How the Moog Synthesizer Changed the Sound of Music

In my lit­tle cor­ner of the world, we’re eager­ly antic­i­pat­ing the arrival of Moogfest this May, just moved down the moun­tains from Asheville—where it has con­vened since 2004—to the scrap­py town of Durham, NC. Like SXSW for elec­tron­ic music, the four-day event fea­tures dozens of per­for­mances, work­shops, talks, films, and art instal­la­tions. Why North Car­oli­na? Because that’s where New York City-born engi­neer Robert Moog (rhymes with “vogue”)—inventor of one of the first, and cer­tain­ly the most famous, ana­log synthesizer—moved in 1978 and set up shop for his hand­made line of mod­u­lar synths, “Minimoog”s, and oth­er unique cre­ations. “One doesn’t hear much talk of syn­the­siz­ers here in west­ern North Car­oli­na,” Moog said at the time, “From this van­tage point, it’s easy to get a good per­spec­tive on the elec­tron­ic musi­cal instru­ment scene.”

The per­spec­tive char­ac­ter­izes Moog’s influ­ence on mod­ern music since the late-sixties—as a non-musi­cian out­sider whose musi­cal tech­nol­o­gy stands miles above the com­pe­ti­tion, its unmis­tak­able sound sought after by near­ly every­one in pop­u­lar music since it debuted on a num­ber of com­mer­cial record­ings in 1967. A curi­ous devel­op­ment indeed, since Moog nev­er intend­ed the syn­the­siz­er to be used as a stand­alone instru­ment but as a spe­cial­ized piece of stu­dio equip­ment. How­ev­er, in the mid-six­ties, a for­ward-look­ing jazz musi­cian named Paul Beaver hap­pened to get his hands on a mod­u­lar Moog syn­the­siz­er, and began to use it on odd, psy­che­del­ic albums like Mort Garson’s The Zodi­ac Cos­mic Sounds and famed Wreck­ing Crew drum­mer Hal Blaine’s Psy­che­del­ic Per­cus­sion (hear “Love-In (Decem­ber)” above).

Short­ly after these releas­es, Mike Bloomfield’s psych-rock out­fit The Elec­tric Flag made heavy use of the Moog in their sound­track for Roger Corman’s six­ties­ploita­tion film The Trip (hear “Fine Jung Thing” above), and the ana­log syn­the­siz­er was on its way to becom­ing a sta­ple of pop­u­lar music. In late ’67, The Doors called Beaver into the stu­dio dur­ing the record­ing of Strange Days, and he used the Moog through­out the album to alter Jim Morrison’s voice and pro­vide oth­er effects (hear “Strange Days” at the top). Con­trary to pop­u­lar mis­con­cep­tions, Bri­an Wil­son did not use a Moog syn­the­siz­er for the record­ing of “Good Vibra­tions” the year pri­or, but an “elec­tro-theremin” built and played by Paul Tan­ner. He did, how­ev­er, have Bob Moog build a repli­ca of that instru­ment to play the song live. (The Moog theremin is still in pro­duc­tion today.)

Then, in 1968 Wendy Car­los used a Moog Syn­the­siz­er to rein­ter­pret sev­er­al Bach com­po­si­tions, and Switched-On Bach became a nov­el­ty hit that led to many more clas­si­cal Moog record­ings from Car­los, as well as to her orig­i­nal con­tri­bu­tions to Stan­ley Kubrick’s A Clock­work Orange and The Shin­ing. (Unfor­tu­nate­ly, few of Car­los’ record­ings are avail­able online, but you can hear The Shin­ing’s main theme above.) Switched-On Bach took the Moog syn­the­siz­er mainstream—it was the first clas­si­cal album to go plat­inum. (Glenn Gould called it “one of the most star­tling achieve­ments of the record­ing indus­try in this gen­er­a­tion and cer­tain­ly one of the great feats in the his­to­ry of key­board per­for­mance.”) And after the release of Car­los’ futur­is­tic clas­si­cal albums, and an evo­lu­tion of Moog’s instru­ments into more musi­cian-friend­ly forms, ana­log synths began to appear every­where.

Artists like Car­los explored the syn­the­siz­er’s use as not only a gen­er­a­tor of weird, spaced-out sounds and effects, but as an instru­ment in its own right, capa­ble of all of the nuance required to play the finest clas­si­cal music. The mod­u­lar syn­the­siz­er, how­ev­er, was still an awk­ward­ly bulky instru­ment, suit­ed for the stu­dio, not the road. That changed in 1971 when the “Min­i­moog Mod­el D” was born. You can see a short his­to­ry of that rev­o­lu­tion­ary instru­ment above. The Min­i­moog and its sib­lings drove prog rock, dis­co, jazz fusion, the ambi­ent work of Bri­an Eno, Teu­ton­ic elec­tro-pop of Kraftwerk, and sooth­ing Gal­lic new age sound­scapes of Jean-Michel Jarre. Bob Mar­ley incor­po­rat­ed the Min­i­moog into his roots reg­gae, and Gary Numan chart­ed the path of the New Wave future with the portable syn­the­siz­er.

