What Does a $275,000 Classical Guitar Sound Like?

The high­est qual­i­ty clas­si­cal gui­tars hand­made in the 21st cen­tu­ry can run into the tens of thou­sands of dol­lars. This is no friv­o­lous expense for a pro­fes­sion­al play­er. Put such an instru­ment in the hands of an ama­teur and you may not hear much dif­fer­ence between it and a $150 fac­to­ry-made bud­get mod­el. In the hands of a sea­soned play­er, a high-end gui­tar tru­ly sings. Tone resides in the fin­gers — or 90% of it any­way — but a skilled gui­tarist knows how to dis­cov­er and make use of all an instru­men­t’s best qual­i­ties. For a musi­cian who makes a liv­ing doing so, spend­ing the cost of a car on a gui­tar makes eco­nom­ic sense (as does a good insur­ance pol­i­cy).

The tonal qual­i­ties of the instru­ment below, a hand­made clas­si­cal gui­tar from 1888, are clear­ly abun­dant; it’s also clear that gui­tarist Bran­don Ack­er — who has appeared in many of our pre­vi­ous posts on the gui­tar — knows how to exploit them. At times, he brings out such rich res­o­nance, the instru­ment sounds like a piano; at oth­ers, it is almost harp-like. We have a con­flu­ence of rar­i­ty: a high­ly skilled play­er with deep knowl­edge of clas­si­cal stringed instru­ments, and an instru­ment like no oth­er — so rare, in fact, that it’s val­ued at over a quar­ter of a mil­lion dol­lars, rough­ly the aver­age cost of a mod­er­ate­ly-priced house in the U.S., the largest invest­ment most peo­ple make in their life­time.

To under­stand why the instru­ment car­ries such a high price tag, see Ack­er and YouTu­ber and gui­tarist Rob Scal­lon vis­it with father-and-son luthi­er team R.E. and M.E. Bruné at their shops in Illi­nois in the video at the top. The Brunés are spe­cial­ists in clas­si­cal and fla­men­co gui­tars. (The elder Bruné tells a charm­ing sto­ry of mak­ing his first fla­men­co gui­tar for him­self from his par­ents’ first din­ing room table.) In their shop’s stor­age area, they have ready access to some of the rarest gui­tars in the world, and they give us a live­ly tour — start­ing with a “bit of a let­down,” the “low-end,” 1967 Daniel Friederich con­cert mod­el val­ued at $50,000.

In Ack­er’s hands, each gui­tar deliv­ers the full poten­tial of its sus­tain and res­o­nance. Final­ly, at 16:00, we come to the 1888 Anto­nio de Tor­res gui­tar val­ued at $275,000. There are many old­er gui­tars in exis­tence, even gui­tars made by Anto­nio Stradi­vari and his heirs. But it was this gui­tar, or one of the few oth­ers made by the leg­endary Tor­res around the same time, that rev­o­lu­tion­ized what a gui­tar looked and sound­ed like. When Andrés Segovia arrived on stages play­ing his Tor­res, the Brunés tell us, gui­tarists around the world decid­ed that the old style, small-bod­ied gui­tars in use for cen­turies were obso­lete.

There are per­haps 90 to 100 of the Tor­res clas­si­cal gui­tars in exis­tence, and this extrav­a­gant­ly-priced num­ber 124 is “as close as you’re going to get to orig­i­nal,” says the elder Bruné, while his son makes the fas­ci­nat­ing obser­va­tion, “old­er instru­ments that have been played a lot, espe­cial­ly by great play­ers… learn the music.” Ack­er express­es his sur­prise at the “sweet­ness” of the very touch of the gui­tar.

If you had attend­ed the 2016 Gui­tar Foun­da­tion of Amer­i­ca con­fer­ence in Den­ver, where M.E. Bruné exhib­it­ed sev­er­al of his shop’s rare gui­tars, you would have been able to play the Tor­res your­self — or even pur­chase it for the less­er price of $235,000.

In the video inter­view above from the GFA con­fer­ence, M.E. Bruné describes the year plus-long restora­tion process on the gui­tar, one that involved some dis­as­sem­bly, extra brac­ing, and a replace­ment fin­ger­board, but pre­served the beau­ti­ful spruce and bird­s­eye maple of the gui­tar, wood that “does­n’t grow on trees like this any­where” these days, says Bruné. It is, he says, “the best-sound­ing Tor­res” he’s ever heard. Com­ing from some­one who has heard, and restored, the sweet­est-sound­ing gui­tars in exis­tence, that’s say­ing a lot. $275,000 worth? Maybe. Or maybe it’s impos­si­bly arbi­trary to put any price on such an arti­fact.

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

Hear Musi­cians Play the Only Playable Stradi­var­ius Gui­tar in the World: The “Sabionari”

The His­to­ry of the Gui­tar: See the Evo­lu­tion of the Gui­tar in 7 Instru­ments

The Art of Mak­ing a Fla­men­co Gui­tar: 299 Hours of Blood, Sweat & Tears Expe­ri­enced in 3 Min­utes

Encore! Encore! An Hour of the World’s Most Beau­ti­ful Clas­si­cal Gui­tar

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

Olivia Newton-John (RIP) Reunites with Grease Co-Star John Travolta to Sing “You’re The One That I Want” (2002)

Amer­i­can nos­tal­gia as we know it was invent­ed in the nine­teen-sev­en­ties. Con­sid­er that decade’s pre­pon­der­ance of back­ward-look­ing pop-cul­tur­al phe­nom­e­na: Sha Na Na; Hap­py Days; “Yes­ter­day Once More”; Amer­i­can Graf­fi­ti, whose tagline asked “Where were you in ’62?”, a time just eleven years before the release of the pic­ture itself. But no piece of work stands more icon­i­cal­ly for the sev­en­ties revival of the late fifties and ear­ly six­ties than Grease. First pro­duced as a stage musi­cal in Chica­go in 1971, it grad­u­at­ed to Broad­way the next year. But Grease would­n’t take its most endur­ing form until 1978, the year that brought Ran­dal Kleis­er’s film adap­ta­tion star­ring John Tra­vol­ta and the late Olivia New­ton-John.

