That Beatles Song Cost WHAT?!? →
By AMOS BARSHAD l Grantland May 8, 2012
When you watched Don Draper drop the needle on The Beatles’ “Tomorrow Never Knows” during Sunday night’s episode of Mad Men, was your immediate reaction, “Holy crap, how much did that cost to license?” You were not alone. As you may recall, when Conan’s band played “Lovely Rita” on air during the last days of his Tonight Show run, a lot of people assumed it was a calculated budget-hit middle-finger to NBC. According to Questlove, who knows some stuff about playing walk-on music for late-night talk shows, the price tag for that blip of Beatles would be $500,000. He turned out to be wrong in that particular instance, because NBC had a blanket license with Apple Corps that made usage cheaper. But, obviously, getting The Beatles is never cheap. So what kind of cash are we talking about? Satiating inside-baseball curiosity, ArtsBeat dug around and got the numbers for Mad Men’s Beatles placement: For that bit of sitar magic, the show doled out a cool quarter of a million dollars. Nuts, right?
According to Matthew Weiner, this was the first time a master recording of a Beatles song has ever been used in a television show. (A rep from the band’s label couldn’t confirm that was true, although he did admit that usage was pretty rare.) Weiner told ArtsBeat, “It was always my feeling that the show lacked a certain authenticity because we never could have an actual master recording of the Beatles performing. Not just someone singing their song or a version of their song, but them, doing a song in the show. It always felt to me like a flaw. Because they are the band, probably, of the 20th century.” Bold declaration, Mr. Weiner. Fine Young Cannibals might have a thing or two to say about that!
Getting the track wasn’t as easy as dropping off suitcases and suitcases of cash, though. As Weiner explains, “I had to do a couple things that I don’t like doing, which is share my story line and share my pages … Asked what he would have done if Apple Corps had … said no, Mr. Weiner replied: “I don’t know. I would have changed the story.”
MCA, RIP
"The Horror In Music Comes From The Silence" - John Carpenter Interviewed →
In the world of horror and sci-fi cinema, few figures carry the prestige and cult status of John Carpenter. A proper cinematographic Renaissance man, Carpenter has been writing, producing, editing and directing films since his 1974 debut Dark Star. In 1978, he rocketed to global fame with the classic horror Halloween, which birthed the slasher genre whilst also setting the bar so high that none of the following copycats such as Friday The 13th could ever equal it. One of the highest-grossing films ever made, Halloween not only launched an indefatigable franchise (and one of the genre’s defining bad guys, Michael Myers), but it also featured a timeless score, composed and recorded by Carpenter himself. He has even appeared in numerous films as an actor.
After the huge success of Halloween, Carpenter would go on to direct classic sci-fi masterwork Escape From New York; the critically-lauded, but commercially unsuccessful, remake of horror/sci-fi classic The Thing; Stephen King adaptation Christine; the oddball comedy Big Trouble In Little China; such cult gems as Prince of Darkness, They Live and In The Mouth Of Madness; and more recent B-movie explorations like Vampires and Ghosts Of Mars.
With the exception of The Thing, each one featured an instantly-recognisable soundtrack composed by Carpenter himself.
If John Carpenter’s legendary status as a film director is indisputable, he has in recent years become cited as a major inspiration as a composer, with the current synth and noise underground, from Wolf Eyes alumni Nate Young (notably in Demons) and Mike Connelly to the likes of Hive Mind, Sun Araw and Oneohtrix Point Never, often referring to his scores in their own sonic explorations. Dark atmospheres, haunted effects and subtle drone textures have long been a staple of Carpenter’s musical oeuvre, and the magpie-like tendency of many modern synth wielders, in particular, was always bound to turn to him as they looked to create their own sonic landscapes.
It was in this capacity as a pioneering composer, particularly with synthesizers, that The Quietus spoke to John Carpenter about music and films.
First of all, can you tell us a little bit about how you got into making music? Your history as a groundbreaking filmmaker is well known, but what drew you to making music as well?
John Carpenter: I grew up with music. My father was a world class violinist, a college professor, composer and a session musician for recordings in Nashville, Tennessee. He tried to teach me the violin when I was eight. I had no talent. Then he pushed me into piano. I had middlebrow chops. Then I picked up the guitar when The Beatles crashed through in ‘64. I was drawn to their music, and to that of The Rolling Stones, Procol Harum, The Supremes and The Doors. From there, I went to the bass guitar. A small local Bowling Green, Kentucky, rock & roll band followed. We were called Kaleidoscope, but never made any recordings.
What made you decide to start composing your own film scores? Was it out of financial necessity, or because you felt you could capture the atmosphere of your films better than someone else?
