Utterly interesting

There is a photograph taken in 1932 that many people now recognise, even if they’ve never heard its story. A woman in a tuxedo sits at a small table, her hair neatly cropped, a round monocle perched on her eye. She looks toward the camera with an expression that is relaxed, self assured and just amused enough to suggest she knows she is part of something quietly remarkable. This is Madame Armande, photographed by Brassaï inside Le Monocle, one of Paris’s earliest and most famous lesbian nightclubs. Between the 1920s and the late 1930s, Le Monocle stood as a symbol of freedom and belonging in Montparnasse. It was a space where women could dress as they pleased, dance with the partners they chose, and live outside the expectations of the time. Behind its modest entrance stood a world that shaped queer history long before such histories were widely recorded. This is the full story of Le Monocle its origins, its glamour, its wartime disappearance and the poignant attempt to revive it after 1945. Montparnasse and the Birth of a Subculture After the First World War ended in 1918, Paris slipped into the Années Folles, the Crazy Years. Montparnasse became the beating heart of this creative boom. The neighbourhood filled with artists, writers, dancers, sculptors and travellers drawn by rumours that Paris allowed freedoms unimaginable elsewhere. Within this mix, lesbian nightlife became increasingly visible. Bars such as Le Jockey, La Petite Chaumière and Le Bizarre attracted women who rejected the narrow roles society expected of them. But Le Monocle stood apart. It wasn’t a mixed venue with a lesbian corner. It was the  lesbian bar of Montparnasse, with a clientele, style and atmosphere entirely its own. Its signature accessory the monocle quickly became a symbol of androgynous chic. Patrons remembered it as “a wink made of glass”, a quiet code that signalled identity without needing explanation. The Founder, Lulu de Montparnasse Le Monocle was founded in the early 1920s by Lulu de Montparnasse, also known as Lulu Paul. She was described by contemporaries as charismatic, generous and fiercely loyal to her patrons. Though little written documentation survives about her early life, oral histories paint a vivid picture: she was a woman who understood community and guarded it. Lulu ran the club with her long time partner, known variously in sources but always remembered as a protective figure in her own right. Together they shaped Le Monocle into a place where women who lived differently could do so openly and safely. Located at 60 Boulevard Edgar Quinet, the club sat just beside the Montparnasse Cemetery. Its modest exterior gave no hint of what happened inside. Inside the Club A Night at Le Monocle Brassaï’s photographs and surviving accounts reveal a room filled with circular tables, low lighting and constant movement. Music ranged from jazz to musette to chanson. Women danced together freely. Tuxedos, cropped hair and tailored jackets were common. Others mixed masculine and feminine clothing in ways that felt daring and modern. A 1932 article in Paris Soir  described it as “a temple of tuxedos and laughter where the women dance until dawn”. Another visitor wrote of “the elegant monocled ladies who carry themselves with the confidence of cabaret kings”. Le Monocle attracted not only locals but curious artists, foreigners, and even travellers seeking the nightlife Montparnasse was famous for. The atmosphere was lively, stylish and welcoming yet discreet enough to protect its patrons in a time when living openly came with risks. Brassaï later reflected on photographing the club: “There was a harmony in the room. These women were not performing for me. They were living.” The War Years A Community Scattered The arrival of the Second World War changed the rhythm of Paris long before soldiers appeared on the streets. When France declared war on Germany in 1939, Montparnasse the quarter that had danced and smoked its way through the 1920s felt the mood shift immediately. Blackouts dimmed the skyline. Foreign artists quietly left the city. Even cafés that once stayed full until sunrise found themselves half empty. Regulars at Le Monocle later said this was the moment they sensed the old world slipping. The familiar faces still appeared each week, but the conversations grew hushed, the evenings shorter, and the atmosphere tinged with unease. Everything changed in 1940 when German troops entered Paris. Occupation introduced strict moral policing, and venues known for “abnormal” or “degenerate” culture were quickly targeted. Le Monocle attempted to keep operating for a short time in a subdued form, but by late 1940 or early 1941 it had been forced to close. Lulu de Montparnasse, unwavering and composed, was questioned twice by police. Formal records have not survived, but later accounts describe the tone of these interrogations: patronising, moralising and meant to intimidate. One former visitor recalled, “Lulu kept her dignity. She told them, ‘I run a respectable house.’ But of course they closed it.” With the club gone, the community was scattered. Yet Lulu and her partner stayed in Paris, becoming informal anchors for former patrons. Their apartment served as a quiet meeting point. Several accounts note that Lulu helped friends find safer places to stay, especially those who were Jewish or politically vulnerable. A recurring rumour in memoirs claims she hid a Jewish couple in 1942. There is no official documentation confirming this, but the story persisted because it fit the woman people knew: discreet, loyal and courageous. Violette Morris A Controversial Figure on the Edges of Le Monocle No portrait of queer Montparnasse in the 1920s and 1930s feels complete without acknowledging Violette Morris, the French athlete whose life continues to fascinate historians. Although not a central Monocle insider in the way Lulu’s immediate circle were, Morris moved through the same networks and was well known in the city’s lesbian nightlife. Her appearance tall, muscular, sharply dressed in tailored suits made her instantly recognisable in venues such as Le Monocle, Le Jockey, and various Montmartre bars. Violette Morris Morris had already gained national attention long before she set foot in Paris nightlife. A celebrated multi sport athlete, she competed in boxing, wrestling, swimming, shot put and cycling, and often refused to conform to gender expectations. Her decision to wear trousers in public and drive racing cars was widely discussed in newspapers, not always positively. When the Fédération Française Sportive Féminine refused to renew her licence in 1928, citing her masculine style and “manners deemed incompatible with femininity”, Morris became a symbol of gender nonconformity long before the term existed in its modern sense. Her connection to Le Monocle rests largely in her visibility. She was a striking figure, and patrons later recalled spotting her at the club on several occasions sitting at a table, cigarette in hand, wearing impeccably cut jackets. Her presence reinforced the aesthetic that made Le Monocle famous: bold, androgynous, unapologetic. Yet Morris’s story took a darker turn. In the late 1930s she became increasingly associated with far right politics and eventually collaborated with German intelligence during the occupation. She was killed by the French Resistance in 1944. For many of her contemporaries, including women who had once admired her confidence and athleticism, her political choices created a painful divide. The war took its toll on Le Monocle’s regulars. Madame Armande, the monocled woman in Brassaï’s iconic portrait, survived the occupation and reappeared in Montparnasse cafés after liberation. A group called les filles du jeudi  (the Thursday girls) dispersed entirely. One member was arrested for resistance activity in 1943 and survived deportation. A well known tuxedo wearing patron known as Nana disappears from all surviving records after 1942. Her fate is unknown. Yet queer social life did not die. It simply retreated into private spaces. Former patrons hosted dinners in darkened flats, met quietly in sympathetic cafés, or gathered after hours behind shop shutters. These gatherings lacked the glamour of the old nightclub, but they kept the community alive. After the liberation in 1944, some women returned to Boulevard Edgar Quinet hoping to find the place where they had once danced with such joy. They found an empty shell. The fittings were gone. The atmosphere had evaporated. One recalled, “I went back in 1945. The room was empty. It felt like the laugh of the past had turned to dust.” The entrance to Le Monocle as it is today. A Brief Second Life The Postwar Reopening Despite everything, Lulu was not ready to let the club vanish entirely. Around 1946, she reopened a new version of Le Monocle. It was smaller, quieter and more intimate, attracting mostly older patrons who had survived the war and wanted to reconnect. The monocle and tuxedo aesthetic felt old fashioned to younger women influenced by jazz clubs and Left Bank cafés, but there was warmth in the postwar Monocle, a sense of reunion and remembrance. A visitor from this period recalled, “It was like visiting an old friend. You loved her because you had loved her once.” By 1949, the club faded from the nightlife scene. Paris had changed, and so had its communities. Lulu eventually stepped away from running venues but remained a respected figure among those who remembered the old Montparnasse. Sources Brassaï The Secret Paris of the 30s  (Thames & Hudson, ISBN 9780500271909) Brassaï Paris by Night  (Flammarion, ISBN 9782080304743) Florence Tamagne Histoire de l’homosexualité en Europe, 1919–1945  (Fayard, ISBN 9782213607289) Shari Benstock Women of the Left Bank  (University of Texas Press, ISBN 9780292704777) BnF Gallica Periodical Holdings ( Paris Soir , Le Crapouillot ) Institut national d’histoire de l’art – Fonds Brassaï Musée Carnavalet – Photographie Médiathèque de l’architecture et du patrimoine – Fonds Roger Schall Archives de Paris – Series D4R Archives Nationales – Series AJ/38 Vingtième Siècle (Tamagne, 2002) French Historical Studies (Walton, 1996) Musical Quarterly (Fulcher, 1992)

Long before he entered the White House, Ronald Reagan had been building a personal archive of jokes, quotations, anecdotes, and 'zingers'. By the time he became president in 1981, he had amassed thousands of them, neatly handwritten on small cards that lived in shoeboxes, folders, and desk drawers. "Nothing like a vote in the U.N. to tell you who your friends used to be." Reagan often said he collected them because he had a “terrible memory”, but friends suspected he simply loved the rhythm of a good line. During his Hollywood years, he scribbled ideas between takes. While touring factories as a spokesman for General Electric in the 1950s, he slipped nuggets of humour into speeches to lift the mood. If he found a line that worked, it went straight onto a card. One aide later joked that Reagan “carried quotes the way other men carry mints”. He organised them by theme. There were cards for taxes, communism, the economy, ageing, even government bureaucracy. If a joke landed well, it stayed. If it flopped, it quietly vanished from rotation. "Don't say he's old, but every time there's a knock on the door he yells 'Everybody hide, it's Indians!'" "Never start an argument with a woman when she's tired -- or when she's rested." "I won't say he should be put in a mental institution, but if he was in one, don't think I'd let him out." "Room bugged? Every time I sneezed the chandelier said, 'Gesundheit!'" Some of the lines became famous. His favourite quip about government went on a card labelled simply “GOV”: “The nine most terrifying words in the English language are: I’m from the government and I’m here to help.” "Most people would be glad to mind their own business if the government would give it back." "Campaign poster should read: 'Caution: Voting for this man may be hazardous to your health, wealth & welfare.'" "The art of politics is making people like you, no matter what it costs them." "People who think a tax boost will cure inflation are the same ones who believe another drink will cure a hangover." Others were borrowed from old vaudeville performers or American humourists. Reagan never hid this. He often introduced them with “As someone once said” or “I read this the other day”. Researchers at the Reagan Presidential Library, which now holds most of the cards, have noted how much they reveal about his thinking. Many entries were not jokes at all but moral reminders. Snippets from Lincoln, Churchill, Seneca, Mark Twain, and Dorothy Parker sit next to punchlines about inflation and Soviet bureaucracy. It is a curious mixture of philosophy and shtick, reflecting a politician who understood how a well placed line could soften a room before a harder message followed. "Elderly motorist going down a one-way street. The cop asked, 'Do you know where's you're going?' 