A 28-year-old Aus­tralian might have seemed an uncon­ven­tion­al choice for the part of Sandy Dom­brows­ki, the new girl at mid­west­ern Rydell High School. But after the alter­ation of a few details in the char­ac­ter and sto­ry, she made the role entire­ly her own. “It was Newton-John’s dul­cet inti­ma­cy as a singer that set her up per­fect­ly to play the naïve Sandy onscreen,” writes the New York­er’s Rachel Syme.

Her “squeaky prud­ish­ness and moony inno­cence as she wails ‘Hope­less­ly Devot­ed to You’ stands in such sharp, sil­ly con­trast to her vampy fall­en-woman per­sona at the end of the film that the whole thing feels like a camp com­men­tary on the pow­er of cos­tum­ing and col­lec­tive fan­ta­sy (not to men­tion a good perm).”

It did­n’t hurt that New­ton-John was already estab­lished as a singer: she’d rep­re­sent­ed the Unit­ed King­dom in 1974’s Euro­vi­sion Song Con­test (los­ing, ulti­mate­ly, to ABBA), and that very same year scored coun­try hits in the Unit­ed States. Her skills did much not just to make the Grease sound­track Amer­i­ca’s sec­ond-best-sell­ing album of 1978 (sec­ond to the sound­track of Tra­volta’s own vehi­cle Sat­ur­day Night Fever), but to keep it endur­ing­ly pop­u­lar through­out the decades since. At Grease’s 2002 DVD release par­ty, New­ton-John and Tra­vol­ta reunit­ed onstage to sing “You’re the One That I Want,” much to the delight of the audi­ence — all of whom must still remem­ber where they were in ’02, at least for those three min­utes.

Relat­ed con­tent:

The Pow­er of Pulp Fic­tion’s Dance Scene, Explained by Chore­o­g­ra­phers and Even John Tra­vol­ta Him­self

Watch Simon & Gar­funkel Sing “The Sound of Silence” 45 Years After Its Release, and Just Get Haunt­ing­ly Bet­ter with Time

Jim­my Page and Robert Plant Reunite in Exot­ic Mar­rakesh, 1994

In Touch­ing Video, Artist Mari­na Abramović & For­mer Lover Ulay Reunite After 22 Years Apart

The “West Side Sto­ry” Sto­ry — Pret­ty Much Pop: A Cul­ture Pod­cast #114

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.

All the Music Played on MTV’s 120 Minutes: A 2,500-Video Youtube Playlist

The mid-nine­teen-nineties was not a time with­out irony. You may recall that, back then, “alter­na­tive” rock had not only gone main­stream, but, in cer­tain regions, had even become the most pop­u­lar genre of music on the radio. That was cer­tain­ly true in the Seat­tle area, where I grew up. And if you want­ed to start a rock band there, as writer Adam Cadre remem­bers, you knew what steps you had to take: “get a record deal, make a video, get it on 120 Min­utes, have it become a Buzz Clip, won­der why mas­sive suc­cess does­n’t ease the aching void inside.”

If you got into bands like 10,000 Mani­acs, Smash­ing Pump­kins, R.E.M., The Replace­ments, the Pix­ies, the Off­spring, or Son­ic Youth in the mid-nineties (to say noth­ing of a cer­tain trio called Nir­vana), chances are — sta­tis­ti­cal­ly speak­ing, at least — that you first saw them on 120 Min­utes.

At the peak of its pop­u­lar­i­ty on MTV, the show defined the alter­na­tive-rock zeit­geist, intro­duc­ing new bands as well as bring­ing new waves of lis­ten­ers to exist­ing ones. Though most strong­ly asso­ci­at­ed with the nineties, it pre­miered in 1986, host­ed by three of the first MTV VJs, J. J. Jack­son, Martha Quinn, and Alan Hunter. 36 years lat­er, you can relive the entire­ty of 120 Min­utes’ sev­en­teen-year run (with a brief revival in the twen­ty-tens) on Youtube.

A user named Chris Reynolds has cre­at­ed a playlist that appears to con­tain every song ever aired on 120 Min­utes. (Those have been doc­u­ment­ed by The 120 Min­utes Archive, pre­vi­ous­ly fea­tured here on Open Cul­ture.) Among the playlist’s more than 2,500 videos are songs — Vio­lent Femmes’ “Kiss Off,” The Psy­che­del­ic Furs’ “Love My Way,” Pearl Jam’s “Alive,” Fish­bone’s “Every­day Sun­shine,” R.E.M.‘s “Stand” — that will take you back to the pop-cul­tur­al eras 120 Min­utes spanned. But there are even more — Man­u­fac­ture’s “As the End Draws Near,” Lloyd Cole and the Com­mo­tions’ “Jen­nifer She Said,” Hel­met’s “Mil­que­toast,” Cause and Effec­t’s “You Think You Know Her” — that you may well have missed, even if you rocked your way through the eight­ies and nineties.

via Brook­lyn Veg­an

Relat­ed con­tent:

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

Watch the First Two Hours of MTV’s Inau­gur­al Broad­cast (August 1, 1981)

Watch Nir­vana Go Through Rehearsals for Their Famous MTV Unplugged Ses­sions: “Pol­ly,” “The Man Who Sold the World” & More (1993)

Nir­vana Refus­es to Mime Along to “Smells Like Teen Spir­it” on Top of the Pops (1991)

William S. Bur­roughs — Alter­na­tive Rock Star — Sings with Kurt Cobain, Tom Waits, REM & 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.

Discover The Key of Hell, an Illustrated 18th-Century Guide to Black Magic (1775)

Accord­ing to the Book of Rev­e­la­tion, the return­ing Christ arrives sur­round­ed by sev­en can­dle­sticks. In its author’s prophet­ic dream, “his head and his hairs were white like wool, as white as snow; and his eyes were as a flame of fire.” From his mouth issues “a sharp sword with which to strike down the nations.” It’s a star­tling image, cre­at­ed for sym­bol­ic pur­pos­es. With­out a key to what those sym­bols mean, the text remains obscure. It is, after all, a vision giv­en to a mys­tic her­mit exiled on an island.

Many a Rev­e­la­tion-inspired mag­i­cal gri­moire from suc­ceed­ing cen­turies also remains near­ly incom­pre­hen­si­ble to non-adepts. Such is the case with the “strange 18th-cen­tu­ry man­u­script called Clavis Infer­ni (key of hell),” as Ben­jamin Breen writes at Slate. “Filled with invo­ca­tions, cryp­tic sig­ils, and paint­ings of super­nat­ur­al beings” — such as the illus­tra­tion from Rev­e­la­tion above — “the book defies inter­pre­ta­tion — as it was meant to do.” Also, like Rev­e­la­tion, the tex­t’s author­ship is mys­te­ri­ous, and yet sig­nif­i­cant to our under­stand­ing of its intent.

