Though his movies may have benefited greatly from foreign audiences and backers, David Lynch was one of the most thoroughly American of all filmmakers. “Born Missoula, MT,” declared his Twitter bio, yet one never really associates him with a particular place in the United States (at least no extant one). From Montana, the Lynch family moved to Idaho, then Washington, then North Carolina, then Virginia. The timing of that last stint proved culturally fortuitous indeed: living in the city of Alexandria, the eighteen-year-old Lynch was close enough to the nation’s capital to attend the very first concert the Beatles played in North America, at the Washington Coliseum on February 11, 1964.
“I was into rock and roll music, mainly Elvis Presley.” Lynch recalls this unsurprising fact in the clip above (which would have been among the last interviews he gave before his death a year ago) from Beatles ’64, the Martin Scorsese-produced documentary on the Fab Four’s first U.S. tour.
“I didn’t have any idea how big this event was. And it was in a gigantic place where they had boxing matches. The Beatles were in the boxing ring. It was so loud, you can’t believe. Girls shuddering, crying, screaming their heart out. It was phenomenal.” That deafening crowd noise figures into most every account of the group’s Beatlemania-era shows — and played a decisive role in their permanent retreat into the studio a couple of years later.
Lynch surely would have understood the desire for artistic exploration and control that drove the Beatles’ concentration on making records. Even the sensibilities of his work and theirs had something in common, exhibiting as they both did the unlikely combination of popularity and experimentation. Somehow, David Lynch’s films and the Beatles’ albums could venture into bewildering obscurity and sentimental kitsch without losing coherence or critical respect. And dare one imagine that the experience of witnessing the American debut of what would become the most influential rock band of all time has given Lynch his appreciation — evident in his movies, but also his own recordings — for the power of music, which he calls “one of the most fantastic things”? Even if not, it must have been, well… surreal.
Based in Seoul, Colin Marshall writes and broadcasts on cities, language, and culture. He’s the author of the newsletterBooks on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Summarizing Korea) and Korean Newtro.Follow him on the social network formerly known as Twitter at @colinmarshall.
When the history books are written, we’ll remember the politicians, law firms, and CEOs who quickly bent the knee to Donald Trump. We’ll also remember the scant few American figures who refused to back down. Bruce Springsteen will be high on that short list.
Touring in Europe last summer, Springsteen warned his audience: “The America that I love, the America I have written about, that has been a beacon of hope and liberty for 250 years, is currently in the hands of a corrupt, incompetent and treasonous administration.” Those words seem particularly prescient given the chaos and violence now unfolding in Minnesota.
Following the shootings of Renee Good and Alex Pretti, Springsteen made his voice heard again—this time through music. Last week, he released the protest song “Streets of Minneapolis” and soon afterward traveled to Minnesota to perform the song live at a benefit concert arranged by Tom Morello. Speaking to the crowd, Springsteen said, “I wrote Streets of Minneapolis and recorded it the next day.” When he wondered if the song sounded too ‘soapboxy,’ he turned to Morello, and the Rage Against the Machine guitarist replied, “Bruce, nuance is wonderful, but sometimes you need to kick them in the teeth.” We’ll say amen to that.
After “Streets of Minneapolis,” Springsteen and Morello performed “The Ghost of Tom Joad.” Watch it above. The start of the show began with “Killing In The Name Of.” Catch it below.
As mentioned here last week, Scott Galloway argued that Americans have one way to reverse the violent overreach of the federal government: launch a one-month economic strike aimed at major tech and AI companies, with the goal of reducing America’s GDP and making the markets wobble. When the markets gyrated after “Liberation Day,” President Trump immediately rolled back many tariffs. Now, if Americans can flex their economic muscles in February, Galloway wagers the administration will rethink whether it wants to keep arresting journalists and letting masked ICE agents shoot civilians in the streets—with impunity.