'No,' the old fellow admitted, 'but I must be late because everyone else is coming back!'" "Congress' biggest job: How to get money from the taxpayer without disturbing the voter." "Three ways to get something done: Do it yourself; hire someone to do it; or forbid your kids to do it." "Costrophobia: The fear of rising prices." "Today's kids are studying in History what we studied in Current Events." One staffer recalled Reagan polishing lines on flights: “He would take a card out, read it, smile to himself, then put it back again. It was like watching someone tune a guitar.” "Used to talk our problems over cigarettes and coffee. Now cigarettes and coffee ARE our problems." "An adolescent kid: Old enough to dress himself if he can only remember where he dropped his clothes." "Good judgment comes from experience; experience comes from poor judgment." "Before TV no one knew what a head ache looked like." "Why can't life's problems hit us when we are 18 and know everything?" "This country needs some colleges to teach everything the students think they know." "Easier to forgive someone if you get even with them first." The cards also compensated for the demands of constant public speaking. Reagan had delivered thousands of remarks throughout his career. The index cards gave him a portable reference library he could dip into at a moment’s notice. In unscripted moments, they acted like training wheels. What looked like effortless charm was in fact well prepared craft. "Adolescence is the time when children suddenly feel responsible for answering the phone." "If at first you don't succeed, do it the way she told you." "A compliment may be blunt, but criticism calls for courtesy." "Prosperity is something created by businessmen for politicians to take credit for." "Modern styles – buckle shoes, loafers, moccasins. A man can earn his Ph.D. without learning to tie his shoelace." After his presidency ended in 1989, the cards became an object of fascination. Historians were struck by how methodical they were. Even detractors, who often criticised his style as overly polished, admitted that the system showed discipline. As one columnist wrote in 1990, “He collected jokes with the seriousness of a scholar.” Sources Ronald Reagan Presidential Library and Museum. https://www.reaganlibrary.gov Edmund Morris. Dutch: A Memoir of Ronald Reagan . ISBN 9780679450446 Lou Cannon. President Reagan: The Role of a Lifetime . ISBN 9781610392106 ACLU Records on Reagan Speeches (archival notes). https://www.aclu.org UCLA Center for Oral History Research. https://oralhistory.library.ucla.edu

By the time Eugene Landy entered Brian Wilson’s life in 1975, the Beach Boys’ creative centre had already spent much of the decade drifting away from both music and stability. Wilson’s withdrawal during the early 1970s was well known within the industry, but what was less visible was the effort his wife Marilyn had made to find meaningful medical help. As she later explained, Brian had developed a disarming ability to perform functionality in front of doctors, convincing professionals that he was healthier than he really was. In an attempt to reverse his physical decline, Marilyn had even hired Wilson’s cousin Stan Love earlier in 1975 to supervise Brian’s daily routine. Love was a former professional basketball player, not a clinician, but at that stage supervision felt better than inaction. Psychiatrists were consulted, therapists lined up, but Brian simply refused to attend. It was through a friend that Marilyn heard the name Eugene Landy. Stan Love When they first met, Landy framed the situation in stark terms. He told Marilyn that Brian was an undiagnosed and untreated schizophrenic. What followed sounded, at least at first, like a breakthrough. During one of Landy’s early visits to the Wilson home, Brian walked into the room unexpectedly and said, quietly and without prompting, “Something’s wrong with me. I need your help.” Marilyn later said that was the moment everything began. Total immersion Wilson agreed to enter Landy’s programme, though later he admitted that fear rather than trust played a major role. He said he believed refusal would result in being committed. Once treatment began, Landy imposed an uncompromising structure. Brian was required to follow a strict daily schedule of exercise and work, while contact with friends deemed unhelpful was cut off. Landy justified his methods bluntly. He once explained that his approach required psychological dominance. “There is only room enough for one crazy person in Brian’s head,” he said, “and that’s got to be me.” When Brian refused to get out of bed after years of withdrawal, Landy did not negotiate. He warned him, then threw water over him. Brian got up. The regimen extended beyond the private sphere and into the Beach Boys’ working life. During the sessions for 15 Big Ones  in 1976, Landy sat in on meetings, supervised discussion, and monitored Brian’s energy and focus. According to later accounts, conversations about individual songs could last up to eight hours, with Landy present throughout. Road manager Rick Nelson later said that Landy tried to influence creative decisions, something that unsettled the band. Landy’s involvement soon became visible to the public. At his insistence, Brian appeared on Saturday Night Live  in 1976, performing Good Vibrations  alone at the piano. The performance was hesitant and received mixed reaction. Behind the cameras, however, Landy stood holding signs that simply read “smile”. Critics saw awkwardness. Landy saw progress. He later argued that the appearance was never meant to succeed on its own, but as part of a long process, saying that if repeated often enough, Brian would have overcome his fear. Money and fracture From the outset, the cost of Landy’s treatment was substantial. His fee began at 10,000 dollars per month and steadily rose. By the end of 1976, when it reached 20,000 dollars, Steve Love stepped in and dismissed him from the arrangement. Marilyn, too, had reached breaking point. She later recalled confronting Landy in his office with Brian present. In a rare display of anger, Brian lashed out physically. “You son of a bitch,” he shouted, swinging his fist. Marilyn said she had never seen her husband violent before. What shocked her most was Landy’s response. Rather than intervening, he calmly told her to let Brian hit him, insisting that Brian needed to release his anger. Marilyn later reflected with disbelief that this was considered therapy. Landy was dismissed, but the relationship remained unresolved. Landy later described 15 Big Ones  as the only major success the Beach Boys had achieved in years, and claimed that he and Brian accomplished it together. He said his goal had been to make Brian a “whole human being”, whereas the band’s management simply wanted another album by 1977. Asked in 1977 whether Landy had exercised too much control, Brian admitted that he believed so, but felt powerless. He said Landy had legal control of his life through arrangements made during his marriage, adding, “He definitely helped me. It cost over a hundred thousand dollars. He charged a hell of a lot per month.” The second return After a serious overdose in 1982 involving alcohol and cocaine, Brian was returned to Landy’s care. This second period would last nearly a decade and become far more controversial than the first. This time, Landy surrounded Brian with constant supervision. His assistant Kevin Leslie accompanied Wilson everywhere, earning the nickname Surf Nazi. Medication was administered at Landy’s direction, though psychiatrist Sol Samuels formally handled prescriptions. Brian Wilson in 1982, at the Michigan State Fair in Detroit, MI. By the mid 1980s, Landy no longer described himself solely as a clinician. “I influence all of his thinking,” he said. “I’m practically a member of the band. We’re partners in life.” Brian publicly pushed back against the image, insisting that he remained in charge of his own decisions. “People say that Dr Landy runs my life,” he said. “The truth is, I’m in charge.” Yet journalists who spent time with them described a different reality. One Rolling Stone  writer observed that Brian appeared unable to act without Landy’s approval. Apart from a brief solo drive to buy groceries, Landy’s consent seemed required for even small movements. Brian appeared compliant, even willing, but rarely independent. Part of Landy’s philosophy involved isolating Brian from the Beach Boys themselves. He believed the group wanted to use Brian rather than protect him. Brian later confirmed that Landy discouraged family contact, saying he found it unhealthy. He recalled an interview with his brother Carl where Carl observed that they did not need to be friends, only bandmates. Brian admitted that hearing this left him feeling “rotten”. Creative control and profit Between 1983 and 1986, Landy’s fees rose to around 430,000 dollars per year. To cover these costs, Brian’s family surrendered publishing rights. At one point, Landy held 25 percent of all Brian’s songwriting royalties, whether or not he contributed creatively. This was later revoked, but by then Landy’s role had expanded into music and business. Landy co produced the unreleased track Smart Girls , which Brian later described as simply having fun. In 1987, the two formed Brains and Genius, a joint venture meant to exploit recordings, films, and books. Landy was credited as co writer and executive producer on Brian’s 1988 solo album. Producer Russ Titelman later dismissed Landy as disruptive and anti creative. Mike Love viewed the situation more suspiciously. He believed Landy encouraged a solo career to dismantle the Beach Boys’ influence. “Then he would be the sole custodian of Brian’s career and legacy,” Love later said. Landy’s credibility suffered further in 1991 when he falsely claimed in Billboard  to have co written Eve of Destruction  under a pseudonym. The real songwriter publicly corrected the record, later suggesting that Landy may have fabricated the claim to justify his deep involvement in Brian’s songwriting to sceptical medical professionals. Intervention State authorities began taking notice as the decade progressed. Journals kept by songwriter Gary Usher during collaborations with Brian depicted him as a near captive. By this stage, Brian had become Landy’s only patient. In 1988, the California Board of Medical Quality charged Landy with ethical violations, including improper drug prescriptions and inappropriate relationships with patients. He denied the accusations but admitted one charge and surrendered his licence. Despite this, Landy’s assistants remained with Brian. The daily regime continued largely unchanged until further discoveries emerged. In 1990, publicist Kay Gilmer learned that Landy had been named chief beneficiary in a newly revised will, receiving 70 percent of Brian’s estate. Alarmed, she resigned and delivered documents to the authorities. Legal action followed. Although Brian appeared publicly to denounce the allegations and insisted that the system worked, his family pursued the case. In 1992, a court barred Landy from contacting Brian. When he violated the order later that year by attending Brian’s birthday, he was fined. Evan Landy, Eugene Landy and Brian Wilson having dinner in Los Angeles in the 1980s Aftermath and reflection Landy estimated that his involvement cost Brian approximately 3 million dollars between 1983 and 1991. Landy died in 2006. Brian said he was devastated by the news. His daughter Carnie recalled him saying that although many people disliked Landy, he loved him. In later years, Brian’s reflections became more complex. In 2002 he said that he did not regret the experience, crediting Landy with saving his life through discipline and exercise. By 2015, his view had sharpened. “I thought he was my friend,” he said, “but he was a very messed up man.” Even so, he continued to acknowledge that some good had come from the relationship. Those close to Brian echoed the ambiguity. Don Was remembered seeing shades of grey rather than outright villainy. Mike Love, while critical of Landy’s expense and severity, admitted that he believed Landy saved Brian’s life. The story remains unresolved in moral terms. It is neither a simple tale of exploitation nor a clear case of rescue. Instead, it stands as a deeply uncomfortable example of how care, control, fear, creativity, and profit became entangled around one of popular music’s most fragile geniuses. Sources The Troubled Genius of Brian Wilson https://www.rollingstone.com/music/music-features/brian-wilson-troubled-genius-235533/ Brian Wilson and Dr Eugene Landy: A Love Story Without Boundaries https://www.rollingstone.com/music/music-news/brian-wilson-dr-eugene-landy-relationship-1988-235515/ The Landy Affair  (Rolling Stone, 01/1989) https://www.rollingstone.com/music/music-news/the-landy-affair-1989-235459/ Brian Wilson: Long Promised Road  by David Leaf ISBN 9780306811742 The Wilson Project: Brian Wilson, Eugene Landy, and the California Medical Board https://www.latimes.com/archives/la-xpm-1988-02-10-mn-41864-story.html Dr Eugene Landy Surrenders Licence https://www.latimes.com/archives/la-xpm-1988-02-25-mn-43770-story.html Inside Brian Wilson’s Conservatorship Battle https://www.latimes.com/archives/la-xpm-1991-02-21-ca-2225-story.html Brian Wilson vs Eugene Landy: Court Bars Contact https://www.nytimes.com/1992/02/04/arts/brian-wilson-psychologist-barred-from-contact.html Wouldn’t It Be Nice: My Own Story  by Brian Wilson and Todd Gold ISBN 9780060975137 HarperCollins Lawsuit Over Brian Wilson Memoir https://www.latimes.com/archives/la-xpm-1995-05-24-me-5288-story.html Mike Love Interview on Eugene Landy https://www.theguardian.com/music/2004/dec/10/thebeachboys.popandrock Brian Wilson Interview: Reflections on Dr Landy https://www.theguardian.com/music/2015/aug/13/brian-wilson-interview-beach-boys Eugene Landy Obituary https://www.nytimes.com/2006/03/25/arts/music/eugene-landy-71-psychiatrist-is-dead.html David Leaf Oral History Archive Brian Wilson https://digital.library.ucla.edu/catalog?f%5Bcreator_sim%5D%5B%5D=Leaf%2C+David Billboard Correction Letter by P F Sloan https://books.google.com/books?id=3wkEAAAAMBAJ&pg=PA6

