Hear Walt Whitman (Maybe) Reading the First Four Lines of His Poem, “America” (1890)

Of all Amer­i­can poets, almost no one looms larg­er than Walt Whit­man. As I once heard an old poet acquain­tance say, Amer­i­can poets don’t need Shake­speare and the Bible; we’ve got Dick­in­son and Whit­man. Indeed, Whitman’s voice emerges from the past like some Amer­i­can Moses, show­ing the way for­ward, open­ing his arms to hold his frac­tious coun­try­men togeth­er. One can blovi­ate all day about Walt Whit­man. He tends to have that effect. But even Whit­man, he of the ser­pen­tine lines full of the car­go of the con­ti­nent, stretch­ing from left mar­gin to right, ocean to ocean, could be rel­a­tive­ly suc­cinct, and even about his favorite sub­ject, Amer­i­ca. Take his poem “Amer­i­ca” from 1888:

Cen­tre of equal daugh­ters, equal sons,
All, all alike endear’d, grown, ungrown, young or old,
Strong, ample, fair, endur­ing, capa­ble, rich,
Peren­ni­al with the Earth, with Free­dom, Law and Love,
A grand, sane, tow­er­ing, seat­ed Moth­er,
Chair’d in the adamant of Time.

Now, believe it or not, you can hear what may well be the voice of Walt Whit­man, Amer­i­can Moses, emerg­ing from the past to read the first four lines of “Amer­i­ca,” from a wax cylin­der record­ing above. Most like­ly cap­tured in 1889 or 1890 by Thomas Edi­son, this read­ing was orig­i­nal­ly found on a cas­sette called “The Voice of the Poets,” dis­cov­ered in a library by Whit­man schol­ar Lar­ry Don Grif­fin. The cas­sette, made in 1974 and includ­ing the voic­es of Edna St. Vin­cent Mil­lay and William Car­los Williams, takes the Whit­man audio from a 1951 NBC radio pro­gram, whose announc­er, Leon Pear­son, claims comes from a wax cylin­der record­ing made in 1890.

Sur­pris­ing­ly, the ’74 cas­sette tape, which land­ed in libraries across the coun­try, seemed to go unno­ticed by schol­ars until Grif­fin men­tioned it in the Walt Whit­man Quar­ter­ly Review in 1992. This men­tion sparked debate about the authen­tic­i­ty of the record­ing, and once schol­ar­ly debate is sparked, the fire can burn for decades, whole careers built on its embers. In this case, some schol­ars, includ­ing his­to­ri­an Allen Koenigs­berg, argued that since no orig­i­nal wax cylin­der has appeared, and men­tion of the record­ing in Edison’s cor­re­spon­dence is incon­clu­sive, the prove­nance is sus­pect. Fur­ther­more, Koenigs­berg argued, the record­ing qual­i­ty seems too good for the peri­od. His con­clu­sion comes backed by the analy­sis of audio experts. Accord­ing to The Edis­on­ian, a Rut­ger’s Uni­ver­si­ty Edi­son newslet­ter:

Ana­lysts for both the Library of Con­gress and the Rodgers and Ham­mer­stein Archives con­sult­ed on the case and agreed that the clar­i­ty of the record­ing was beyond what could be achieved in 1889 or 1890… the sound analy­sis along with the doc­u­men­ta­tion dif­fi­cul­ties led Koen­ings­berg to con­clude that “the sup­posed Whit­man record­ing is a fas­ci­nat­ing fake.”

On the oth­er side of this debate is the edi­tor of the Walt Whit­man Quar­ter­ly Review, Ed Fol­som, who presents his case in an arti­cle sim­ply titled “The Whit­man Record­ing,” in which he dis­cuss­es prob­lems with the Library of Con­gress analy­sis. Yet anoth­er par­ti­san for authen­tic­i­ty, William Grimes—who cov­ered the con­tro­ver­sy for The New York Times points out that the voice sounds like what Whitman’s would have, and he makes a com­pelling argu­ment that the poem would not at all be the obvi­ous choice for a fake. Grimes cites unnamed “spe­cial­ists in the his­to­ry of the phono­graph,” whom, he writes, “agree… that the pos­si­bil­i­ty of out­right fraud or a hoax is unlike­ly.”

