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Today we celebrate a man who lit the sky on fire. We’re taking a stroll down a technicolor avenue, the kind that hums even when no one’s walking on it. Jimi Hendrix—a left-handed meteor who streaked across the night and left the rest of us blinking, wondering what just happened.
You know, some guitar players play notes. But Hendrix he summoned them. Like he kept a tiny thunderstorm tucked in his jacket pocket, and when he felt the mood hit, he just opened it up and let it roam free. Electricity never sounded so human. But you also listen to that record call “Blues” along with an acoustic guitar and it is like heaven on earth.
Jimi Hendrix came from Seattle and spent most of the time listening to all of it, Little Richard shouting from the mountaintop, Curtis Mayfield gliding like a paper kite, the bluesmen scraping stories from the bottom of the soul, and somehow he tossed it all into one pot and made it taste like something nobody had tried before.
They say every era has a sound. But some, well, they make a sound that becomes an era.
Hendrix walked into London like a spark looking for dynamite and history shows that he found it. English kids stared at him like he’d arrived from a more colorful planet, one where the gravity didn’t work quite the same, and the guitars bent themselves out of respect. And at Woodstock… well, if the U.S. ever had a single collective shiver, Hendrix played the soundtrack to it. Took an old anthem, stretched it, bent it, burned it, and offered it back to the country like a mirror. Not many people can turn a song into a sermon without saying a word.
Jimi Hendrix wasn’t here long, shooting stars never stay for breakfast, but he left enough voltage behind to keep the lights on for decades.
So here’s to the man who played the guitar like it had secrets, walked the world like it was a dream half-remembered, and reminded us that sometimes the loudest truth comes wrapped in feedback.
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I do not own this image. It is from Patent No. US000256265, available on the United States Patent and Trademark Office website (www.uspto.gov/), where the copyright information states that “most government-produced materials appearing on this website are not subject to copyright restrictions within the United States and are therefore in the public domain.” I am using this image to illustrate an educational article at BellaOnline (todayinhistory.bellaonline.com/).
Explosions. And not the kind you see in a movie theater. The kind that happen in a person’s soul.
Today we celebrate a woman who turned her heartbreak and her rage into color and sound and sculpture. Niki de Saint Phalle. Ever heard of her? If not, pull up a chair and I’ll tell you.
She was born in France, raised in New York. Grew up with money and manners, but none of it could keep her from the storm brewing inside. You see, she didn’t just make art, she fired it. Back in the early sixties, she’d take a rifle, load it up, and shoot at her paintings. Buckshot hitting plaster, cans of paint bleeding down the canvas. Each blast a confession, each drip a prayer. People thought she was out of her mind. Maybe she was, but sometimes that’s what it takes to make the world pay attention. They called those pieces the ‘Tirs,’ which means ‘shootings’ in French. She called them liberation. And I get that. Sometimes you’ve gotta destroy a thing to find out what it’s made of, but personally that part of her career ain’t something that attracts me at all. To me that’s just a show put together for the institutions, galleries and critics.
But de Saint Phalle wasn’t all fire and fury. She had a sense of humor, too, wild and cosmic. You might’ve seen her giant women, those Nanas, as she called them; big, round, joyful sculptures, painted like birthday cakes for the gods. They danced and twirled, took up space, filled the air with laughter.
She built gardens, too. Big ones. One of them out in Tuscany, The Tarot Garden. Statues you could walk inside, live inside. She even lived inside one herself, a mirrored tower shaped like a sphinx.
Niki de Saint Phalle died in 2002 from respiratory failure, thought to have been caused by fumes from the materials she used to create the Nanas and the Tarot Garden.
ink, watercolor on paper
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There’s this Irish-British painter whom we celebrate today, that’s Francis Bacon. No, not the guy who wrote about science and kings, not the Elizabethan fella. I mean the Bacon who painted flesh like it was made of smoke and nerves, the one who found God hiding in the splatter between a scream and a whisper.