If you want to know what being a film executive looked like in Hollywood in 1979, picture this. Before sunrise, the head of Universal Pictures would sit up in bed, reach for the phone and wait for a voice three time zones away to read him 'The Numbers'. Every dollar spent. Every box office receipt. Every alarming indication that something somewhere on his studio lot was getting out of control. That morning, The Numbers pointed directly at one film. A loud, chaotic, funny, unclassifiable project being shot by two Saturday Night Live veterans who wanted to honour American blues music while simultaneously smashing more automobiles than any comedy had ever attempted. Lew Wasserman, the man receiving the call, knew only one thing. The Blues Brothers was already wildly over budget. He shouted for Ned Tanen, the Universal executive who had vouched for the picture. Tanen shouted for Sean Daniel, the production vice president. Daniel called director John Landis, who was somewhere in Chicago wondering whether he would manage to locate John Belushi before lunch. The truth was simple. There had never been a film quite like it, and there has not been one since. This is the full story. The long, winding road that begins in a small Toronto club in 1973 and ends in one of the most chaotic, beloved films of all time. A Toronto speakeasy and the night everything started Dan Aykroyd had only recently turned twenty when he began running the 505 Club, a private late night bar in Toronto that opened after midnight for comedians, musicians and insomniacs who preferred dim lights and a permanent haze of cigarette smoke. Aykroyd was already an unusual figure. He had trained briefly for the priesthood, had mismatched eyes, spoke like a professor of strange sciences and was obsessed with the blues in a way that was closer to religious devotion than casual fandom. One night in 1973 the back door burst open and John Belushi arrived as if carried on a gust of theatrical energy. He wore a leather jacket, a white scarf knotted like a character escaping a 1940s crime film and a cap that looked like it belonged to a Chicago taxi driver. He had been performing with the National Lampoon Radio Hour in New York and had stopped in Toronto to scout Second City performers. Aykroyd later said that the moment Belushi walked in, he knew something significant had entered his life. The jukebox was playing a local blues band called Downchild. Belushi leaned in, listening. “This is good,” he said. “What is it” Aykroyd told him. “Blues,” Belushi said, almost embarrassed. “I don’t listen to much blues.” Aykroyd looked at him as if the answer were self evident. “John,” he said, “you are from Chicago.” Belushi started laughing. That laugh was enormous and affectionate. People who knew him later said it was the laugh that made you trust him instantly. “We took one look at each other,” Aykroyd recalled, “and it was love at first sight.” Belushi later told friends that Aykroyd had opened a door he did not know existed. He went back to New York with a suitcase heavier only because it was filled with blues records lent by Aykroyd. Two opposites who fit perfectly Belushi was a brilliant contradiction. He was confident but soft hearted. He was physically imposing but emotionally transparent. He hugged everyone. He made strangers feel like old friends. He had grown up in Wheaton, Illinois in a close Albanian American family and carried that warm, boisterous, kitchen table energy with him everywhere. Aykroyd was precise. He spoke in carefully formed sentences. He had encyclopaedic knowledge of blues history and a fascination with everything from police scanners to UFO sightings to arc welding. He called people Sir. He looked at things like he was making mental notes. Yet the pair clicked because of a shared sense of wonder. They were young men who believed that performance, music and mischief were all part of the same craft. They were outsiders, but they were outsiders who had found each other. New York 1975 The rise of Jake and Elwood When SNL launched in 1975, Belushi and Aykroyd were among the original cast. New York was humid, anarchic and buzzing with creative energy. The cast worked through nights, living on adrenaline, cigarettes and whatever cheap food they could find. Backstage, Aykroyd often brought his harmonica. Belushi loved the idea of performing music as much as comedy. The Blues Brothers idea bubbled for months before it ever reached the main stage. Howard Shore joked one night that they looked like brothers, and so the name stuck. Ron Gwynne helped Aykroyd craft the elaborate backstory. They were raised in an orphanage. They were taught blues by Curtis. They bled into a guitar string from Elmore James. It was half mythology and half affection. They made their first appearance in January 1976 dressed as bees performing “I am a King Bee.” Aykroyd always said that although the sketch was silly, it let them smuggle blues onto national television. In 1978, during a Steve Martin hosted episode, they performed “Hey Bartender” in their now iconic suits and sunglasses. Belushi instantly became Jake Blues. Aykroyd became Elwood. Something clicked. Animal House changes the rules Animal House opened in 1978 and Belushi became a star overnight. His character, Bluto, was instantly recognised everywhere. Aykroyd later told a story about driving with Belushi in Oregon. Belushi asked him to pull over by a school. Before Aykroyd could ask why, Belushi knocked on a classroom window. Seconds later the entire class was chanting “Bluto.” Belushi was suddenly the most bankable comedic force in Hollywood. He could choose projects with real leverage. And what he wanted was to turn The Blues Brothers into a genuine band. The band assembled with late night phone calls When Steve Martin asked them to open nine shows at the Universal Amphitheatre, they realised they had a problem. They had an act but no band. Paul Shaffer produced a list of dream musicians. Men who played with Memphis Slim, Booker T, Sam and Dave and Stax Records. Belushi called them himself. Often after midnight. “This is John Belushi. We are putting a band together. I need you here tomorrow.” Most musicians later said they agreed partly because of admiration and partly because Belushi did not seem capable of taking no for an answer. Steve Cropper recalled a phone call lasting almost an hour in which Belushi said nothing except “I gotta have you” in different tones. The band came together. Cropper. Duck Dunn. Matt Guitar Murphy. Steve Jordan. Lou Marini. Tom Malone. Alan Rubin. Tom Scott. A set of musicians who could have headlined festivals on their own. Their live performances were an explosion of joy. The rituals. The case opening with the harmonica inside. The dance steps. The comedic timing. Time magazine called them “the most unexpected supergroup of the decade.” Atlantic Records recorded their set for Briefcase Full of Blues. It went double platinum. Belushi said, “We should make a movie.” Aykroyd said, “All right. Let’s do it.” Universal buys enthusiasm and nothing else Belushi’s power combined with Aykroyd’s imagination turned into a bidding war. Paramount wanted the film. Universal wanted it more because Sean Daniel had overseen Animal House and Belushi trusted him. Lew Wasserman Lew Wasserman approved the project because Ned Tanen told him to. He did not yet know he was effectively signing a blank cheque. There was no script. No schedule. No budget. Only a concept: Jake and Elwood go on a mission from God to save their orphanage. Aykroyd began writing. He had never seen a screenplay. What he produced was more than 300 pages of single spaced free verse filled with deep lore, origin stories and entire chapters on recidivist American archetypes. He delivered it wrapped inside a phone book cover. Producer Bob Weiss called Sean Daniel and said, “We just got the script. It is enormous.” John Landis took the document and disappeared for weeks. He emerged with a version that could be filmed. It preserved Aykroyd’s vision but added structure. Landis told Aykroyd, “We have a movie.” Casting legends and ignoring studio panic The moment Universal realised who Aykroyd intended to cast, the conference room fell into the kind of silence usually reserved for budget meetings gone catastrophically wrong. Aykroyd listed the names without hesitation. Ray Charles. Aretha Franklin. James Brown. Cab Calloway. To him, these were not guest stars. They were the foundation stones of the music the entire film existed to celebrate. To the studio, they were a problem. It was 1979. Disco still dominated radio. Donna Summer and Gloria Gaynor filled the charts. The Hollywood executives who worried about marketing demographics saw nothing but risk in hiring performers whose biggest hits belonged to earlier decades. A Universal memo at the time described them politely as legacy acts, which was studio shorthand for artists who would not attract teenagers. John Landis remembered the moment clearly. “They wanted someone younger. They said, why not Rose Royce They said the kids know Car Wash.” Belushi reportedly nearly fell out of his chair laughing. “We are not putting Car Wash in our film,” he said. “This is about blues and soul. This is the real thing.” Belushi believed passionately in the music. He had absorbed the blues with a zeal that surprised even the musicians around him. Steve Cropper later said, “John loved that music more than some musicians I know. He was not faking it. He felt it in his bones.” Aykroyd fought just as hard. He argued that Chicago was the birthplace of electric blues, that the film itself was a love letter, and that anything less than the real giants of the genre would betray the entire project. “If you are making a western,” he said in one meeting, “you hire cowboys. If you are making a film about blues, you hire the people who made the blues matter.” Still the studio balked. There were genuine fears that young white audiences in suburban cinemas would not recognise or respond to artists whose careers peaked before many of them were born. Lew Wasserman was not opposed on artistic grounds but cared deeply about marketability. At one point an executive asked, very cautiously, whether they could add a disco sequence to broaden appeal. Landis said later, “I thought John was going to throw him out the window.” Aykroyd remained calm but firm. “The whole point,” he said repeatedly, “is to honour the roots. If we do not bring Ray Charles and Aretha Franklin and James Brown and Cab Calloway into this, then what exactly are we doing” Belushi backed him with the intensity of a man who simply refused to imagine another version of the film. “If Ray Charles is not in it,” he said, “then we are not doing it.” Universal, realising the strength of their resolve, relented. The musicians themselves approached the film with varying degrees of amusement, suspicion and relief. Ray Charles arrived on set wearing a grey suit and a grin that suggested he had no idea what the film was about but was delighted to be there. Aretha Franklin was warm but direct. Her first comment on reading her diner scene was, “Baby, I do not wear aprons.” Cab Calloway, ever the showman, delighted Aykroyd simply by agreeing to appear. Calloway insisted on performing Minnie the Moocher in the style of his 1930s big band recordings, complete with white suit and tails. James Brown treated his church sequence as if it were a real sermon. Extras later said it felt closer to a spiritual revival than a film shoot. Landis said, “You could feel the mood change on set when they walked in. Everyone knew we were filming something important. This was not guest casting for novelty. These were giants.” Wasserman still grumbled about the cost, but even he conceded privately that if the film was going to swing for the rafters, it might as well swing with the best. The gamble paid off more profoundly than anyone predicted. Music critics later noted that The Blues Brothers did what no marketing department could have achieved. It reintroduced Ray Charles, Aretha Franklin, James Brown and Cab Calloway to new generations at a moment when their recording careers had slowed. After the film’s release, record sales rose again. Young audiences sought out the original tracks. James Brown later said that the film “put a whole new set of ears on my music.” Aykroyd reflected, “If we brought even ten people to discover the blues because they saw Ray Charles play a keyboard in a pawn shop or heard Aretha Franklin sing about respect, then we did our job.” It turned out to be many more than ten. Chicago welcomes home a son When filming for The Blues Brothers began in Chicago in July 1979, something unusual happened. Film crews were accustomed to being tolerated. Sometimes ignored. Occasionally resented. But Chicago did not merely tolerate this