And as any­one who’s heard Daft Punk’s now-ubiq­ui­tous Ran­dom Access Mem­o­ries knows, the fore­fa­ther of their sound was Ital­ian super­pro­duc­er Gior­gio Moroder, who brought us near­ly all of Don­na Sum­mer’s dis­co hits, includ­ing the futur­is­tic “I Feel Love,” above, in 1977. Although noth­ing real­ly sound­ed like this at the time—nor for many years afterward—we can hear in this pio­neer­ing track that it’s only a short hop from Moroder’s puls­ing, flang­ing, synth arpeg­gios to most of the mod­ern dance music we hear today.

Though we cer­tain­ly cred­it all of the com­posers, pro­duc­ers, and musi­cians who embraced ana­log syn­the­siz­ers and pushed their devel­op­ment for­ward, all of their musi­cal inno­va­tion would have meant lit­tle with­out the inven­tive­ness of the man who, from his moun­tain­top retreat in Asheville, North Car­oli­na, per­son­al­ly over­saw the tech­nol­o­gy of a musi­cal rev­o­lu­tion. For more on the genius of Bob Moog, watch Hans Fjellestad’s doc­u­men­tary Moog, or lis­ten to the Sound Opin­ions pod­cast above, fea­tur­ing one­time offi­cial Moog Foun­da­tion his­to­ri­an Bri­an Kehew.

Dear Immanuel — Kant Gives Love Advice to a Heartbroken Young Woman (1791)

kant love advice

What to do when your love life goes south? Twen­ti­eth-cen­tu­ry Amer­i­ca estab­lished the tra­di­tion of seek­ing the coun­sel of an advice colum­nist, but in eigh­teenth-cen­tu­ry Aus­tria, with nei­ther Dear Abby nor Ann Lan­ders to whom to turn, you’d have to set­tle for the next best thing: Immanuel Kant. At least the 22-year-old Maria von Her­bert, an avid stu­dent of Kan­t’s phi­los­o­phy, felt that was her only option, and in 1791 wrote as implor­ing­ly fol­lows to the author of A Cri­tique of Pure Rea­son:

Great Kant,

As a believ­er calls to his God, I call to you for help, for com­fort, or for coun­sel to pre­pare me for death. Your writ­ings prove that there is a future life. But as for this life, I have found noth­ing, noth­ing at all that could replace the good I have lost, for I loved some­one who, in my eyes, encom­passed with­in him­self all that is worth­while, so that I lived only for him, every­thing else was in com­par­i­son just rub­bish, cheap trin­kets. Well, I have offend­ed this per­son, because of a long drawn out lie, which I have now dis­closed to him, though there was noth­ing unfavourable to my char­ac­ter in it, I had no vice in my life that need­ed hid­ing. The lie was enough though, and his love van­ished. As an hon­ourable man, he doesn’t refuse me friend­ship. But that inner feel­ing that once, unbid­den, led us to each oth­er, is no more – oh my heart splin­ters into a thou­sand pieces! If I hadn’t read so much of your work I would cer­tain­ly have put an end to my life. But the con­clu­sion I had to draw from your the­o­ry stops me – it is wrong for me to die because my life is tor­ment­ed, instead I’m sup­posed to live because of my being. Now put your­self in my place, and either damn me or com­fort me. I’ve read the meta­physic of morals, and the cat­e­gor­i­cal imper­a­tive, and it doesn’t help a bit. My rea­son aban­dons me just when I need it. Answer me, I implore you – or you won’t be act­ing in accor­dance with your own imper­a­tive.

Von Her­bert’s let­ter began a brief cor­re­spon­dence tak­en, two cen­turies lat­er, as the sub­ject of Kant Schol­ar Rae Helen Lang­ton’s paper “Duty and Des­o­la­tion.” The aged philoso­pher, writes Lang­ton, “much impressed by this let­ter, sought advice from a friend as to what he should do. The friend advised him strong­ly to reply, and to do his best to dis­tract his cor­re­spon­dent from ‘the object to which she [was] enfet­tered.’ ”

And so Kant draft­ed his thor­ough reply:

Your deeply felt let­ter comes from a heart that must have been cre­at­ed for the sake of virtue and hon­esty, since it is so recep­tive to instruc­tion in those qual­i­ties. I must do as you ask, name­ly, put myself in your place, and pre­scribe for you a pure moral seda­tive. I do not know whether your rela­tion­ship is one of mar­riage or friend­ship, but it makes no sig­nif­i­cant dif­fer­ence. For love, be it for one’s spouse or for a friend, pre­sup­pos­es the same mutu­al esteem for the other’s char­ac­ter, with­out which it is no more than per­ish­able, sen­su­al delu­sion.

A love like that wants to com­mu­ni­cate itself com­plete­ly, and it expects of its respon­dent a sim­i­lar shar­ing of heart, unweak­ened by dis­trust­ful ret­i­cence. That is what the ide­al of friend­ship demands. But there is some­thing in us which puts lim­its on such frank­ness, some obsta­cle to this mutu­al out­pour­ing of the heart, which makes one keep some part of one’s thoughts locked with­in one­self, even when one is most inti­mate. The sages of old com­plained of this secret dis­trust – ‘My dear friends, there is no such thing as a friend!’

