The World’s Oldest Cookbook: Discover 4,000-Year-Old Recipes from Ancient Babylon

If asked about your favorite dish, you’d do well to name some­thing exot­ic. Gone are the days when a taste for the likes of Ital­ian, Mex­i­can, or Chi­nese cui­sine could qual­i­fy you as an adven­tur­ous eater. Even expe­di­tions to the very edges of the menus at Peru­vian, Ethiopi­an, or Laot­ian restau­rants, say, would be unlike­ly to draw much respect from seri­ous twen­ty-first-cen­tu­ry eaters. One solu­tion is to take your culi­nary voy­ages through not just space but also time, seek­ing out the meals of cen­turies and even mil­len­nia past. This has late­ly become some­what eas­i­er to do, thanks to the work of Har­vard- and Yale-asso­ci­at­ed researchers like Gojko Bar­jamovic, Patri­cia Jura­do Gon­za­lez, Chelsea A. Gra­ham, Agnete W. Lassen, Naw­al Nas­ral­lah, and Pia M. Sörensen.

A few years ago, that inter­dis­ci­pli­nary research team par­tic­i­pat­ed in a Lapham’s Quar­ter­ly round­table on mak­ing and eat­ing the ancient Mesopotami­an recipes con­tained on what are known as the “Yale Culi­nary Tablets.” Dat­ing from between 1730 BC and the sixth or sev­enth cen­tu­ry BC, their Cuneiform inscrip­tions offer only broad and frag­men­tary guid­ance on the prepa­ra­tion of once-com­mon dish­es, none of which, luck­i­ly, are par­tic­u­lar­ly com­plex.

The veg­e­tar­i­an soup pašrū­tum, or “unwind­ing,” involves fla­vors no bold­er than those of cilantro, leek, gar­lic, and dried sour­dough. The stew puhā­di, which uses lamb as well as milk, turns out to be “deli­cious when served with the pep­pery gar­nish of crushed leek and gar­lic.”

The Yale Culi­nary Tablets reveal that the Baby­lo­ni­ans, too, enjoyed tuck­ing into the occa­sion­al for­eign meal — which, four mil­len­nia ago, could have meant a bowl of elamū­tum, or “Elamite broth,” named for its ori­gin in Elam in mod­ern-day Iran. Anoth­er dish made with milk, it also calls for sheep­’s blood (“the mix­ture of sour milk and blood may sound odd,” the round­table arti­cle assures us, “but the com­bi­na­tion pro­duces a rich soup with a slight tart­ness”) and dill, which seems to have been the height of exot­ic ingre­di­ents at the time. Tuh’u, a leg-meat stew, has an iden­ti­fi­able descen­dant still eat­en in Iraq today, but that dish uses white turnip instead of the ancient recipe’s red beet. Giv­en that “Jews of Bagh­dad before their expul­sion used red beet,” it’s “tempt­ing to link the recipe to the con­ti­nen­tal Euro­pean borscht.”

Image via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

Recon­struct­ing these recipes, which tend to lack quan­ti­ties or pro­ce­dur­al details, has involved edu­cat­ed guess­work. But no oth­er texts in exis­tence can get you clos­er to recon­struct­ing ancient Mesopotami­an cui­sine in your own kitchen. If you’d like to see how that’s done before giv­ing it a try your­self, watch the videos above and below from Max Miller, whose Youtube chan­nel Tast­ing His­to­ry spe­cial­izes in prepar­ing dish­es from ear­li­er stages of civ­i­liza­tion. Not that depar­ture from the recipes as orig­i­nal­ly dic­tat­ed by tra­di­tion would have any con­se­quences. Most of these recipes may date from an era close to the reign of King Ham­mura­bi, but there’s noth­ing in his famous Code about what hap­pens to cooks who make the occa­sion­al sub­sti­tu­tion.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Cam­bridge Uni­ver­si­ty Pro­fes­sor Cooks 4000-Year-Old Recipes from Ancient Mesopotamia, and Lets You See How They Turned Out

Watch a 4000-Year Old Baby­lon­ian Recipe for Stew, Found on a Cuneiform Tablet, Get Cooked by Researchers from Yale & Har­vard

How to Make Ancient Mesopotami­an Beer: See the 4,000-Year-Old Brew­ing Method Put to the Test

How to Make the Old­est Recipe in the World: A Recipe for Net­tle Pud­ding Dat­ing Back 6,000 BC

Behold the Old­est Writ­ten Text in the World: The Kish Tablet, Cir­ca 3500 BC

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

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Tomorrow Never Knows: How The Beatles Invented the Future With Studio Magic, Tape Loops & LSD

Tomor­row Nev­er Knows” could­n’t be made today, and not just because the Bea­t­les already made it in 1966. Mark­ing per­haps the sin­gle biggest step in the group’s artis­tic evo­lu­tion, that song is in every sense a prod­uct of its time. The use of psy­che­del­ic drugs like LSD was on the rise in the coun­ter­cul­ture, as was the aware­ness of the reli­gion and music of far­away lands such as India. At the same moment, devel­op­ments in record­ing-stu­dio tech­nol­o­gy were mak­ing new approach­es pos­si­ble, involv­ing sounds that musi­cians nev­er would have imag­ined try­ing before — and, when brought togeth­er, pro­duced a result that many lis­ten­ers of just a few years ear­li­er would hard­ly have rec­og­nized as music at all.