production. It embraced it. Adopted it. Lifted it. Because John Belushi had come home. For all his fame in New York and Los Angeles, Belushi was profoundly shaped by Chicago. The city had fed his humour, his swagger, his sense of working class mischief. He was the son of Albanian immigrants from Wheaton. He grew up on neighbourhood jokes, football fields, and loud family dinners where everyone talked over each other. Chicago recognised him as one of its own. And Belushi, in his way, recognised Chicago right back. Director John Landis recalled, “Being with John in Chicago was like being with Mussolini in Rome. People parted for him. They shouted his name. They hugged him. You could feel the city claiming him.” The welcome was so intense that at times the production had trouble controlling crowds. When Belushi walked down a street, men leaned from bar windows shouting, “Johnny” Women stopped him for photos. Taxi drivers refused to take money. A police officer once saluted him as if greeting a decorated veteran. Belushi adored it. But it had consequences. As Landis put it, “John could not go anywhere without being offered food, drinks or cocaine. Usually all three.” Yet for all the chaos, Chicago gave the film texture it could never have manufactured on a studio lot. If New York is sharp edges and vertical ambition, Chicago is wide streets, steel bridges, open skies and the deep rumble of trains. It is the birthplace of electric blues and the spiritual heart of the film. Jane Byrne and the city that opened its streets Mayor Jane Byrne understood the value of films to Chicago’s identity, but she also understood the value of Belushi personally. Aykroyd later said, “We were welcomed like family. Jane Byrne treated us as ambassadors of the city.” Chicago Mayor Jane Byrne (left) and her daugther Kathy with Blues Brothers John Belushi and Dan Aykroyd at ChicagoFest in 1979. Permits were granted that would have been impossible in Los Angeles or New York. The Bluesmobile was allowed to tear through Lower Wacker Drive. Police cars swarmed the streets in choreographed formations. Whole blocks were shut down for scenes involving hundreds of extras, dozens of vehicles and some of the most audacious stunts attempted in an American comedy. Film historian Michael Coate once observed, “The film could not have been made anywhere else. Chicago is not the backdrop. It is the third Blues Brother.” The Dixie Square Mall legend Perhaps the most extraordinary location was the Dixie Square Mall in Harvey. The mall had been abandoned for several years. Production designer John Lloyd visited it and saw opportunity where others saw ruin. The crew spent weeks transforming the empty mall into a functioning shopping centre. They installed lights, filled shops with mannequins and merchandise, decorated displays and even brought in live-store signage. Then they drove cars straight through it. The chase scene inside the mall became one of the most famous in film history. Lou Marini recalled standing nearby and hearing the shattering noise of displays exploding as the Bluesmobile fishtailed between shops. “I remember thinking, nobody will believe we actually did this,” he said. The mall suffered such extensive damage that it was never reopened. For decades, urban explorers visited the ruins, calling it “the Blues Brothers Mall” until it was demolished. Maxwell Street and the real sound of Chicago The Maxwell Street Market sequence with John Lee Hooker was filmed amid real vendors and locals. Much of the dialogue captured there was improvised. A crew member later said, “We were not filming Chicago. Chicago was simply happening around us.” Hooker played Boom Boom with such force that passers-by stopped to watch the shoot as if it were a genuine street performance. Aykroyd, listening from off camera, whispered, “This is everything the film is about.” The Bluesmobile as a civic mascot The Bluesmobile itself became a minor celebrity. Children shouted when they saw it drive past. One boy asked Aykroyd, “Is that a police car or a magic car” Aykroyd answered, “Both.” It's got a cop motor, a 440-cubic-inch plant. It's got cop tires, cop suspension, cop shocks. It's a model made before catalytic converters so it'll run good on regular gas. — Elwood Blues describing the Bluesmobile The production destroyed so many police cars that a constant stream of replacements had to be brought in. At one point, Universal purchased sixty decommissioned cruisers at 400 dollars each. Mechanics worked round the clock to keep them running. Crew members joked that they were making two films. One about Jake and Elwood. One about the life cycle of a Dodge Monaco. The day Chicago played the villain The Illinois Nazis sequence required hundreds of extras, stunt performers and vehicles. The real Neo Nazi Party of America tried to protest the production. Aykroyd said later, “This was the only time we had genuine hostility. Everywhere else people were cheering for us.” When filming the bridge confrontation, locals shouted insults at the faux Nazi extras, unaware they were actors. One extra later recalled, “Some guy threw a pretzel at me and called me every name under the sun. I thought, this is commitment to realism.” A city that shaped the film’s soul In the end, Chicago became the film’s heartbeat. Every street corner, every food stall, every bridge gave the movie its atmosphere. It was urban but warm. Gritty but generous. Funny without trying. Aykroyd reflected years later, “We wrote the film as a love letter. Chicago gave us everything we needed and more.” And for Belushi, filming there was something like a victory lap. His childhood city had not simply welcomed him back. It crowned him. Belushi’s decline becomes impossible to ignore For all the joy Chicago poured into John Belushi, the city also fed his worst tendencies. Fame made him magnetic. Chicago made him mythic. And myths attract people who want to touch the flame. Belushi had arrived on set as a conquering hero, but as filming progressed, the adoration that once energised him grew heavier. Crowds gathered wherever he went. Bartenders handed him drinks he never ordered. Strangers offered him food, praise, homemade gifts and, increasingly, drugs. Cocaine flowed so freely through Chicago nightlife in 1979 that one crew member later said, “It was like oxygen. You didn’t have to look. It found you.” And no one attracted it faster than John Belushi. Carrie Fisher, who was dating Dan Aykroyd at the time, summarised the environment with wry understatement. “The bar staff all dealt on the side,” she said. “If you wanted anything, you only had to ask. Or not ask. It usually arrived anyway.” The night time economy of being John Belushi Belushi’s nights became complicated webs of admirers, local characters, after hours bars and unplanned detours. He was the person everyone wanted a story about. Smokey Wendell, a bodyguard later brought in to keep drugs away from him, explained it plainly. “Every blue collar Joe wants a John Belushi story. They want to say they partied with him. They want to tell their mates that John Belushi did a line with them.” Belushi was unable to refuse kindness, even when the kindness was destructive. Cocaine made him talkative, expansive, affectionate. It also made it harder to sleep and harder to get up in the morning. Unit calls slipped. Scenes slowed. Crew waited. Landis said later, “We were shooting the film and simultaneously trying to keep John alive.” The trailer incidents The production developed a grim rhythm. Belushi would arrive late. Someone would knock on his trailer. No answer. A key would turn. Inside, the star would be asleep, shoes on, scripts scattered like fallen cards. The worst moment came when Landis opened the trailer door and saw what he described as “a mountain” of cocaine piled on the small metal table. “It looked like something out of a parody,” he said. “It was shocking. My instinct was to get rid of it. So I scooped it all up and flushed it.” Belushi entered moments later and saw the empty table. He did not shout. He lunged. Landis said, “He pushed me, not to hurt me, but to get to the table. To see if any was left. It was heartbreaking.” A few seconds later Belushi’s posture collapsed. He hugged Landis and began crying. “I know,” he said. “I know this is bad. I know.” Both men sat there, shaking, the weight of the situation finally settling around them. Aykroyd becomes the guardian When Belushi’s behaviour threatened to derail the schedule, people went to Dan Aykroyd. Aykroyd had a calming influence on him. They shared a bond that was deeper than creative partnership. Aykroyd loved him. Belushi trusted him. Aykroyd later said, “John could be the most gentle soul and the most chaotic soul. He was a brother to me. I would not abandon him. Ever.” Crew members noticed that when Aykroyd entered Belushi’s trailer, the energy softened. Belushi would sit up, straighten his shirt, try to look sober even when he was not. It was not fear. It was respect. Judy Belushi reminds him of home Judy Belushi, John’s wife, visited Chicago frequently. She was kind, perceptive and unafraid to confront him. She described him as fundamentally quiet at home, happiest sitting on a sofa watching television, occasionally asking others to change the channel without words. “He was not high octane by nature,” she said. “He had wonderful energy, yes, but he was actually very lazy in a sweet way. He liked people doing things for him. He liked being cared for.” Chicago’s love fed the opposite version of him. Loud. Partying. Performing. Relentless. Aykroyd and Judy tried privately to stabilise him. But neither could shield him from the city’s pull. The disappearance in Harvey The story that became set legend happened during a night shoot in Harvey, Illinois. Belushi vanished between takes. He did not answer walkie talkies. He did not answer knocks on his trailer door. Landis became frantic. Aykroyd closed his eyes, took a breath and simply walked away from the set. “I knew John,” he said. “I knew he would go where something was warm and lit.” He followed a small track through the grass to a modest house with a single lamp on. He knocked. The homeowner, wearing slippers and a robe, opened the door and smiled in faint amusement. “Oh, are you looking for your friend” he asked. “He came in an hour ago. Helped himself to a sandwich. He is asleep on the couch.” Aykroyd found Belushi curled like a child, crumbs on his shirt, utterly peaceful. “John,” Aykroyd whispered. “We have to go back to work.” Belushi sat up, blinked and said, “Did I eat something” They both thanked the bewildered but delighted homeowner. Belushi shook his hand and apologised. “Sorry, pal. Your fridge looked friendly.” Landis later said, “Only John could break into a person’s house, fall asleep, and be loved for it.” The problem no one could tell Wasserman Ned Tanen could not tell Lew Wasserman what the real issue was. Wasserman wanted explanations for every delay, every overspend, every hour of lost time. He wanted reasons rooted in logistics, not the truth that his star was collapsing under the weight of adoration and addiction. Tanen later said, “You could not say the words. You could not say the star was not functional. That would have ended the film. That would have cost millions. That would have sent the studio into a frenzy.” So excuses were invented. Cameras malfunctioned. Weather changed. Extras got sick. Locations were rescheduled. But everyone on set knew. Belushi was in trouble. And the film was tied tightly to him. The highs, the lows and the illusions Yet when Belushi was on screen, something magical happened. He was funny, sharp, present, alive. He delivered Jake Blues with a mix of swagger and vulnerability that felt impossible given his private state. It created a strange illusion. When cameras rolled, he looked like the star everyone expected. When they stopped, he sometimes struggled to stand. Steve Cropper later said, “When John was acting or singing, he became the version of himself he wanted to be. When it stopped, you could see him fighting gravity.” Crew members described feeling protective, like caretakers watching a gifted child in peril. Aykroyd said years later, softly, “We were all trying to save him. But he was pulled in all directions. Chicago loved him. Hollywood wanted him. People wanted stories. He wanted everything. And it was too much.” Lew Wasserman reaches breaking point While John Belushi drifted between moments of brilliance and chaos in Chicago, a very different type of storm brewed on the other side of the country. In Los Angeles, Lew Wasserman, the towering force behind Universal Pictures, was preparing for what many who worked under him privately called one of his volcanic mornings. Wasserman was a man of habits. He began every day in precisely the same way. He sat up in bed at dawn, reached for the telephone and waited for The Numbers. These were not simply earnings reports. They were a meticulous breakdown of studio spending, projected revenue, production costs, overtime, re shoots, insurance claims and departmental overruns. Executives lived in fear of The Numbers because they revealed everything they had tried to conceal. By the autumn of 1979, The Numbers brought increasingly grim news about a single production. The Blues Brothers. The Numbers creep upward It had begun modestly