Screen Slate’s Sean Ben­jamin, “Blair laid an extrap­o­la­tion of La Jetée atop a bedrock of Thomas Pyn­chon and came out with some­thing clos­est to ear­ly Peter Green­away — yet ulti­mate­ly sin­gu­lar.” And on an inter­net that could only broad­cast it “at the dream-like rate of two frames a sec­ond” in black-and-white, it must have made for a sin­gu­lar view­ing expe­ri­ence indeed. Back then, as Markoff wrote, “dig­i­tal broad­cast­ing was not yet ready for prime time.”

Today, in our age of stream­ing, dig­i­tal broad­cast­ing has dis­placed prime time, and it feels only prop­er that we can watch Wax on Youtube, where Blair has uploaded it as part of a larg­er, ongo­ing, and not-eas­i­ly-grasped ongo­ing dig­i­tal film project. “There is a sense in which we have all had tele­vi­sions implant­ed in our heads,” Hold­en reflect­ed in 1992. “Who real­ly knows what those end­less reruns are doing to us?” Even now, the inter­net has only just begun to trans­form not just how we watch movies, but how we com­mu­ni­cate, con­duct our dai­ly lives, and even think. We can all see some­thing of our­selves in Jacob Mak­er — and on today’s inter­net, we can see it much more clear­ly.

Relat­ed con­tent:

The Very First Web­cam Was Invent­ed to Keep an Eye on a Cof­fee Pot at Cam­bridge Uni­ver­si­ty

Cyber­punk: 1990 Doc­u­men­tary Fea­tur­ing William Gib­son & Tim­o­thy Leary Intro­duces the Cyber­punk Cul­ture

Dar­win: A 1993 Film by Peter Green­away

Mes­mer­iz­ing Time­lapse Film Cap­tures the Won­der of Bees Being Born

The First Music Stream­ing Ser­vice Was Invent­ed in 1881: Dis­cov­er the Théâtro­phone

4,000+ Free Movies Online: Great Clas­sics, Indies, Noir, West­erns, Doc­u­men­taries & More

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities, 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.

The History of the Byzantine Empire (or East Roman Empire): An Animated Timeline Covering 1,100 Years of History

The his­to­ry of Rome is, more or less, the his­to­ry of the mod­ern world. But the Roman world seemed to shrink dur­ing the Neo­clas­si­cal peri­od, an Enlight­en­ment-era move­ment to puri­fy the arts. Where Rome once encom­passed a glob­al empire, it began to inhab­it a nar­row range of ideas, imposed by human­ist schol­ars, French Jacobins, bour­geois rev­o­lu­tion­ar­ies in the North Amer­i­can colonies, and the courts of Louis XVI, George III, and Napoleon. Neo­clas­si­cal art was an ennobling arti­fice in a time when Euro­pean empires were swal­low­ing up the globe. (It was lat­er the favored style of Mus­soli­ni and, more recent­ly, Don­ald Trump.) Aca­d­e­mics and states­men rede­fined the cul­tur­al bound­aries of ancient Rome to suit the agen­das of their age.

Elites of the Ottoman Empire in the 16th and 17th cen­tu­ry, for exam­ple, believed there was no sep­a­ra­tion between them­selves and ancient Rome. They called them­selves Rūmī, Romans, inher­i­tors of the Empire. West­ern Euro­peans, how­ev­er, exclu­sive­ly used the terms Ottomans or Turks, in rhetoric designed to evoke fears of dan­ger­ous, threat­en­ing oth­ers. Sim­i­lar­ly, the East­ern, or Byzan­tine, Empire, ruled from Con­stan­tino­ple by Con­stan­tine and his suc­ces­sors, nev­er thought of itself as any­thing oth­er than Roman, and cer­tain­ly not as “Byzan­tine,” a word that comes from the city’s ancient name, Byzan­tium.