In the new You Can’t Unhear This video above, host Ray­mond Schillinger explains all that went into the record­ing of “Tomor­row Nev­er Knows,” which he calls “arguably the most piv­otal song of the Bea­t­les’ career.” It seems that John had under­gone some con­sid­er­able expe­ri­ences dur­ing the group’s five-month-long break after Rub­ber Soul, giv­en that he turned up to EMI Stu­dios after­ward with a song that “defied pret­ty much every con­ven­tion of pop music at the time: the lyrics did­n’t rhyme, the chord pro­gres­sion did­n’t real­ly progress, and instead of roman­tic love, the sub­ject mat­ter was expand­ing one’s psy­chic con­scious­ness through ego death.” A young Geoff Emer­ick, who’d just been pro­mot­ed to the role of the Bea­t­les’ record­ing engi­neer, rose to the chal­lenge of facil­i­tat­ing an equal­ly non-stan­dard stu­dio process.

The whol­ly new son­ic tex­ture that result­ed owes in large part to the use of mul­ti­ple tape loops, lit­er­al sec­tions of audio tape con­nect­ed at the begin­ning and end to allow the­o­ret­i­cal­ly infi­nite rep­e­ti­tion of their con­tent. This was a fair­ly new musi­cal tech­nol­o­gy at the time, and the Bea­t­les made use of it with gus­to, cre­at­ing loops of all man­ner of sped-up sounds — an orches­tra play­ing, a Mel­lotron, a reversed Indi­an sitar, Paul sound­ing like a seag­ull — and orches­trat­ing them “live” dur­ing record­ing. (Ringo’s drum track, despite what sounds like a super­hu­man reg­u­lar­i­ty in this con­text, was not, in fact a loop.) Oth­er tech­no­log­i­cal­ly nov­el ele­ments includ­ed John’s dou­ble-tracked vocals run through a revolv­ing Leslie speak­er and a back­wards gui­tar solo about whose author­ship Bea­t­les enthu­si­asts still argue.

What John had called “The Void,” was reti­tled after one of Ringo’s sig­na­ture askew expres­sions (“a hard day’s night” being anoth­er) in order to avoid draw­ing too much atten­tion as a “drug song.” But lis­ten­ers tapped into the LSD scene would have rec­og­nized lyri­cal inspi­ra­tion drawn from The Tibetan Book of the Dead, the ancient work that also informed The Psy­che­del­ic Expe­ri­ence, the guide­book by Tim­o­thy Leary and Richard Alpert (lat­er Baba Ram Dass) with which John direct­ed his own first trip. But even for the least turned-on Bea­t­le fan, “Tomor­row Nev­er Knows” was “like step­ping from a black-and-white world into full col­or,” as Schillinger puts it. The Bea­t­les might have gone the way of the Rolling Stones and cho­sen to record in an Amer­i­can stu­dio rather than their home-away-from-home on Abbey Road, the uncon­ven­tion­al use of its less-than-cut­ting-edge gear result­ed in what remains a vivid­ly pow­er­ful dis­patch from the ana­log era — even here in the twen­ty-twen­ties, when con­scious­ness expan­sion itself has gone dig­i­tal.

Relat­ed con­tent:

How John Lennon Wrote the Bea­t­les’ Best Song, “A Day in the Life”

The Amaz­ing Record­ing His­to­ry of The Bea­t­les’ “Here Comes the Sun”

The Exper­i­men­tal Move­ment That Cre­at­ed The Bea­t­les’ Weird­est Song, “Rev­o­lu­tion 9”

How “Straw­ber­ry Fields For­ev­er” Con­tains “the Cra­zi­est Edit” in Bea­t­les His­to­ry

Hear Bri­an Eno Sing The Bea­t­les’ “Tomor­row Nev­er Knows” as Part of The Best Live Album of the Glam/Prog Era (1976)

The Bea­t­les’ 8 Pio­neer­ing Inno­va­tions: A Video Essay Explor­ing How the Fab Four Changed Pop Music

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Stephen King’s Top 10 All-Time Favorite Books

Image by The USO, via Flickr Com­mons

So you might think that if Stephen King – the guy who wrote such hor­ror clas­sics like Car­rie and The Stand – were to rat­tle off his top ten favorite books, it would fea­ture works by the likes of Edgar Allan Poe, H. P. Love­craft or maybe J. R. R. Tolkien — authors who have, like King, cre­at­ed endur­ing dark, Goth­ic worlds filled with super­nat­ur­al events and malev­o­lent forces. But you’d be wrong. Author J. Ped­er Zane asked scores of writ­ers about their favorite nov­els for his 2007 book The Top Ten: Writ­ers Pick Their Favorite Books. The list King sub­mit­ted in reply appears below. When pos­si­ble, we’ve added links to the texts that you can read for free online.