The Key of Hell is attrib­uted to a Cypri­anus, a name that “prob­a­bly refers to St. Cypri­an of Anti­och (d. 304 CE),” Breen writes in a post at Atlas Obscu­ra, “a very com­mon apoc­ryphal attri­bu­tion for medieval mag­i­cal texts, since Cypri­an was reput­ed to have been a pow­er­ful magi­cian and demon-sum­mon­er before con­vert­ing to Chris­tian­i­ty.” The use of pseu­doepig­ra­phy — an author assum­ing the name of a long-dead fig­ure — was com­mon prac­tice through­out the his­to­ry of both the­o­log­i­cal and alchem­i­cal writ­ing. Rather than an attempt at decep­tion, it could sig­nal the con­tin­u­a­tion of a tra­di­tion of occult knowl­edge.

The title page of the Key of Hell “seems to date it to 1717,” writes Breen, but a Sothe­by’s cat­a­logue entry claims, “the script seems to be of the late 18th cen­tu­ry” and dates it to 1775. At the Well­come Library — who host the text online in its entire­ty — we find this “Har­ry Pot­ter-esque” ori­gin sto­ry:

Also known as the Black Book, [the Key of Hell] is the text­book of the Black School at Wit­ten­berg, the book from which a witch or sor­cer­er gets his spells. The Black School at Wit­ten­berg was pur­port­ed­ly a place in Ger­many where one went to learn the black arts.

Writ­ten in Latin, Greek, Hebrew, and “the Mag­i­cal Alpha­bet devised by occultist Cor­nelius Agrip­pa in his Third Book of Occult Phi­los­o­phy from 1510,” notes Flash­bak, the man­u­script is “filled with invo­ca­tions to spir­its and demons — includ­ing a Hebrew invo­ca­tion for sum­mon­ing God.” (It also includes help­ful instruc­tions for ban­ish­ing sum­moned spir­its.) The man­u­scrip­t’s full Latin title — Clavis Infer­ni sive mag­ic alba et nigra appro­ba­ta Meta­trona — trans­lates to “The Key of Hell with white and black mag­ic approved by Meta­tron,” an archangel in the Tal­mu­dic and Kab­bal­ist tra­di­tions. The use of this name sug­gests the spells with­in come from a high­er author­i­ty.

Breen, how­ev­er, found some unusu­al com­men­tary on the book’s pos­si­ble author, includ­ing the idea in Den­mark that Cypri­anus was “a fel­low Dane so evil dur­ing his life­time that when he died the dev­il threw him out of Hell,” writes pro­fes­sor of Nor­we­gian lit­er­a­ture Kath­leen Stokker. Cypri­anus was so enraged by this treat­ment that “he ded­i­cat­ed him­self to writ­ing the nine Books of Black Arts that under­lie all sub­se­quent Scan­di­na­vian black books.” Anoth­er apoc­ryphal sto­ry iden­ti­fies Cypri­anus as a “rav­ish­ing­ly beau­ti­ful” Mex­i­can nun from 1351 (?!) who met a “gory” end.

Who­ev­er wrote the Key of Hell, and for what­ev­er rea­son, they left behind a fas­ci­nat­ing book of sor­cery full of curi­ous illus­tra­tions and a cryp­tic cos­mol­o­gy. See Breen’s attempts to deci­pher some of its key sym­bols here and make your own with the full text at the Well­come Library.

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

Exquis­ite Water­col­ors of Demons, Mag­ic & Signs: Behold the Com­pendi­um Of Demonolo­gy and Mag­ic from 1775

1,600 Occult Books Now Dig­i­tized & Put Online, Thanks to the Rit­man Library and Da Vin­ci Code Author Dan Brown

A Big Archive of Occult Record­ings: His­toric Audio Lets You Hear Trances, Para­nor­mal Music, Glos­so­lalia & Oth­er Strange Sounds (1905–2007)

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

How German Artist John Heartfield Pioneered the Use of Art as a Political Weapon, and Took on Hitler

The sto­ry of artist John Heart­field — born Hel­mut Franz Josef Herzfeld in Berlin in 1891 — begins like a Ger­man fairy tale. In 1899, his par­ents, ill and pover­ty-strick­en, aban­doned Hel­mut and his three sib­lings in a moun­tain cab­in at Aigen, near Salzburg. The hun­gry chil­dren were dis­cov­ered four days lat­er by the may­or of the town and his wife, who took them in and fos­tered them. Mean­while, their uncle, a lawyer, appeared with a trust from their wealthy grand­fa­ther’s estate to fund their edu­ca­tions.

Hel­mut trained at sev­er­al art schools in Ger­many, even­tu­al­ly arriv­ing at the School of Arts and Crafts in the bohemi­an Berlin of the 1910s, where he aban­doned his dream of becom­ing a painter and instead invent­ed huge­ly effec­tive anti-war pro­pa­gan­da art dur­ing World War I and the rise of the Nazis. As The Can­vas video above explains, Heart­field­’s work point­ed­ly encap­su­lates the “anti-bour­geois, anti-cap­i­tal­ist, anti-fas­cist” atti­tudes of rad­i­cal Berlin Dadaists. He was “one of Hitler’s most cre­ative crit­ics.”

Herzfeld began his anti-war art cam­paign by angli­ciz­ing his name to counter ris­ing anti-British sen­ti­ment at the start of World War I. As John Heart­field, he col­lab­o­rat­ed with his broth­er, Wei­land, and satir­i­cal artist George Grosz on the left­ist jour­nal New Youth and the rev­o­lu­tion­ary pub­lish­ing house, Malik Ver­lag. After the war, they joined the Ger­man Com­mu­nist par­ty. (Heart­field “received his par­ty book,” writes Sybille Fuchs, “from KPD leader Rosa Lux­em­burg her­self.”); they also became “found­ing mem­bers of the Berlin Dadaists,” devel­op­ing the pho­tomon­tage style Heart­field used through­out his graph­ic design career.