JC: I composed the score for my first film Dark Star because I was cheap and fast. I talked to a couple of other composers but they all seemed weird. One guy had glitter all over him. Not that wearing glitter is a bad thing… it just didn’t inspire confidence.
How do you set about creating a score for your films? Do you start with the visuals and then extrapolate the music from what you’ve shot, or is the process of making music for your films symbiotic with the shooting and editing of your films?
JC: For me scoring is all improvisational. After the movie is cut, I synch my synthesizer to the cut footage and just start playing. Mostly I play all the parts. Sometimes I get a line based on a sound I hear driving to work. Sometimes the tempo of the temp music track inspires me.
Can you explain what your equipment was when you started out, and how it has evolved over time?
JC: God, I don’t remember what gear I used in the beginning. For Assault On Precinct 13 and Halloween I worked with Dan Wyman. He taught synthesizers at USC and used old tube synths. He had to tune each one before I could play.
A lot of your earlier films were defined by their emphasis on electronic instruments. Can you tell us what drew you to electronic music?
JC: Simple. I could sound big and powerful and I could play all the parts.
How long does it usually take you to compose and record a film score?
JC: It usually takes me a month or two these days to record a score. The score for Assault On Precinct 13 was finished in one day. Halloween took three days.
What do you think electronic instruments brought to your films, in terms of atmosphere?
JC: There’s something about synthesizer sounds that drives and underlines certain moods and tempos. When the electric guitar was invented suddenly there was rock & roll. Check out the scores for The Exorcist and Sorcerer from the 1970s. They still sound modern.
A lot of people think your film scores sound “simple”, in terms of composition, but the theme for Halloween, for example, is in 5/4 time, so far from it! Did you have full reign to experiment with your scores? How did you integrate such explorations with the need to emphasis the dramatic nature of a film score?
JC: Most of my scores are simple. I would differ with this assessment on Big Trouble In Little China and In The Mouth Of Madness which I think demonstrate more complexity. The secret of scoring music for movies is to unify images, movement and sounds. And, yes, I have full reign to explore…
How do you feel about the fact that the Halloween score has become one of the most recognisable in film history?
JC: I didn’t expect it, but I feel great about it.
I’ve heard that they’ve now invented light sensitive novelty devices for halloween, where the movement of people in front of the device causes it to play the theme from Halloween. Somehow, that manages to be both amusing and scary. Where do you think the horror element of the score comes from? It obviously doesn’t follow the Hammer style of horror music. In the same way that your films often suggest horror as much as they show it, how do you think a film score can be used to suggest horror rather than overtly demonstrate it?
JC: First of all, I loved the Hammer scores of James Bernard, one of my musical heroes. His Quatermass and X: The Unknown scores are the greatest. His secret? He used to sing the title of the movie and that became the main melodic line. [His theme for 1958’s The Horror Of Dracula is derived from the rhythm of shouting, ‘Dra-cu-laaaaaa!’, Ed] The horror (scary) element in movie scoring comes from mood over complexity. Also from silence.
When it came to electronic music, were you aware of other electronic musicians, especially those involved in film scores, such as Giorgio Moroder or Vangelis? What sort of interaction did you have with those guys?
JC: I was aware of electronic musicians but had no interaction with them. Maybe I was scarred by the glitter-covered musician I met earlier.
The score for Escape From New York appears to draw inspiration from the music of Debussy. Can you describe the importance of classical music in the way you approach your film scores?
JC: There is actually a Debussy composition (‘Engulfed Cathedral’) used in Escape From New York. It is credited in the end title roll. For some reason a few disgruntled folk claim that I stole it without attribution. I consider this a crime against humanity. Todd Ramsay, the editor on Escape From New York, used ‘Engulfed Cathedral’ on the temp track. It worked well with the scene.
Horror cinema has long been characterised by its music, from Bernard Hermann’s theme to Psycho to John Williams’ iconic Jaws score, via the murky sound effects on The Texas Chainsaw Massacre and The Exorcist’s use of Tubular Bells. How do you feel your own scores fit in that canon, and were you inspired by how other composers worked on film scores before composing the music to Halloween?
JC: I was hugely influenced by Bernard Hermann. His science fiction/horror scores were simple and welded to the images. Also Dimitri Tiompkin. His score for the original The Thing was fabulous.
The music on The Thing was notable in that you brought in Ennio Morricone to do the score, rather than do it yourself, yet at the same time he seemed to borrow much from what you had done on earlier films. Was his presence a studio imposition, or did you want to leave one part of the creative process to someone else for a change?