And on it goes. No one can defin­i­tive­ly set­tle the case, unless new evi­dence should come to light. With no inten­tion of malign­ing Ed Folsom’s good faith, I can imag­ine the Whit­man Quar­ter­ly edi­tor want­i­ng this to be true more than his­to­ri­an Koenigs­berg and the LOC ana­lysts. But I also want it to be Whit­man, and so I’m glad to make an exu­ber­ant leap of Amer­i­can faith and think it’s him. From Edi­son wax cylin­der record­ing, to radio broad­cast, to cas­sette, to mp3, over more than a cen­tu­ry of Amer­i­can poetry—it would be a per­fect­ly Whit­manesque jour­ney.

via @stevesilberman

 Relat­ed Con­tent:

Voic­es from the 19th Cen­tu­ry: Ten­nyson, Glad­stone, Whit­man & Tchaikovsky

Thomas Edi­son Recites “Mary Had a Lit­tle Lamb” in Ear­ly Voice Record­ing

Mark Twain Cap­tured on Film by Thomas Edi­son in 1909.

Josh Jones is a writer, edi­tor, and musi­cian based in Wash­ing­ton, DC. Fol­low him @jdmagness

Backed by 157 Musicians, Beck Reimagines David Bowie’s 1977 Classic, “Sound and Vision”

The last time we looked, the singer-song­writer known as Beck con­tributed to the fall musi­cal pro­duc­tion, Rework: Philip Glass Remixed, before pub­lish­ing Song Read­er, a series of 20 songs released not as record­ed music, but as sheet music meant for oth­er musi­cians to inter­pret and per­form. (Lis­ten here to what the Port­land Cel­lo Project did with the Song Read­er col­lec­tion.) Now, Beck turns to an entire­ly dif­fer­ent project. On Sun­day night, the ver­sa­tile musi­cian appeared on a sound­stage at 20th Cen­tu­ry Fox in L.A., where he per­formed David Bowie’s 1977 song, “Sound and Vision,” backed by a 157-piece orches­tra con­duct­ed by his own father, the com­pos­er and arranger David Camp­bell. Accord­ing to Rolling Stone, the event was spon­sored by Lin­coln, the Detroit car­mak­er, who is using Beck­’s ver­sion of “Sound and Vision” for a new ad cam­paign. Hap­pi­ly, David Bowie gave his enthu­si­as­tic bless­ing to the project.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

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

Hear Beck’s Song Read­er Song­book Per­formed by the Port­land Cel­lo Project

How “Space Odd­i­ty” Launched David Bowie to Star­dom: Watch the Orig­i­nal Music Video From 1969

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Musicians Re-Imagine the Complete Songbook of the Beatles on the Ukulele

We hold this truth to be self-evident—if every cit­i­zen spent a lit­tle bit of time play­ing the ukulele, the world would be a nicer place.

Such is the dec­la­ra­tion of the The Bea­t­les Com­plete on Ukulele, an online project that pret­ty much does what it says: com­piles ukulele cov­ers of every Bea­t­les song—individually or in album form—from a sur­pris­ing vari­ety of ama­teur and obscure artists. As an own­er, occa­sion­al strum­mer, and gen­er­al enthu­si­ast of the uke myself, I do believe these folks are onto some­thing with their vision of a “nicer place.” Just lis­ten to The Fort Green Children’s Choir’s cov­er of “Yel­low Sub­ma­rine” and try to stop your­self from smil­ing. If sim­ply lis­ten­ing to the uke can make you calm and hap­py, imag­ine what play­ing one can do?

Now, if you’re think­ing of the whole thing as Tiny Tim in the tulips, think again. Sure, there’s a nov­el­ty aspect to the idea, as the goofy video above—with The Cars’ key­boardist Greg Hawkes’ doing his ren­di­tion of “Eleanor Rigby”—attests; but as it also attests, these cov­ers can be ful­ly real­ized and quite beau­ti­ful arrange­ments (Hawkes record­ed an entire album of Bea­t­les songs on the uke).

While the ukulele’s humor­ous­ly small size and fre­quent use in prop com­e­dy, faux-Hawai­ian surf movies, and twee indie folk revival­ism has ren­dered it a lit­tle ridicu­lous, this image deceives. Make no mis­take, the tiny Poly­ne­sian four-string gui­tar (which comes in four sizes and reg­is­ters: sopra­no, con­cert, tenor, and bari­tone) is a seri­ous­ly ver­sa­tile instru­ment with a full range of tim­bres and tones. If you’re still uncon­vinced, then pre­pare to be blown away by renowned vir­tu­oso uke-play­er Jake Shimabukuro’s take on George Har­rison’s “While My Gui­tar Gen­tly Weeps” (below).