We can’t expect frank­ness of peo­ple, since every­one fears that to reveal him­self com­plete­ly would be to make him­self despised by oth­ers. But this lack of frank­ness, this ret­i­cence, is still very dif­fer­ent from dis­hon­esty. What the hon­est but ret­i­cent man says is true, but not the whole truth. What the dis­hon­est man says is some­thing he knows to be false. Such an asser­tion is called, in the the­o­ry of virtue, a lie. It may be harm­less, but it is not on that account inno­cent. It is a seri­ous vio­la­tion of a duty to one­self; it sub­verts the dig­ni­ty of human­i­ty in our own per­son, and attacks the roots of our think­ing. As you see, you have sought coun­sel from a physi­cian who is no flat­ter­er. I speak for your beloved and present him with argu­ments that jus­ti­fy his hav­ing wavered in his affec­tion for you.

Ask your­self whether you reproach your­self for the impru­dence of con­fess­ing, or for the immoral­i­ty intrin­sic to the lie. If the for­mer, then you regret hav­ing done your duty. And why? Because it has result­ed in the loss of your friend’s con­fi­dence. This regret is not moti­vat­ed by any­thing moral, since it is pro­duced by an aware­ness not of the act itself, but of its con­se­quences. But if your reproach is ground­ed in a moral judg­ment of your behav­iour, it would be a poor moral physi­cian who would advise you to cast it from your mind.

When your change in atti­tude has been revealed to your beloved, only time will be need­ed to quench, lit­tle by lit­tle, the traces of his jus­ti­fied indig­na­tion, and to trans­form his cold­ness into a more firm­ly ground­ed love. If this doesn’t hap­pen, then the ear­li­er warmth of his affec­tion was more phys­i­cal than moral, and would have dis­ap­peared any­way – a mis­for­tune which we often encounter in life, and when we do, must meet with com­po­sure. For the val­ue of life, inso­far as it con­sists of the enjoy­ment we get from peo­ple, is vast­ly over­rat­ed.

Here then, my dear friend, you find the cus­tom­ary divi­sions of a ser­mon: instruc­tion, penal­ty and com­fort. Devote your­self to the first two; when they have had their effect, com­fort will be found by itself.

Von Her­bert’s orig­i­nal “long drawn out lie,” accord­ing to anoth­er let­ter Lang­ton quotes from a mutu­al friend of Von Hebert’s and Kan­t’s, came about when, “in order to real­ize an ide­al­is­tic love, she gave her­self to a man who mis­used her trust. And then, try­ing to achieve such love with anoth­er, she told her new lover about the pre­vi­ous one.” But by the time she picked up her pen to cast her fate to the judg­ment of her favorite thinker, the prob­lem had tran­scend­ed the state of a lovers’ quar­rel to become an all-con­sum­ing state of desire-free hol­low­ness. Only Kant­ian prin­ci­ples, she insist­ed, stood between her and sui­cide.

She lays out her sit­u­a­tion even more clear­ly in her reply to Kan­t’s reply:

My vision is clear now. I feel that a vast empti­ness extends inside me, and all around me—so that I almost find myself to be super­flu­ous, unnec­es­sary. Noth­ing attracts me. I’m tor­ment­ed by a bore­dom that makes life intol­er­a­ble. Don’t think me arro­gant for say­ing this, but the demands of moral­i­ty are too easy for me. I would eager­ly do twice as much as they com­mand. They only get their pres­tige from the attrac­tive­ness of sin, and it costs me almost no effort to resist that. […] I don’t study the nat­ur­al sci­ences or the arts any more, since I don’t feel that I’m genius enough to extend them; and for myself, there’s no need to know them. I’m indif­fer­ent to every­thing that doesn’t bear on the cat­e­gor­i­cal imper­a­tive, and my tran­scen­den­tal consciousness—although I’m all done with those thoughts too.

You can see, per­haps, why I only want one thing, name­ly to short­en this point­less life, a life which I am con­vinced will get nei­ther bet­ter nor worse. If you con­sid­er that I am still young and that each day inter­ests me only to the extent that it brings me clos­er to death, you can judge what a great bene­fac­tor you would be if you were to exam­ine this ques­tion close­ly. I ask you, because my con­cep­tion of moral­i­ty is silent here, where­as it speaks deci­sive­ly on all oth­er mat­ters. And if you can­not give me the answer I seek, I beg you to give me some­thing that will get this intol­er­a­ble empti­ness out of my soul.

“Kant nev­er replied,” writes Lang­ton. “In 1803 Maria von Her­bert killed her­self, hav­ing worked out at last an answer to that per­sis­tent and trou­bling ques­tion — the ques­tion to which Kant, and her own moral sense, had respond­ed with silence. Was that a vicious thing to do? Not entire­ly. As Kant him­self con­cedes, ‘Self-mur­der requires courage, and in this atti­tude there is always room for rev­er­ence for human­i­ty in one’s own per­son.’ ” The words of a thinker, indeed, though we can prob­a­bly see why no mod­ern-day Immanuel Kant has gone into the busi­ness of pro­vid­ing solace to the bro­ken­heart­ed.

via Crit­i­cal The­o­ry

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Immanuel Kant’s Life & Phi­los­o­phy Intro­duced in a Short Mon­ty Python-Style Ani­ma­tion