Bacon used to say he painted the feeling of life, not the picture of it. He painted what was left after the mask fell off, what’s underneath when the lights go out and you can still hear your own blood humming.
I like to describe Bacon’s work as -fatalism in inhabiting matter that we cyclically dispose of one way or another- Now that’s a mouthful, but you know what it means? It means we’re all just travelers through our own flesh. Renting it for a while. Paying in time and tears. We are not dead yet we are becoming dead. They say Bacon studied the old masters such as Goya, Velázquez, Rembrandt. But he wasn’t imitating their ghosts. He was trying to outpaint the camera, beat the movie reel at its own game. Film freezes movement, but Bacon melted it. He made the still image move, not the way the eye sees, but the way the gut remembers. And maybe that’s what makes his world so close to ours.
Man thinks he’s in control steering the ship, driving the car, painting the picture. But the road keeps slipping, the hand keeps shaking. The body, it’s not permanent. It’s just a temporary address.
So, if you ever find yourself staring at one of those twisted faces, don’t look for the story. Look for the vibration. That’s where the truth is, in the tremble, in the blur, in the room that’s about to erupt.
That’s all art is; a way to make peace with the fact that we’re just matter, inhabiting itself,
getting ready to move on.
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Each week on our podcast, we mention at least one event in history which made a difference in the world
James Newell Osterberg, Jr., known professionally as Iggy Pop (born April 21, 1947) is an American singer-songwriter, musician, producer and actor. He was the vocalist of influential proto-punk band The Stooges, who reunited in 2003. In 2010, The Stooges were inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.
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Of course, Newtown Fire Station attribute his longevity to fire safety. Seems legit.
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#iggypop #enternetics #viralnetics #police #firefighter #onthisday #todayinhistory #thisdayinhistory #music #newtown #sydney fat.ly/26xwc
Today we celebrate a man who, like a lot of us, spent a good part of his life looking for the sound, the sound that defines him, the sound that cuts through the noise. Now, you might know him, or maybe you don’t. His name’s Don Cherry. Not the one who sits up there with his bright suits and louder opinions, but the one who took a cornet and made it sing, make it wail, make it speak in ways no one had heard before.
Don Cherry, the trumpeter who played with everyone from Ornette Coleman to Charlie Haden, the kind of guy who didn’t play by the rules, because, well, he was busy breaking them. You know, in the jazz world, they talk a lot about freedom, but Cherry took that freedom and wrapped it around him like a blanket, pulled it close, and made something entirely new. He wasn’t about following tradition, he was about redefining it. And you could hear that in every note he played.
Born in Oklahoma in 1936, Cherry’s early years were steeped in the sounds of the South, but it wasn’t long before he was drawn to New York City, where the jazz revolution was unfolding like a wild, unpredictable river. He wasn’t just a part of the scene he was shaping it. His sound was raw and expressive, a mix of delicate phrasing and fiery bursts that came together like a jazz firestorm. Some might’ve said he was too far out there. But that’s the thing about visionaries, sometimes they’re out there on the edge, where the air’s a little thin and the view’s a little blurry. And Don Cherry? He was living on the edge, and the edge was where the music was.
Now, let’s talk about those early days with Ornette Coleman, the saxophonist who didn’t play by the rules either, just tore them up and threw them away. Together, they made some of the most groundbreaking, boundary-pushing albums in the history of jazz. Free Jazz, the album, that’s where Cherry’s cornet roars alongside Coleman’s sax in a chaotic, beautiful dance. The whole thing sounds like a thunderstorm, different sounds, different voices, all crashing together, creating something brand new. But it wasn’t just about making noise. Don Cherry wasn’t a man who just shouted, he was a man who listened, too. His playing was full of space, full of breath, almost like he was waiting for the music to tell him where to go. It’s the kind of playing that makes you lean in, makes you wonder, ‘Where’s he gonna take me next?’ And that was the magic of Cherry. He had the courage to let the music guide him, and in doing so, he created sounds that no one had ever heard before.
