Yesterday, Kendrick Lamar won the Pulitzer Prize in Music for his 2017 album, DAMN, a “virtuosic song collection,” writes the Pulitzer board, “unified by its vernacular authenticity and rhythmic dynamism that offers affecting vignettes capturing the complexity of modern African-American life.” This is the first time (since its inception in 1943) that the prize has gone, notes NPR, “to an artist outside of the classical or jazz community.” Other recipients have included Aaron Copland, Wynton Marsalis, and Ornette Coleman. You can stream DAMN, which comes with a Parental Advisory warning, on Spotify or right below.
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Faced with the question, “who are the most important philosophers of the 20th century?,” I might find myself compelled to ask in turn, “in respect to what?” Ethics? Political philosophy? Philosophy of language, mind, science, religion, race, gender, sexuality? Phenomenology, Feminism, Critical theory? The domains of philosophy have so multiplied (and some might say siloed), that a number of prominent authors, including eminent philosophy professor Robert Solomon, have written vehement critiques against its entrenchment in academia, with all of the attendant pressures and rewards. Should every philosopher of the past have had to run the gauntlet of doctoral study, teaching, tenure, academic politics and continuous publication, we might never have heard from some of history’s most luminous and original thinkers.
Solomon maintains that “nothing has been more harmful to philosophy than its ‘professionalization,’ which on the one hand has increased the abilities and techniques of its practitioners immensely, but on the other has rendered it an increasingly impersonal and technical discipline, cut off from and forbidding to everyone else.” He championed “the passionate life” (say, of Nietzsche or Camus), over “the dispassionate life of pure reason…. Let me be outrageous and insist that philosophy matters. It is not a self-contained system of problems and puzzles, a self-generating profession of conjectures and refutations.” I am sympathetic to his arguments even as I might object to his wholesale rejection of all academic thought as “sophisticated irrelevancy.” (Solomon himself enjoyed a long career at UCLA and the University of Texas, Austin.)
But if forced to choose the most important philosophers of the late 20th century, I might gravitate toward some of the most passionate thinkers, both inside and outside academia, who grappled with problems of everyday personal, social, and political life and did not shy away from involving themselves in the struggles of ordinary people. This need not entail a lack of rigor. One of the most passionate of 20th century thinkers, Ludwig Wittgenstein, who worked well outside the university system, also happens to be one of the most difficult and seemingly abstruse. Nonetheless, his thought has radical implications for ordinary life and practice. Perhaps non-specialists will tend, in general, to accept arguments for philosophy’s everyday relevance, accessibility, and “passion.” But what say the specialists?
One philosophy professor, Chen Bo of Peking University, conducted a survey along with Susan Haack of the University of Miami, at the behest of a Chinese publisher seeking important philosophical works for translation. As Leiter Reports reader Tracy Ho notes, the two professors emailed sixteen philosophers in the U.S., England, Australia, Germany, Finland, and Brazil, asking specifically for “ten of the most important and influential philosophical books after 1950.” “They received recommendations,” writes Ho, “from twelve philosophers, including: Susan Haack, Donald M. Borchert (Ohio U.), Donald Davidson, Jurgen Habermas, Ruth Barcan Marcus, Thomas Nagel, John Searle, Peter F. Strawson, Hilary Putnam, and G.H. von Wright.” (Ho was unable to identify two other names, typed in Chinese.)
The results, ranked in order of votes, are as follows:
As an addendum, Ho adds that “most of the works on the list are analytic philosophy,” therefore Prof. Chen asked Habermas to recommend some additional European thinkers, and received the following: “Axel Honneth, Kampf um Anerkennung (1992), Rainer Forst, Kontexte der Cerechtigkeit (1994) and Herbert Schnadelbach, Kommentor zu Hegels Rechtephilosophie (2001).”
The list is also overwhelmingly male and pretty exclusively white, pointing to another problem with institutionalization that Solomon does not acknowledge: it not only excludes non-specialists but can also exclude those who don’t belong to the dominant group (and so, perhaps, excludes the everyday concerns of most of the world’s population). But there you have it, a list of the most important, post-1950 works in philosophy according to some of the most eminent living philosophers. What titles, readers, might get your vote, or what might you add to such a list, whether you are a specialist or an ordinary, “passionate” lover of philosophical thought?