Pub­lish­er Places a Polit­i­cal­ly Cor­rect Warn­ing Label on Kant’s Cri­tiques

Man Shot in Fight Over Immanuel Kant’s Phi­los­o­phy in Rus­sia

A Racy Phi­los­o­phy Les­son on Kant’s Aes­thet­ics by Alain de Botton’s “School of Life”

What is the Good Life? Pla­to, Aris­to­tle, Niet­zsche, & Kant’s Ideas in 4 Ani­mat­ed Videos

Philoso­phers Drink­ing Cof­fee: The Exces­sive Habits of Kant, Voltaire & Kierkegaard

Free Online Phi­los­o­phy Cours­es

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and style. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, the video series The City in Cin­e­ma, the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future?, and the Los Ange­les Review of Books’ Korea Blog. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Coffee Entrepreneur Renato Bialetti Gets Buried in the Espresso Maker He Made Famous

At OC HQ you will find two Bialet­ti espres­so mak­ers on the stove–one small, the oth­er large–and togeth­er they pow­er us through the day. Invent­ed by Alfon­so Bialet­ti in 1933, the octag­o­nal, Art Deco-designed cof­fee mak­er even­tu­al­ly became a sta­ple in Ital­ian homes (90% of them), thanks to his son Rena­to, who died last week at the age of 93. A savvy mar­keter to the end, Bialet­ti went to the grave with his prod­uct, buried, as he was, in an espres­so mak­er that dou­bled as an urn. All in all, I can’t think of much bet­ter ways to spend eter­ni­ty.

If you would like to sign up for Open Culture’s free email newslet­ter, please find it here. Or fol­low our posts on Threads, Face­book, BlueSky or Mastodon.

If you would like to sup­port the mis­sion of Open Cul­ture, con­sid­er mak­ing a dona­tion to our site. It’s hard to rely 100% on ads, and your con­tri­bu­tions will help us con­tin­ue pro­vid­ing the best free cul­tur­al and edu­ca­tion­al mate­ri­als to learn­ers every­where. You can con­tribute through Pay­Pal, Patre­on, and Ven­mo (@openculture). Thanks!

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Paul Gia­mat­ti Plays Hon­oré de Balzac, Hopped Up on 50 Cof­fees Per Day

Hon­oré de Balzac Writes About “The Plea­sures and Pains of Cof­fee,” and His Epic Cof­fee Addic­tion

The Cof­fee Pot That Fueled Hon­oré de Balzac’s Cof­fee Addic­tion

Philoso­phers Drink­ing Cof­fee: The Exces­sive Habits of Kant, Voltaire & Kierkegaard

J.S. Bach’s Com­ic Opera, “The Cof­fee Can­ta­ta,” Sings the Prais­es of the Great Stim­u­lat­ing Drink (1735)

Hear 30 of the Greatest Standup Comedy Albums: A Playlist Chosen by Open Culture Readers

I knew such things as com­e­dy albums exist­ed. I’d spied a cou­ple of them in my par­en­t’s record col­lec­tion. But they seemed like such quaint and dat­ed things. After all, I’d grown up on Eddie Mur­phy’s scan­dalous HBO spe­cials, had seen George Car­lin and Richard Pry­or pace the stage deliv­er­ing epic com­ic com­men­tary. I had imbibed a steady stream of standup and sketch­es on Com­e­dy Cen­tral. What need had I of a com­e­dy album?! The facial expres­sions, rare props, ridicu­lous out­fits… weren’t these visu­al cues nec­es­sary to car­ry the jokes?

Then I heard Lenny Bruce’s live dou­ble album from his 1961 con­cert at Carnegie Hall and flipped out (hear an excerpt above). I did­n’t know very much about Bruce at the time—not much more than the name. But after lis­ten­ing to that record enough times to mem­o­rize every line and inflec­tion, I became very inter­est­ed in how come­di­ans brought lis­ten­ers to tears of laugh­ter with only their voic­es. Bruce was a mas­ter. “Onstage,” writes Richard Brody, “he was a one-man car­toon, doing all the voic­es and pos­es of movie par­o­dies that he infused with his own strin­gent and para­dox­i­cal moral­i­ty.” So car­toon­ish was his act at times that one joke became an actu­al car­toon—“Thank You Mask Man,” a NSFW clas­sic.

Bruce’s act swung like a jazz per­for­mance, some­times hit­ting a blue note, and pulling his audi­ence down with a seri­ous scene, then ramp­ing right up into wild, nasal runs of high-pitched com­ic vir­tu­os­i­ty. Oth­er comics, like the dead­pan Bob Newhart, hard­ly ever var­ied their vol­ume, tem­po, and tone, and there­in lay the under­stat­ed appeal of Newhart’s “But­ton-Down Mind.” Then there are the char­ac­ters and impres­sions of Lily Tom­lin, the unhinged rants of Richard Pry­or, the scream­ing of Sam Kin­i­son, the nar­colep­tic drone of Steven Wright, the child­like war­ble of Emo Philips… Every com­ic uses his or her voice as an instru­ment, tap­ping into the audi­ence’s musi­cal sense of rhythm and tim­ing as much as their intel­lec­tu­al sense of irony and absur­di­ty.