As the poster of the video above writes, “the empire this video is about was nei­ther called ‘Byzan­tine’ nor ‘East­ern Roman,’ but sim­ply ‘Roman/Romaioi’ but its con­tem­po­raries. ‘Byzan­tine empire’ is a made up term that appeared in the course of the 16th cen­tu­ry.” Orig­i­nal­ly meant to sug­gest the Greek influ­ence on the late Roman Empire, the word became a way of brack­et­ing off the late empire as strange and exot­ic. Then it became a pejo­ra­tive adjec­tive mean­ing “exces­sive­ly com­pli­cat­ed.” Not coin­ci­den­tal­ly, this also hap­pened to be the opin­ion of the Neo­clas­si­cists when it came to the late Roman Empire. Neo­clas­si­cal ideals empha­sized order, per­fec­tion, sim­plic­i­ty, virtue, ratio­nal­i­ty, all qual­i­ties retroac­tive­ly applied to the Rome of antiq­ui­ty, but not to the “East­ern” Empire.

Like many a term of abuse, both the Ottoman Empire and Byzan­tine Empire were reclaimed by nation­al­ists who had no desire to iden­ti­fy with ancient Rome. Dur­ing the Crimean War, Greek nation­al­ists embraced the Byzan­tine Empire as a his­tor­i­cal real­i­ty and a vision of a future restora­tion once Istan­bul had been reclaimed. The inhab­i­tants of Con­stan­tino­ple and many of the ter­ri­to­ries under its sway dur­ing the peri­od cov­ered by the ani­mat­ed time­line above, how­ev­er, just called them­selves Romans. “Indeed, the ‘Byzan­tine’ sov­er­eigns,” the video notes, “nev­er ceased to con­sid­er them­selves as the legit­i­mate suc­ces­sors of the Roman empire which had been divid­ed in 395 and whose West­ern part had fall­en in 476.”

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

An Ani­mat­ed His­to­ry of the Ottoman Empire (1299 – 1922)

How the Byzan­tine Empire Rose, Fell, and Cre­at­ed the Glo­ri­ous Hagia Sophia: A His­to­ry in Ten Ani­mat­ed Min­utes

A Vir­tu­al Tour of Ancient Rome, Cir­ca 320 CE: Explore Stun­ning Recre­ations of The Forum, Colos­se­um and Oth­er Mon­u­ments

What Did the Roman Emper­ors Look Like?: See Pho­to­re­al­is­tic Por­traits Cre­at­ed with Machine Learn­ing

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

When David Bowie & Brian Eno Made a Twin Peaks-Inspired Album, Outside (1995)

By any mea­sure, David Bowie was a super­star. He first rose to fame in the nine­teen-sev­en­ties, a process gal­va­nized by his cre­ation and assump­tion of the rock­er-from-Mars per­sona Zig­gy Star­dust. In the fol­low­ing decade came Let’s Dance, on the back of which he sold out sta­di­ums and dom­i­nat­ed the still-new MTV. Yet through it all, and indeed up until his death in 2016, he kept at least one foot out­side the main­stream. It was in the nineties, after his aes­thet­i­cal­ly cleans­ing stint with gui­tar-rock out­fit Tin Machine, that Bowie made use of his star­dom to explore his full spec­trum of inter­ests, which ranged from the basic to the bizarre, the mun­dane to the macabre.

This sug­gests a good deal in com­mon between Bowie and anoth­er high-pro­file David of his gen­er­a­tion: David Lynch, long one of the most famous film direc­tors alive. “There are many obvi­ous, sur­face con­nec­tions and inter­sec­tions between Lynch and Bowie,” write film crit­ics Cristi­na Álvarez López and Adri­an Mar­tin. “Both have dab­bled in film and music, as well as paint­ing, the­atre and per­for­mance art. Both are actors — Bowie slight­ly more con­ven­tion­al­ly so than Lynch.” Lynch would no doubt agree with Bowie’s insis­tence that “my inter­pre­ta­tion of my work is real­ly imma­te­r­i­al,” that “it’s the inter­pre­ta­tion of the lis­ten­er, or the view­er, which is all-impor­tant.”