enough. A budget of around 12 million dollars. A comfortable figure for a comedy starring two rising television personalities. But as shooting began, the figures thickened like storm clouds. Police car repairs. Location fees. Stunt costs. Round the clock automotive mechanics. Sets built, rebuilt and destroyed. Weeks lost to delays. Additional catering because extras numbered in the hundreds. A creaking schedule. Every day The Numbers rose. Every day Wasserman grew more alarmed. Sean Daniel, the studio vice president overseeing the production, later described the atmosphere. “You could almost hear the anxiety. Every morning a sheet of paper would arrive, and with each day the sum became more impossible to explain.” The fateful expression on Ned Tanen’s face One morning The Numbers passed a threshold that Wasserman considered intolerable. He called for Ned Tanen, the executive who had championed the film. Tanen arrived looking slightly pale before the conversation even began. He knew what was coming. Wasserman held up the paperwork. “This cannot be correct,” he said. Tanen, who had already spoken privately to Daniel about the same issue, could only nod. He had no way to disguise the truth. The Blues Brothers was spiralling. It had become the most expensive comedy ever attempted. Wasserman stared at the page as if inspecting a malfunctioning machine. “Chicago,” he said slowly, “is eating this film alive.” Tanen knew the words were not a question. They were a verdict. The emergency trip to Chicago In a gesture that was equal parts damage control and reconnaissance, Tanen and Sean Daniel were dispatched to Chicago to see the situation firsthand. If they were going to report back to Wasserman, they needed to understand what exactly was happening on the ground. What they discovered was a production unlike any they had encountered. Daniel later summarised it as, “A controlled disaster. Beautifully executed. Terrifyingly expensive.” The first shock came when they were shown the fleet of police cars. Row after row of battered Dodge Monaco cruisers. Some smashed. Some being welded back into shape. Some stripped for usable parts. It looked more like a scrapyard than a film set. Mechanics worked in shifts, twenty four hours a day, repairing vehicles nearly as fast as Landis could destroy them. One mechanic joked, “We are not making a movie. We are making automotive history.” Tanen reportedly stood still for a long time, absorbing the scene in silence. The war room Next they were shown the planning area, known internally as the war room. Hundreds of papers were pinned to cork boards. Stunt diagrams. Collision predictions. Street closures. Maps with arrows indicating routes for cars travelling at speeds rarely used outside police training courses. Tanen frowned at one chart in particular. Daniel explained gently that it was a projection of vehicle destruction per day compared to budget allocation. Tanen blinked slowly as though trying to decode a foreign language. Then came the Dixie Square Mall story. Daniel was forced to explain, as diplomatically as possible, that production had located an abandoned mall, refurbished it to working condition and then driven cars through every major corridor. Tanen responded only with a quiet, “I see.” The moment the blood drained By the end of the visit, Tanen looked hollowed out. Daniel later recalled, “You could see the blood drain from his face. He realised the scale. He realised the cost. And he realised we could not rewind any of it.” When they returned to Los Angeles, Wasserman did not need to ask questions. One look at Tanen’s expression told him everything. The ultimatum that was never spoken aloud Wasserman summoned Daniel privately. The studio head was not prone to theatrics. He did not raise his voice. He did not slam his fist. His displeasure was far more terrifying. He spoke quietly, in the tone of a doctor delivering a terminal diagnosis. “This film,” Wasserman said, “is no longer a project. It is a liability.” Daniel tried to defend the situation. He explained the enthusiasm of the cast, the artistry of Landis, the cultural value of the music, the importance of filming in Chicago. Wasserman listened without interrupting. When Daniel finished, Wasserman simply said, “I want control restored. I want costs reduced. I want progress reported in hourly intervals.” It was not rage. It was resolve. The problem no one dared mention There was, of course, one truth Wasserman did not know. One that Tanen could not tell him. The single greatest threat to the production was not money. It was John Belushi’s declining health. To mention it would risk derailing the entire film. It would raise questions about insurability, schedule feasibility and the wisdom of continuing. Tanen said later, “We were juggling dynamite. You could not speak the truth. If Lew had known, he would have pulled the plug. And then millions would have been lost.” So Wasserman continued to press for financial explanations while everyone in Chicago prayed that Belushi would hold together long enough for the film to finish. It was filmmaking at the edge of collapse. A brilliant, joyful, reckless circus balanced on the shoulders of a man who was gripping the tightrope with slipping fingers. And somehow, the film kept moving forward. The night the production nearly collapsed: Belushi and the skateboard By the time the production moved from Chicago back to Los Angeles, the entire crew felt as if they had survived a military campaign. Chicago had given them car crashes, twenty hour days, and the constant question of whether the star would appear on set. Los Angeles, by comparison, seemed almost peaceful. The Universal lot felt familiar to everyone. Fewer street closures. Fewer city officials. Fewer stunt vehicles being welded back together in the middle of the night. John Belushi also seemed, for a brief moment, steadier. He behaved politely in front of Ray Charles and Aretha Franklin. He avoided the heavy excesses that had slowed him in Chicago. He even joked that Los Angeles had “better oxygen.” Dan Aykroyd later said that these small periods of clarity often fooled the people who loved him. “John could summon his charm and his discipline when the situation demanded it,” he recalled. “Especially when he wanted to impress somebody. Especially musicians he respected.” And then, without warning, the film came close to derailing again. A simple request that changed everything It was just before filming the climactic concert sequence at the Hollywood Palladium. This was the largest musical set piece of the entire film. Hundreds of extras. Elaborate choreography. Cameras placed on cranes, in rafters, and strapped to dolly tracks. Belushi and Aykroyd were required to perform energetic dance routines, flips, cartwheels and rehearsed stage moves. The entire finale depended on their physicality. On the afternoon before shooting, Belushi stepped outside the Palladium and noticed a teenager gliding past on a skateboard. Belushi waved him over with a cheerful “Hey, buddy, let me try that.” It was exactly the sort of impulsive act that defined him. In his mind, he was still the neighbourhood kid from Wheaton who played pranks and roughhoused with friends. Several people on the production later joked that Belushi lived his life as though he were still fourteen. The teenager handed over the skateboard. Belushi stepped on, wobbled, and then fell with remarkable force. Witnesses recalled hearing a heavy thud, followed by a low groan. Belushi was clutching his knee. The panic begins Sean Daniel received the call first. His heart sank even before the assistant finished speaking. By this point in the production, any sentence containing the words “Belushi”, “injury”, or “you need to come down here” instantly triggered dread. When Daniel arrived, he saw Belushi sitting on the floor, pale and sweating, teeth clenched. Bob Weiss, the producer, stood nearby trying to appear calm, though his face suggested a man watching his own house catch fire. Daniel bent down and asked quietly, “How bad is it?” Belushi grimaced. “It is bad,” he said. “I heard something pop.” It was the worst possible moment for an accident. The finale was scheduled to begin filming the next morning. Extras had been booked. Musicians had been hired. The set had been lit and dressed. The schedule had no room for delay. Every hour cost a small fortune. The forbidden name nobody wanted to say Someone murmured, “Should we call Wasserman?” Everyone paused. Lew Wasserman did not receive bad news lightly. He had already endured months of rising budgets, missed days and spiralling costs. An injury to the lead actor on the eve of the finale would be the kind of report that could end the entire production. Daniel later recalled thinking, “If I tell Lew that John Belushi cannot dance tomorrow, he will shut the film down. He will have every justification.” But the situation required medical intervention, and only one person had the power to secure it at speed. Wasserman. Daniel took a breath, picked up the phone, and dialled the number he least wanted to dial. Wasserman moves faster than anyone expected When Daniel delivered the news, Wasserman did not ask how Belushi fell. He did not ask about skateboards, teenagers, or personal responsibility. He cut directly to the one question that mattered. “Can he walk?” Daniel hesitated. “Not at the moment.” Wasserman exhaled through his nose. It was the closest he ever came to swearing. “I will get the doctor,” he said. “You will keep him ready.” Within half an hour, one of Los Angeles’s most respected orthopaedic surgeons arrived at the Palladium. He had been on his way to Palm Springs for a long weekend. Wasserman had politely informed him that his holiday would begin an hour later than planned. The surgeon examined Belushi’s knee, pressed it gently, and winced before Belushi even reacted. “He should not be dancing on this,” the doctor said. Daniel replied, “He has to.” Wasserman had made that clear. The needle, the wrap, and the impossible performance After a brief consultation, the surgeon administered an anaesthetic injection directly into the joint. Belushi sucked in a sharp breath, swore twice, and then said, “All right, let’s do it.” The knee was wrapped tightly. Belushi stood up with effort. Everyone watched to see whether he would collapse. He stayed upright. Then he tested his weight. Still upright. Someone clapped softly. Someone else whispered, “Thank God.” Belushi walks on stage The next morning, the extras filled the auditorium. Musicians tuned their instruments. Crew members whispered their doubts. Aykroyd looked at Belushi with concern. “Can you do this?” he asked. Belushi gave a crooked grin. “I can do anything once.” And he did. He danced through the entire sequence. He performed the cartwheels. He delivered the energy the film required. No one watching the finished movie would ever suspect that the lead actor had nearly been incapacitated the day before. Aykroyd later said, “John was held together with tape and determination. That finale is him fighting through pain because he loved the film.” For the crew, the relief was indescribable. They had survived another crisis. Another narrow escape. Another moment when the entire project almost came undone. And yet, as many observed later, the accident was a symbol of the entire production. Brilliant. Chaotic. Dependent on one man whose body and spirit were being pushed far beyond their limits. The show went on. But the cost was starting to show. The fight for distribution and the theatres that said no If the production stage felt like a battle, the fight to get The Blues Brothers into cinemas was something closer to a siege. After months of car crashes, rewrites, broken schedules and late night rescues, everyone assumed that the worst was finally behind them. They were wrong. The next storm arrived quietly. It came not from Wasserman, nor from the budget department, nor even from Belushi’s unpredictable stamina. It came from the theatre owners. In 1980, they were the true gatekeepers. They decided which films reached suburban audiences, which films were buried in midnight slots, and which ones played only in neighbourhoods that executives preferred to ignore. John Landis understood the power dynamic clearly. “The exhibitors were the empire,” he said. “If they said no, the rest of us could go home.” The disastrous preview screenings Before the wide release, Landis organised a series of preview screenings for the owners of major theatre chains. These men were not creative risk takers. Most of them, as Landis put it, “wore white belts and white shoes,” which in Hollywood was code for conservative tastes and a suspicion of anything unusual. The Blues Brothers was nothing if not unusual. The film was long. The plot was chaotic. It mixed musical numbers with police chases, gospel sermons with absurdist comedy, and blues legends with a pair of comedians who looked like undertakers. No one had ever made anything like it. Some people found that thrilling. Others found it confusing. One exhibitor cornered Landis after a screening and said bluntly, “I do not know what it is.” Landis smiled. “It is a musical.” The exhibitor shook his head. “Musicals do not blow up forty police cars.” The second screening went even worse. A theatre owner leaned forward as the credits rolled