“The biggest threat to America today is not communism. It’s moving America toward a fascist theocracy, and everything that’s happened during the Reagan administration is steering us right down that pipe.”
That’s Frank Zappa, a self-declared “conservative” battling a theocrat and two establishment pundits on this clip from a 1986 episode of political debate show Crossfire. It was one of many TV interviews Zappa did during the mid-‘80s when the “Parent Music Resource Center” headed by what he called “Washington Wives” got themselves overly concerned about rock music lyrics and, as usual, thought of the children. (One of those Wives was Tipper Gore, then-wife of Al Gore). There were congressional hearings, one of the only times Zappa was on the same team as Twisted Sister’s Dee Snyder and soft-folkie John Denver).
The whole kerfuffle was one and a piece with the rise of the Religious Right under Reagan’s administration, and eventually boiled down to a “Parental Advisory” sticker slapped on LP and CD covers. Zappa saw the move as a cynical ploy to introduce moralistic censorship to the arts while burnishing the careers of up-and-coming senators like Al Gore (and that certainly worked out for him).
The 20 minute clip is notable for the differences compared to the present. Watching this contentious debate between four men all sitting very close to each other is rare nowadays—the closest we get is on Bill Maher’s weekly show, whereas the rest of cable news is a collection of talking heads beaming in from separate studios. The mendacity and vitriol directed towards Zappa is also surprising, especially as Zappa’s own lyrics weren’t the ones being attacked—those of Madonna and Prince were instead. The hotheaded blather out of religious zealot John Lofton is a wonder to behold, a man so theocratic he later railed against Ann Coulter and Sarah Palin for leaving the kitchen and getting into politics. “I love it when you froth” quips Zappa, although even his stoicism is undone at one point. “Tell you what—kiss my ass!” Zappa blurts out after Lofton calls him an idiot.
Both Tom Braden and Robert Novak are stodgy beltway brothers, ostensibly on the left and right, and can’t help crack up a bit when Zappa points out Lofton’s lunacy. Nobody wins the debate; America and your own brain cells lose.
Zappa would later dedicate several songs and a whole album (Frank Zappa Meets the Mothers of Prevention) to the charade. The music industry acquiesced and required warning labels that probably had zero percent effectiveness apart from uglying up album artwork, and a decade later mp3s would implode the industry.
Nobody frets about lyrics any more—how quaint!—but fear mongering and moral panic continue, including the recent non-starter issue over video game violence. Words are just words, Zappa says. That battle now appears to be taking place on Twitter instead between the left and the right, and Republicans have dropped all pretenses over foul language having nominated Trump. (Even the evangelicals seem to be okay with it.)
And then there’s this brief moment from the clip, which feels like part of a radio signal beaming into the present:
“What I tell kids, and I’ve been telling kids for quite some time,” says Zappa, “is first, register to vote, and second, as soon as you’re old enough, run for something.”
If that doesn’t sound like 2018 to you, I’ve got a W.A.S.P. CD to sell you.
Ted Mills is a freelance writer on the arts who currently hosts the FunkZone Podcast. You can also follow him on Twitter at @tedmills, read his other arts writing at tedmills.com and/or watch his films here.
For many readers out there, the publication of a new Malcolm Gladwell article ranks as an event demanding immediate attention. They’ll read whatever he writes, not just because they enjoy his style but because they trust his instinct for finding fascinating subjects, from coffee to health care, college rankings to dog training, shopping malls to school shootings. How did he develop that instinct? He reveals aspects of his idea-generating process in the seventeen-minute interview with New Yorker editor David Remnick just above. It turns out that, just as with most of us — or as it would ideally go with most of us — Gladwell’s ideas sprout organically from his strengths.
But those strengths, in turn, sprout organically from his weaknesses. An early New Yorker assignment, handed down by then-editor Tina Brown, had Gladwell covering the 1989 attack on the woman referred to, at the time, as the Central Park Jogger. Instead of doing the kind of prolonged, emotional interviews many reporters would have done with the victim’s friends and family, he instead contacted the surgeon who operated on her, ending up with a piece on “practice variation in medicine,” the phenomenon whereby different medical practitioners in different regions of the country end up going about their job in persistently different ways. “They can’t seem to get everyone on the same page,” as Gladwell frames the problem.