Today, we bring you a playlist of 30+ standup com­e­dy albums, rang­ing from cur­rent com­ic mas­ters like Amy Schumer, Tig Notaro, and Louis C.K. to beloved comics from decades past like Gil­da Rad­ner and Bill Hicks. (You can pur­chase copies of these clas­sic albums here.) We’ve got the famous duo of Mel Brooks and Carl Rein­er (yes, they do “2000 Year Old Man”), we’ve got Richard Pry­or, George Car­lin, Steve Mar­tin, Robin Williams, and even… hell, why not? Andrew Dice Clay. And Lenny Bruce’s Carnegie Hall Con­cert made the cut as well, an absolute must-hear. Most of these picks were cho­sen by Open Cul­ture read­ers on Twit­ter, with a few tak­en from this Spin list of the “40 Great­est Com­e­dy Albums of All Time.” If there’s an album you think we absolute­ly have to add to the playlist above, let us know in the com­ments. If you don’t have Spo­ti­fy, down­load it free here. And if you object to using the ser­vice, why not pre­view some of these, then go buy the ones that crack you up the hard­est? All of the albums on the playlist can be found on Ama­zon here.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Lenny Bruce: Hear the Per­for­mances That Got Him Arrest­ed (NSFW)

Richard Pry­or Does Ear­ly Stand-Up Com­e­dy Rou­tine in New York, 1964

Sein­feld, Louis C.K., Chris Rock, and Ricky Ger­vais Dis­sect the Craft of Com­e­dy (NSFW)

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

Take a Free Course on Filmmaking Featuring Brian Tufano (Trainspotting), Mike Figgis (Leaving Las Vegas) & Other Award-Winning Filmmakers

filmmaker course

The UK’s Nation­al Film and Tele­vi­sion School (NFTS) has part­nered with the British Film Insti­tute (BFI) to lift the lid on how to make great films, with a free 6 week course that starts today.

Taught by award-win­ning film­mak­ers from a range of spe­cial­ties, includ­ing Bri­an Tufano and Mike Fig­gis, it cov­ers every­thing from sto­ry­telling, to bud­get­ing, to under­stand­ing the impact of a sound­track.

Here, for instance, is Bri­an Tufano, the estab­lished cin­e­matog­ra­ph­er, talk­ing about film­ing the infa­mous toi­let scene in Trainspot­ting — turns out you can do a great deal using half a toi­let and the tech­nique trompe-l’œil (“fool the eye”).

As part of the course, you can also can also watch shorts from recent grad­u­ates of the NFTS (a few of which are already col­lect­ing awards) and get rec­om­mend­ed videos from the Baf­ta Guru col­lec­tion — a site ded­i­cat­ed to get­ting new blood into the indus­try.

The free course, Explore Film­mak­ing, is offered through Future­Learn and gives you the chance to trade opin­ions with thou­sands of oth­er film buffs online, plus get com­ments as the weeks go by from the film­mak­ers teach­ing the course.

Here’s the break­down of what the course cov­ers:

1 — Intro­duc­tion: how does a film get from script to screen?

Nik Pow­ell, direc­tor of the NFTS and pro­duc­er of more than 40 films, includ­ing The Cry­ing Game, Mona Lisa and Com­pa­ny of Wolves.

2 — Sto­ry­telling: what’s the dif­fer­ence between plot and theme?

Des­tiny Ekhara­ga, direc­tor of Gone Too Far.

3 — Deci­sions: how to choose bud­get, sched­ule, loca­tion and kit?

Mike Fig­gis, direc­tor of Leav­ing Las Vegas, Time­Code and Inter­nal Affairs.

4 — The scene: how does a direc­tor make choic­es on set?

Corin Hardy, direc­tor of The Hal­low, recent­ly announced direc­tor of a re-make of The Crow, and direc­tor of music videos for artists such as The Prodi­gy, Olly Murrs and Devlin.

5 — Time and space: how does edit­ing affect mean­ing?

Jus­tine Wright, edi­tor of Touch­ing the Void, The Iron Lady and Locke.

6 — Sound and music: what is the impact of a film’s sound­track?

Dan­ny Ham­brook, sound design­er of Curse of the Were-Rab­bit and Le Week­end, pro­duc­tion sound mix­er on Rush.

In short — there will be no more excus­es for wrong­ly ori­en­tat­ed iPhone videos. Oh and please don’t for­get to namecheck Open Cul­ture and Future­Learn in your Oscar accep­tance speech.

You can join the course for free today.

Jess Weeks is a copy­writer at Future­Learn. Along with the rest of the Future­Learn team, she’s based in the British Library in Lon­don. Yes, it is occa­sion­al­ly like Har­ry Pot­ter.