JC: I got to work with Ennio Morricone! His film scores are seminal. My God, who wouldn’t want to work with him? Ennio was a kind man, a gentleman, very wise and talented. He was a dream to work with.
Since the mid-eighties, you seem to have changed your approach, musically, shifting away from electronics towards a more prominent use of guitars. Can you take us through the thought process behind this change?
JC: I used guitars on Vampires and Ghosts Of Mars (there are a couple guitar lines in Escape From L.A. and In The Mouth Of Madness). I don’t really see it as a major change in that most of my work was still done with synths. On Ghosts Of Mars I used Joe Bishara as a sound designer on some of my stuff. He brought an electronic depth to my stuff.
Do you think you will return to a greater emphasis on electronics in the future?
JC: As I said, I never left electronics in the first place!
Your scores have been cited by a lot of modern synth/ noise/ underground bands as a huge influence. Are you aware of this? What do you think of the resurgence in interest in your scores, as well as those of Goblin or Vangelis? Is it a case of people catching on belatedly to the innovations you spear-headed?
JC: I’m flattered by this. But there are also tribute bands to the scores from Sonic the Hedgehog and Mega Man video games so I try to keep this stuff in perspective
In the early days, you were pretty much the sole driving force behind the music of your films, but recently you’ve been known to collaborate with guys like Jim Lang. What was the creative decision behind these collaborations?
JC: I’ve had many collaborations: Dan Wyman, Alan Howarth, Jim Lang, Dave Davies, Shirley Walker, Bruce Robb. I need help.
A number of your films have been remade recently, from Halloween to your remake of The Thing, via The Fog. How much involvement do you have with these projects? Do you think the current Hollywood emphasis on remakes betrays a lack of invention? Do you think it would be possible for a maverick such as yourself to make a name for yourself today in the way you did back in the seventies?
JC: The movie business has changed so much since I got in and I’m glad I got in when I did. But Hollywood has always remade and recycled older movies. The cost of making movies has risen tremendously. Studios look for what is closest to a sure thing.
Finally, what are your projects for the future? Can we expect a new John Carpenter film - and score - to hit our screens in the not-too-distant future?
JC: Future projects? A couple scripts in development (writing, raising money). Weekly jams with my son on my Logic Pro setup. Lots of NBA basketball watching. Enjoying this fabulous life that happened to me.
Friendzone - JD
Rammellzee on the Making of “Beat Bop” (previously unpublished interview, 1999) →
In December 1999, we visited Rammellzee at his Tribeca home/studio – an industrial loft space famously christened, the “Battle Station.” Our mission: to interview the legendary emcee/graffiti writer/artist/sculptor/philosopher-theorist about the making of “Beat Bop” – his classic 1983 collaborative single with fellow writer/emcee K-Rob and the song’s producer, street art icon, Jean-Michel Basquiat. Given its participants, “Beat Bop” is a recording with mystique virtually encoded in its DNA. Highly collectable in its elusive original Tartown Records’ incarnation thanks to Basquiat’s unmistakable work on its picture sleeve, the 10-minute masterpiece’s trippy, reverb-bathed post-punk funk – unforgettably punctuated by Rammel’s mutant nasal rhyme forays (or “gangster duck” style) – epitomized the experimental ethos of early ’80s downtown New York. A time when hip-hop’s dissemination from the Bronx across neighborhoods, train lines, boroughs and well beyond put the world on notice: shit was about to change in irrefutable ways.
We’d licensed “Beat Bop” for a compilation album we were in the process of putting together, ego trip’s The Big Playback (Rawkus, 2000). So our visit to the Battle Station – a feast for the senses that even the first-hand descriptions of frequent Station guest, and our visitation liason, Dave Tompkins, couldn’t adequately prepare us for – was predicated on celebrating the song. But Rammel kept it mad real with us, to say the least. Not only did he categorically dismiss “Beat Bop’s” artistic merits and eventual influence on acts like Cypress Hill and the Beastie Boys (though he’d grudgingly waver at different points in the conversation), but his memories of creating it were generally less than romantic. Equally thorny were his recollections of Basquiat – whom he relegated to the role of agent or puppet of “the light dwellers” (his term for privileged dictators of culture). Obviously, theirs was a more complicated relationship than we’d anticipated.
Of course, it was all completely fascinating. (“I feel like I’ve been to see the Fisher King,” a wide-eyed Brent Rollins mumbled afterwards as we dazedly walked out of Rammel’s and out onto Laight Street, the Holland Tunnel’s neighboring exit spitting out an endless flow of Jersey-fleeing vehicles.) Unfortunately, space limitations prevented us from using the interview for the liner notes to The Big Playback. The project ran its course, the interview tape eventually stowed away.