John Heart­field, War and Corpses, the Last Hope of the Rich

“Pho­tomon­tage allowed Heart­field to cre­ate loaded and polit­i­cal­ly con­tentious images,” the Get­ty writes. “To com­pose his works, he chose rec­og­niz­able press pho­tographs of politi­cians or events from the main­stream illus­trat­ed press.… Heart­field­’s strongest work used vari­a­tions of scale and stark jux­ta­po­si­tions to acti­vate his already grue­some pho­to-frag­ments. The result could have a fright­en­ing visu­al impact.” They also had wide­spread influ­ence, becom­ing an almost stan­dard style of rad­i­cal protest art through­out Europe in the ear­ly part of the 20th cen­tu­ry.

On rare occa­sions, Heart­field includ­ed pho­tographs of him­self, as in the self-por­trait below with scis­sors clip­ping the head of the Berlin police com­mis­sion­er; or he used his own pho­tog­ra­phy, as in an unglam­orous shot a young preg­nant woman behind whose head Heart­field places what appears to be the body of a dead young man. The 1930 work protest­ed Weimar’s anti-abor­tion laws with the title “Forced Sup­pli­er of Human Mate­r­i­al Take Courage! The State Needs Unem­ployed Peo­ple and Sol­diers!”

John Heart­field, Self-Por­trait with the Police Com­mis­sion­er Zörgiebel

Heart­field­’s direct attacks on state pow­er were allied with his sup­port for work­er move­ments. “In 1929, fol­low­ing ten years of activ­i­ty in pho­tomon­tage and pub­lish­ing,” The Art Insti­tute of Chica­go writes, “John Heart­field began work­ing for the left-wing peri­od­i­cal Work­er’s Illus­trat­ed Mag­a­zine (Arbeit­er-Illus­tri­erte-Zeitung [AIZ]).” This week­ly pub­li­ca­tion “served from the first as a major organ of oppo­si­tion to the ris­ing Nation­al Social­ist Par­ty.” Heart­field­’s provoca­tive cov­ers mocked Hitler and por­trayed the pow­er of orga­nized labor against the fas­cist threat. He trav­eled to the Sovi­et Union in 1931 under the mag­a­zine’s aus­pices and gave pho­tomon­tage cours­es to the Red Army. His style spread inter­na­tion­al­ly until the life­less pro­pa­gan­da paint­ing of Social­ist Real­ism purged mod­ernist art from the par­ty style.

Unfor­tu­nate­ly for Heart­field, and for Europe, the Ger­man left failed to present a uni­fied front against Nazism as the KPD also became increas­ing­ly dog­mat­ic and Stal­in­ist. The artist and the edi­tors of the AIZ were forced to flee to Prague when Hitler took pow­er in 1933. (Heart­field report­ed­ly escaped a “gang of Nazi thugs,” writes Fuchs, by leap­ing from his bal­cony in Berlin). In Czecho­slo­va­kia, he con­tin­ued his counter-pro­pa­gan­da cam­paign against Hitler through the cov­ers of the AIZ. When the Nazis occu­pied Prague in 1938, he fled again, to Lon­don but nev­er stopped work­ing through the war. He would even­tu­al­ly return to Berlin in the ear­ly 1950s and take up a career as a pro­fes­sor of lit­er­a­ture.

Heart­field is a com­pli­cat­ed fig­ure — an over­looked yet key mem­ber of the Ger­man avant garde who, with his broth­er Wei­land and artists like George Grosz rev­o­lu­tion­ized the media of pho­tog­ra­phy, typog­ra­phy, and print­ing in order to vir­u­lent­ly oppose war, oppres­sion, and Nazism, despite the dan­gers to their liveli­hoods and lives. You can learn more about the artist’s life and work at the Offi­cial John Heart­field Exhi­bi­tion site, which fea­tures many of the col­lages shown in the Can­vas video at the top. (See espe­cial­ly the fea­ture on Heart­field­’s rel­e­vance to our cur­rent moment.) Also, don’t miss this inter­ac­tive online exhi­bi­tion from the Akademie Der Kün­ste in Berlin, which con­trols the artist’s estate and has put a num­ber of rare pho­tos and doc­u­ments online.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Edu­ca­tion for Death: The Mak­ing of the Nazi–Walt Disney’s 1943 Film Shows How Fas­cists Are Made

Stephen Fry on the Pow­er of Words in Nazi Ger­many: How Dehu­man­iz­ing Lan­guage Laid the Foun­da­tion for Geno­cide

Watch a Grip­ping 10-Minute Ani­ma­tion About the Hunt for Nazi War Crim­i­nal Adolf Eich­mann

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

The Photo That Triggered China’s Disastrous Cultural Revolution (1966)

In 1958, Mao Zedong launched the Great Leap For­ward. Eight years lat­er, he announced the begin­ning of the Great Pro­le­tar­i­an Cul­tur­al Rev­o­lu­tion. Between those two events, of course, came the Great Chi­nese Famine, and his­to­ri­ans now view all three as being “great” in the same pejo­ra­tive sense. Though Chair­man Mao may not have under­stood the prob­a­ble con­se­quences of poli­cies like agri­cul­tur­al col­lec­tiviza­tion and ide­o­log­i­cal purifi­ca­tion, he did under­stand the impor­tance of his own image in sell­ing those poli­cies to the Chi­nese peo­ple: hence the famous 1966 pho­to of him swim­ming across the Yangtze Riv­er.

By that point, “the Chi­nese leader who had led a peas­ant army to vic­to­ry in the Chi­nese Civ­il War and estab­lished the com­mu­nist Peo­ple’s Repub­lic of Chi­na in 1949 was get­ting old.” So says Cole­man Lown­des in the Vox Dark­room video above. Worse, Mao’s Great Leap For­ward had clear­ly proven calami­tous. The Chair­man “need­ed to find a way to seal his lega­cy as the face of Chi­nese com­mu­nism and a new rev­o­lu­tion to lead.” And so he repeat­ed one of his ear­li­er feats, the swim across the Yangtze he’d tak­en in 1956. Spread far and wide by state media, the shot of Mao in the riv­er tak­en by his per­son­al pho­tog­ra­ph­er illus­trat­ed reports that he’d swum fif­teen kilo­me­ters in a bit over an hour.