Today, Galloway has launched a new website, Resist and Unsubscribe, that provides an action plan for a monthlong strike. In the “Ground Zero” section of the site, Galloway lists subscription services from America’s largest technology companies—Amazon, Meta, Google, Apple, Netflix, OpenAI, and Microsoft—and provides links that let users unsubscribe quickly. He also suggests holding off on buying new hardware and products from these companies (e.g. iPhones). If you use February to review your subscriptions and find ones to cut, you’ll clean up your personal finances. You’ll also get the attention of the major technology companies that account for one-third of the S&P 500. When the tech CEOs get “yippy,” so too will Trump.
In the “Blast Zone” section of Resist and Unsubscribe, Galloway lists consumer‑facing companies he has “identified as active enablers of ICE,” naming AT&T, Comcast, Lowe’s, Marriott, and Spotify among others. He explains how these companies support ICE and recommends specific services you can cancel or avoid. Scroll down the page to see these suggestions.
Visit Resist and Unsubscribe, find some services to cancel (it’s not a large sacrifice), and spread the word. You can also find more information about the Resist and Unsubscribe movement on Galloway’s blog, “No Mercy/No Malice.”
Granted access to a time machine, few of us would presumably opt first for the experience of skull surgery by the Incas. Yet our chances of survival would be better than if we underwent the same procedure 400 years later, at least if it took place on a Civil War battlefield. In both fifteenth-century Peru and the nineteenth-century United States, surgeons were performing a lot of trepanation, or removal of a portion of the skull. Since the Neolithic period, individuals had been trepanned for a variety of reasons, some of which now sound more medically compelling than others, but the Incan civilization took it to another level of frequency, and indeed sophistication.
Anyone with an interest in the history of technology would do well to study the Incas, who were remarkable in both what they developed and what they didn’t. Though there was no Incan alphabet, there was khipu, (or quipu), previously featured here on Open Culture, a system of record-keeping that used nothing but knotted cords.
The Incas may not have had wheeled vehicles or mechanical devices as we know them today, but they did have precision masonry, an extensive road system, advanced water management for agricultural and other uses, high-quality textiles, and plant-derived antiseptic — something more than a little useful if you also happen to be cutting a lot of holes in people’s skulls.
Studying the history of trepanation, neurologist David Kushner, along with bioarchaeologists John Verano and Anne Titelbaum, examined more than 600 Peruvian skulls dating from between 400 BC and the mid-sixteenth-century, which marked the end of the Incans’ 133-year-long run. As Science’s Lizzie Wade reports, the oldest evidence shows an unenviable 40% survival rate, but the surgical technique evolved over time: by the Inca era, the number rises to between 75% and 83%, as against 46% to 56% in Civil War military hospitals. Some Incan skulls even show signs of having undergone up to seven successful trepanations — or non-fatal ones, at any rate. Though that venerable form of surgery may no longer be practiced, modern neurosurgeons today use techniques based on the same principles. Should we find ourselves in need of their services, we’ll no doubt prefer to keep our distance from the time machine.
Based in Seoul, Colin Marshall writes and broadcasts on cities, language, and culture. He’s the author of the newsletterBooks on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Summarizing Korea) and Korean Newtro.Follow him on the social network formerly known as Twitter at @colinmarshall.
If there’s a silver lining to our tumultuous times, it’s that musicians are reviving the protest song, a tradition that has withered since the end of the Vietnam War. Credence Clearwater Revival’s “Fortunate Son,” Arlo Guthrie’s “Alice’s Restaurant,” Jimi Hendrix’s “Machine Gun”—these songs all took aim at the Johnson and Nixon administrations’ increasingly misguided war effort. But it was Neil Young who wrote the most damning protest song. When the Ohio National Guard shot and killed four studentsat Kent State in 1970, Young disappeared for a few hours and returned with the haunting lyrics of “Ohio.”
Tin soldiers and Nixon coming,
We’re finally on our own.
This summer I hear the drumming,
Four dead in Ohio.
Gotta get down to it
Soldiers are cutting us down
Should have been done long ago.
What if you knew her
And found her dead on the ground
How can you run when you know?