Time since has flown. The two-year anniversary of Rammellzee’s passing arrives this June. Currently on exhibit in NYC are his famed “Letter Racer” sculptures – the physical manifestation of his theory of Ikonoklastic Panzerism, in which the alphabet is re-envisioned as wheeled weapons in the war against expressive oppression. What better time than now to dig back into the vaults. Here, presented for the first time, is our Q&A with Rammellzee, as well as a few snapshots taken during our visit. Taken as a companion to pieces like “Eat a Planet and Go On To the Next One” – Tompkins’ fascinating, exceedingly thorough Rammellzee chapter from his book, How To Wreck a Nice Beach – we hope it provides another glimpse of insight into the history of one of hip-hop’s true originals. Rammellzee – RIP. Rock on.
What are your recollections about the whole process of making “Beat Bop”? How did you meet Jean-Michel Basquiat?
Rammellzee: Jean-Michel wanted to do a rap song because rap was coming into power at the time and that was one of the things besides writing on the trains that he didn’t know how to do. He didn’t know how to do wild style or a true burner like some of these things in here [points around room]. And I was brung into the city by Fab 5 Freddy to interrogate this guy.
And the basis of the interrogation was…?
Rammellzee: What he knew about art. Why was he in the power play position? And to tell him: you need to leave this shit alone and let the real troopers who did do something on the trains get past you and Keith Haring and let these fools know there’s an ikonoklastic war about to happen…
During the process of interrogation I had made a bet with him: I can do what you can do, you can’t do what I can do. He had brought three canvases, set ’em up and got me the paint in the basement of Annina Nosei’s gallery, which was his first gallery [exhibition in] like 1982. And in the basement he decided to let me paint these canvases, and Annina Nosei sold all three at his price. My prices where nowhere near his because he was going off and selling well. She came into the gallery and she told him, “I sold three of your best artworks.” I said, “Give me my money!” [laughs] “Now you gotta do what I do!” He never did what I could do. He switched from trying to do [burners and wild style] and went to do the song.
Was that resentment towards the likes of Basquiat and Haring pretty much a common thing amongst the writers who wrote on trains at the time?
Rammellzee: A lot of writers just didn’t appreciate that that graffiti was overtaking what we were doing – the burner or wild style – and the light dwellers just didn’t like that we came up with sophisticated explanations [for what we were doing]. When [the establishment] said “graffiti” – [they believed that] you can’t have a sophisticated explanation [for it]: “Don’t come up with any theorems, and please don’t outshine anybody we wanna maintain our lies with.” And that’s what Jean-Michel was – he was a maintainer of lies. Even in music. He lied, he didn’t do shit. But give the money [to make “Beat Bop”]. Lies. LIES. LIES! [laughs] I get to have some fun too…
So [when it came time to do “Beat Bop”] me and K-Rob came in there [to the studio]. [Basquiat] had a whole pamphlet of this stuff written about girls. And I said, “I’m not rhyming to this!” I put it down. He picked it up and gave it to me, so I crushed it and put it down! And I told K-Rob: “I’ma play pimp on the corner, you play little kid coming home from school.” And that’s how [the lyrics] worked, and that’s how it sounds: somebody walking home all sad and upset about how school treating him, bullies picking on him, drug dealers wanting to recruit him. And all of a sudden I started rhyming about what pimp style would be at the time. Jean-Michel had to sit down and rock in his chair and take it! [laughs]
K-Rob was somebody you knew from the writing world?
Rammellzee: We was all writers. K-Rob was from the Bronx up in Mitchell Projects and I was from Far Rockaway [Queens] coming in with A-1 and Dondi and Fab 5 Freddy and stuff.
What else do you recall about the actual session?
Rammellzee: [Basquiat] didn’t even make that beat, man. That was made by one of his friends [percussionist and fellow writer, Al Diaz]… some dude made the beat and was playing the bongos that day. I remember the bongos and a little bit of drums, and I heard some type of other instrument I still don’t know what it is. But [Basquiat] only put up the money. He only put up the money. [Basquiat] wanted to rhyme too. And when he went to go pick up the mic we all started laughing and he went back over there and sat down and started rocking [in his chair] again. That’s what pissed him off the most. That [what we were doing] was workin’. What were [K-Rob and I] there for, just to be sittin’ there listening to someone talkin’ a lot of shit while they not saying anything? I consider that to be a waste of my time.*
[* Al Diaz’s recollection, as interviewed by Dave Tompkins in How To Wreck a Nice Beach: “Jean was involved with the process… It wasn’t like he was just doing lines and writing checks… K-Rob was kind of on this good-boy trip. Saying, ‘Your mind can’t function,’ ‘Waiting at home for Mr. Right,’ and then Rammel’s going on about cocaine. It was some sinister shit. The session was fairly controlled. There was a lot of cocaine, but we were focused.”]