Umberto Eco Explains the Poetic Power of Charles Schulz’s Peanuts

eco loves peanuts

Image via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons and Snoopy­’s YouTube Channel

Anthro­pol­o­gy, authen­tic­i­ty, medieval aes­thet­ics, the media, lit­er­ary the­o­ry, con­spir­a­cy the­o­ry, semi­otics, ugli­ness: the late Umber­to Eco, as any­one who’s read a piece of his bib­li­og­ra­phy (which includes such intel­lec­tu­al­ly seri­ous but thor­ough­ly enter­tain­ing nov­els as The Name of the RoseFou­cault’s Pen­du­lum, and the still-new Numero Zero) can attest, had the widest pos­si­ble range of inter­ests. That infi­nite-seem­ing list extend­ed even to com­ic strips, and espe­cial­ly Charles Schulz’s Peanuts (which did tend to fas­ci­nate literati, even those of very dif­fer­ent tra­di­tions).

Just over thir­ty years ago, the Ital­ian nov­el­ist-essay­ist-crit­ic-philoso­pher-semi­oti­cian wrote an essay in The New York Review of Books about what made that strip one of the most, if not the most com­pelling of the twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry.

“The cast of char­ac­ters is ele­men­tary,” writes Eco, rat­tling off the names and lat­er enu­mer­at­ing the res­o­nant qual­i­ties of Char­lie Brown, Lucy, Vio­let, Pat­ty, Frie­da, Linus, Schroed­er, Pig Pen, and “the dog Snoopy, who is involved in their games and their talk.” But from this sim­ple design aris­es a rich and com­plex read­er expe­ri­ence:

Over this basic scheme, there is a steady flow of vari­a­tions, fol­low­ing a rhythm found in cer­tain prim­i­tive epics. (Prim­i­tive, too, is the habit of refer­ring to the pro­tag­o­nist always by his full name—even his moth­er address­es Char­lie Brown in that fash­ion, like an epic hero.) Thus you could nev­er grasp the poet­ic pow­er of Schulz’s work by read­ing only one or two or ten episodes: you must thor­ough­ly under­stand the char­ac­ters and the sit­u­a­tions, for the grace, ten­der­ness, and laugh­ter are born only from the infi­nite­ly shift­ing rep­e­ti­tion of the pat­terns, and from fideli­ty to the fun­da­men­tal inspi­ra­tions. They demand from the read­er a con­tin­u­ous act of empa­thy, a par­tic­i­pa­tion in the inner warmth that per­vades the events.

In this sense, Peanuts suc­ceeds on the same lev­el as Krazy Kat, George Her­ri­man’s high­ly absurd, high­ly artis­tic, and enor­mous­ly respect­ed strip (though it some­times took up entire pages) that ran from 1913 to 1944. Thanks only to the ear­li­er work’s rig­or­ous adher­ence to themes and vari­a­tions, Eco writes, “the mouse’s arro­gance, the dog’s unre­ward­ed com­pas­sion, and the cat’s des­per­ate love could arrive at what many crit­ics felt was a gen­uine state of poet­ry, an unin­ter­rupt­ed ele­gy based on sor­row­ing inno­cence.” But Peanuts’ cast of chil­dren adds anoth­er dimen­sion entire­ly:

The poet­ry of these chil­dren aris­es from the fact that we find in them all the prob­lems, all the suf­fer­ings of the adults, who remain off­stage. These chil­dren affect us because in a cer­tain sense they are mon­sters: they are the mon­strous infan­tile reduc­tions of all the neu­roses of a mod­ern cit­i­zen of indus­tri­al civ­i­liza­tion.

They affect us because we real­ize that if they are mon­sters it is because we, the adults, have made them so. In them we find every­thing: Freud, mass cul­ture, digest cul­ture, frus­trat­ed strug­gle for suc­cess, crav­ing for affec­tion, lone­li­ness, pas­sive acqui­es­cence, and neu­rot­ic protest. But all these ele­ments do not blos­som direct­ly, as we know them, from the mouths of a group of chil­dren: they are con­ceived and spo­ken after pass­ing through the fil­ter of inno­cence. Schulz’s chil­dren are not a sly instru­ment to han­dle our adult prob­lems: they expe­ri­ence these prob­lems accord­ing to a child­ish psy­chol­o­gy, and for this very rea­son they seem to us touch­ing and hope­less, as if we were sud­den­ly aware that our ills have pol­lut­ed every­thing, at the root.

But the capa­cious mind of Eco finds even more than that in the out­ward­ly hum­ble Schulz’s work. If we read enough of it, “we real­ize that we have emerged from the banal round of con­sump­tion and escapism, and have almost reached the thresh­old of med­i­ta­tion.” And aston­ish­ing­ly, it works equal­ly well for all audi­ences: “Peanuts charms both sophis­ti­cat­ed adults and chil­dren with equal inten­si­ty, as if each read­er found there some­thing for him­self, and it is always the same thing, to be enjoyed in two dif­fer­ent keys.” And Schultz con­tin­ues, even six­teen years after his own death and the strip’s end, to show us, “in the face of Char­lie Brown, with two strokes of his pen­cil, his ver­sion of the human con­di­tion.”