These words appear in López and Mar­t­in’s analy­sis of Twin Peaks, the tele­vi­sion series Lynch cre­at­ed in col­lab­o­ra­tion with Mark Frost, and Out­side, the album Bowie cre­at­ed in col­lab­o­ra­tion with Bri­an Eno. When it pre­miered on ABC in the spring of 1990, Twin Peaks became a minor sen­sa­tion by con­jur­ing a famil­iar yet deeply strange atmos­phere such as no one had nev­er seen on tele­vi­sion before. It also pio­neered what López and Adri­an Mar­tin call “the Dead Girl/Woman genre, which traces out a labyrinthine mys­tery from the dis­cov­ery of a young female corpse.” What brings Spe­cial Agent Dale Coop­er to Twin Peaks, Wash­ing­ton, we recall, is the mur­der of home­com­ing queen Lau­ra Palmer.

What brings Nathan Adler, a detec­tive in the Art Crimes unit, to Oxford Town, New Jer­sey is the mur­der of the four­teen-year-old Baby Grace Blue. Thus begins the Twin Peaks-inspired sto­ry­line of Out­side, Bowie’s own 1995 entry into the genre of the Dead Girl/Woman. Like Lynch and Frost’s show, Bowie’s album has a cast of eccentrics: Adler and Baby Grace, but also the likes of crim­i­nal “out­sider” Leon Blank; Alge­ria Touchshriek, deal­er in “art-drugs and DNA prints”; and a sin­is­ter fig­ure known as both the Artist and the Mino­taur. All are played by Bowie him­self, who makes use of var­i­ous accents (a tech­nique prac­ticed with his appear­ance in the 1992 Twin Peaks movie Fire Walk with Me) and voice-pro­cess­ing tech­niques.

At the time this 75-minute “non-lin­ear Goth­ic Dra­ma Hyper-Cycle,” as Bowie labeled it, gave his lis­ten­ers a lot to take in, to say noth­ing of the major media out­lets attempt­ing to pub­li­cize it. “This new project is all about sex, vio­lence, and death,” says the CBC’s Lau­rie Brown in a typ­i­cal piece of tele­vi­sion cov­er­age. But it also deals with the merg­ing of those human eter­nals with art and pop­u­lar cul­ture, a process that fas­ci­nat­ed Bowie more and more as the nineties pro­gressed — as did “the re-emer­gence of Neo-Pagan­ism, rit­u­al body art, and the frag­men­ta­tion of soci­ety,” as he puts it in Out­sides offi­cial mak­ing-of video.

Bowie and Eno intend­ed Out­side (offi­cial­ly 1. Out­side) as the first in a series that would ulti­mate­ly con­sti­tute “a diary in music and in tex­ture of what it felt like to be around at the end of the Mil­len­ni­um.” In one press con­fer­ence, Bowie hint­ed that “the nar­ra­tive might fall by the way­side,” much as Lynch and Frost orig­i­nal­ly intend­ed to leave Lau­ra Palmer’s death unsolved. That the sec­ond vol­ume nev­er appeared only under­scores the tan­ta­liz­ing incom­plete­ness of Out­side, which López and Mar­tin high­light as anoth­er sim­i­lar­i­ty to Twin Peaks: “Both works are ser­i­al and mul­ti­ple, exist­ing in var­i­ous offi­cial and unof­fi­cial forms, in spin-offs, out­takes” — not least the nev­er-prop­er­ly-released “Leon suites” Bowie and Eno record­ed before the album itself — “and in numer­ous fan com­men­taries.”