1. The Gold­en Argosy, The Most Cel­e­brat­ed Short Sto­ries in the Eng­lish Lan­guage – edit­ed by Van Cart­mell and Charles Grayson

2. The Adven­tures of Huck­le­ber­ry Finn – Mark Twain

3. The Satan­ic Vers­es – Salman Rushdie

4. McTeague – Frank Nor­ris

5. Lord of the Flies – William Gold­ing

6. Bleak House – Charles Dick­ens

7. 1984 – George Orwell

8. The Raj Quar­tet – Paul Scott

9. Light in August – William Faulkn­er

10. Blood Merid­i­an – Cor­mac McCarthy

King, it seems, prefers books that explore basic defects in the human char­ac­ter to spooky tales of fan­ta­sy. In oth­er words, he’s inter­est­ed in sto­ries that are actu­al­ly ter­ri­fy­ing. Orwell’s por­trait of a man break­ing under the pres­sure of total­i­tar­i­an­ism or William Golding’s para­ble about a group of boys devolv­ing into beasts are down­right trou­bling. Frank Norris’s saga about the men­da­cious McTeague isn’t exact­ly com­fort­ing either. And McCarthy’s grim and spec­tac­u­lar­ly vio­lent mas­ter­piece Blood Merid­i­an might make you crawl into a fetal posi­tion and weep for human­i­ty. (That was my reac­tion, any­way.)

The most strik­ing thing about the list, how­ev­er, is how uni­form­ly high­brow it is. All books would fit right in on the syl­labus of an upper lev­el Eng­lish col­lege course. On the oth­er hand, David Fos­ter Wal­lace, when asked for his top ten, filled his list with such mass mar­ket crowd pleasers as The Silence of the Lambs by Thomas Har­ris, The Sum of All Fears by Tom Clan­cy and, at num­ber two, King’s The Stand.

If you would like to sign up for Open Culture’s free email newslet­ter, please find it here. It’s a great way to see our new posts, all bun­dled in one email, each day.

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!

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2014.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Stephen King Rec­om­mends 96 Books for Aspir­ing Writ­ers to Read

How Stephen King Pre­dict­ed the Rise of Trump in a 1979 Nov­el

Stephen King’s 20 Rules for Writ­ers

Stephen King Explains the Key to His Cre­ativ­i­ty: Not Los­ing the Dream-State Think­ing All Chil­dren Are Born With

Jonathan Crow is a Los Ange­les-based writer and film­mak­er whose work has appeared in Yahoo!, The Hol­ly­wood Reporter, and oth­er pub­li­ca­tions. You can fol­low him at @jonccrow. And check out his blog Veep­to­pus, fea­tur­ing lots of pic­tures of vice pres­i­dents with octo­pus­es on their heads.  The Veep­to­pus store is here.

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The Invisible Horror of The Shining: How Music Makes Stanley Kubrick’s Iconic Film Even More Terrifying

Inex­plic­a­ble as it may sound to read­ers of this site, there are movie-lovers who claim not to enjoy the work of Stan­ley Kubrick. But even his most stead­fast non-appre­ci­a­tors have to hand it to him for The Shin­ing, his 1980 Stephen King adap­ta­tion wide­ly con­sid­ered one of the scari­est — quite pos­si­bly the scari­est – film ever made. The visu­al rea­sons for its effec­tive­ness well beyond the core audi­ence of Kubrick enthu­si­asts are many, and they’ve been much scru­ti­nized by twen­ty-first-cen­tu­ry video essay­ists. But as explained in the Kap­tain Kris­t­ian video above, a sig­nif­i­cant por­tion of the hor­ror of The Shin­ing is invis­i­ble. That is, we don’t see it, but hear it; or rather, what we hear great­ly inten­si­fies what we see.

One tech­nique pow­er­ful­ly employed in the film has the incon­gru­ous name of “Mick­ey Mou­s­ing.” Named after the man­ner in which clas­sic car­toons were scored in tight syn­chrony with the move­ments of their char­ac­ters, it had fall­en into dis­use by the nine­teen-sev­en­ties, when a sub­tler cin­e­mat­ic style pre­vailed.

For The Shin­ing, Kubrick and musi­cal edi­tor Gor­don Stain­forth chose to revive it, assem­bling scenes to pieces of music like Béla Bartók’s “Music for Strings, Per­cus­sion and Celes­ta” so as to height­en not just shock moments, but also to deep­en the sense of dread that per­vades the movie from its open­ing moments. So tight does the cor­re­spon­dence feel between The Shin­ing’s music and its char­ac­ters’ actions that it comes as a sur­prise that most of the film was shot with­out what we hear on the sound­track play­ing on the set; some scenes weren’t even intend­ed to have music at all before edit­ing.