As you can see, the ukulele is suit­ed to the task of inter­pret­ing the Bea­t­les’ cat­a­logue, espe­cial­ly since the band them­selves had such a high regard for ukes. Har­ri­son loved the instru­ment, as Paul McCart­ney tells us in the video below. Watch as Macca—live, in trib­ute to Harrison—strums out a love­ly ver­sion of “Some­thing” on his ukulele.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Bea­t­les: Unplugged Col­lects Acoustic Demos of White Album Songs (1968)

The Mak­ing of “Tomor­row Nev­er Knows,” The Bea­t­les’ Song That Aired on an His­toric Episode of Mad Men

Down­load The Bea­t­les’ Yel­low Sub­ma­rine as a Free, Inter­ac­tive eBook

Josh Jones is a writer, edi­tor, and musi­cian based in Wash­ing­ton, DC. Fol­low him @jdmagness

The Scared Is Scared: A Child’s Wisdom for Starting New Chapters (Creative or Otherwise) in Life

The future’s uncer­tain­ty has par­a­lyzed many an artist. How to begin?

Were you to take the advice of 6‑year-old Asa Bak­er-Rouse, you might show the word “start” in a box, add an equals sign, frame it with a box, make the word orange, then green, then white in a green box….

Asa is both nar­ra­tor and muse of The Scared is Scared, the final project of recent Mid­dle­bury Col­lege grad, Bian­ca Giaev­er’s inde­pen­dent­ly designed Nar­ra­tive Stud­ies major. Rather than hand the boy a script, she allowed him to deter­mine the course of her film, lit­er­al­ly visu­al­iz­ing his spon­ta­neous mono­logue with the help of sev­er­al game friends, a trick imple­ment­ed ear­li­er in Holy Cow Lisa, which built on an inter­view with her col­lege advi­sor.

The result should appeal to any­one who had a soft spot for Pee­Wee’s Play­house­’s Pen­ny car­toons. It’s cute all right, but  The Scared is Scared also boasts an effort­less-seem­ing pro­fun­di­ty. Asa may be of the age where piano-shaped cook­ies and secret sleep­overs rep­re­sent the pin­na­cle of anar­chy, but he’s got an ancient mas­ter’s take on things com­ing to their inevitable end. By com­mit­ting to roll with what­ev­er unknowns this child might sup­ply, Giaver taps into a rich vein of cre­ativ­i­ty. Along the way, she makes peace with a very famil­iar-feel­ing unknown, the fate of the young artist leav­ing col­lege’s cozy embrace.

It turns out to be a per­fect place to start.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

 

One of the Biggest Risks is Being Too Cau­tious…

Paulo Coel­ho on The Fear of Fail­ure

J.K. Rowl­ing Tells Har­vard Grads Why Suc­cess Begins with Fail­ure

 

Kerouac Wore Khakis: Ghost of the Beat Writer Stars in 1993 Gap Advertising Campaign

jksm

“When [Jack] Ker­ouac died in 1968 at the age of 47, he was a bro­ken alco­holic, his lit­er­ary rep­u­ta­tion so deplet­ed he was unable even to find a paper­back pub­lish­er for his last nov­el, Van­i­ty of Dulu­oz,” writes The Tele­graph. “Unsure of what val­ue to put on his estate, the bank val­ued it at a nom­i­nal $1. Over the years, it would rise to an esti­mat­ed $20m.” As The Tele­graph goes on to describe, the Ker­ouac estate start­ed gen­er­at­ing its wealth when, dur­ing the 1990s, feud­ing rel­a­tives, exer­cis­ing ques­tion­able author­i­ty over the writer’s lit­er­ary remains, began auc­tion­ing things off. The orig­i­nal man­u­script of On The Road was sold to James Isray, own­er of the Indi­anapo­lis Colts, for $2.43 mil­lion. John­ny Depp paid $50,640 for Kerouac’s rain­coat, tweed over­coat and oth­er per­son­al belong­ings. And pho­tos were licensed off to cor­po­ra­tions.