A kind of cir­cle closed in 1997 when Out­side’s “I’m Deranged” sound­tracked the open­ing cred­its of Lynch’s Lost High­way. But the work con­tin­ued to hold out pos­si­bil­i­ties until the end of Bowie’s life: “We both liked that album a lot and felt that it had fall­en through the cracks,” Eno said. “We talked about revis­it­ing it, tak­ing it some­where new.” Despite his Lynchi­an resis­tance to inter­pre­ta­tion, Bowie did acknowl­edge even in 1995 the the­mat­ic impor­tance of mor­tal­i­ty itself. Out­side’s first sin­gle was called “The Heart’s Filthy Les­son,” and “the filthy les­son in ques­tion is the fact that life is finite.” For him, “know­ing that I’ve got a finite time in life on Earth actu­al­ly clar­i­fies things and makes me feel quite buoy­ant.” Bowie knew — or learned — that life is too short not to fol­low your fas­ci­na­tions to their lim­its.

Relat­ed con­tent:

David Bowie’s Music Video “Jump They Say” Pays Trib­ute to Marker’s La Jetée, Godard’s Alphav­ille, Welles’ The Tri­al & Kubrick’s 2001

Watch an Epic, 4‑Hour Video Essay on the Mak­ing & Mythol­o­gy of David Lynch’s Twin Peaks

The Sto­ry of Zig­gy Star­dust: How David Bowie Cre­at­ed the Char­ac­ter that Made Him Famous

Watch the Twin Peaks Visu­al Sound­track Released Only in Japan: A New Way to Expe­ri­ence David Lynch’s Clas­sic Show

David Bowie & Bri­an Eno’s Col­lab­o­ra­tion on “Warsza­wa” Reimag­ined in a Com­ic Ani­ma­tion

When Bil­ly Idol Went Cyber­punk: See His Trib­ute to Neu­ro­mancer, His Record­ing Ses­sion with Tim­o­thy Leary, and His Lim­it­ed-Edi­tion Flop­py Disk (1993)

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities, 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.

Remembering Dave Smith (RIP), the Father of MIDI & the Creator of the 80s’ Most Beloved Synthesizer, the Prophet‑5

Some founders rest on their lau­rels, build indus­tries around them­selves like a cocoon, and nev­er escape or out­grow the big achieve­ment that made their name. Some, like Dave Smith — the so-called “father of MIDI,” and one of the most inno­v­a­tive syn­the­siz­er pio­neers of the last sev­er­al decades – don’t stop cre­at­ing for long enough to col­lect dust. You may nev­er have heard of Smith, but you’ve heard his tech­nol­o­gy. Before pio­neer­ing MIDI (Musi­cal Instru­ment Dig­i­tal Inter­face), the dig­i­tal stan­dard that allows hun­dreds of elec­tron­ic instru­ments to play nice­ly with each oth­er across com­put­er and soft­ware mak­ers, Smith found­ed Sequen­tial Cir­cuits and built one of the most revered syn­the­siz­ers ever made, the Prophet‑5, invent­ed in 1977 and essen­tial to the sound of the 1980s and beyond.

Smith’s key­boards made appear­ances on stage, video, and albums through­out the decade. Duran Duran’s Nick Rhodes used the Prophet‑5 on the band’s first album and “vir­tu­al­ly every record I have made since then,” he said in a state­ment. “With­out Dav­e’s vision and inge­nu­ity,” Rhodes went on, “the sound of the 1980s would have been very dif­fer­ent, he tru­ly changed the son­ic sound­scape of a gen­er­a­tion.”

Sequen­tial synths appeared on albums by bands as dis­parate as The Cure and Daryl Hall & John Oates, who demon­strate the dream-like, ethe­re­al capa­bil­i­ties of the Prophet‑5 — the first ful­ly pro­gram­ma­ble poly­phon­ic ana­log synth — in “I Can’t Go for That (No Can Do).” The Prophet‑5 also drove the sound of Radio­head­’s Kid A, and indie dance dar­lings Hot Chip wrote they would be “noth­ing with­out what [Smith] cre­at­ed.” Few vin­tage synths are as desir­able as the Prophet‑5.