How was your relationship with Basquiat?
Rammellzee: The first year [the song] came out that’s when me and him got into a damn fight. He came into [art critic, Edit DeAk’s] house, where I was staying. And pulled out of his pocket $7,000, or it looked like it. It was a big fat roll of money. I said, “I’m not interested in money, I’m interested in science.” This motherfucker threw a punch and I caught that shit and kissed it and backhanded him right in his fuckin’ head. He got up the floor and wanted to fight. And the critic, Edit DeAk, had to stop this fool from coming after me. Because I was talking science and he didn’t wanna hear nothing about it.
We sit down with this fool [Basquiat] at a meeting. And we started talking about the record. The second that the critic starts talking [Basquiat] shuts up. He’s got nothin’ else to say. Why? Because Jean-Michel only wanted drugs, sex, and rock n’ roll. He didn’t have no science. He didn’t know what to talk to no critics and if he wanted to talk he didn’t have enough to say. When I talk everybody tells me to be quiet. [laughs] Do you know why? Because I have information that comes to you either from [science], or it’s from something that comes from other people – from my peer group. Whether it came down to rap music, hip-hop music – which is slightly different, or whether it comes to break dancing.
After the fight and everything like that then everybody tried to say I was his friend. Why did I get in a fight with my friend? You don’t wanna be around somebody that thinks they know it all because these fool light dwellers is giving you money. You know? Because that’s what they were. They were giving [Basquiat] a lot of money to keep a certain art-form that I considered to be graffiti, abstract painting. Where it deals with letters on the side, cross out this over there. That’s graffiti to me. Because what I do is the burner. An aerodynamic aeronautical system of the letter flying on a rolling page in a wind tunnel known as the transit system. And that’s all that happens. A letter moves backwards with its own wings, it gained the wheels off the bottom of the train. And the page became a car with a year number on it. And the gallery was rollin’. Nobody liked to hear that because it was too well put together. They want you to be abstract and sit there and say nothing. He told me to shut up all the time.
They still doin’ it today. My own girlfriend still tell me to shut up now. Don’t want me to say nothin’. Why? [laughs] What did I do wrong? I don’t know either.
Well, whether or not you yourself like the song it has influenced a lot of people.
Rammellzee: HOW?!?
People always point to how different lyrics from “Beat Bop” have been sampled by the Beastie Boys or Cypress Hill. Your style – how’d you call it?
Rammellzee: The gangster duck, Barshaw. This dude right here [Rammell points to one of his masks representing that character’s voice]. The purple duck right there with the teeth and the hat. That was the voice for [“Beat Bop”]. As I was making each one of these costumes I was developing characters. And they didn’t want you to do that either. They wanted you just to have a straight face. Wear the baggy clothes, or the tight leather clothes at the time. And talk either about girls or crime.
Well, I can do that. But you can’t just keep doing that because… Ramm, you’re developing your own mythology, here. You have to talk about [subjects] like what I talked about on the last record [I did] – about the horrors. And they simply didn’t understand. Lots of people didn’t understand that you could make masks and act out or portray something. When they’re coming up with this reference of gangsterism, you gotta show your face. Don’t wear a mask, what are you hiding? Well, I was hiding one personality to develop another personality or persona. And now I ended up with seventeen of ‘em.
Do you wear a mask while you are in the recording studio?
Rammellzee: No. People do know what I look like, but we try to keep it down to a minimum. The audience is who we don’t want to know. The people like ourselves – you guys can come meet me anytime you want.
But when you perform…
Rammellzee: It has to be with that on. And they don’t want you to do that. They want you to come out straight. And I said, I got horror written in my mind. I’m a come out there – like [when I performed] with Bambaataa – I wore [the costume of] Chaser the Eraser. He’s a maître d’ according to the mythology. So the rhymes [I was dropping] was talking about brain foods. Body parts. It’s still hip-hop oriented. It’s still rap as rap can possibly be. But you know they still want you to take it off. They want you to be normal – how you say… part of the populace. Commonality. And I’ve got other things to do besides be a part of the populace.
Freddie King - Going Down
“Going Down” is a stone-cold beast of a song that fits King’s stature: with hammering piano parts, two drummers, greasy guitar playing and roaring vocals, it’s so goddamn powerful, so massive.(via)
Mods (Sege Bozon, 2002) / Ost: The Unrelated Segments - It’s Gonna Rain, 1967