With his new song released this week, Bruce Springsteen picks up this thread. “Streets Of Minneapolis” documents the murder of civilians in Minnesota’s largest city. On January 7, ICE agent Jonathan Ross shot Renee Good repeatedly in the head, leaving the mother of three dead. On January 24, two federal agents fired at least 10 shots at Alex Pretti, killing the ICU nurse instantly. Days later, the identity of these murderers remains hidden—something that news organizations oddly don’t seem troubled by, almost as if we’re quietly accepting that we’re living in a police state. When was the last time American agents could wear masks before killing civilians, and then hide behind a veil of anonymity after? Yeah, that’s normal.
On social media, Springsteen wrote: “I wrote this song on Saturday, recorded it yesterday and released it to you today in response to the state terror being visited on the city of Minneapolis. It’s dedicated to the people of Minneapolis, our innocent immigrant neighbors and in memory of Alex Pretti and Renee Good.” You can read the lyrics below.
Through the winter’s ice and cold
Down Nicollet Avenue
A city aflame fought fire and ice
‘Neath an occupier’s boots
King Trump’s private army from the DHS
Guns belted to their coats
Came to Minneapolis to enforce the law
Or so their story goes
Against smoke and rubber bullets
By the dawn’s early light
Citizens stood for justice
Their voices ringing through the night
And there were bloody footprints
Where mercy should have stood
And two dead left to die on snow-filled streets
Alex Pretti and Renee Good
Oh our Minneapolis, I hear your voice
Singing through the bloody mist
We’ll take our stand for this land
And the stranger in our midst
Here in our home they killed and roamed
In the winter of ’26
We’ll remember the names of those who died
On the streets of Minneapolis
Trump’s federal thugs beat up on
His face and his chest
Then we heard the gunshots
And Alex Pretti lay in the snow, dead
Their claim was self defense, sir
Just don’t believe your eyes
It’s our blood and bones
And these whistles and phones
Against Miller and Noem’s dirty lies
Oh our Minneapolis, I hear your voice
Crying through the bloody mist
We’ll remember the names of those who died
On the streets of Minneapolis
Now they say they’re here to uphold the law
But they trample on our rights
If your skin is black or brown my friend
You can be questioned or deported on sight
In chants of ICE out now
Our city’s heart and soul persists
Through broken glass and bloody tears
On the streets of Minneapolis
Oh our Minneapolis, I hear your voice
Singing through the bloody mist
Here in our home they killed and roamed
In the winter of ’26
We’ll take our stand for this land
And the stranger in our midst
We’ll remember the names of those who died
On the streets of Minneapolis
We’ll remember the names of those who died
On the streets of Minneapolis
Having previously considered whether comedians are the philosophers of our time, we must now ask whether they, too, build upon the work of other philosophers. Few of today’s most prominent funny men and women live a philosophical life — or have cultivated the temperament necessary to live a philosophical life — more publicly than Jerry Seinfeld. This has been suggested by, among other things, a 2012 New York Times Magazine profile by Jonah Weiner. “Seinfeld will nurse a single joke for years, amending, abridging and reworking it incrementally, to get the thing just so,” writes Weiner. “It’s similar to calligraphy or samurai,” Seinfeld says. “I want to make cricket cages. You know those Japanese cricket cages? Tiny, with the doors? That’s it for me: solitude and precision, refining a tiny thing for the sake of it.”
Or, as Seinfeld puts it in the more recent interview above with podcaster Graham Bensiger, he wants to know what time it is, but he wants even more to take the watch apart in order to learn how it works. This has become his lifelong quest, in his professional arena of comedy and with his other obsessions as well.
Cultivating both his understanding and himself has entailed indulging his taste for difficult situations, or rather, challenges within what he calls the appropriate “bracket of struggle.” At this point in the journey, he’s found what could at first sound like a surprising guide: second-century Roman emperor MarcusAurelius, whose book the Meditations, along with Epictetus’ Enchiridion and the writings of Seneca the Younger, constitute the core texts of Stoicism.