As his career went on, Don Cherry wasn’t content to stay in the jazz world, though. He kept moving, kept evolving. He played with African musicians, explored world music, blended all kinds of traditions. You hear it in albums like Relativity, where jazz meets Indian music, and Brown Rice, which has this funky, cosmic vibe to it, like it’s got a foot in both the past and the future and you just like that you question yourself where you are.
Cherry’s sound was always looking ahead, pulling from different places, but never staying in one spot for too long. There’s a real spirit of adventure in his music. It’s the kind of sound that makes you feel like you’re on a journey, not just sitting in your living room. And that’s what he did, he invited you to go somewhere with him, somewhere you might not have ever thought to go on your own. That’s the beauty of art, when it takes you somewhere new.
But here’s the thing about Don Cherry, you could listen to him for hours, and the more you listened, the more you realized that this wasn’t just music. This was life talking. It was raw, it was honest, and it didn’t try to make you feel comfortable. It was uncomfortable in all the best ways, like life itself, the kind of music that challenges you, makes you question everything you thought you knew.
So here’s to Don Cherry. A musician who picked up that cornet and made it sing, scream, whisper, and shout. One that went looking for something different, and found it, who reminded us that the real magic in music happens when you let go, break the rules, and follow the sound wherever it leads you.
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On this day in Australian Aviation History, April 14, 1964. The Ansett-ANA Douglas DC-6B VH-INA experiences a major prop failure whilst taking off from Melbourne Essendon Airport. After the propeller blade broke away the out-of-balance propeller continued to rotate at takeoff power breaking some of the engine's mounting brackets. The entire engine had to be dislodged over Port Phillip Bay before an emergency landing could be made back at Essendon Airport. Needless to say the passengers bound for Adelaide were delayed somewhat by this event. Via AussieAirliners.
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#history #aviationhistory #ansett #douglasdc6 #crewlife #onthisday #todayinhistory #thisdayinhistory fat.ly/2Mqbs
Music for your mind, your heart, and whatever’s left rattling around in between. Today we’re gonna take a little trip across the landscape, to a place where the sand hums and the river runs deeper than memory. Today we celebrate Ali Farka Touré, the man who played the blues before the blues knew its own name.
Ali was born by the Niger River, in Mali, a place where the sun gets in your bones and the music comes up from the ground. People used to say he only picked up the guitar because he saw one in the hands of a traveling soldier. Guess that’s how it goes sometimes, fate comes walking by in a dusty uniform.
He played that guitar like it was talking back to him. Didn’t need no fancy chords, no twelve-bar map. Just one note, one line to stretch out, repeating, turning over itself like a snake shedding its skin. You could hear the river in his hands. You could hear a thousand years of stories, told around the fire, carried on the wind and when the record people heard him, they said, “This sounds like John Lee Hooker.” But Ali just smiled that slow Malian smile and said, “John Lee Hooker sounds like me.” And he wasn’t wrong. You follow the trail far enough, the Mississippi runs right back to the Niger. The blues didn’t start in a bar in Clarksdale, it started when somebody, somewhere, made the desert sing.
He wasn’t just a musician, he was a farmer, a mayor, a man who knew how to work the land and the people. Said he didn’t play for fame. Said music was a service, something you give back, like water from a well. That’s the kind of wisdom you don’t find on tour buses.
He played with Ry Cooder once, Talking Timbuktu, they called it. A record that sounds like two worlds shaking hands. Ali didn’t need much translation. His guitar spoke every language worth knowing.
So here’s to Ali Farka Touré: the desert bluesman, the farmer-philosopher, the man who showed us that the roots of the world’s music all meet somewhere underground.
You can’t own songs like that. You can only walk beside it for a while.
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Back in the day - there are numerous markers that mark the location of garrisons, at a time when the country was young.
I do not own this image. It is available for sharing on Wikipedia, and the file is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported license. I am using it in an article for BellaOnline (todayinhistory.bellaonline.com)
I do not own this image. It is provided for media use by the Lego Group (www.lego.com/en-us/AboutUs/), and I am using it in an article for BellaOnline (todayinhistory.bellaonline.com).