Stain­forth has said that the over­all idea was to use “music as fate”: for exam­ple, the “big chords” that accom­pa­ny the title cards announc­ing the day of the week, which por­tend “a dooms­day of judg­ment com­ing ever clos­er.” When next you watch The Shin­ing, pay atten­tion to the cues, and notice just how close­ly they’re asso­ci­at­ed in your mem­o­ry with — and how much more fright­en­ing they’re made by — their accom­pa­ny­ing images: Jack danc­ing through the ball­room filled with jazz-age ghosts, Dan­ny turn­ing a cor­ner and see­ing the pal­lid twins, the blood flow­ing out of the ele­va­tor, Wendy lock­ing eyes with the man in the bear suit. But then, I sus­pect that last one would be scary no mat­ter what was on the sound­track.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Free Doc­u­men­tary View from the Over­look: Craft­ing The Shin­ing Looks at How Kubrick Made “the World’s Scari­est Movie”

How Stan­ley Kubrick Adapt­ed Stephen King’s The Shin­ing into a Cin­e­mat­ic Mas­ter­piece

A Kubrick Schol­ar Dis­cov­ers an Eerie Detail in The Shin­ing That’s Gone Unno­ticed for More Than 40 Years

Stan­ley Kubrick’s Anno­tat­ed Copy of Stephen King’s The Shin­ing

Decod­ing the Screen­plays of The Shin­ing, Moon­rise King­dom & The Dark Knight: Watch Lessons from the Screen­play

The Clas­si­cal Music in Stan­ley Kubrick’s Films: Lis­ten to a Free Four-Hour Playlist

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

A Rabbit Rides a Chariot Pulled by Geese in an Ancient Roman Mosaic (2nd century AD)

If you head to the Lou­vre, make sure you vis­it the Mona Lisa, Venus de Milo, and Lib­er­ty Lead­ing the Peo­ple. But then swing by the Depart­ment of Greek, Etr­uscan, and Roman Antiq­ui­ties. There you might find (no guar­an­tee!) a Roman mosa­ic fea­tur­ing a rab­bit rid­ing a char­i­ot pulled by geese. Dis­cov­ered at Hadri­an’s vil­la in Tivoli, Italy, the mosa­ic dates back to the 2nd cen­tu­ry. About the mosa­ic, the His­to­ry Cool Kids writes:

This kind of humor­ous scene is an exam­ple of asária, a type of ancient visu­al joke where ani­mals behave like humans (anthro­po­mor­phism). Such mosaics were pop­u­lar in Roman domes­tic dec­o­ra­tion, often as floor or wall pan­els in vil­las and bath­hous­es.

This par­tic­u­lar mosa­ic is part of the Louvre’s exten­sive col­lec­tion of Greek, Etr­uscan, and Roman Antiq­ui­ties. It illus­trates how Roman artists loved play­ful or satir­i­cal imagery along­side more seri­ous mytho­log­i­cal and real­is­tic scenes. The rab­bit, a sym­bol often asso­ci­at­ed with fer­til­i­ty and speed, paired with the absur­di­ty of it dri­ving a char­i­ot of geese, reflects both Roman wit and their fond­ness for dec­o­ra­tive exu­ber­ance.

Some schol­ars believe the mosa­ic plays on a line in Ovid’s Meta­mor­phoses: “Cytherea [Aphrodite] was rid­ing in her dain­ty char­i­ot, winged by her swans, across the mid­dle air mak­ing for Cyprus, when she heard afar Ado­nis’ dying groans, and thith­er turned her snowy birds.” But it’s hard to know for sure.

via Messy Nessy

Relat­ed Con­tent 

Killer Rab­bits in Medieval Man­u­scripts: Why So Many Draw­ings in the Mar­gins Depict Bun­nies Going Bad

The Medieval Man­u­script That Fea­tures “Yoda”, Killer Snails, Sav­age Rab­bits & More: Dis­cov­er The Smith­field Dec­re­tals

How a Mosa­ic from Caligula’s Par­ty Boat Became a Cof­fee Table in a New York City Apart­ment 50 Years Ago

Archae­ol­o­gists Dis­cov­er a 2,000-Year-Old Roman Glass Bowl in Per­fect Con­di­tion

 

Paradise Lost Explained: How John Milton Wrote His Epic Religious Poem from Satan’s Perspective

Par­adise Lost is one of the books which the read­er admires and lays down, and for­gets to take up again,” Samuel John­son wrote in the late eigh­teenth cen­tu­ry. “None ever wished it longer than it is. Its perusal is a duty rather than a plea­sure. We read Mil­ton for instruc­tion, retire harassed and over­bur­dened, and look else­where for recre­ation; we desert our mas­ter, and seek for com­pan­ions.” These near­ly two and a half cen­turies lat­er, how many of us attempt to seek out the instruc­tion of Mil­ton in the first place? What was a lit­er­ary hit in 1667 has become a work read most­ly by spe­cial­ist schol­ars — but will, per­haps, become a favorite among view­ers of the YouTube chan­nel Hochela­ga thanks to its new video above.