To live Stoically in the Aurelian sense is to bear always in mind that, as Seinfeld puts it, “everything that you’re worried about is going to be gone like that. The people that are criticizing you, they’re going to be gone. You’re going to be gone. All this hand-wringing, worry, and concern over ‘How are people viewing me,’ ‘Someone said something bad about me’ — and you get so upset about it — is wasted time and energy.” In the view of Marcus Aurelius, “your only focus should be on getting better at what you’re doing. Focus on what you’re doing, get better at what you’re doing. Everything else is a complete waste of time.” It’s not hard to understand why such a worldview would appeal to the man Sarah Silverman, in the Times Magazine Profile, calls “the ultimate craftsman” among comedians.
In addition to the Meditations, Seinfeld also relies on the practice of actual meditation, which he credits with providing him both the physical and mental energy necessary to keep pursuing his goals into his seventies. “Meditation is like if I said to you, ‘I’m going to need you to get in the hot tub once a day, and just sit there for five minutes. Could you do that? That’s pretty easy. Meditation is even easier than that.” Exercise is the opposite, since it “takes more effort than anything,” but it’s become just as important a part of his life, the three keys to whose success he enumerates as follows: “Transcendental meditation, lift weights, espresso.” One likes to imagine that, had Marcus Aurelius installed a Marzocco up on Palatine Hill, he’d have enjoyed a few shots throughout the day too.
Based in Seoul, Colin Marshall writes and broadcasts on cities, language, and culture. He’s the author of the newsletterBooks on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Summarizing Korea) and Korean Newtro.Follow him on the social network formerly known as Twitter at @colinmarshall.
Gladys Mae West was born in rural Virginia in 1930, grew up working on a tobacco farm, and died earlier this month a celebrated mathematician whose work made possible the GPS technology most of us use each and every day. Hers was a distinctively American life, in more ways than one. Seeking an escape from the agricultural labor she’d already gotten to know all too well, she won a scholarship to Virginia State College by becoming her high school class valedictorian; after earning her bachelor’s and master’s degrees in mathematics, she taught for a time and then applied for a job at the naval base up in Dahlgren. She first distinguished herself there by verifying the accuracy of bombing tables with a hand calculator, and from there moved on up to the computer programming team.
This was the early nineteen-sixties, when programming a computer meant not coding, but laboriously feeding punch cards into an enormous mainframe. West and her colleagues used IBM’s first transistorized machine, the 7030 (or “Stretch”), which was for a few years the fastest computer in the world.
It cost an equivalent of $81,860,000 in today’s dollars, but no other computer had the power to handle the project of calculating the precise shape of Earth as affected by gravity and the nature of the oceans. About a decade later, another team of government scientists made use of those very same calculations when putting together the model employed by the World Geodetic System, which GPS satellites still use today. Hence the tendency of celebratory obituaries to underscore the point that without West’s work, GPS wouldn’t be possible.
Nor do any of them neglect to point out the fact that West was black, one of just four such mathematicians working for the Navy at Dahlgren. Stories like hers have drawn much greater public interest since the success of Hidden Figures, the Hollywood adaptation of Margot Lee Shetterly’s book about the black female mathematicians at NASA during the Space Race. When that movie came out, in 2016, even West’s own children didn’t know the importance of the once-classified work she’d done. Only in 2018, when she provided that information on a biographical form she filled out for an event hosted by her college sorority, did it become public. She thus spent the last years of her long life as a celebrity, sought out by academics and journalists eager to understand the contributions of another no-longer-hidden figure. But to their questions about her own GPS use, she reportedly answered that she preferred a good old-fashioned paper map.
Based in Seoul, Colin Marshall writes and broadcasts on cities, language, and culture. He’s the author of the newsletterBooks on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Summarizing Korea) and Korean Newtro.Follow him on the social network formerly known as Twitter at @colinmarshall.
In his 1935 essay, “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproducibility,” influential German-Jewish critic Walter Benjamin introduced the term “aura” to describe an authentic experience of art. Aura relates to the physical proximity between objects and their viewers. Its loss, Benjamin argued, was a distinctly 20th-century phenomenon caused by mass media’s imposition of distance between object and viewer, though it appears to bring art closer through a simulation of intimacy.