This meant “the 72-year-old would have shat­tered world speed records,” a claim all in a day’s work for pro­pa­gan­dists in a dic­ta­tor­ship. But those who saw pho­to­graph would­n’t have for­got­ten what hap­pened the last time he took such a well-pub­li­cized dip in the Yangtze. “Experts feared that Mao was on the verge of kick­ing off anoth­er dis­as­trous peri­od of tur­moil in Chi­na. They were right.” The already-declared Great Pro­le­tar­i­an Cul­tur­al Rev­o­lu­tion, now wide­ly known as the Cul­tur­al Rev­o­lu­tion, saw mil­lions of Chi­nese youth — osten­si­bly rad­i­cal­ized by the image of their beloved leader in the flesh — orga­nize into “the fanat­i­cal Red Guards,” a para­mil­i­tary force bent on extir­pat­ing, by any means nec­es­sary, the “four olds”: old cul­ture, old ide­ol­o­gy, old cus­toms, and old tra­di­tions.

As with most attempts to ush­er in a Year Zero, Mao’s final rev­o­lu­tion wast­ed lit­tle time becom­ing an engine of chaos. Only his death end­ed “a decade of destruc­tion that had ele­vat­ed the leader to god-like lev­els and result­ed in over one mil­lion peo­ple dead.” The Chi­nese Com­mu­nist’s Par­ty has sub­se­quent­ly con­demned the Cul­tur­al Rev­o­lu­tion but not the Chair­man him­self, and indeed his swim remains an object of year­ly com­mem­o­ra­tion. “Had Mao died in 1956, his achieve­ments would have been immor­tal,” once said CCP offi­cial Chen Yun. “Had he died in 1966, he would still have been a great man but flawed. But he died in 1976. Alas, what can one say?” Per­haps that, had the aging Mao drowned in the Yangtze, Chi­nese his­to­ry might have tak­en a hap­pi­er turn.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Col­or­ful Wood Block Prints from the Chi­nese Rev­o­lu­tion of 1911: A Gallery of Artis­tic Pro­pa­gan­da Posters

Won­der­ful­ly Kitschy Pro­pa­gan­da Posters Cham­pi­on the Chi­nese Space Pro­gram (1962–2003)

Long Before Pho­to­shop, the Sovi­ets Mas­tered the Art of Eras­ing Peo­ple from Pho­tographs — and His­to­ry Too

Why the Sovi­ets Doc­tored Their Most Icon­ic World War II Vic­to­ry Pho­to, “Rais­ing a Flag Over the Reich­stag”

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.

Oscar-Winner CODA and Deaf Representation in Film — Pretty Much Pop: A Culture Podcast #130

 width=

The 2022 Oscar win­ner for Best Pic­ture was CODA, a sto­ry about a musi­cal­ly inclined girl with a deaf fam­i­ly. Kam­bri Crews, her­self a CODA and author of a much dark­er sto­ry about this called Burn Down the Ground, joins your Pret­ty Much Pop host Mark Lin­sen­may­er, writer Sarahlyn Bruck, and jack-of-many-intel­lec­tu­al-trades Al Bak­er to talk about how deaf cul­ture inter­acts with film.

Films tend to show deaf­ness as trag­ic, which is not nec­es­sar­i­ly how the deaf com­mu­ni­ty views them­selves. We talk about bal­anc­ing the demands of a sto­ry, how real life works, and the need for pos­i­tive rep­re­sen­ta­tion. Also, deaf bowl­ing!

In addi­tion to CODA, we talk about The Sound of Met­al, A Qui­et Place, Chil­dren of a Less­er God, Mr. Hol­land’s Opus, See No Evil Hear No Evil, Eter­nals, Dri­ve My Car, and more.

Note that this dis­cus­sion was record­ed in May but got bumped with all the shows wrap­ping up at that time and sum­mer movies launch­ing.

If you liked this, see our pre­vi­ous episode on dis­abil­i­ty rep­re­sen­ta­tion.

Hear more Pret­ty Much Pop. Sup­port the show at patreon.com/prettymuchpop or by choos­ing a paid sub­scrip­tion through Apple Pod­casts. This pod­cast is part of the Par­tial­ly Exam­ined Life pod­cast net­work.

Pret­ty Much Pop: A Cul­ture Pod­cast is the first pod­cast curat­ed by Open Cul­ture. Browse all Pret­ty Much Pop posts.

When Helen Keller Met Charlie Chaplin and Taught Him Sign Language (1919)

Char­lie Chap­lin had many high-pro­file fans in his day, includ­ing some of the lumi­nar­ies of the ear­ly twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry. We could per­haps be for­giv­en for assum­ing that the writer and activist Hellen Keller was not among them, giv­en the lim­i­ta­tions her con­di­tion of deaf­ness and blind­ness — or “deaf­blind­ness” — would nat­u­ral­ly place on the enjoy­ment of film, even the silent films in which Chap­lin made his name. But mak­ing that assump­tion would be to mis­un­der­stand the dri­ving force of Keller’s life and career. If the movies were sup­pos­ed­ly unavail­able to her, then she’d make a point of not just watch­ing them, but befriend­ing their biggest star.

Keller met Chap­lin in 1919 at his Hol­ly­wood stu­dio, dur­ing the film­ing of Sun­ny­side. This, as biog­ra­phers have revealed, was not one of the smoothest-going peri­ods in the come­di­an-auteur’s life, but that did­n’t stop him from enjoy­ing his time with Keller, and even learn­ing from her.

In her 1928 auto­bi­og­ra­phy Mid­stream, she would remem­ber that he’d been “shy, almost timid,” and that “his love­ly mod­esty lent a touch of romance to the occa­sion that might oth­er­wise have seemed quite ordi­nary.” The pic­tures that have cir­cu­lat­ed of the meet­ing, seen here, include one of Keller teach­ing Chap­lin the tac­tile sign-lan­guage alpha­bet she used to com­mu­ni­cate.