Enter the Gap’s 1993 “Ker­ouac Wore Khakis” adver­tis­ing cam­paign. The cam­paign drew on images tak­en in 1958, when Jer­ry Yuls­man fol­lowed Jack Ker­ouac around Green­wich Vil­lage, tak­ing pic­tures for Pageant Mag­a­zine. (See orig­i­nals here and here.) 35 years lat­er, Madi­son Ave. mar­keters air­brushed the images, stripped them of col­or, and, some­how found a way to graft onto stodgy pants, worn by desk jock­eys nation­wide, the illu­sion of free­dom. That sleight of hand would make Don Drap­er proud. As for what hap­pened in Ker­ouac’s grave, we can only con­jec­ture.

We’ll have more from the annals of com­mer­cial­iz­ing the Beats tomor­row.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Jack Kerouac’s Naval Reserve Enlist­ment Mugshot, 1943

Bob Dylan and Allen Gins­berg Vis­it the Grave of Jack Ker­ouac (1979)

Jack Kerouac’s Hand-Drawn Cov­er for On the Road

Ker­ouac Reads from On the Road (1959)

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Hear Sylvia Plath Read ‘Lady Lazarus’ on the 50th Anniversary of Her Death

In the ear­ly morn­ing hours of Mon­day, Feb­ru­ary 11, 1963, Sylvia Plath brought food and drink into the bed­room of her two sleep­ing young chil­dren. She opened a win­dow in their room and attached a note with her doc­tor’s name and phone num­ber to a baby car­riage in the hall­way. She then went into the kitchen and sealed it off with tape and wet tow­els. She turned on the gas and put her head into the oven.

It was a sad end­ing for a woman who had strug­gled for much of her life with men­tal ill­ness. She was 30 years old. But with the crit­i­cal and pop­u­lar suc­cess of Ariel, the posthu­mous­ly pub­lished col­lec­tion of poems writ­ten dur­ing the last months of her life, Plath’s sui­cide became one of the most mythol­o­gized events in the his­to­ry of 20th cen­tu­ry let­ters. The grim event of 50 years ago is inex­tri­ca­bly bound up with Plath’s lega­cy as a poet.

In recog­ni­tion of that fact, we mark the anniver­sary with a record­ing Plath made at the BBC stu­dios in Decem­ber, 1962, of one of her most cel­e­brat­ed poems–one she had only recent­ly writ­ten, called “Lady Lazarus.” The ver­sion Plath reads con­tains two lines that were cut from the pub­lished poem. (You can open the text in a new win­dow to read while you lis­ten.) “Lady Lazarus” is a dis­turb­ing poem, with imagery from the Holo­caust graft­ed onto personal–one might say narcissistic–revelations of sui­ci­dal obses­sion. The sin­is­ter, malev­o­lent tone is espe­cial­ly chill­ing when you hear it in Plath’s own voice:

Herr God, Herr Lucifer
Beware
Beware.

Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.

For more on Plath’s life and her com­pli­cat­ed and con­tentious lit­er­ary lega­cy, and to hear anoth­er of her read­ings, see our Octo­ber 27, 2012 post, “For Sylvia Plath’s 80th Birth­day, Hear Her Read ‘A Birth­day Present.’ ”

The Genius of J.S. Bach’s “Crab Canon” Visualized on a Möbius Strip

The most impres­sive of Johann Sebas­t­ian Bach’s pieces, musi­cophiles may have told you, will knock you over with their inge­nious­ness, or at least their sheer com­plex­i­ty. Indeed, the music of Bach has, over the past two and a half cen­turies, pro­vid­ed meat and drink to both pro­fes­sion­al and ama­teur stu­dents of the rela­tion­ship between inge­nious­ness and com­plex­i­ty. It’s no mis­take, for instance, that the com­pos­er has offered such a rich source of intel­lec­tu­al inspi­ra­tion to Gödel, Esch­er, Bach author Dou­glas R. Hof­s­tadter, well beyond hav­ing giv­en him a word to fill out the book’s title. Lis­ten to the first canon from Bach’s Musi­cal Offer­ing, and you’ll hear what sounds like a sim­ple begin­ning devel­op into what sounds like quite a com­plex mid­dle. You may hear it and instinc­tive­ly under­stand what’s going on; you may hear it and have no idea what’s going on beyond your sus­pi­cion that some­thing is hap­pen­ing.