You can read Eco’s com­plete essay, On ‘Krazy Kat’ and ‘Peanuts,’ over at The New York Review of Books.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Charles Schulz Draws Char­lie Brown in 45 Sec­onds and Exor­cis­es His Demons

Umber­to Eco Dies at 84; Leaves Behind Advice to Aspir­ing Writ­ers

Umber­to Eco’s How To Write a The­sis: A Wit­ty, Irrev­er­ent & High­ly Prac­ti­cal Guide Now Out in Eng­lish

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and style. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, the video series The City in Cin­e­ma, the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future?, and the Los Ange­les Review of Books’ Korea Blog. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Stephen Hawking’s Uplifting Message: You Can Get Yourself Out of Any Hole, No Matter What Their Size

Sev­er­al weeks back, you might recall, Stephen Hawk­ing deliv­ered two Rei­th lec­tures over the radio air­waves of the BBC –one called “Do Black Holes Have No Hair?,” the oth­er “Black Holes Ain’t as Black as They Are Paint­ed.” Both were fea­tured here, accom­pa­nied by some live­ly chalk­board ani­ma­tions.

Above you can watch an out­take from the sec­ond lec­ture, this time ani­mat­ed in a dif­fer­ent aes­thet­ic. It’s trip­py, hyp­not­ic, and unless you’re ground­ed in the mate­r­i­al, the talk will leave you a lit­tle baffled–at least until the end, when Hawk­ing leaves us with a life-affirm­ing mes­sage any­one can relate to. “If you feel like you’re in a black hole, don’t give up. There’s a way out.” At once, he’s talk­ing lit­er­al­ly about black holes that are no longer thought to con­sume every­thing they encounter, and the metaphor­i­cal ones we all run into, some­where along the way, in life.

On that uplift­ing note, anoth­er week begins…

If you would like to sign up for Open Culture’s free email newslet­ter, please find it here. Or fol­low our posts on Threads, Face­book, BlueSky or Mastodon.

If you would like to sup­port the mis­sion of Open Cul­ture, con­sid­er mak­ing a dona­tion to our site. It’s hard to rely 100% on ads, and your con­tri­bu­tions will help us con­tin­ue pro­vid­ing the best free cul­tur­al and edu­ca­tion­al mate­ri­als to learn­ers every­where. You can con­tribute through Pay­Pal, Patre­on, and Ven­mo (@openculture). Thanks!

Relat­ed Con­tent

Stephen Hawking’s Lec­tures on Black Holes Now Ful­ly Ani­mat­ed with Chalk­board Illus­tra­tions

Free Online Physics Cours­es

Psy­che­del­ic Ani­ma­tion Takes You Inside the Mind of Stephen Hawk­ing

The Big Ideas of Stephen Hawk­ing Explained with Sim­ple Ani­ma­tion

Watch A Brief His­to­ry of Time, Errol Mor­ris’ Film About the Life & Work of Stephen Hawk­ing

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Umberto Eco Dies at 84; Leaves Behind Advice to Aspiring Writers

Umber­to Eco, the Ital­ian semi­oti­cian, philoso­pher, lit­er­ary crit­ic, and nov­el­ist — and, of course, author of Fou­cault’s Pen­du­lum — has died at his home in Milan. He was 84.

Eco’s pass­ing adds some poignan­cy to a video he record­ed just last year, on behalf of The Louisiana Chan­nel, a media out­let based, of all places, in Den­mark. In the clip above, Eco gives some coun­sel to aspir­ing writ­ers: Keep your ego in check, and your ambi­tions, real­is­tic. Put in the time and the hard work, and don’t shoot for the Nobel Prize in Lit­er­a­ture straight out of the gate. That, Eco says, kills every lit­er­ary career. And remem­ber that writ­ing is “10% inspi­ra­tion and 90% per­spi­ra­tion.” They’re truisms–you dis­cov­er after spend­ing decades as a writer–that turn out to be true. That con­fir­ma­tion is one of the gifts he leaves behind.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Umber­to Eco’s How To Write a The­sis: A Wit­ty, Irrev­er­ent & High­ly Prac­ti­cal Guide Now Out in Eng­lish

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Download 14 Free Posters from NASA That Depict the Future of Space Travel in a Captivatingly Retro Style

Mars_150

If I could send a mes­sage back in time, I might send it to the wide-eyed and sky­ward-look­ing chil­dren of 1960s Amer­i­ca, apol­o­giz­ing that we nev­er did build those jet­packs, fly­ing cars, and moon colonies, but also let­ting them know that at least we, the cit­i­zens of the 21st cen­tu­ry, have devel­oped such tech­nolo­gies as smart­phones and a myr­i­ad of ways for snack foods to taste both sweet and salty at once.

PSOJ318.5-22_screen

I prob­a­bly would­n’t tell them how many of us long for the spir­it of their own time, which Amer­i­can his­to­ry has labeled “the Space Age” for good rea­son. It had its share of awful­ness, start­ing with the apoc­a­lyp­tic ten­sions of the Cold War, but that com­pe­ti­tion between soci­eties did spur mankind to voy­age bold­ly and unhesi­tat­ing­ly out into the great beyond, at least for a while there.

GrandTour_150

“Back in the 1930s and ’40s, dur­ing the height of the Great Depres­sion,” writes Hyper­al­ler­gic’s Alli­son Meier, “artists designed posters for the Works Projects Admin­is­tra­tion (WPA) to encour­age trav­el to nation­al parks and oth­er tourist sites in the Unit­ed States. NASA’s Jet Propul­sion Lab­o­ra­to­ry (JPL) design stu­dio is tak­ing a sim­i­lar approach to pro­mote a future of trav­el to oth­er plan­ets at a time when its fund­ing is up against bud­get con­straints and even a jour­ney to our galac­tic neigh­bor Mars may seem almost impos­si­ble.” And so we have this brand new series of four­teen Visions of the Future, free to down­load, print, and hang above your desk to fuel your own out­er-space day­dream­ing.