The intersection of the New Yorker’s tradition of and expectation for long-form pieces with his own inability to perform traditional reportage gave Gladwell a sense of where he should look for promising leads. Rejecting character as a hook, he instead goes looking for intriguing theories, operating on the conception of most writers as “experience-rich and theory-poor.” Instead of simply reporting on the latest school shooting, for instance, he wrote about a Stanford sociologist’s theory of riots that he could apply to the phenomenon of school shootings themselves. His next book, about which he reveals a thing or two in this interview, deals in part with a different kind of shooting: that committed by police.
“I have the advantage of coming to it late,” Gladwell says to Remnick, explaining how his perspective and thus his writing on the subject might differ from those of others. That simple statement may hold the key to Gladwell’s vault of ideas: with no obligation to give a rundown of the facts as they emerge, he can step back for a moment (be it a few months or a few decades) and get a sense of which stories will ultimately take the right shape to connect to the many broad, intriguing ideas, in the form of academic theory or otherwise, with which he’s already familiarized himself. As much as Gladwell seems like a writer of the moment (and here he describes his “ur-reader” as a fortysomething Trader Joe’s executive who only has time for three books a year, plus podcasts), he gets a fair bit of mileage out of one of the most old-fashioned assets of them all: a well-stocked mind.
Based in Seoul, Colin Marshall writes and broadcasts on cities and culture. His projects include the book The Stateless City: a Walk through 21st-Century Los Angeles and the video series The City in Cinema. Follow him on Twitter at @colinmarshall or on Facebook.
Radio has always been a fairly transportive medium.
During the Great Depression, entire families clustered round the electronic hearth to enjoy a variety of entertainments, including live remote broadcasts from the glamorous nightclubs and hotels where celebrity bandleaders like Count Basie and Duke Ellington held sway.
1950s teens’ transistors took them to a head space less square than the white bread suburbs their parents inhabited.
The Radiooooo.comsite (there’s also a version available for the iPhone and Android) allows modern listeners to experience a bit of that magical time traveling sensation, via an interactive map that allows you to tune in to specific countries and decades.
The content here is user-generated. Register for a free account, and you too can begin sharing eccentric faves.
Find a user whose tastes mirror your own? Click their profile for a stat card of tracks they’ve favorited and uploaded, as well as any other sundry details they may feel like sharing, such as country of origin and age.
There are fun awards to be earned here, with the most sought after pelts going to the first to upload a song to an empty country, or upload a track from 1910–1920. (Cameroon, 1940 … go!)
As with an actual radio, you are not selecting the actual playlist, though you can nudge the needle a bit by toggling to your desired mood—slow, fast and/or weird.
And you need not limit yourself to a single destination. Embark on a strange musical trip by using Radiooooo’s taxi function to carry you to multiple countries and decades. (I closed my eyes and wound up shuttling between Ukraine and Mauritania in the 60s and 80s.)
Dotted around the map are island icons, where the ever-growing collection is sorted according to themes like Hawaii, Neverland (“for children big and small”), and 8‑Bit video game music. Le Club, floating midway between Europe and North America, contains brand new releases from contemporary labels.
The Now Playing window includes an option to buy, when possible, as well as the artist’s name and album artwork. Share, like, get your groove on…
And stay tuned for Radiooooo’s latest baby, Le Globe, an interactive 3‑D map of the world and a decade selector dial mounted on a “beautiful connected object.”
The boundaries are extremely permeable here.
Have a browse through Radiooooo’s Instagram feed for a feast of cover art or head to France for one of their in-person listening parties. (There’s one next week in the secret listening room of Paris’ Grand Hotel Amour.)
Readers, if your explorations unearth an exceptional track, please share it in the comments, below.
Download the Radioooo app for Mac or Android here, or listen on the website. (You may need to fool around with various browsers to find the one that works best for you.)