and said, “Are those musicians in the film real? They look old.” He did not mean it kindly. Ray Charles was a genius. Aretha Franklin was a powerhouse. James Brown had transformed American music. Cab Calloway had shaped an entire generation of performers. But in 1980, some exhibitors considered them outdated. Too black. Too old. Too rooted in a cultural tradition they did not understand. One man even asked, “Could you cut the songs and make it a tighter comedy?” Landis stared at him in disbelief. “The songs are the film,” he said. The meeting with Ted Mann that changed everything The worst encounter came when Lew Wasserman summoned Landis to his office for an early morning meeting. Waiting for him was Ted Mann, the powerful head of Mann Theatres, which controlled some of the most desirable cinemas in the western United States. According to Landis, Mann opened the conversation with a sentence so blunt that even Wasserman lifted an eyebrow. “Mr Landis,” Mann said, “we will not book The Blues Brothers in any of our major theatres.” Landis asked, “Why?” Mann replied, “Because I do not want black patrons coming to Westwood.” Silence. Heavy. Embarrassed. Infuriating. Landis later said, “It was the most openly racist thing I had ever heard in a business meeting.” Mann tried to justify his decision by saying that white audiences would not buy tickets for a film full of older black musicians. He said they would only play the film in Compton, and perhaps a few other neighbourhoods that were, in his words, more appropriate. Wasserman listened without expression. He did not rebuke Mann. That was not his way. He simply nodded, dismissed him, and turned back to Landis. “Cut the film,” he said. “Make it shorter.” It was the closest he would come to admitting how precarious the situation had become. A shrinking release that felt like sabotage A typical large studio film in 1980 opened in approximately fourteen hundred cinemas. The Blues Brothers secured fewer than six hundred. More than half the country would not see the film in its first wave of release. Executives considered this a near guarantee of financial failure. Belushi knew it too. According to friends, he spent his evenings driving from cinema to cinema in New York, slipping into auditoriums to listen to the audience. He needed to know whether they were laughing. Whether they were clapping. Whether they understood what he and Aykroyd had fought so hard to build. Aykroyd watched the film in a cinema in Times Square. He later said, “I sat in the back row and listened. The laughter came like little sparks. Then bigger ones. People got it.” Studio executives still predicted a flop. The critics sharpen their knives The early reviews did not help. Some critics praised the performances but complained about the length. Others called the plot a mess. One writer described it as “a ponderous comic monstrosity.” Another declared that “the cars act better than the actors.” The Washington Post lamented the film’s scale, complaining that the car chases were shot too seriously. Janet Maslin of The New York Times wrote that the film never explained why Jake and Elwood loved black music, as though art requires footnotes. Gene Siskel, however, called it “one of the greatest comedies ever made.” Roger Ebert admired its energy and “unexpected moments of grace.” But the divide between critics only fuelled Universal’s anxiety. The night everything changed The weekend of release finally arrived. The numbers began to come in. At first they trickled. Then they accelerated. Then they exploded. Crowds were lining up. Audiences were cheering. Kids who had never heard Cab Calloway were humming Minnie the Moocher in the lobby. People were dancing out of the cinema after James Brown’s sermon. Teenage boys tried to imitate Belushi’s cartwheels. Middle aged men in sunglasses walked down the street shouting, “We are on a mission from God.” The exhibitors who had refused the film panicked. Suddenly they wanted it. They wanted it everywhere. The Blues Brothers went on to make more than one hundred and fifteen million dollars worldwide. It sold out cinemas in Europe. It earned more overseas than in America, becoming one of Universal’s biggest international hits. Landis later said, “The people who were supposed to know what audiences wanted were completely wrong. And the audiences were completely right.” The film had survived everything. Budgets. Chaos. Drugs. Racism. Executive doubt. The near collapse of its own star. Yet it was still standing. Just like Jake and Elwood. A cult is born and the legends are reborn In the months after its release, something strange happened. Something no studio executive had predicted despite the shouting, the budgets, or the chaos of the set. The Blues Brothers refused to fade. It did not behave like a typical Hollywood comedy. Rather than disappearing after a few weekends, it kept returning. People went back to see it again and again. College students memorised lines, sometimes entire scenes. Music fans who had never cared for comedy films embraced it as a revival of American soul. Children who were too young to appreciate the references grew up quoting it anyway. The film had entered that rare space where something becomes larger than the intentions of its creators. John Landis put it simply. “We thought we were making a comedy. Audiences turned it into a ritual.” The revival nobody saw coming One of the most remarkable and least discussed outcomes of the film was the revival of its musical cast. At the time of filming, Ray Charles was still respected but no longer charting regularly. Aretha Franklin had found the late 1970s difficult, her albums selling modestly compared with her earlier triumphs. James Brown’s career had cooled. Cab Calloway, though still performing, had long passed his commercial peak. Then the film arrived. Sales of Ray Charles albums increased. Aretha Franklin’s number Think experienced a second life. People discovered James Brown for the first time or rediscovered him anew. One radio programmer said in 1981, “You could draw a line between the release of the film and the sudden renewed demand for these artists.” Cab Calloway told a reporter, “I did not expect that singing Minnie the Moocher in a white suit again would make people remember me. But those young people cheered. They cheered like it was 1935. Bless those Blues Brothers.” Ray Charles joked that he loved the film because it allowed him to show people that he could still hit a keyboard with the force of a man half his age. Aretha Franklin was more direct. “My scene in that diner,” she said, “that was the real me. Attitude. Rhythm. And that wig.” Screenings that became events By the mid 1980s, late night cinemas discovered something unusual. Whenever they scheduled The Blues Brothers at midnight, audiences arrived in costume. People wore black suits, hats and sunglasses. They shouted the lines before the actors delivered them. They clapped along with Minnie the Moocher and shouted Hallelujah during James Brown’s sermon. It had become a social event. In Australia, the Valhalla Cinema in Melbourne turned it into a regular communal ritual. People danced in the aisles. They sang. They brought harmonicas. Landis later said, “I never expected Australians to turn my film into a nightclub, but they did, and I loved them for it.” The film’s sense of community became part of its identity. It attracted musicians, misfits, students, nostalgic adults and teenagers who had no idea what a Dodge Monaco was but desperately wanted one. The afterlife of Jake and Elwood What surprised people most was that the characters themselves grew into cultural icons independent of the film. There were Jake and Elwood posters, T shirts, toy cars, tribute bands and impersonators. Couples dressed as the brothers for parties and weddings. One bar became known for offering free drinks to anyone who could perform the dance from the Aretha Franklin scene. Dan Aykroyd never claimed ownership of the phenomenon. “Jake and Elwood belong to the people,” he said. “They took them and ran.” Even the Catholic references in the film attracted unexpected admiration. In 2010, the Vatican’s official newspaper praised the film for its moral themes of redemption, loyalty, and perseverance. Aykroyd reacted with typical humour. “When the Vatican calls your movie Catholic, you know you have done something unusual.” The long shadow of Belushi The film’s success was bittersweet for many who had worked on it. Less than two years after the premiere, John Belushi died at the Chateau Marmont. He was thirty three. The public mourned the loss of a remarkable comic voice. His friends mourned something more intimate. Aykroyd once reflected, “The Blues Brothers was John at his best. Not the chaos. Not the drugs. The joy. The music. The humanity. That was the real John.” Many fans believe the film preserves a version of Belushi that felt larger than life and yet deeply human. One minute a thunderbolt of energy leaping across a stage, the next a quiet man who loved fries and Frank Zappa records. Landis later said, “When I watch the film now, I see him alive again. That is the magic of cinema. We get to see our friends again.” A legacy written in sunglasses and soul The Blues Brothers remains one of the most unusual studio successes in film history. A film too long. Too expensive. Too chaotic. Too strange. A film that executives predicted would fail. A film that theatres refused to book. A film that cast the legends of soul at a time when their careers had stalled. Yet it became a global hit. It revived musical icons. It created a cult. It introduced a new generation to the power of the blues. And after all the panic, all the studio concerns, all the arguments about casting, length and budget, the film proved one thing beyond all doubt. A mission from God never needed approval from the numbers men. Sources Aykroyd, Dan. Dan Aykroyd: Newsweek Interview Archive https://www.newsweek.com/dan-aykroyd-interview-archive-1980s-2024 Belushi Pisano, Judith and Tanner Colby. Belushi: A Biography ISBN 9781608870272 Belushi Pisano, Judith. Samurai Widow ISBN 9780385413256 Landis, John. Monsters in the Movies  (contains interview material on The Blues Brothers) ISBN 9780756651978 Reitman, Ivan and Landis, John. The Blues Brothers: An Oral History  (collected interviews, originally run in Vanity Fair and supplemental material) https://archive.vanityfair.com Sobel, Jon. The Blues Brothers: A Cultural History  (academic title on film context and music revival) ISBN 9781442269867 Murphy, Donnie. Downchild: Fifty Years of Blues  (Downchild Blues Band history with anecdotes about Belushi and Aykroyd) ISBN 9781770415556

In the world of science, few stories illustrate the profound dedication to research as tragically and heroically as that of Karl P. Schmidt. Renowned for his work in herpetology, Schmidt spent his life studying reptiles and amphibians, and he remained committed to his work until his final breath—literally. On a fateful day in September 1957, Schmidt’s unyielding commitment to science ultimately cost him his life, but not before he left behind an extraordinary account of what happens when a herpetologist comes face-to-face with death. A Career Built on the Study of Reptiles and Amphibians Karl Patterson Schmidt was born in Lake Forest, Illinois, in 1890. From an early age, Schmidt was fascinated by the natural world, eventually pursuing a degree in biology at Cornell University, which he completed in 1916. Over the course of his career, Schmidt established himself as a preeminent herpetologist, renowned for his extensive studies of reptiles and amphibians, especially snakes. His work spanned numerous expeditions across continents, and he held prestigious positions at institutions such as the American Museum of Natural History and the Field Museum of Natural History in Chicago. Schmidt’s contributions to herpetology were substantial, leading to the identification and classification of many new species. His meticulous nature earned him a great deal of respect in the scientific community, and several species were named in his honour. However, beyond his accolades, it was Schmidt’s profound curiosity that truly defined his career. This same curiosity ultimately became his downfall when he encountered a mysterious and deadly snake in 1957. The Snake That Led to a Scientist’s Demise In September 1957, the Lincoln Park Zoo in Chicago acquired a small, brightly patterned snake and sought Schmidt’s expertise in identifying it. The zoo delivered the snake to the Chicago Natural History Museum, where Schmidt, the museum’s chief curator of zoology, examined it. The snake appeared to be from Africa, and Schmidt initially suspected it might be a boomslang (Dispholidus typus), a species known for its potent venom and native to Sub-Saharan Africa. Boomslangs are notoriously dangerous, possessing haemotoxic venom that disrupts the blood’s ability to clot, leading to severe internal bleeding. However, Schmidt hesitated to identify the snake as a boomslang due to one inconsistency: its anal plate was undivided, a trait typically not seen in boomslangs. Despite this uncertainty, Schmidt decided to handle the snake for a closer inspection—an act that would soon prove fatal. As Schmidt held the snake, it bit him on the left thumb, leaving two small puncture wounds. One of its rear fangs had penetrated his skin to a depth of approximately three millimetres. The bite, though small, delivered a dose of venom that would set off a series of deadly effects. Rather than seeking immediate medical treatment, Schmidt, ever the dedicated scientist, chose to document the experience in his journal. This decision would lead to his death within 24 hours. In a demonstration of scientific commitment that bordered on the extraordinary, Schmidt began recording his symptoms in his journal immediately after the bite. He chronicled each physiological change with the same detachment and precision he had applied to countless observations throughout his career. His initial entry was straightforward: “I took it from Dr. Robert Inger without thinking of any precaution, and it promptly bit me on the fleshy lateral aspect of the first joint of the left thumb. The mouth was widely opened and the bite was made with the rear fangs only, only the right fang entering to its full length of about 3 mm.” Schmidt then began to document the venom’s gradual and terrifying effects on his body. His entries provide an astonishingly detailed record of a man observing his own death in real time: 4:30 - 5:30 PM: Strong nausea, no vomiting. Took a suburban train trip. 5:30 - 6:30 PM:Experienced chills, shaking, fever of 101.7°F. Bleeding from the gums began around 5:30 8:30 PM: Ate two pieces of milk toast. 