The first thing to know about Mil­ton’s epic poem, says Hochela­ga host Tom­mie Trelawny, is that it “tells the sto­ry of the Bib­li­cal fall of man — but, curi­ous­ly, from Satan’s per­spec­tive.” Even if it’s nev­er occurred to you to set eyes on Par­adise Lost, you’ve almost cer­tain­ly heard one of Satan’s most mem­o­rable dec­la­ra­tions: “Bet­ter to reign in Hell, then serve in Heav’n.”

There’s a decent chance you’ve also run across anoth­er, “The mind is its own place, and in it self. Can make a Heav’n of Hell, a Hell of Heav’n,” per­haps with­out know­ing which char­ac­ter speaks it. But if you hear enough of his quotable quotes, you might start to think that this Satan fel­low makes some good points after all.

Par­adise Lost had a sim­i­lar effect on some of its God-fear­ing ear­ly read­ers, who sus­pi­cious­ly start­ed to won­der whose side Mil­ton was real­ly on. What the poem seems to glo­ri­fy, when read today, isn’t Satan, and it’s not even so much God or man as lan­guage itself. Now as then, Mil­ton’s baroque gram­mar and heav­i­ly Lati­nate vocab­u­lary con­sti­tut­ed a good por­tion of both the work’s chal­lenge and its appeal. Equal­ly notable is his obvi­ous con­vic­tion that lan­guage is up to the task of address­ing the most fun­da­men­tal truths, ques­tions, and con­tra­dic­tions of exis­tence. Satan may not emerge vic­to­ri­ous — and cer­tain­ly does­n’t at the end of the sequel, Par­adise Regained — but if he hap­pens to have the best lines, that just reflects our greater, and thor­ough­ly human, fas­ci­na­tion with the bad guys more than the good ones.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Only Sur­viv­ing Man­u­script of John Milton’s Par­adise Lost Gets Pub­lished in Book Form for the First Time

William Blake’s Hal­lu­ci­na­to­ry Illus­tra­tions of John Milton’s Par­adise Lost

John Milton’s Hand Anno­tat­ed Copy of Shakespeare’s First Folio: A New Dis­cov­ery by a Cam­bridge Schol­ar

Spenser and Mil­ton (Free Course)

A Sur­vival Guide to the Bib­li­cal Apoc­a­lypse

Did the Tow­er of Babel Actu­al­ly Exist?: A Look at the Archae­o­log­i­cal Evi­dence

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Watch Animated Sheet Music for Miles Davis’ “So What,” Coltrane’s “Giant Steps,” and Charlie Parker’s “Confirmation”

Miles Davis’ Kind of Blue changed jazz. It changed music, peri­od. So I take it very seri­ous­ly. But when I see the ani­mat­ed sheet music of the first cut, “So What,” I can’t help but think of Charles Schulz’s Peanuts car­toons, and their Vince Guaral­di com­po­si­tions. I mean no offense to Miles. His modal jazz swings, and it’s fun, as fun to lis­ten to as it is to watch in ris­ing and falling arpeg­gios. The YouTube uploader, Dan Cohen, gives us this on his chan­nel Ani­mat­ed Sheet Music, with apolo­gies to Jim­my Cobb for the lack of drum nota­tion.

Also from Cohen’s chan­nel, we have Char­lie Parker’s music ani­mat­ed. Nev­er one to keep up with his admin, Park­er left his estate unable to recu­per­ate roy­al­ties from com­po­si­tions like “Con­fir­ma­tion” (above).

Nonethe­less, every­one knows it’s Bird’s tune, and to see it ani­mat­ed above is to see Park­er dance a very dif­fer­ent step than Miles’ post-bop cool, one filled with com­plex melod­ic para­graphs instead of chordal phras­es.

And above, we have John Coltrane’s mas­sive “Giant Steps,” with its rapid-fire bursts of quar­ter notes, inter­rupt­ed by half-note asides. Coltrane’s icon­ic 1960 com­po­si­tion dis­plays what Ira Gitler called in a 1958 Down­beat piece, “sheets of sound.” Gitler has said the image he had in his head was of “bolts of cloth undu­lat­ing as they unfurled,” but he might just as well have thought of sheets of rain, so mul­ti­tudi­nous and heavy is Coltrane’s melod­ic attack.

See Cohen’s Ani­mat­ed Sheet Music chan­nel for two more Char­lie Park­er pieces, “Au Pri­vave” and “Bloom­di­do.”

If you would like to sign up for Open Culture’s free email newslet­ter, please find it here. It’s a great way to see our new posts, all bun­dled in one email, each day.

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!