Ayun Halliday is an author, illustrator, theater maker and Chief Primatologist of the East Village Inky zine. Her radio dial is set to Romania 1910 in anticipation of the third installment of her literary-themed variety show, Necromancers of the Public Domain , Monday, April 23 at the New York Society Library. Follow her @AyunHalliday.
Schrödinger’s Cat is one of the more famous thought experiments in modern physics, created by Austrian physicist Erwin Schrödinger back in 1935. The Telegraph summarizes the gist of the experiment as follows:
In the hypothetical experiment … a cat is placed in a sealed box along with a radioactive sample, a Geiger counter and a bottle of poison.
If the Geiger counter detects that the radioactive material has decayed, it will trigger the smashing of the bottle of poison and the cat will be killed.
The experiment was designed to illustrate the flaws of the ‘Copenhagen interpretation’ of quantum mechanics, which states that a particle exists in all states at once until observed.
If the Copenhagen interpretation suggests the radioactive material can have simultaneously decayed and not decayed in the sealed environment, then it follows the cat too is both alive and dead until the box is opened.
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We know the origin story of hip hop as the product of an enterprising subculture of young, mostly African-American, West Indian, and Latino tastemakers in the Bronx (or first in Brooklyn, according to an alternate history). We’ve seen at least one of the dozens of documentaries and dramatizations centered on this pivotal moment in musical history in the late 70s/early 80s—when pioneers like DJ Kool Herc and Grandmaster Flash began using two turntables and a mixer to splice together bars of disco, soul, funk, and many other kinds of music to turn them into an entirely new form.
In time, sampling became the provenance of dedicated digital machines, which, in concert with drum machines and classic turntable techniques, formed the basis of the sound of hip hop, dance, and pop music as we know them today. From local NYC roots came a global phenomenon—which has taken “center stage on Netflix’s original music programming,” as Forbesnotes, with the streaming company investing millions in new hip hop-themed content. Still, even with the music’s mainstreaming and global reach, it’s a bit odd to see the pivotal role of sampling explained by English DJ and pop producer Mark Ronson, on a TED Talk Stage, through a remix of a few dozen other TED talks.
But Ronson turns this clever presentation into an immersive example of the ways that sampling allows creators to become part of a “shared event” and to make new narratives or alter the old ones. “That’s what the past 30 years of music has been,” he says, “that’s the major thread.” Sampling, he argues, is not about “hijacking nostalgia wholesale,” but about creating new tapestries of sound. “Albums like De La Soul’s 3 Feet High and Rising and the Beastie Boy’s Paul’s Boutique,” he notes, “looted from decades of recordings to create these sonic, layered masterpieces that were basically the Sgt. Pepper’s of their day.”
I think Ronson’s right—no these weren’t pioneering, experimental rock albums, as purists might point out, but the comparison is valid for the sheer variety, inventiveness, and sonic complexity of the arrangements. (And like The Beatles, these artists were involved in their share of lawsuits, though in their case for copyright infringement.) Artists making albums built primarily out of samples aren’t “too lazy to make their own music,” Ronson says, or “trying to cash in on the familiarity of the original stuff.” Most artists and producers, indeed, look for the most obscure samples they can find, with some pretty obvious exceptions.
Rather, Ronson argues, like the influence of the Delta blues on British invasion rockers, sampling is a way for artists to pay tribute to music that moves them and to take its distinctiveness and make it their own, “to co-opt that music for the tools of their day.” To put it in other terms, sampling is both a form of love and theft. Ronson follows his argument with some personal history of his own musical journey, then gets back behind his DJ rig for a demonstration of Doug E. Fresh and Slick Rick’s “La Di Da Di,” the fifth most sampled song of all time, as re-appropriated by The Notorious B.I.G. and “cultural tour-de-force” (he says with tongue in cheek), Miley Cyrus.
Like it or not, sampling is here to stay, now the source of virtually every building block of many popular genres, from snare drums and cymbals to guitars and effects. But maybe this isn’t just a new phenomenon of the digital age or a specific artifact of the hip hop revolution, but just another example of Kirby Ferguson’s cultural theory of everything in his four part video essay series, Everything is a Remix.