It was also the means by which, with the assis­tance of com­pan­ion Anne Sul­li­van, she fol­lowed the action of Chap­lin’s films A Dog’s Life and Shoul­der Arms when they were screened for her that evening. When Keller and Chap­lin met again near­ly thir­ty years lat­er, he sought her feed­back on the script for his lat­est pic­ture, Mon­sieur Ver­doux. “There is no lan­guage for the ter­ri­fy­ing pow­er of your mes­sage that sears with sar­casm or rends apart coverts of social hypocrisy,” Keller lat­er wrote to Chap­lin. A polit­i­cal­ly charged black com­e­dy about a bigamist ser­i­al killer bear­ing lit­tle resem­blance indeed to the beloved Lit­tle Tramp, Mon­sieur Ver­doux met with crit­i­cal and com­mer­cial fail­ure upon its release. The film has since been re-eval­u­at­ed as a sub­ver­sive mas­ter­work, but it was per­haps Keller who first tru­ly saw it.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Helen Keller Writes a Let­ter to Nazi Stu­dents Before They Burn Her Book: “His­to­ry Has Taught You Noth­ing If You Think You Can Kill Ideas” (1933)

Mark Twain & Helen Keller’s Spe­cial Friend­ship: He Treat­ed Me Not as a Freak, But as a Per­son Deal­ing with Great Dif­fi­cul­ties

When Albert Ein­stein & Char­lie Chap­lin Met and Became Fast Famous Friends (1930)

When Mahat­ma Gand­hi Met Char­lie Chap­lin (1931)

The Char­lie Chap­lin Archive Opens, Putting Online 30,000 Pho­tos & Doc­u­ments from the Life of the Icon­ic Film Star

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.

Damien Hirst’s NFT Experiment Comes to an End: How Many Buyers Chose Digital Tokens Over Physical Artworks?

Damien Hirst is into NFTs. Some will regard this as a reflec­tion on the artist, and oth­ers a reflec­tion on the tech­nol­o­gy. Whether you take those reflec­tions to be pos­i­tive or neg­a­tive reveals some­thing about your own con­cept of how the art world, the busi­ness world, and the dig­i­tal world inter­sect. So will your reac­tion to The Cur­ren­cy, Hirst’s just-com­plet­ed art project and tech­no­log­i­cal exper­i­ment. Launched in July of last year, it pro­duced 10,000 unique non-fun­gi­ble tokens “that were each asso­ci­at­ed with cor­re­spond­ing art­works the British artist made in 2016,” as Art­net’s Car­o­line Gold­stein writes. “The dig­i­tal tokens were sold via a lot­tery sys­tem for $2,000.”

Hirst also laid down an unprece­dent­ed con­di­tion: he announced “that his col­lec­tors would have to make a choice between the phys­i­cal art­work and its dig­i­tal ver­sion, and set a one-year dead­line — ask­ing them, in effect, to vote for which had more last­ing val­ue.” For each buy­er who choos­es the orig­i­nal work, Hirst would assign its NFT to an inac­ces­si­ble address, the clos­est thing to destroy­ing it. And for each buy­er who choos­es the NFT, Hirst would throw the paper ver­sion onto a bon­fire. The final num­bers, as Hirst tweet­ed out at the end of last month, came to “5,149 phys­i­cals and 4,851 NFTs (mean­ing I will have to burn 4,851 cor­re­spond­ing phys­i­cal Ten­ders).” Hirst also retained 1,000 copies for him­self.

“In the begin­ning I had thought I would def­i­nite­ly choose all phys­i­cal,” Hirst explains. “Then I thought half-half and then I felt I had to keep all my 1,000 as NFTs and then all paper again and round and round I’ve gone, head in a spin.” In the end he went whol­ly dig­i­tal, hav­ing decid­ed that “I need to show my 100 per­cent sup­port and con­fi­dence in the NFT world (even though it means I will have to destroy the cor­re­spond­ing 1000 phys­i­cal art­works).” Per­haps this was a vic­to­ry of Hirst’s neophil­ia, but then, those instincts have served him well before: few liv­ing artists have man­aged to draw such pub­lic fas­ci­na­tion, enam­ored or hos­tile, for so many years straight — let alone such for­mi­da­ble sale prices, and not just for his stuffed shark.

“I’ve nev­er real­ly under­stood mon­ey,” Hirst says to Stephen Fry in the video above. (You can watch an extend­ed ver­sion of their con­ver­sa­tion here.) “All these things — art, mon­ey, com­merce — they’re all ethe­re­al,” ulti­mate­ly based on noth­ing more than “belief and trust.” Return­ing to the tech­niques of his ear­ly “spot paint­ings” — those he made him­self before farm­ing the task out to stead­ier-hand­ed assis­tants — and mint­ing the results into unique dig­i­tal objects for sale was per­haps an attempt to get his head around the even less intu­itive con­cept of the NFT. All told, The Cur­ren­cy brought in about $89 mil­lion in rev­enue. More telling will be the price of its tokens on the sec­ondary mar­ket, where they’re chang­ing hands at the moment for around $7,000: a price impos­si­ble prop­er­ly to eval­u­ate for now, and thus not with­out the thrilling ambi­gu­i­ty of cer­tain mod­ern art­works.

via Art­net

Relat­ed con­tent:

What are Non-Fun­gi­ble Tokens (NFTs)? And How Can a Work of Dig­i­tal Art Sell for $69 Mil­lion

Bri­an Eno Shares His Crit­i­cal Take on Art & NFTs: “I Main­ly See Hus­tlers Look­ing for Suck­ers”

The Art Mar­ket Demys­ti­fied in Four Short Doc­u­men­taries

Mark Rothko Is Toast… and More Edi­ble Art from SFMOMA

Damien Hirst Takes Us Through His New Exhi­bi­tion at Tate Mod­ern

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.

Three Female Artists Who Helped Create Abstract Expressionism: Lee Krasner, Elaine de Kooning & Helen Frankenthaler.

The three artists that gal­lerists James Payne and Joanne Shurvell have cho­sen to rep­re­sent New York City in their series Great Art Cities Explained are as refresh­ing as they are sur­pris­ing.

Andy Warhol?

Nope.

Kei­th Har­ing?

No.

Jean-Michel Basquiat?

Uh-uh.

These gents would be the obvi­ous choice, though only one of the three — Basquiat was a native New York­er.

Instead, Payne and Shurvell aim their spot­light at three NYC-born Abstract Expres­sion­ists.

Three female NYC-born Abstract Expres­sion­ists — Lee Kras­ner, Elaine de Koon­ing, and Helen Franken­thaler.

These wom­en’s con­tri­bu­tions to the move­ment were con­sid­er­able, but Kras­ner and deKoon­ing spent much of their careers over­shad­owed by cel­e­brat­ed hus­bands — fel­low Abstract Expres­sion­ists Jack­son Pol­lock and Willem de Koon­ing.