If you process things more visu­al­ly than you do aural­ly, pay atten­tion to the video above, a visu­al­iza­tion of the piece by math­e­mat­i­cal image-mak­er Jos Leys. You can fol­low the score, note for note, and then watch as the piece revers­es itself, run­ning back across the staff in the oth­er direc­tion. So far, so easy, but anoth­er lay­er appears: Bach wrote the piece to then be played simul­ta­ne­ous­ly back­wards as well as for­wards. But pre­pare your­self for the mind-blow­ing coup de grâce when Leys shows us at a stroke just what the impos­si­ble shape of the Möbius strip has to do with the form of this “crab canon,” mean­ing a canon made of two com­ple­men­tary, reversed musi­cal lines. Hof­s­tadter had a great deal of fun with that term in Gödel, Esch­er, Bach, but then, he has one of those brains — you’ll notice many Bach enthu­si­asts do — that explodes with con­nec­tions, trans­po­si­tions, and per­mu­ta­tions, even in its unal­tered state. Alter­na­tive­ly, if you con­sid­er your­self a con­scious­ness-bend­ing psy­cho­naut, feel free get into your pre­ferred frame of mind, watch Bach’s crab canon visu­al­ized, and call me in the morn­ing.

Relat­ed con­tent:

A Big Bach Down­load: All of Bach’s Organ Works for Free

The Open Gold­berg Vari­a­tions: J.S. Bach’s Mas­ter­piece Free to Down­load

Glenn Gould Explains the Genius of Johann Sebas­t­ian Bach (1962)

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture and writes essays on lit­er­a­ture, film, cities, Asia, and aes­thet­ics. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Library Card Signed by 13-Year-Old Elvis Presley, the Earliest Known Signature of the King

elvis library card
Cour­tesy of the Chica­go Pub­lic Library Tum­blr, we have the library card signed by Elvis Pres­ley in 1948, when the rock icon was only 13 years old. Because it’s believed to be the ear­li­est known sig­na­ture of the King, the auto­graph fetched $7,500 at auc­tion last sum­mer, more than twice the orig­i­nal ask­ing price. As for what was young Elvis read­ing, you’re won­der­ing? It’s The Coura­geous Heart: A Life of Andrew Jack­son for Young Read­ers. h/t @kirstinbutler

Fol­low us on Face­bookTwit­ter and Google Plus and share intel­li­gent media with your friends! They’ll thank you for it.

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Do You Speak Java Jive?: The Language of the Indie Cafes

java jive

I haven’t fre­quent­ed Star­bucks for a long time, but when I did, I could nev­er get into their lin­go. Do you want a “grande,” the “barista” asked? No, just give me a medi­um, ok? And if I ever tired of the irri­tat­ing lin­go bat­tles, I head­ed to an indie cafe where sim­ple lan­guage made sense.

Nowa­days, you appar­ent­ly can’t bank on the indies for an escape. This week­end, The New York Times has a huge spread reveal­ing the pri­vate vocab­u­lar­ies of Amer­i­ca’s indie cof­fee bars, the places where you can now order “Cap­puc­ci­gos,” “Jillys,” “Kan­skis,” and a “Franken­caf,” along with some “Bert & Ernie,” appar­ent­ly the new way of say­ing cream and sug­ar. If you care to speak Java Jive, you’ll want to spend time with this spread. It’s almost some­thing we could add to our list of Free For­eign Lan­guage Lessons.

And now for some more cof­fee ran­dom­ness:

Every­thing You Want­ed to Know About Cof­fee in Three Min­utes

“The Vertue of the COFFEE Drink”: London’s First Cafe Cre­ates Ad for Cof­fee in the 1650s

The Physics of Cof­fee Rings Final­ly Explained

Jim Henson’s Vio­lent Wilkins Cof­fee Com­mer­cials (1957–1961)

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Mathemusician Vi Hart Explains the Space-Time Continuum With a Music Box, Bach, and a Möbius Strip

Vi Hart, the Khan Acad­e­my’s res­i­dent “Recre­ation­al Math­e­mu­si­cian” turns the space-time con­tin­u­um into some­thing that can be played for­wards, back­wards, upside down, in a cir­cle, and on a Möbius strip.

How you ask?

Music. You know, that stuff that Shake­speare rhap­sodized as the food of love?

The fast-talk­ing Hart has way too much to prove in her less than eight minute video to waste time wax­ing poet­ic. To her, even the most elu­sive con­cepts are explain­able, rep­re­sentable. She does man­age to cre­ate some unin­ten­tion­al­ly love­ly lit­tle melodies on a music box that reads holes punched through the nota­tions on a tape print­ed with a musi­cal stave.