The “seven wonders of the world”: all of us have all heard the phrase so many times, but can we name the specific wonders to which it refers? Though the list took its final form in the Renaissance, it originates all the way back with the ancient Greeks who wanted a sense of the most majestic man-made landmarks that lay within their territory. These were eventually narrowed down to the Great Pyramid of Giza, the Hanging Gardens of Babylon (whether they really existed or not), the Temple of Artemis at Ephesus, the Statue of Zeus at Olympia, the Mausoleum at Halicarnassus, the Colossus of Rhodes, and the Lighthouse of Alexandria.
The GIFS, which trace the lines of the original structures over the ruins and then fill them in photorealistic detail, are the work of husband-wife team Maja Wrońska and Przemek Sobiecki.
“Despite their ‘ruinous’ condition, these structures have influenced many of history’s great architects, and continue to be an inspiration today,” writes Designboom’s Rob Reuland. “These sites have been depleted by time and by conquest, parts are reused, others just fall away with neglect. Seeing them restored is a bit like hopping in the Delorean and cranking the flux capacitor, and reversing their slow decay.” And as a commenter adds below, “the next thing would be this in combination with AR-glasses while visiting the site” — the ongoing collaboration, in other words, of the wonders of the ancient world and the wonders of the modern one. See all seven of the animated GIFs here.
Based in Seoul, Colin Marshall writes and broadcasts on cities and culture. His projects include the book The Stateless City: a Walk through 21st-Century Los Angeles and the video series The City in Cinema. Follow him on Twitter at @colinmarshall or on Facebook.
Last night I had dinner at a local restaurant that happened to have a playlist on of great songs from my high school years. As one after another came on I thought, “wow, I forgot how good these songs are.” But after a while I realized I couldn’t really separate the songs themselves from my memories of listening to them back in the old days. Nostalgia, as we know, plays a significant role in how we respond to recorded music. But as to the question of what makes a song great to begin with, what separates it from thousands of other songs released around the same time… this is much more difficult for many people to answer.
We might pull out one or two musical elements—“this beat is amazing” or “those heavy guitars are awesome” or “her voice is just so powerful”—before falling back on subjective criteria about how the song makes us feel and what we think of when we hear it. Most people can’t identify with precision how and why certain songs sound like they do because developing such an ear takes years of training. It’s a skill learned by studying theory, recording, and musical technique, and by listening critically to lots and lots of music. Ask a musician, producer, or engineer what makes a song great and you might get a seminar on its mixing, arrangement, chord progressions, and use of studio effects.
That’s what we get in the YouTube series What Makes This Song Great?, created by musician and producer Rick Beato. Here, as Metafilter writes, he “breaks down the musical structure and production techniques in popular songs. Working from the stems [pre-mixed groupings of drums, guitars, vocals, keys, etc] of each song, he discusses everything from Sting’s Lydian mode bassline, to the use of Neumann mics to capture the intensity of Chris Cornell’s vocals; from sidechain compression in an Ariana Grande song, to the use of a flat 6th to introduce a melancholy air into the vocal melody of a Tool song.”
Now, everyone’s entitled to their tastes, and you might find yourself looking over his choices and thinking of some of them, “this song’s not great!” And, well, fair enough. But give it a chance anyway. Because you can gain new levels of appreciation even for music you don’t subjectively enjoy, just by learning how that music was constructed. When I first began to learn about the skill and effort that goes into writing, recording, mixing, and mastering studio-quality music, the experience was quite humbling, and I found myself listening to songs I didn’t love, exactly, but could very much appreciate from a technical point of view.
I also found my tastes expanding, even to include some pop music I had dismissed as meaningless fluff. Because I could hear interesting uses of reverb, or stereo panning, or delay, or chord voicings. In short, with careful, informed, listening, you can learn to appreciate the architecture of recorded music, rather than just the choice of exterior paint colors or obvious decorative elements. And songs don’t always need to land emotionally to still tickle your interest. Does that mean that I’m now a fan of Blink 182’s “All the Small Things” (top)? Well, no. But instead of rolling my eyes when it comes on, I can hear the small things (see what I did?) Beato points out and think, okay, that is actually kinda cool.