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2013.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Miles Davis Plays Music from Kind of Blue Live in 1959, Intro­duc­ing a Com­plete­ly New Style of Jazz

Char­lie Park­er Plays with Dizzy Gille­spie in the Only Footage Cap­tur­ing the “Bird” in True Live Per­for­mance

Behold John Coltrane’s Hand­writ­ten Out­line for His Mas­ter­piece A Love Supreme

Char­lie Park­er Plays with Dizzy Gille­spie in the Only Footage Cap­tur­ing the “Bird” in True Live Per­for­mance

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

J. R. R. Tolkien Reads from The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings & Other Works

If you want­ed to hear the voice of your favorite writer in the nine­teen-six­ties — a time before audio­books, let alone pod­casts — you con­sult­ed the cat­a­log of Caed­mon Records. That label spe­cial­ized in LPs of lit­er­ary emi­nences read­ing their own work. This may or may not be the kind of com­pa­ny in which you’d expect to find a writer of high fan­ta­sy like J. R. R. Tolkien. But in 1967, just as The Lord of the Rings was enjoy­ing a burst of coun­ter­cul­ture-dri­ven pop­u­lar­i­ty, the label put out the album Poems and Songs of Mid­dle-Earth, which you can sam­ple above.

Tolkien’s voice had been put on a com­mer­cial record just once before, in 1930, years before he’d pub­lished even The Hob­bit. That was for a series of Eng­lish lessons by Arthur Lloyd James, the ill-fat­ed pho­neti­cian who pio­neered stan­dards of pro­nun­ci­a­tion in broad­cast­ing. Tolkien had already estab­lished him­self at Oxford as a philol­o­gist, which may have had some­thing to do with his selec­tion to par­tic­i­pate in such a project.

Not that Tolkien him­self sound­ed quite like the ide­al BBC announc­er, but then, the vast read­er­ship he would lat­er accrue with his nov­els would­n’t have want­ed him to — and indeed, they’d thrill par­tic­u­lar­ly to the record­ings he would make not in Eng­lish at all, but in Quenya and Sin­darin, two Elvish lan­guages of his own inven­tion. The album’s sec­ond side is tak­en up by The Road Goes Ever On, a song cycle adapt­ed from Tolkien’s poems of Mid­dle-Earth by pro­lif­ic com­pos­er and per­former Don­ald Swann.

Lat­er, in the sev­en­ties, the now defunct label would assem­ble the mate­r­i­al for two more releas­es fea­tur­ing the author’s voice and the author’s voice alone, one with selec­tions from The Hob­bit and The Fel­low­ship of the Ring and anoth­er with selec­tions from The Two Tow­ers and The Return of The King. By that time, there was a large and recep­tive mar­ket for such prod­uct. “I pre­sume that most peo­ple who buy this record will already have read Pro­fes­sor Tolkien’s tetral­o­gy,” say the lin­er notes for Poems and Songs of Mid­dle-Earth, describ­ing that tetral­o­gy as “a work that will either total­ly enthrall you or leave you stone cold, and, whichev­er your response, noth­ing and nobody will ever change it.” The writer adds that, “as a mem­ber of the enchant­ed par­ty, I have found by expe­ri­ence that it is quite use­less to argue with the uncon­vert­ed.” His name: W. H. Auden.

Relat­ed con­tent:

J. R. R. Tolkien, Using a Tape Recorder for the First Time, Reads from The Hob­bit for 30 Min­utes (1952)

J. R. R. Tolkien Writes & Speaks in Elvish, a Lan­guage He Invent­ed for The Lord of the Rings

Hear J.R.R. Tolkien Read from The Lord of the Rings and The Hob­bit in Vin­tage Record­ings from the Ear­ly 1950s

When J. R. R. Tolkien Worked for the Oxford Eng­lish Dic­tio­nary and “Learned More … Than Any Oth­er Equal Peri­od of My Life” (1919–1920)

110 Draw­ings and Paint­ings by J.R.R. Tolkien: Of Mid­dle-Earth and Beyond

J. R. R. Tolkien in His Own Words

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

The Genius Urban Design of Amsterdam: Canals, Dams & Leaning Houses

It’s com­mon to hear it said that some par­tic­u­lar city — usu­al­ly one of the Amer­i­can metrop­o­lis­es that sprang into exis­tence over the past cou­ple of cen­turies — “should­n’t exist.” And indeed, as urban plan­ner M. Nolan Gray writes in a recent blog post, “no city should exist.” On the scale of human his­to­ry, we’ve only just start­ed build­ing the things, and we don’t do so on pure instinct. “There isn’t sup­posed to be a city any­where. They exist because we will them into exis­tence.” And we often do so in unlike­ly con­texts: “Half of Boston was dredged up from the ocean. St. Louis only exists because we tamed the great­est riv­er on our con­ti­nent. Sup­ply­ing Philadel­phia with drink­ing water is an engi­neer­ing feat on the scale of the Los Ange­les Aque­duct.”