The essay makes for potent reading today. Mass media — which for Benjamin meant radio, photography, and film — turns us all into potential actors, critics, experts, he wrote, and takes art out of the realm of the sacred and into the realm of the spectacle. Yet it retains the pretense of ritual. We make offerings to cults of personality, expanded in our time to include influencers and revered and reviled billionaires and political figures who joust in the headlines like professional wrestlers, led around by the chief of all heels. As Benjamin writes:
The film responds to the shriveling of the aura with an artificial build-up of the “personality” outside the studio. The cult of the movie star, fostered by the money of the film industry, preserves not the unique aura of the person but the “spell of the personality,” the phony spell of a commodity.
Benjamin’s focus on the medium as not only expressive but constitutive of meaning has made his essay a staple on communications and media theory course syllabi, next to the work of Marshall McLuhan. Many readings tend to leave aside the politics of its epilogue, likely since “his remedy,” writes Martin Jay — “the politicization of art by Communism — was forgotten by all but his most militant Marxist interpreters,” and hardly seemed like much of a remedy during the Cold War, when Benjamin became more widely available in translation.
Benjamin’s own idiosyncratic politics aside, his essay anticipates a crisis of authorship and authority currently surfacing in the use of social media as a dominant form of political spectacle.
With the increasing extension of the press, which kept placing new political, religious, scientific, professional, and local organs before the readers, an increasing number of readers became writers—at first, occasional ones. It began with the daily press opening to its readers space for “letters to the editor.” And today there is hardly a gainfully employed European who could not, in principle, find an opportunity to publish somewhere or other comments on his work, grievances, documentary reports, or that sort of thing. Thus, the distinction between author and public is about to lose its basic character.
Benjamin’s analysis of conventional film, especially, leads him to conclude that its reception required so little of viewers that they easily become distracted. Everyone’s a critic, but “at the movies this position requires no attention. The public is an examiner, but an absent-minded one.” Passive consumption and habitual distraction do not make for considered, informed opinion or a healthy sense of proportion.
What Benjamin referred to (in translation) as mechanical reproducibility we might now just call The Internet (and the coteries of “things” it haunts poltergeist-like). Later theorists influenced by Benjamin foresaw our age of digital reproducibility doing away with the need for authentic objects, and real people, altogether. Benjamin himself might characterize a medium that can fully detach from the physical world and the material conditions of its users — a medium in which everyone gets a column, public photo gallery, and video production studio — as ideally suited to the aims of fascism.
Fascism attempts to organize the newly created proletarian masses without affecting the property structure which the masses strive to eliminate. Fascism sees its salvation in giving these masses not their right, but instead a chance to express themselves. The masses have a right to change property relations; Fascism seeks to give them an expression while preserving property. The logical result of Fascism is the introduction of aesthetics into political life.
The logical result of turning politics into spectacle for the sake of preserving inequality, writes Benjamin, is the romanticization of war and slaughter, glorified plainly in the Italian Futurist manifesto of Filippo Marinetti and the literary work of Nazi intellectuals like Ernst Jünger. Benjamin ends the essay with a discussion of how fascism aestheticizes politics to one end: the annihilation of aura by more permanent means.
Under the rise of fascism in Europe, Benjamin saw that human “self-alienation has reached such a degree that it can experience its own destruction as an aesthetic pleasure of the first order. This is the situation of politics which Fascism is rendering aesthetic.” Those who participate in this spectacle seek mass violence “to supply the artistic gratification of a sense perception that has been changed by technology.” Distracted and desensitized, they seek, that is, to compensate for profound disembodiment and the loss of meaningful, authentic experience.
If you’ve heard Run‑D.M.C.‘s Raising Hell, Rage Against the Machine’s self-titled debut, Johnny Cash’s American Recordings, or Adele’s 21, you’ve heard the work of Rick Rubin. Yet even if you’ve listened closely to every song on which he’s been credited as a producer over the past 45 years, you may have trouble pinning down what, exactly, the work of Rick Rubin is. Though his résumé includes such professional achievements as co-founding both Def Jam Recordings and American Recordings, as well as sharing the presidency of Columbia Records for a stretch, he’s become best known in recent years as a kind of barefoot sage of creativity.