The orig­i­nal Prophet is “not immune to the dark side of vin­tage synths,” writes Vin­tage Synth Explor­er, includ­ing prob­lems such as unsta­ble tun­ing and a lack of MIDI. Smith fixed that issue him­self with new iter­a­tions of the Prophet and oth­er synths fea­tur­ing his most famous post-Prophet‑5 tech­nol­o­gy. “Like so many bril­liant and cre­ative peo­ple,” the MIDI Asso­ci­a­tion writes, Smith “always focused on the future.” He was “not actu­al­ly a big fan of being called the ‘Father of MIDI.’ ” Many peo­ple con­tributed to the devel­op­ment of the tech­nol­o­gy, espe­cial­ly Roland founder Iku­taro Kake­hashi, who won a tech­ni­cal Gram­my with Smith in 2013 for the pro­to­col that made its debut as a new stan­dard in 1983.

Smith pre­ferred mak­ing hard­ware instru­ments and “almost begrudg­ing­ly accept­ed inter­views about his con­tri­bu­tions to MIDI.…. He was also not a big fan of orga­ni­za­tions, com­mit­tees and meet­ings.” He was a synth lover’s synth mak­er, a design­er and engi­neer with a “deep under­stand­ing of what musi­cians want­ed,” says Rhodes. Col­lab­o­ra­tions with Yama­ha and Korg pro­duced more soft­ware inno­va­tions in the 90s, but in the 2000s, Smith returned to Sequen­tial Cir­cuits and debuted the Prophet X, Prophet‑6, and OB‑6 with Tom Ober­heim. The two design­ers col­lab­o­rat­ed in 2021 on the Ober­heim OB-X8 and Smith intro­duced it just weeks before his death.

He had trav­eled a long way from invent­ing the Prophet‑5 in 1977 and pre­sent­ing a paper in 1981 to the Audio Engi­neer­ing Soci­ety on what he then called a Uni­ver­sal Syn­the­siz­er Inter­face. Smith him­self nev­er seemed to stop and look back, but lovers of his famous instru­ments are hap­py we still can, and that elec­tron­ic instru­ments and com­put­ers can talk to each oth­er eas­i­ly thanks to MIDI. Few of those instru­ments sound as good as the orig­i­nal, how­ev­er. See a demon­stra­tion of the Prophet-5’s range of sounds in the video just above and hear more tracks that show off the synth in the list here.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Sto­ry of the Syn­thAxe, the Aston­ish­ing 1980s Gui­tar Syn­the­siz­er: Only 100 Were Ever Made

Wendy Car­los Demon­strates the Moog Syn­the­siz­er on the BBC (1970)

Thomas Dol­by Explains How a Syn­the­siz­er Works on a Jim Hen­son Kids Show (1989)

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

Kate Bush Enjoys a (Long-Overdue) Revival, Sparked by Season 4 of Stranger Things

There’s nev­er been a bad time for a Kate Bush revival. Those who lived through the 1980s may always asso­ciate her biggest songs with their mem­o­ries. Fans who only know the 80s by way of Net­flix know it by proxy and don’t suf­fer from nos­tal­gia. But what­ev­er Kate’s big, reverb-soaked drums, big Fairlight synths, big hair, and enor­mous vocals evoke for audi­ences now, one thing is cer­tain: Kate Bush’s music is time­less.

Rebec­ca Nichol­son sums up the sen­ti­ment in a Guardian post on the renais­sance Bush is now enjoy­ing, thanks to the use of her 1985 hit, “Run­ning Up That Hill (Deal With God)” in the new sea­son of Net­flix hit series, Stranger Things: “If any song can steel itself against over famil­iar­i­ty, it’s ‘Run­ning Up That Hill.’ Whether it is for the first time or the 500th time, you still hear it now and think, what the hell was that? And then you play it again.”