The little hook in the intro, that one muted chord in the opening progression, a sus4 chord thrown in for a dissonant instant. Maybe it also helps that, with the vocals stripped out, this could be another three-chord punk song and not that song, but, hey, it’s a learning process. Many of the other songs in the series might be more universally acknowledged as “great” for their musicianship and songcraft. But that doesn’t mean we can’t glean something from all of Beato’s videos. Getting expert perspectives like his can expand our appreciation for any kind of music, and the best producers and musicians tend to have the most eclectic tastes.
Further up, see Beato’s videos on The Police’s “Every Little Thing She Does is Magic,” Steely Dan’s “Kid Charlemagne,” Rage Against the Machine’s “Killing in the Name Of,” and, just above, Tom Petty’s “I Won’t Back Down.” And check out all of the videos on his channel here.
We’ve all seen that famous New Yorker cover satirizing a New Yorker’s distorted, self-centered view of the world: Manhattan occupies a good half of the image, relegating the rest of America (and indeed the world) to the status of outer-outer boroughs. What Saul Steinberg did with a drawing in 1976, pioneering Roman geographer Pomponius Mela had done, in a much less comedic but much more accurate way, with text nineteen centuries before. Writing from his perspective under the reign of the Emperor Gaius, Claudius, or both, Mela created nothing less than a worldview, which tells us now how the ancient Romans conceived of the world around them, its characteristics and its relationship to the territory of the mightiest empire going.
“Pomponius Mela is a puzzle, and so is his one known work, The Chorography,” writes Frank E. Romer in Pomponius Mela’s Description of the World. In that series of three books, which seems not to have contained any maps itself, Mela divides the Earth into two rough “hemispheres” and five zones, two of them cold, one of them hot, and two in between.
Pulling together what in his day constituted a wealth of geographical knowledge from a variety of previous sources, he painted a word-picture of the world more accurate, on the whole, than any written down before. Scholars since have also praised Mela’s clear, accessible prose style — clear and accessible, in any case, for a first-century text composed in Latin.
Various maps, including the 1898 reproduction pictured at the top of the post (see it in a larger format here), have attempted to visualize Mela’s worldview and make it legible at a glance. You can see more versions at Cartographic-images.net, and theDavid Rumsey Map Collection shows the world according to Mela placed alongside the world according to Ptolemy and the world according to Dionysius Periegetes. Though Mela showed greater insight into the integration of the various parts of the world known to the ancient Romans than did his predecessors, he also, of course, had his blind spots and rough areas, including the assumption that human beings could only live in the two most temperate of the climatic zones he defined. Even so, the maps derived from his work provide an informative glimpse of how, exactly, Romans saw their place in the world — or rather how, exactly, they saw their place in the center of it.
Based in Seoul, Colin Marshall writes and broadcasts on cities and culture. His projects include the book The Stateless City: a Walk through 21st-Century Los Angeles and the video series The City in Cinema. Follow him on Twitter at @colinmarshall or on Facebook.
The British photographer Alfred Buckham (1879–1956) came of age during the early history of flight and served, starting in 1917, as a reconnaissance photographer for the Royal Naval Air Service. Apparently a better photographer than pilot, Buckham “crashed nine times before he was discharged from the Royal Naval Air Service as a hundred per cent disabled,” writes the National Galleries Scotland website. (At the age of 39, he damaged his voice box and had to breathe out of a tracheotomy tube for the rest of his life.) But, nonetheless, his passion for aerial photography continued unabated.
In 1920, Buckham captured this rather splendid aerial photo of Edinburgh, the capital of Scotland. It’s his chef d’oeuvre. About the photograph, the National Galleries writes:
Buckham’s aerial view of Edinburgh has become one of the most popular photographs in our collection. The view is taken from the west, with the castle in the foreground and the buildings of the Old Town along the Royal Mile gradually fading into a bank of mist with the rocky silhouette of Arthur’s Seat just visible in the distance. Buckham was always keen to capture strong contrasts of light and dark, often combining the skies and landscapes from separate photographs to achieve a theatrical effect. As he does here, he sometimes collaged or hand-painted the form of a tiny aircraft to enhance the vertiginous effect. Yet accuracy remained a concern; Buckham later professed a particular fondness for his view of Edinburgh, ‘because it presents, so nearly, the effect that I saw’.
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