9:00 PM - 12:20 AM: Slept well. Urinated at 12:20 AM, mostly blood. Drank water at 4:30 AM, followed by violent nausea and vomiting. Felt better and slept until 6:30 AM. The next morning, Schmidt carried on with his routine, eating breakfast and continuing to document the venom's effects: -September 26, 6:30 AM: Ate cereal, poached eggs on toast, applesauce, and coffee for breakfast. Noted continuous bleeding from the mouth and nose, though "not excessively." "Excessively" was the last word Schmidt wrote. The Final Hours Despite his worsening condition, Schmidt refused to seek medical help. It was later revealed by the Chicago Daily Tribune  that Schmidt had been advised to do so but declined, stating, “No, that would upset the symptoms.” This response suggests that Schmidt prioritised the scientific documentation of his symptoms over his own survival. He may have understood that his fate was sealed; at the time, the specific antivenom for a boomslang bite was only available in Africa, rendering any medical intervention in Chicago potentially futile. Around midday on 26th September 1957, Schmidt vomited violently and telephoned his wife, indicating that his condition was rapidly deteriorating. Soon after, he became unresponsive. Despite efforts to save him, Karl P. Schmidt was pronounced dead at 3 PM that afternoon. The official cause of death was respiratory paralysis, brought on by the venom’s destructive effects on his body. An autopsy revealed severe internal haemorrhaging in his lungs, eyes, heart, kidneys, and brain—a grim testament to the potency of boomslang venom. The Legacy of Karl P. Schmidt Karl P. Schmidt’s death sent shockwaves through the scientific community. Here was a man who had spent his life studying the very creatures that had led to his demise. His decision to document the progression of his symptoms, rather than seek treatment, has been both lauded and questioned. Some view it as a tragic case of curiosity overcoming caution, while others see it as the ultimate expression of scientific dedication. Boomslang venom is lethally potent, with just 0.0006 milligrams being sufficient to kill a small bird within minutes. In Schmidt’s case, the venom caused uncontrollable internal bleeding, leading to a slow, agonising death. His final journal entries stand as a chilling and fascinating record of his dedication to science, even as it consumed him. Schmidt’s story is more than just a cautionary tale; it is a powerful reminder of the commitment that drives many scientists. Despite the risks inherent in his work, Schmidt’s passion for herpetology never wavered, even in the face of his own mortality. His legacy endures not only in the species named after him and the knowledge he contributed to the field but also in the poignant example of a man who, even in his final moments, remained first and foremost a scientist.

In the darkness before dawn on the 4th of December 1969, the sound of breaking wood and gunfire pierced the quiet of Chicagos West Side. Neighbours later said it sounded like a war zone. Inside a small apartment at 2337 West Monroe Street, a 21-year-old man who had spent the previous evening teaching political education classes lay unconscious on a bloodied mattress. Minutes later, police officers would identify him, assess his condition, and, according to survivors, finish the job. The police called what happened a gun battle. Some newspapers repeated the phrase. But the evidence that emerged in the hours, days and years after the shooting showed something very different. The raid that killed Fred Hampton was not chaotic. It was planned, assisted, mapped, and made possible by an informant working inside the Illinois Black Panther Party. It was also shaped by the FBI’s COINTELPRO programme, which openly aimed to prevent what J Edgar Hoover described as the rise of a Black messiah. Fred Hampton’s death has since become one of the most widely studied episodes of domestic political repression in modern American history. This is the complete story, from his childhood to the events of horrific evening, the investigations that followed, and the legacy he left behind. Fred Hampton as a Proviso East High School student.   Early Life and a Natural Leader Fredrick Allen Hampton was born on the 30th of August 1948, in suburban Chicago to parents who had moved north during the Great Migration. This was a period when millions of Black families left the South in search of industrial work and, with some hope, greater safety. Even as a teenager, Hampton showed both confidence and moral purpose. He challenged racial segregation in his town by arguing that Black girls should be eligible for homecoming queen and that Black children should be allowed into the local swimming pool. These were not small matters. They touched the daily fabric of exclusion and humiliation. The NAACP recognised him early. Hampton joined its youth wing and, through sheer energy and organisational talent, increased its membership from seven to 700. His political education expanded rapidly too. Like many young activists in the early 1960s, he began with admiration for Martin Luther King Jr’s non violent philosophy. But he later gravitated toward Malcolm X’s emphasis on self defence. From Malcolm’s autobiography, one line struck him deeply: "I am for violence if non violence means we continue postponing a solution to the American Black mans problem just to avoid violence." To Hampton, who had seen the abuse directed at peaceful marchers, the sentiment sounded less like extremism and more like realism. Hampton and the Black Panther Party The Black Panther Party for Self Defence was founded in Oakland in 10/1966 by Huey P Newton and Bobby Seale. By 1968, a Chicago chapter had formed and quickly attracted Hampton. Within months he became chairman of the Illinois Panthers, with Bobby Rush as deputy minister. Popular images of the Panthers often focused on armed patrols or confrontations with police, but the Chicago chapter’s daily work looked quite different. They ran free breakfast programmes for schoolchildren, organised medical initiatives, and offered political education. They also believed that revolutionary politics had to be practical to make sense in working class neighbourhoods. Hampton understood something else too: coalitions matter. His most significant achievement was the creation of the Rainbow Coalition, a multiracial alliance between the Panthers, the Young Lords (a Puerto Rican group), and the Young Patriots (a group representing white migrants from Appalachia living in poverty in Chicago). This was not symbolic. It involved joint meetings, shared actions, and a clear message that racial division benefitted the city’s political establishment more than ordinary people. Jeffrey Haas, who later helped represent the Hampton family, observed: "[Because of the Rainbow Coalition], Hampton represented a threat beyond just what the Panthers were." The FBI was paying attention. Hoover called the Panthers "the greatest threat to the internal security of the country", and internal memoranda show that the Bureau considered Hampton a potential Black messiah capable of unifying the militant movement. Chicago on Edge: The Tensions Before the Raid The final months of 1969 were marked by escalating conflict. On the night of the 13th of November, while Hampton was in California, officers John J Gilhooly and Frank G Rappaport were killed in a gun battle with members of the Chicago Panthers. One died that night, the other the following day. Nineteen-year-old Panther Spurgeon Winter Jr was killed by police. Panther Lawrence S Bell was charged with murder. The Chicago Tribune responded with an editorial titled "No Quarter for Wild Beasts", urging police to approach suspected Panthers prepared to shoot. The temperature in the city was rising rapidly. Within the FBI, the climate was no less heated. Agency memoranda from July 1969 show that COINTELPRO’s explicit aim was to prevent the rise of a messiah who could unify Black nationalist groups. Hampton was specifically flagged as such a figure. To achieve this, the FBI relied heavily on a single informant. The Informant Inside the Party: William O’Neal William O’Neal, a young man who had been recruited by the FBI after an arrest, infiltrated the Chicago Panthers and rose to a position of trust. His job gave him access to the chapter’s inner workings, security positions, and living arrangements. O’Neal provided the FBI with detailed maps of Panther apartments, including 2337 West Monroe Street, noting the location of beds, doors and furniture. He was also the one who informed the FBI that Hampton was likely to move up to national leadership within the party. William O’Neal was an FBI informant embedded within the Black Panthers. On the evening of the 3rd of December, after Hampton led a political education class, he returned home with his pregnant fiancée Deborah Johnson and several Panthers, including Mark Clark, Ronald Satchel, Blair Anderson, James Grady, Harold Bell, Verlina Brewer, Louis Truelock and Brenda Harris. O’Neal had prepared a late dinner for them. During that dinner, O’Neal slipped secobarbital into Hampton’s drink. Hampton was not known to take drugs, and Cook County chemist Eleanor Berman later confirmed that two separate tests showed the presence of barbiturates in his system. An FBI chemist claimed not to detect them, but Berman did not retract her findings. Around 01:30, Hampton fell asleep mid-sentence while speaking to his mother on the phone. Johnson later recalled watching him try to rouse when the raid began: "It was like watching a slow motion film. He raised his head up real slow with his eyes toward the entranceway and laid his head back down. That was the only movement he made." O’Neal left the apartment shortly before the shooting began. The Raid Begins The raid was organised by Cook County State’s Attorney Edward Hanrahan through his Special Prosecutions Unit. Armed with a search warrant for illegal weapons, a 14-man team arrived at the apartment at around 04:00. At approximately 04:45, they launched the assault. Mark Clark, 22, was on security duty in the front room with a shotgun resting in his lap. Police shot him in the chest instantly. His shotgun discharged once into the ceiling as a reflex after his death. This single round would later be used to claim that the Panthers had fired first. Police then directed heavy fire into the bedrooms. Survivors described a barrage of bullets. Ballistics later confirmed that officers fired between 82 and 99 shots. The Panthers fired one. The bed and room where Hampton was fatally shot during the raid, showing a large amount of blood on his side of the mattress and numerous bullet holes in the walls Deborah Johnson was pulled from the room as Hampton lay on the mattress, still unconscious. According to both Johnson and fellow Panther Harold Bell, the following exchange took place: "That’s Fred Hampton." "Is he dead? Bring him out." "He’s barely alive." "He’ll make it." Then Johnson heard two shots and someone say:"He’s good and dead now." Hampton had been shot twice in the head at close range. His body was dragged into the doorway and left in a pool of blood. In the north bedroom, Panthers Ronald Satchel, Blair Anderson, Verlina Brewer and Brenda Harris were also shot, then beaten, dragged outside and arrested on charges of attempted murder. Chicago Police remove Hampton's body Immediate Aftermath: Competing Narratives At a press conference the next day, the police announced the arrest team had been attacked by the "violent" and "extremely vicious" Panthers and defended themselves accordingly. In a second press conference on December 8, the police leadership praised the assault team for their "remarkable restraint," "bravery," and "professional discipline" in not killing all the Panthers present. Photographic evidence was presented of "bullet holes" allegedly made by shots fired by the Panthers, but