Not to spoil, but the love of a per­fect pop song after innu­mer­able rep­e­ti­tions plays a sig­nif­i­cant role in the plot of Stranger Things’ Sea­son 4, just one of the wink­ing crit­i­cal touch­es in the show’s use of 80s cul­ture as com­men­tary on the present. (If you haven’t seen the show yet, maybe skip the clip below.) Can we find the same com­forts in our dis­pos­able pop cul­ture, the show seems to ask? Maybe we need musi­cal guid­ance from an icon like Kate Bush now more than ever.

When the show’s pro­duc­ers approached Bush about using the song, she dis­played her usu­al ret­i­cence. Since her break­out debut sin­gle, “Wuther­ing Heights” and the result­ing album and tour, she has shunned the press and stage, pre­fer­ring to com­mu­ni­cate with videos and tak­ing sev­er­al years off, only to return onstage recent­ly after 35 years, to the delight of stal­wart fans world­wide. Now, since Stranger Things’ new release, “a new gen­er­a­tion is tap­ping ‘who is Kate Bush?’ into the search bar,” Nichol­son writes.

The song is already back in the UK top 10 (where it hit no. 3 orig­i­nal­ly), and it should “at least give its orig­i­nal chart peak a run for its mon­ey” in the US, where it only reached no. 30, Bill­board com­ments. For those who need an intro­duc­tion, the Trash The­o­ry video at the top, “Run­ning Up That Hill: How Kate Bush Became the Queen of Alt-Pop,” will get you caught up on one of the most bril­liant — and under­rat­ed, in the US — pop stars of the past forty years.

Despite show­ing her usu­al cau­tion, how­ev­er, when the show’s pro­duc­ers sent Bush a script and an expla­na­tion of how “Run­ning Up That Hill” would be used, she revealed that she was already a fan of the show and agreed to the song’s licens­ing, some­thing the 63-year-old singer almost nev­er does. Then, she made a rare pub­lic state­ment on her web­site:

  You might’ve heard that the first part of the fan­tas­tic, grip­ping new series of  ‘Stranger Things’  has recent­ly been released on Net­flix. It fea­tures the song, ‘Run­ning Up That Hill’  which is being giv­en a whole new lease of life by the young fans who love the show — I love it too! Because of this, Run­ning Up That Hill is chart­ing around the world and has entered the UK chart at No. 8. It’s all real­ly excit­ing! Thanks very much to every­one who has sup­port­ed the song.
    I wait with bat­ed breath for the rest of the series in July.  
         Best wish­es,
            Kate

Fans of the show all wait, with Kate, for its return, but not near­ly as eager­ly as fans of Kate Bush await­ed a sign from their idol for decades, a self-made artist who defined her era by nev­er bow­ing to its dic­tates. Now, we hope, she’s come back to stay for a while.

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

Revis­it Kate Bush’s Pecu­liar Christ­mas Spe­cial, Fea­tur­ing Peter Gabriel (1979)

Watch a Tow­er­ing Orches­tral Trib­ute to Kate Bush: A 40th Anniver­sary Cel­e­bra­tion of Her First Sin­gle, “Wuther­ing Heights”

The Largest Ever Trib­ute to Kate Bush’s “Wuther­ing Heights” Chore­o­graphed by a Flash­mob in Berlin

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

Watch Ella Fitzgerald Put Her Extraordinary Vocal Agility on Display, in a Live Rendition of “Summertime” (1968)

“I nev­er knew how good our songs were until I heard Ella Fitzger­ald sing them.” — Ira Gersh­win

No one ever gave Ella Fitzger­ald faint praise. We could point to cuts from near­ly any one of her over 200 albums as evi­dence for why she is the undis­put­ed “Queen of Jazz,” a title for which she worked hard in her near­ly 60-year career. But she’s bet­ter known by anoth­er name, “The First Lady of Song,” for defin­i­tive inter­pre­ta­tions of Cole Porter, Duke Elling­ton, Irv­ing Berlin, and, of course, George and Ira Gersh­win. Fitzger­ald’s record­ings of their songs played “an essen­tial role in the broad­er trans­for­ma­tion of the Gersh­win’s music from show tunes to Amer­i­can Song­book stan­dards,” writes the Uni­ver­si­ty of Michi­gan’s Gersh­win Ini­tia­tive.