The New York-based Abstract Expres­sion­ism deposed Paris as the cen­ter of the art world, and was the most macho of move­ments. Kras­ner, Franken­thaler, and Elaine de Koon­ing often heard their work described as “fem­i­nine”, “lyri­cal”, or “del­i­cate”, the impli­ca­tion being that it was some­how less than.

Hans Hof­mann, an Abstract Expres­sion­ist who ran the 8th Street ate­lier where Kras­ner stud­ied after train­ing at Coop­er Union, the Art Stu­dents League, and the Nation­al Acad­e­my of Design, and work­ing for the WPA’s Fed­er­al Art Project, once praised one of her can­vas­es by say­ing, “This is so good you would not believe it was done by a woman.”

Payne and Shurvell detail how the socia­ble Kras­ner, already estab­lished in the NYC art scene, shared impor­tant con­tacts with Pol­lock, with whom she became roman­ti­cal­ly entan­gled short­ly after their work was shown along­side Picasso’s, Matisse’s , and Georges Braque’s in the piv­otal 1942 French and Amer­i­can Paint­ing exhi­bi­tion at the McMillen Gallery.

She was an ener­getic pro­mot­er of his work, and a cheer­leader when he flagged.

They mar­ried and moved to Long Island in an unsuc­cess­ful bid to put the kibosh on his drink­ing and extracur­ric­u­lar affairs. He com­man­deered a barn on the prop­er­ty for his stu­dio, while she made do with a bed­room.

While Pol­lock ranged around large can­vas­es laid on the barn floor, famous­ly splat­ter­ing, Kras­ner pro­duced a Lit­tle Image series on a table, some­times apply­ing paint straight from the tube.

MoMA’s descrip­tion of an unti­tled Lit­tle Image in their col­lec­tion states:

Kras­ner likened these sym­bols to Hebrew let­ters, which she had stud­ied as a child but could no longer read or write. In any case, she said, she was inter­est­ed in cre­at­ing a lan­guage of pri­vate sym­bols that did not com­mu­ni­cate any one spe­cif­ic mean­ing.”

After Pol­lock died in a car crash while dri­ving under the influ­ence — his mis­tress sur­vived — Kras­ner claimed the barn stu­dio for her own prac­tice.

It was a trans­for­ma­tive move. Her work not only grew larg­er, it was informed by the full-body ges­tures that went into its cre­ation.

Ten years lat­er, she got her first solo show in New York, and MoMA gave her a ret­ro­spec­tive in 1984, six months before her death.

In a wild­ly enter­tain­ing 1978 inter­view on Inside New York’s Art World, below, Kras­ner recalls how ear­ly on, her gen­der didn’t fac­tor into how her work was received.

I start in high school, and it’s only women artists, all women. Then I’m at Coop­er Union, woman’s art school, all women artists and even when I’m on WPA lat­er on, there’s no — you know, there’s noth­ing unusu­al about being a woman and being an artist. It’s con­sid­er­ably lat­er that all this begins to hap­pen, specif­i­cal­ly when the seat moves from Paris, which was the cen­ter, and shifts into New York, and I think that peri­od is known as Abstract Expres­sion­ism, where we now have gal­leries, price, mon­ey, atten­tion. Up ’til then it’s a pret­ty qui­et scene. That’s when I’m first aware of being a woman and “a sit­u­a­tion” is there.

Elaine de Koon­ing was an abstract por­traitist, an art crit­ic, a polit­i­cal activist, a teacher, and “the fastest brush in town”, but these accom­plish­ments were all too often viewed as less of an achieve­ment than being Mrs. Willem de Koon­ing, the female half of an Abstract Expres­sion­ist “it cou­ple.”

Great Art Cities Explained sug­gests that the twen­ty year peri­od in which she and Willem were estranged — they rec­on­ciled when she was in her late 50s — was one of per­son­al and artis­tic growth. She took inspi­ra­tion from the bull­fights she wit­nessed on her trav­els, turned a lusty female gaze on male sub­jects, and was com­mis­sioned to paint Pres­i­dent Kennedy’s offi­cial por­trait:

All my sketch­es from life as he talked on the phone, jot­ted down notes, read papers, held con­fer­ences, had to be made very quick­ly, catch­ing fea­tures and ges­tures, half for mem­o­ry, even as I looked, because he nev­er sat still. It was not so much that he seemed rest­less, rather, he sat like an ath­lete or col­lege boy, con­stant­ly shift­ing in his chair. At first this impres­sion of youth­ful­ness was a hur­dle, as was the fact that he nev­er sat still.

Like Kras­ner and Elaine de Koon­ing, Helen Franken­thaler was also part of an Abstract Expres­sion­ist gold­en cou­ple, but for­tune decreed she would not play a dis­tant sec­ond fid­dle to hus­band Robert Moth­er­well .

This sure­ly owes some­thing to her pio­neer­ing devel­op­ment of the “soak-stain” tech­nique, where­in she poured tur­pen­tine-thinned oil paint direct­ly onto unprimed can­vas, laid flat.

Soak-stain pre-dat­ed her mar­riage.

After a vis­it to Frankenthaler’s stu­dio, where they viewed her land­mark Moun­tains and Sea, above, abstract painters Ken­neth Noland and Mor­ris Louis also adopt­ed the tech­nique, as well as her pen­chant for broad, flat expans­es of col­or — what became known as Col­or Field Paint­ing.

Like Pol­lock, Franken­thaler scored a LIFE Mag­a­zine spread, though as Art She Says observes, not all LIFE artist pro­files were cre­at­ed equal:

The dia­logue between these two spreads appears to be a tale of social­ly-deter­mined mas­cu­line ener­gy and fem­i­nine com­po­sure. Though Pollock’s dom­i­nant stance is a key part of his artis­tic prax­is, the issue is not that he is stand­ing while she is sit­ting. Rather, it is that, with Pol­lock, we are allowed to glimpse into the inti­mate sides of his tor­tured and ground­break­ing prac­tice. In stark oppo­si­tion, Parks’ images of Franken­thaler rein­force our need to see women artists as high­ly curat­ed, pol­ished fig­ures who are as com­plete as the mas­ter­pieces that they pro­duce. Even if those works appear high­ly abstract­ed and vis­cer­al, each stroke is per­ceived, at some lev­el, to rep­re­sent a cal­cu­lat­ed, per­fect­ed moment of visu­al enlight­en­ment.