Enceladus_150

You’ll notice that all the artists com­mis­sioned have designed their space-trav­el posters—whether they pro­mote the high grav­i­ty of the “super Earth” exo­plan­et HD 40307g, the one-day “His­toric Sites of Mars,” or the “Grand Tour” of the Solar System—in a rich­ly retro style rem­i­nis­cent of 1930s air trav­el adver­tise­ments. This makes them artis­ti­cal­ly cap­ti­vat­ing, but also empha­sizes the con­ti­nu­ity between our present, the cen­tu­ry behind us, and the cen­turies ahead. “As you look through these images of imag­i­na­tive trav­el des­ti­na­tions,” says NASA/JPL’s site, “remem­ber that you can be an archi­tect of the future” — and every future wor­thy of the name comes built solid­ly upon a past.

HD_40307g_39x27

You can down­load the full col­lec­tion of posters right here.

via Hyper­al­ler­gic

Relat­ed con­tent:

How the Icon­ic 1968 “Earth­rise” Pho­to Was Made: An Engross­ing Visu­al­iza­tion by NASA

NASA Archive Col­lects Great Time-Lapse Videos of our Plan­et

Ray Brad­bury Reads Mov­ing Poem on the Eve of NASA’s 1971 Mars Mis­sion

NASA Presents “The Earth as Art” in a Free eBook and Free iPad App

NASA Sends Image of the Mona Lisa to the Moon and Back

Free Inter­ac­tive e‑Books from NASA Reveal His­to­ry, Dis­cov­er­ies of the Hub­ble & Webb Tele­scopes

Leonard Nimoy Nar­rates Short Film About NASA’s Dawn: A Voy­age to the Ori­gins of the Solar Sys­tem

The Best of NASA Space Shut­tle Videos (1981–2010)

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

“Glo­ry to the Con­querors of the Uni­verse!”: Pro­pa­gan­da Posters from the Sovi­et Space Race (1958–1963)

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and style. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer, the video series The City in Cin­e­ma, the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future?, and the Los Ange­les Review of Books’ Korea Blog. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Paul Giamatti Plays Honoré de Balzac, Hopped Up on 50 Coffees Per Day

It’s the stuff of leg­end. Hon­oré de Balzac cranked out 50+ nov­els in 20 years and died at 51. The cause? Too much work and caf­feine. How much cof­fee? Up to 50 cups per day, they say.

Whether true or not, it’s fun to imag­ine what that scene might have looked like. Enter Paul Gia­mat­ti, known for his roles in Side­ways, Amer­i­can Splen­dor and John Adams, who gives us his com­ic take. This new short film comes from The New York­er, which has just released the first sea­son of The New York­er Presents on Ama­zon.

For more on Balza­c’s cof­fee habit, see the first two items in the Relat­eds below.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Hon­oré de Balzac Writes About “The Plea­sures and Pains of Cof­fee,” and His Epic Cof­fee Addic­tion

The Cof­fee Pot That Fueled Hon­oré de Balzac’s Cof­fee Addic­tion

Philoso­phers Drink­ing Cof­fee: The Exces­sive Habits of Kant, Voltaire & Kierkegaard

J.S. Bach’s Com­ic Opera, “The Cof­fee Can­ta­ta,” Sings the Prais­es of the Great Stim­u­lat­ing Drink (1735)

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Summertime: Willie Nelson Sings Gershwin Is Now Streaming Free for a Limited Time

willie_gershwin

A quick fyi: You now stream for a lim­it­ed time Sum­mer­time: Willie Nel­son Sings Gersh­win. The new album fea­tures Nel­son cov­er­ing 11 clas­sic songs writ­ten by George and Ira Gersh­win. And it includes duets with Cyn­di Lau­per and Sheryl Crow. You can stream the album (due to be offi­cial­ly released on Feb­ru­ary 26th) right below, or hear it over on NPR’s First Lis­ten site. Enjoy.

If you would like to sign up for Open Culture’s free email newslet­ter, please find it here. Or fol­low our posts on Threads, Face­book, BlueSky or Mastodon.

If you would like to sup­port the mis­sion of Open Cul­ture, con­sid­er mak­ing a dona­tion to our site. It’s hard to rely 100% on ads, and your con­tri­bu­tions will help us con­tin­ue pro­vid­ing the best free cul­tur­al and edu­ca­tion­al mate­ri­als to learn­ers every­where. You can con­tribute through Pay­Pal, Patre­on, and Ven­mo (@openculture). Thanks!



Relat­ed Con­tent:

Willie Nel­son Shows You a Delight­ful Card Trick

Ella Fitzger­ald Sings ‘Sum­mer­time’ by George Gersh­win, Berlin 1968

Bob Dylan & The Grate­ful Dead Rehearse Togeth­er in Sum­mer 1987: Hear 74 Tracks

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