Out­side the Unit­ed States, we see the same con­di­tions sur­round­ing “the great­est cities ever built: Tokyo and St. Peters­burg required engi­neer­ing feats on the scale of any­thing seen in the US. Ams­ter­dam and Mex­i­co City were lit­er­al­ly built on top of water.” How that was man­aged in the par­tic­u­lar case of the Dutch cap­i­tal is explained in the new video from The Present Past at the top of the post, as well as in the OBF video below.

Ams­ter­dam’s most strik­ing fea­ture, its canals, were cre­at­ed not to look pic­turesque; in fact, as The Present Past host Jochem Boodt puts it, their con­struc­tion was “a mat­ter of life and death.” Too soft for farm­ing or home-build­ing, the swampy ground beneath the city on the riv­er Ams­tel had to be drained; when drained, it became sub­ject to floods, which neces­si­tat­ed build­ing dikes and a dam.

httv://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mo3llzKdAD0

That thir­teenth-cen­tu­ry engi­neer­ing project of damming the Ams­tel pro­tect­ed the city, and also gave it its name. The Ams­tel itself is, in fact, a huge canal, and the rapid expan­sion of the set­tle­ment around it neces­si­tat­ed dig­ging more and more aux­il­iary canals to assist with drainage, which defined the space for islands on which to build new dis­tricts (Venice-style, atop hun­dreds of thou­sands of poles dri­ven into the sea floor). As shown in the OBF video, this dis­tinc­tive urban struc­ture dic­tat­ed the shapes of the city’s hous­es, with their uni­ver­sal­ly nar­row façades and their depths reflect­ing the wealth of the fam­i­lies with­in. Now, four cen­turies after it took its cur­rent shape — and hav­ing sur­vived numer­ous crises inher­ent to its unusu­al sit­u­a­tion and form — the cen­ter of Ams­ter­dam is looked to as a paragon of urban plan­ning, some­times imi­tat­ed, but with­out sim­i­lar­ly “impos­si­ble” orig­i­nal con­di­tions, nev­er repli­cat­ed.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Why Dutch & Japan­ese Cities Are Insane­ly Well Designed (and Amer­i­can Cities Are Ter­ri­bly Designed)

The Bril­liant Engi­neer­ing That Made Venice: How a City Was Built on Water

New Web Site Show­cas­es 700,000 Arti­facts Dug Up from the Canals of Ams­ter­dam, Some Dat­ing Back to 4300 BC

Trav­el from Rot­ter­dam to Ams­ter­dam in 10 Min­utes by Boat: A 4K Time­lapse

Why Europe Has So Few Sky­scrap­ers

When the Dutch Tried to Live in Con­crete Spheres: An Intro­duc­tion to the Bol­wonin­gen in the Nether­lands

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Igor Stravinsky’s “Illegal” Arrangement of “The Star Spangled Banner” (1944)

In 1939, Igor Stravin­sky emi­grat­ed to the Unit­ed States, first arriv­ing in New York City, before set­tling in Cam­bridge, Mass­a­chu­setts, where he deliv­ered the Charles Eliot Nor­ton lec­tures at Har­vard dur­ing the 1939–40 aca­d­e­m­ic year. While liv­ing in Boston, the com­pos­er con­duct­ed the Boston Sym­pho­ny and, on one famous occa­sion, he decid­ed to con­duct his own arrange­ment of “The Star-Span­gled Ban­ner,” which he made out of a “desire to do my bit in these griev­ous times toward fos­ter­ing and pre­serv­ing the spir­it of patri­o­tism in this coun­try.” The date was Jan­u­ary 1944. And he was, of course, refer­ring to Amer­i­ca’s role in World War II.

As you might expect, Stravin­sky’s ver­sion of “The Star-Span­gled Ban­ner” was­n’t entire­ly con­ven­tion­al, see­ing that it added a dom­i­nant sev­enth chord to the arrange­ment. And the Boston police, not exact­ly an orga­ni­za­tion with avant-garde sen­si­bil­i­ties, issued Stravin­sky a warn­ing, claim­ing there was a law against tam­per­ing with the nation­al anthem. (They were mis­read­ing the statute.) Grudg­ing­ly, Stravin­sky pulled it from the bill.

You can hear Stravin­sky’s “Star-Span­gled Ban­ner” above, appar­ent­ly per­formed by the Lon­don Sym­pho­ny Orches­tra, and con­duct­ed by Michael Tilson Thomas. The YouTube video fea­tures an apoc­ryphal mugshot of Stravin­sky. Despite the mythol­o­gy cre­at­ed around this event, Stravin­sky was nev­er arrest­ed.

If you would like to sign up for Open Culture’s free email newslet­ter, please find it here. It’s a great way to see our new posts, all bun­dled in one email, each day.