It took sev­er­al view­ings for me to wrap my mind around what exact­ly was being demon­strat­ed, but I think I’m begin­ning to grope my way toward what­ev­er dimen­sion she’s cur­rent­ly inhab­it­ing. See if you can fol­low along and then weigh in as to what you think the math­e­mat­i­cal­ly-inclined Bach might be doing in his grave as Hart blithe­ly feeds one of his com­po­si­tions through her music box, upside down, and back­wards.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

How a Bach Canon Works. Bril­liant.

85,000 Clas­si­cal Music Scores (and Free MP3s) on the Web

A Big Bach Down­load – All Bach Organ Works for Free

Ayun Hal­l­i­day took piano lessons for years. All that remains are the open­ing bars to Hel­lo Dol­ly. Fol­low her @AyunHalliday

Walter Cronkite Imagines the Home of the 21st Century … Back in 1967

Liv­ing room, 2001:

In 1967, exec­u­tives at CBS tele­vi­sion made a bold move and changed the net­work’s long-run­ning doc­u­men­tary series, The 20th Cen­tu­ry, from a pro­gram look­ing back at the past to one look­ing ahead to the future. The 21st Cen­tu­ry, as it was renamed, was host­ed by Wal­ter Cronkite and ran for three sea­sons. In one of the ear­ly episodes, “At Home, 2001,” which aired on March 12, 1967, Cronkite cites a gov­ern­ment report pre­dict­ing that by the year 2000, tech­nol­o­gy will have low­ered the aver­age Amer­i­can work week to 30 hours, with a one-month vaca­tion. What will peo­ple do with all that free time? In the scene above, Cronkite makes a fair­ly accu­rate pre­dic­tion of today’s state-of-the-art home enter­tain­ment sys­tems. Although the knobs and dials look a bit archa­ic, the basic prin­ci­ple is there. But what­ev­er hap­pened to that 30-hour work week?

Home office, 2001:

“Now this is where a man might spend most of his time in the 21st cen­tu­ry,” says Cronkite as he walks into the home office of the future, above. “This equip­ment will allow him to car­ry on nor­mal busi­ness activ­i­ties with­out ever going to an office away from home.”

In envi­sion­ing the office of the future as a mas­cu­line domain, Cronkite makes the same mis­take as Stan­ley Kubrick and Arthur C. Clarke of imag­in­ing tech­no­log­i­cal change with­out social change. (Remem­ber the moon shut­tle stew­ardess in 2001: A Space Odyssey?) But he oth­er­wise offers a fair­ly pre­scient vision of some of the home com­put­ing, Inter­net and telecom­mu­ni­ca­tions advances that have indeed come to pass.

Kitchen, 2001:

Cronkite’s pow­ers of pre­dic­tion fail him when he reach­es the Rube Gold­ber­gian “kitchen of 2001,” which mis­takes gra­tu­itous automa­tion for con­ve­nience. As one YouTube com­men­ta­tor said of the clip above, the only thing that resem­bles the kitchen of today is the microwave oven–and microwaves already exist­ed in 1967.

But “At Home, 2001,” is much more thought-pro­vok­ing than a few “gee whiz” pre­dic­tions about the gad­gets of the future. Cronkite inter­views the archi­tect Philip John­son and oth­er lead­ing design­ers of his day for a deep­er dis­cus­sion about the ten­sion that exists between our deep-seat­ed, basi­cal­ly agrar­i­an expec­ta­tions for a home and the real­i­ties of urban con­ges­tion and sub­ur­ban sprawl. You can watch the com­plete 25-minute pro­gram at A/V Geeks. And to read more about it, see Matt Novak’s piece at Pale­o­Fu­ture. “Can we find a com­pro­mise between our increas­ing­ly urban way of liv­ing and the pride and pri­va­cy of the indi­vid­ual home?” asks Cronkite at the end of the pro­gram. “It will take deci­sions that go beyond tech­nol­o­gy, deci­sions about the qual­i­ty of the life we want to lead, to answer the ques­tion ‘How will we live in the 21st cen­tu­ry?’ ”

via Kot­tke

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Arthur C. Clarke Pre­dicts the Future in 1964 … And Kind of Nails It

The Inter­net Imag­ined in 1969

Mar­shall McLuhan: The World is a Glob­al Vil­lage

1930s Fash­ion Design­ers Imag­ine How Peo­ple Would Dress in the Year 2000


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