I do not own this image. It is provided for media use by the Lego Group (www.lego.com/en-us/AboutUs/), and I am using it in an article for BellaOnline (todayinhistory.bellaonline.com).
To honor the birthday of László József Bíró, who invented the first commercially successful ballpoint pen,
Kwanon took out his pen collection. The Camera constructed a time line from quills to fountain pens to today's modern ballpoint.
~Image from a 2016 Photo of the Day series: "A Dawn's Eye View: 366 Days Focusing on my 'Cameras'"
☼ #dawnseyeview366 #photooftheday #366days #photohumor #toycamera #minicamera #miniaturecamera #photographerslife #artistslife #kwanon #biro #ballpointpen #todayinhistory #fountainpen #quill #ink #inkbottle #pencollection #feather
Today, we are celebrating jazz. But not just any jazz. We celebrate a lady, a force, a piano virtuoso who played the music with fire in her belly and ice in her veins. You might not know her name, but she’s one of the most important voices in the history of the genre. Yes, I’m talking about Toshiko Akiyoshi. Now, don’t go running off thinking this is just some smooth jazz cocktail. No, we’re diving deep. Real deep.
Toshiko Akiyoshi was born in 1929 in the land of the rising sun, Akiyoshi grew up with the pulse of war-torn Japan in her bones. But it wasn’t the fighting spirit of the battlefield that called to her. It was the piano, the sounds of the night, the swing of the jazz. She took the music of the USA and made it her own, mixing it up with the rhythms and melodies of her homeland. You ever hear someone play jazz and you feel like you're floating, but your feet are still on the ground? Well, that’s Akiyoshi. Her compositions? They’re not just written down; they’re felt in the marrow. They have that blend of jazz freedom and precision, and oh heaven on earth, could she make that piano talk.
Toshiko’s story isn’t just about playing the keys. She broke ground for women in jazz like nobody else. See, the big bands, the ensembles, those weren’t places where ladies got the spotlight. But Akiyoshi, she wasn’t waiting for permission. She built her own band, the Toshiko Akiyoshi Jazz Orchestra, and if you haven’t heard her arrangements, well, it’s like hearing an orchestra in a storm, it’s wild, unpredictable, yet somehow everything’s in its place. Her music’s got tension, drama, it’s got heart and guts. She wasn’t just following the rules of jazz; she was making new ones.
Now, here’s the thing about Akiyoshi, she wasn’t just some great pianist. She was a composer. A thinker. She’d stretch out those melodies like a rubber band and snap them back with perfect timing. She played with the likes of Charlie Parker, Stan Getz, and all those cats, but she didn’t just stand in the shadow. She stood tall and said, ‘I got my own voice.’ And trust me, you hear it in her work. It’s bold, it’s unique, and it’s unmistakably hers. It’s the kind of sound that’ll knock you sideways and make you think twice about what you know about jazz. But it’s not just about the notes. It’s about the feeling she puts in there. Every performance, you could hear the jazz history, but you could also hear her struggles, her triumphs. Everywhere she went, Toshiko Akiyoshi left her mark. She didn’t just break barriers, she blew them up. And let me tell you, she’s still living proof that music has no boundaries.
So, if you’re sitting there thinking you know jazz, but you ain’t heard Toshiko yet? You’re missing out, my friend. Missing out big time. Toshiko Akiyoshi, 96 years today. Take it in, let it sink in, and see what you think. It’s jazz, but not like you’ve ever heard it.
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I do not own this image. It is provided for media use by the Lego Group (www.lego.com/en-us/AboutUs/), and I am using it in an article for BellaOnline (todayinhistory.bellaonline.com).
I do not own this image. It is provided for media use by the Lego Group (www.lego.com/en-us/AboutUs/), and I am using it in an article for BellaOnline (todayinhistory.bellaonline.com).
I do not own this image. It is provided for media use by the Lego Group (www.lego.com/en-us/AboutUs/), and I am using it in an article for BellaOnline (todayinhistory.bellaonline.com).