Rubin has proven ready to dispense sometimes-cryptic wisdom in whatever contexts he finds himself, and in the twenty-twenties, that role naturally involves appearing on a lot of long-form interview podcasts.
For Rubin in particular, the publication of his book The Creative Act: A Way of Being constituted an incentive — or perhaps an excuse — to take a seat across from popular podcasters like Lex Fridman, Jay Shetty, and Andrew Huberman. Naturally, these conversations spend a good deal of time on questions of what it takes to create a work of art, great or otherwise, in music or whichever medium it may be.
One of the most surprising points to which Rubin returns again and again is that the best art is never made to please an audience. Instead of trying to anticipate the tastes of others, you must first satisfy yourself with your work. Think back to your first encounter with your very favorite albums, films, or books, and you’ll realize the truth of Rubin’s words. Even then, it must have felt like the musician, the director, or the author didn’t guess what you wanted, but worked to create something personally resonant that went on to resonate with you — and, perhaps, millions of others as well.
The factors involved in such an artistic connection are many and inscrutable, in Rubin’s telling, and attempts at their explanation tend to verge on the mystical. But they can’t be reduced to a formula that applies always and everywhere, which means that creators of all kinds have to go through experience after long experience of trial and error throughout their careers. For many, this can necessitate getting a day job, Rubin’s advocacy of which puts him at odds with another of the most famous music producer/gurus of all time. But then, there’s more than one way to get creative in this world.
Based in Seoul, Colin Marshall writes and broadcasts on cities, language, and culture. He’s the author of the newsletterBooks on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Summarizing Korea) and Korean Newtro.Follow him on the social network formerly known as Twitter at @colinmarshall.
During her lifetime, the medieval abbess Hildegard von Bingen (1098–1179) composed roughly 77 songs and hymns. She remains the earliest known woman composer in Western classical music and one of the most important composers of the High Middle Ages.
In her honor, a YouTuber who goes by Hildegard von Blingin’ has developed a penchant for making Bardcore music, “a pastiche genre that takes modern songs and makes them ‘old-timey’ with Medieval and Renaissance inspired instrumentation.” Most of the instrumentals feature a mix of virtual and real instruments, including the Celtic harp, Irish whistle, and recorder.
I thought that I heard thee laughing
I thought that I heard thee sing
I think I thought I saw thee try
That was but a dream
That was but a dream
That’s me in the corner
‘Tis I in the corner
‘Tis I in the firelight, losing my religion
If you need a short escape from reality, this will serve you well. Enjoy!
Above, Scott Galloway and Kara Swisher explain how everyday Americans can push back against government overreach—by focusing on the economic decisions they make each day. “Trump does not respond to outrage. He responds to markets,” says Galloway. Ergo, it’s time for an “economic strike,” a “short-term coordinated withdrawal from spending.” He continues: “if wealthy households took their spending down 10% and middle class and lower income households … took it down 5%, you would take GDP negative almost overnight.”
But he also gets more specific than that: “If you wanted the fastest blue line path … I believe if you could convince America, the entire economy now is built on AI… if you could convince a bunch of Americans to cancel their ChatGPT or OpenAI accounts and all of a sudden OpenAI had to announce that their subscriptions had fallen off a cliff, that would ripple into Nvidia. That would ripple into Microsoft. And these are the people that Trump cares about.”
He goes on to add: “If you could figure out a way to basically kick a small number of companies related to the tech economy that account for 40% of the S&P right now … if all of a sudden, if you took all of your money out of any JP Morgan–affiliated bank and transferred it to a local regional bank, if you cancelled all of your streaming media platforms, if you cancelled OpenAI and Anthropic and you said “I am not upgrading my Apple phone,” and there was a real movement that registered and they had to disclose it in their earnings calls — this would come to an end pronto.” CEOs would stop bending their knees and suddenly find their voice.
Every dollar we spend—or withhold—sends a signal to the market and to Trump. When enough people hold back, the power of the purse can do what courts and elected officials cannot. Trump reversed many tariffs after markets freaked out on ‘Liberation Day.’ What’s to say it wouldn’t work again?
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