What’s fas­ci­nat­ing about that trans­for­ma­tion is the way in which Fitzger­ald’s ren­di­tions of pop­u­lar songs ele­vat­ed them to eter­nal main­stream sta­tus by draw­ing on the rhyth­mic and melod­ic resources of jazz, a dis­tinct­ly Black Amer­i­can music some­times cast as a threat to the U.S. estab­lish­ment when Fitzger­ald began her career. (We need look no fur­ther than the vicious per­se­cu­tion of Bil­lie Hol­i­day by the coun­try’s first drug czar, Hen­ry Anslinger, as case in point.) Amer­i­ca may not always have been eager to embrace Fitzger­ald, but she was hap­py nonethe­less to gift the coun­try its great­est music.

Fitzger­ald’s 5‑LP set of Gersh­win songs, pro­duced by Nor­man Granz in 1959, con­tin­ues to be “the most ambi­tious of the cel­e­brat­ed song books record­ed by Ella,” Jazz Mes­sen­gers writes, “and one of the best vocal jazz albums ever made.” Record­ed two years ear­li­er by Granz in Los Ange­les, her Por­gy and Bess with Louis Arm­strong “remains one of the true gems in jazz his­to­ry.” Fitzger­ald’s voice is unpar­al­leled. She could do almost any­thing with it, from reach­ing down low to imi­tate Arm­strong’s growl to break­ing a glass with her high C for a Mem­o­rex ad twen­ty years lat­er.

Dizzy Gille­spie once said that Fitzger­ald could sing back any­thing he played for her, and she cit­ed horns as her pri­ma­ry vocal inspi­ra­tion. “She sang like an instru­ment,” says pianist Bil­ly Tay­lor, who played with her in the 1940s, “like a clar­inet or like a trom­bone or like a what­ev­er.” The irony, of course, is that horns and many oth­er melod­ic instru­ments achieved their tim­bre by try­ing to imi­tate the human voice. Fitzger­ald had the orig­i­nal; she need­ed no accom­pa­ni­ment — she was the music, with “impec­ca­ble tim­ing and per­fect pitch,” NPR writes. “In fact, band musi­cians said they would tune up to her voice.”

In the video at the top from a per­for­mance in Berlin in 1968, you can see Fitzger­ald “destroy” the har­mon­ic minor scale, as the YouTube uploader puts it, while pianist Tee Car­son looks on in awe. The song, from Por­gy and Bess (see the full per­for­mance fur­ther up), is just one of many writ­ten by the Gersh­wins that “tran­scends its musi­cal the­atre ori­gins” due to Fitzger­ald’s impro­visato­ry bril­liance and musi­cal sen­si­tiv­i­ty. Just above, you can hear that live vocal track stripped of instru­men­ta­tion except Ella’s voice in a Wings of Pega­sus analy­sis video of the “depth of her expres­sion” and vocal per­fec­tion.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Ella Fitzgerald’s Lost Inter­view about Racism & Seg­re­ga­tion: Record­ed in 1963, It’s Nev­er Been Heard Until Now

How Mar­i­lyn Mon­roe Helped Break Ella Fitzger­ald Into the Big Time (1955)

Women of Jazz: Stream a Playlist of 91 Record­ings by Great Female Jazz Musi­cians

How “America’s First Drug Czar” Waged War Against Bil­lie Hol­i­day and Oth­er Jazz Leg­ends

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


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