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:

Hear The Rite of Spring Con­duct­ed by Igor Stravin­sky Him­self: A Vin­tage Record­ing from 1929

How Stravinsky’s The Rite of Spring Incit­ed a Riot? An Ani­mat­ed Intro­duc­tion

Igor Stravin­sky Appears on Amer­i­can Net­work TV & Tells Sto­ries About His Uncon­ven­tion­al Musi­cal Life (1957)

Watch 82-Year-Old Igor Stravin­sky Con­duct The Fire­bird, the Bal­let Mas­ter­piece That First Made Him Famous (1965)

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How Four Masters—Michelangelo, Donatello, Verrocchio & Bernini—Sculpted David

More than a few vis­i­tors to Flo­rence make a bee­line to the Gal­le­ria del­l’Ac­cad­e­mia, and once inside, to Michelan­gelo’s David, the most famous sculp­ture in the world. But how many of them, one won­ders, then take the time to view the three oth­er Davids in that city alone? At the Bargel­lo, just ten min­utes’ walk away, reside two more sculp­tures of the young man who would be king of Israel and Judah, both of them by Michelan­gelo’s fel­low Renais­sance mas­ter Donatel­lo. The less renowned, he made of mar­ble in the late four­teen-hun­dreds; the more renowned, of bronze in the four­teen-for­ties, is the sub­ject of the Smarthis­to­ry video at the top of the post.

“For a thou­sand years, the Chris­t­ian West had looked to the soul as the place to focus. The body was seen as the path to cor­rup­tion, and so it was not to be cel­e­brat­ed,” says the video’s host Steven Zuck­er. “What we’re see­ing here is a return to ancient Greece and Rome’s love of the body, its respect for the body.”

And to the Flo­ren­tines of the mid-fif­teenth cen­tu­ry, as co-host Beth Har­ris explains, this par­tic­u­lar body was­n’t just that of “King David from the Bible,” but that of their own repub­lic as well. See­ing them­selves as the David-like under­dog vic­to­ri­ous over the Goliath that was the Duke of Milan, “they felt blessed and cho­sen by God” as the “heirs of the ancient Roman Repub­lic.”

Whether or not most every­day cit­i­zens of the Flo­ren­tine Repub­lic felt that way, the bank­ing Medici fam­i­ly, who effec­tive­ly ran the place for cen­turies, sure­ly must have. Also at the Bargel­lo is anoth­er of the Davids they com­mis­sioned, sculpt­ed in bronze by Andrea del Ver­roc­chio in the four­teen-sev­en­ties. “Ver­roc­chio gives us a very self-assured young man,” says Har­ris, with the beau­ty to be expect­ed of a work of this genre, but also with a cer­tain degree of anti-clas­si­cist ado­les­cent awk­ward­ness. In that, the work con­trasts with Bernini’s, though both artists cre­at­ed a vic­to­ri­ous David, stand­ing over the head of Goliath. Michelan­ge­lo, of course, did things quite dif­fer­ent­ly thir­ty years lat­er, sculpt­ing a David out of mar­ble eter­nal­ly steel­ing him­self for the bat­tle, at just the moment when his colos­sal foe comes into view.

Donatel­lo, Ver­roc­chio, and Michelan­gelo’s Davids all date from the Renais­sance. The oth­er unig­nor­able sculp­ture in this tra­di­tion was cre­at­ed much lat­er, in the six­teen-twen­ties, and also far from Flo­rence. The David by Gian Loren­zo Berni­ni, who would become syn­ony­mous with the dra­mat­ic extrav­a­gance of sev­en­teenth-cen­tu­ry Rome, is “like a spring that’s about to unwind,” as Zuck­er puts it. Unlike when we behold Michelan­gelo’s con­tem­pla­tive ren­di­tion, Har­ris adds, “here, we’re emo­tion­al­ly, bod­i­ly involved,” not just because of the action pose, but also of the phys­i­cal effort evi­dent in the face. This was the Baroque era, when “the Catholic church is using art as a way to affirm and strength­en the faith of believ­ers.” Ideas about the pur­pose of art may have changed in the four cen­turies since, but that has­n’t stopped even the less­er-known Davids from receiv­ing a steady stream of impressed vis­i­tors.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Michelangelo’s David: The Fas­ci­nat­ing Sto­ry Behind the Renais­sance Mar­ble Cre­ation

Michelan­ge­lo Entered a Com­pe­ti­tion to Put a Miss­ing Arm Back on Lao­coön and His Sons — and Lost

How Michelangelo’s David Still Draws Admi­ra­tion and Con­tro­ver­sy Today

New Video Shows What May Be Michelangelo’s Lost & Now Found Bronze Sculp­tures

School Prin­ci­pal, Forced to Resign After Stu­dents Learn About Michelangelo’s “David,” Vis­its the Renais­sance Stat­ue in Flo­rence

3D Scans of 7,500 Famous Sculp­tures, Stat­ues & Art­works: Down­load & 3D Print Rodin’s Thinker, Michelangelo’s David & More

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.


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