We’re intrigued by Frankenthaler’s 1989 remark to the New York Times:

There are three sub­jects I don’t like dis­cussing: my for­mer mar­riage, women artists, and what I think of my con­tem­po­raries.

For those who’d like to learn more about these three abstract painters, Payne and Shurvell offer the fol­low­ing book rec­om­men­da­tions:

Ninth Street Women: Lee Kras­ner, Elaine de Koon­ing, Grace Har­ti­gan, Joan Mitchell, and Helen Franken­thaler: Five Painters and the Move­ment That Changed Mod­ern Art by Mary Gabriel  

Women of Abstract Expres­sion­ism by Irv­ing San­dler 

Abstract Expres­sion­ism by David Anfam 

Three Women Artists: Expand­ing Abstract Expres­sion­ism in the Amer­i­can West by Amy Von Lin­tel, Bon­nie Roos, et al.

Lee Kras­ner: A Biog­ra­phy by Gail Levin 

Fierce Poise: Helen Franken­thaler and 1950s New York by Alexan­der Nemerov

A Gen­er­ous Vision: The Cre­ative Life of Elaine de Koon­ing by Cathy Cur­tis

Elaine de Koon­ing: Por­traits by Bran­don Brame For­tune

Watch a playlist of oth­er Great Art Cities Explained here.

Relat­ed Con­tent 

The Female Pio­neers of the Bauhaus Art Move­ment: Dis­cov­er Gertrud Arndt, Mar­i­anne Brandt, Anni Albers & Oth­er For­got­ten Inno­va­tors

The For­got­ten Women of Sur­re­al­ism: A Mag­i­cal, Short Ani­mat­ed Film

How the CIA Secret­ly Fund­ed Abstract Expres­sion­ism Dur­ing the Cold War

A Quick Six Minute Jour­ney Through Mod­ern Art: How You Get from Manet’s 1862 Paint­ing, “The Lun­cheon on the Grass,” to Jack­son Pol­lock 1950s Drip Paint­ings

The Nazi’s Philis­tine Grudge Against Abstract Art and The “Degen­er­ate Art Exhi­bi­tion” of 1937

- 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.

13 Glorious Minutes of The Ramones in Kansas City, Captured on a Super‑8 Camera (1978)

Thir­teen min­utes was an awful long time for The Ramones, since they could play an entire album of songs in a quar­ter of an hour. Thus, when Ramones fan Mark Gilman snuck a Super‑8 sound cam­era into the Grena­da The­ater in Kansas City in July of 1978 to secret­ly film the band, he man­aged to cap­ture an awful lot of The Ramones on film before he was forced to shut it down. The band, as you can see above, was in top form.

I exag­ger­ate a lit­tle.… Ramones albums are longer than this film clip. Their self-titled 1976 debut is over twice the length at 29 min­utes, which is still three or four min­utes shy of the short­est LPs of the time (back when albums only meant vinyl). Into that almost-half-hour, the ulti­mate 70s New York punk band crammed 14 songs, at an aver­age of two min­utes each: no solos, no filler, no extend­ed intros, out­ros, or remix­es.…

That’s exact­ly what we see above: mops of hair and a sweaty, leather-and-den­im-clad wall of pure, dumb rock ’n’ roll, played blis­ter­ing­ly fast with max­i­mum atti­tude. It’s qual­i­ty, audi­ence-lev­el footage of about half a clas­sic Ramones show, which usu­al­ly spanned around 30 min­utes: no ban­ter, chat­ter, tun­ing up, requests, or encores. This is what you came for, and this — full-on assault of bub­blegum melodies, thud­ding chants of “I wan­na” and “I don’t wan­na” played with chain­saw pre­ci­sion — is what you get.

They seemed ful­ly-formed, walk­ing and talk­ing right of the womb when they hit stages out­side the New York clubs that nur­tured them. But four years ear­li­er, their first audi­ences did­n’t see a dis­ci­plined rock ’n’ roll machine; they saw a sham­bling mess. Ryan Bray describes the impres­sions of long­time tour man­ag­er Monte Mel­nick on first see­ing them in 1974:

Musi­cal­ly, songs like “Now I Wan­na Sniff Some Glue” were already in the band’s reper­toire, but the songs were plagued by errat­ic tem­pos, blown notes, and oth­er sort­ed son­ic mis­cues. Between-song bick­er­ing also marred the band’s ear­li­est shows. For a sec­ond, Dee Dee and Tom­my seem like they’re almost ready to come to blows when they can’t agree on what song to play next.

“I did­n’t like them at all,” Mel­nick remem­bers. “It was pret­ty raw. They were stop­ping and start­ing and fight­ing. They could bare­ly play.” They did­n’t meet a dev­il at a cross­roads in the years between these ear­ly gigs and their 1978 live album It’s Alive (record­ed at Lon­don’s Rain­bow The­atre on the last day of the year as the band fin­ished a 1977 UK tour). They played a hell of a lot of gigs, and pushed them­selves hard for a rock star­dom they’d nev­er real­ly achieve until their found­ing mem­bers died.

All­mu­sic’s Mark Dem­ing describes the band in 1978 as “relent­less.… a big-block hot rod thrown in to fifth gear” and calls their live album of the time “one of the best and most effec­tive live albums in the rock canon.” Watch them play “I Wan­na Be Well” at the Rain­bow The­atre, just above, and catch a rare bit of stage ban­ter from Joey regard­ing the pre­vi­ous night’s chick­en vin­daloo.

via Boing Boing

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

Dave Grohl & Greg Kurstin Cov­er The Ramones “Blitzkrieg Bop” to Cel­e­brate Han­nukah: Hey! Oy! Let’s Goy!

Talk­ing Heads Per­form The Ramones’ “I Wan­na Be Your Boyfriend” Live in 1977 (and How the Bands Got Their Start Togeth­er)

CBGB’s Hey­day: Watch The Ramones, The Dead Boys, Bad Brains, Talk­ing Heads & Blondie Per­form Live (1974–1982)

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


  • Great Lectures

  • Sign up for Newsletter

  • About Us

    Open Culture scours the web for the best educational media. We find the free courses and audio books you need, the language lessons & educational videos you want, and plenty of enlightenment in between.


    Advertise With Us

  • Archives

  • Search

  • Quantcast