reporters soon challenged this claim, saying they had clearly been made by nails in the hope they would look like bullet holes. An internal investigation was undertaken, and the police claimed that their colleagues on the assault team were exonerated of any wrongdoing, concluding that they "used lawful means to overcome the assault." The police called their raid on Hampton's apartment a "shootout." The Black Panthers called it a "shoot-in," because so many shots were fired by police. On the 6th of December thousands of people walked through the unguarded apartment. Among them was student photographer Jack Challem, whose photographs showed no evidence of bullets fired outward at police. The Chicago Sun-Times published the headline: "Those bullet holes aren’t." On 11 and 12 December, both the Chicago Tribune and Chicago Sun-Times published long front page accounts. They reached opposite conclusions. A coroner’s inquest ruled the deaths justifiable homicides. Only police and state witnesses testified, surviving Panthers refused to testify because they still faced criminal charges. At the same time, major civil rights figures, including Roy Wilkins and former Attorney General Ramsey Clark, formed an independent commission and concluded the police had killed Hampton without justification and violated constitutional protections. Federal Scrutiny, Legal Battles and the Exposure of COINTELPRO In May 1970, a federal grand jury released a report criticising actions by both the police and the Panthers, but returning no indictments. In 1970, the survivors and families of Hampton and Mark Clark filed a civil rights suit seeking USD 47.7 million in damages. After years of delays, the trial began and continued for 18 months. In 1977, the case was dismissed. But in 1979, the United States Court of Appeals found that the government had withheld evidence, including documents linking the FBI to planning the raid. The case was reinstated. In 1980, the Supreme Court upheld that decision. In 1982, the City of Chicago, Cook County and the federal government reached a settlement of USD 1.85 million. Attorney G Flint Taylor described the settlement as: "An admission of the conspiracy that existed between the FBI and Hanrahan’s men to murder Fred Hampton." The government denied wrongdoing, claiming it wished only to avoid further cost. Meanwhile, a 1971 break-in at an FBI office in Media, Pennsylvania exposed COINTELPRO publicly for the first time. Among the documents were: • A floor plan of Hampton’s apartment • Communications between the FBI and state authorities • Evidence that O’Neal had been paid and rewarded for his role Mourners at the funeral of Hampton. William O’Neal later admitted his involvement in setting up the raid, he died by suicide in 1990. Funeral and Public Reaction More than 5,000 people attended Hampton’s funeral in December 1969. Jesse Jackson said in his eulogy: "When Fred was shot in Chicago, Black people in particular, and decent people in general, bled everywhere." A few days later, in retaliation, members of the Weather Underground bombed several police vehicles in Chicago. Four weeks after the raid, on Boxing Day, 1969, Deborah Johnson gave birth to their son, Fred Hampton Jr. Fred Hampton Jr Legacy Fred Hampton’s killing is widely viewed as a turning point in the decline of the Black Panther Party. By 1982, the party had effectively dissolved. Yet Hampton’s work left deep marks: • His Rainbow Coalition influenced later multiracial organising in Chicago • His focus on police brutality anticipated the concerns of Black Lives Matter • His legacy shaped the city’s political transformation, including the 1983 election of Harold Washington as Chicago’s first Black mayor. Georgia State University professor Craig McPherson said Hampton belongs in the same grouping as Martin Luther King Jr , Malcolm X and Medgar Evers , adding that he should receive far more recognition nationally. The 2021 film " Judas and the Black Messiah " helped bring the story of Hampton and O’Neal to new international audiences. But the fact remains that Hampton’s life ended at 21. His supporters have long argued that his death removed a political organiser who had the potential to alter the course of American urban activism. Sources https://www.archives.gov/research/african-americans/individuals/fred-hampton https://www.justice.gov/archives/jm/criminal-resource-manual-81-fbi-cointelpro https://jjie.org/2021/02/11/who-was-fred-hampton/ https://www.npr.org/2021/02/12/fred-hampton-black-panther-william-oneal-fbi https://www.pbs.org/wgbh/americanexperience/features/hampton-black-panthers/ https://www.chicagotribune.com/news/ct-vintage-fred-hampton-black-panthers-20191203-az2t66i4gjbwjez2tkau5pjz34-story.html https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2021/feb/12/fred-hampton-black-panthers-judas-black-messiah-history https://www.law.com/almID/1202755632817/

There is a certain kind of magic in rediscovering a city through the eyes of someone who photographed it before most of us were born. Michael Kay’s images of Manchester in the early 1970s do exactly that. They reveal a place caught between decline and renewal, a place shaped by soot and spirit, hardship and humour. Above all, they show the people who lived through it. Michael Kay has been photographing people since his student days, guided by what he calls a “keen eye for character”. His new book, documenting Manchester at the start of the 1970s, pulls readers into a world of slum clearances, corner pubs, stoic residents, and the subtle glow of everyday resilience. What sets his work apart is not only the rich tonal depth of the film he used, but the fact that these scenes have almost entirely vanished from the modern cityscape. This is an intimate tour through one of Britain’s great urban transformations, told through the lens of a young photographer who simply wandered the streets with a lot of curiosity. A Welsh Beginning and a Manchester Calling Michael grew up in Snowdonia, surrounded by mountain landscapes and small communities where everyone knew each other. His move to Manchester in 1970 to study photography at Manchester Polytechnic marked a dramatic shift. He traded the rugged stillness of North Wales for a city where the pavements hummed with activity, where derelict streets stood beside new concrete developments, and where the social contrasts were impossible to ignore. Manchester Polytechnic’s photography course was prestigious. Among Michael’s contemporaries were Martin Parr, Daniel Meadows and the late Brian Griffin, all of whom would go on to shape British visual culture. Those early years were a mix of experimentation, darkroom fumes, and tutors encouraging students to step outside, observe, and document what was right in front of them. Michael did exactly that. Between 1970 and 1973 he took his camera everywhere. The results would eventually become the backbone of his professional portfolio and, decades later, the foundation of his book. Walking the Streets with a Camera Michael’s projects as a student included a wide range of themes that reflected the city’s daily rhythms. He photographed “Life amongst the slum clearance areas”, captured the fireside glow of “Bonfire Night”, covered “Armed Forces Day in Platt Fields”, and spent an unforgettable evening inside the Birch Villa pub in Rusholme. His approach was simple. He walked, he looked, he asked permission when he needed to, and he waited for people to reveal themselves as they were. In the Birch Villa he recalls: “I just walked in with my camera and asked if I could take some photos of the clientele. No one seemed to mind, and I felt quite safe in there. I was there for a couple of hours and it was full of characters.” The photographs taken in that pub have become some of his most celebrated. They capture warm chatter, raised glasses, quiet contemplation and the slightly chaotic energy of what he calls “a proper Manchester boozer”. Many of those pubs are long gone, replaced by student flats, supermarkets or apartment blocks. Through Michael’s lens, they survive. A City on the Brink: Poverty and Regeneration To look at Michael’s photographs is to understand the contradictions of Manchester in the early 1970s. On one hand, the city was struggling. Industry was declining, jobs were vanishing, and large swathes of inner Manchester deteriorated faster than local councils could intervene. He describes the atmosphere plainly: “The city was poor, poverty was rife, and gloom hung heavy in the air.” Yet the 1970s were also a moment of enormous state ambition. Manchester’s council leaders launched regeneration programmes designed to drag the city into a modern future. Victorian terraces were bulldozed, streets disappeared under the rubble of demolition crews, and entire communities were uprooted with the promise of better housing. Michael stood there with his camera, watching the old city crumble while the new one struggled to take shape. Down Comes Moss Side One of the most dramatic scenes of his project was Moss Side, where whole districts were reduced to brick piles as part of the city’s urban renewal plan. Fifty years ago Moss Side was a patchwork of ageing Victorian homes that were deemed unfit for habitation. Council leaders opted to tear them down and construct modern council estates, with Hulme’s notorious Crescents rising in the distance. At the time the Crescents were hailed as the most ambitious public housing development in Europe. They were designed to house more than thirteen thousand people, inspired by Georgian architecture and built with the belief that modern concrete living would improve quality of life. Instead the complex quickly deteriorated. Infestations of cockroaches, mice and even feral dogs spread through the blocks. Water ingress, poor insulation and faulty construction led to widespread structural problems. Social isolation, crime and a lack of green space made everyday life in the Crescents extremely difficult. Within a few years thousands of residents sought alternative accommodation. Michael’s photographs show the area before the Crescents reached their lowest point, but the warning signs are already visible. Streets are half gone, homes are boarded up, and children stand outside front doors that will soon be demolished. Today, Hulme is a completely different place. After millions of pounds in investment the area is seen as safe and lively, with parks, university housing and cultural centres. Michael’s images remain an important record of what came before. Playing in the Rubble Despite the bleak economic reality of 1970s Manchester, Michael often found joy and resilience in the most unexpected scenes. One recurring sight was children turning demolition sites into playgrounds. He remembers it vividly: “The children played amongst the rubble and seemed happy. I’d love to know what became of this young lad.” These moments are significant. They remind us that even in the toughest circumstances, communities found ways to carry on. Children climbed bricks, explored hollowed out homes and created games from the debris of urban renewal. Adults stood nearby talking over the noise of construction. Life continued in the gaps left by bulldozers. His photographs of these children are among the most striking. They combine innocence with the scars of a city in transition, forming a powerful visual metaphor for Manchester’s journey during those years. From Manchester to London: A Career in Focus After completing his studies in 1973, Michael moved to London, a city then booming with creative opportunity. He eventually opened his own photography studio, working across editorial commissions, advertising and portraiture. The gritty streets of Manchester remained a formative influence, shaping how he approached subjects throughout his career. His new book, featuring many of the images taken during those early years, is a careful archive of a city that would soon look entirely different. It speaks not only to the past, but to the enduring power of observational photography. Through wide streets and narrow back lanes, frozen pubs and collapsing tenements, Michael captured a Manchester on the brink of transformation. His work stands as a quiet reminder that history is not only in grand buildings or political speeches, but in the faces of the people who lived through it. Sources A Snapshot in Time: Photographer Shares Images Captured in 1970s Manchester https://themanc.com/feature/a-snapshot-in-time-photographer-shares-images-captured-in-1970s-manchester/ New License Ready Images: Michael Kay Collection (PhotoArchiveNews) https://photoarchivenews.com/news/new-license-ready-images-michael-kay-collection-street-photography-manchester-1970s/ Hulme Crescent: Bohemian Dream and Utopian Failure (I Love MCR) https://ilovemanchester.com/hulme-crescent-bohemian-dream-utopian-failure Designing Out Crime: The Rise and Fall of Hulme Crescents (MetroStor) https://metrostor.uk/designing-out-crime-the-rise-and-fall-of-hulme-crescents/ Hulme Crescents: A Case Study in Manchester’s Post Slum Clearance Experiment (Retrospect Journal) https://retrospectjournal.com/2025/02/16/hulme-crescents-a-case-study-in-manchesters-post-slum-clearance-experiment-and-a-lesson-for-british-social-housing/ Urban Regeneration in Manchester: Hulme (Tutor2U) https://www.tutor2u.net/geography/reference/gcse-geography-urban-regeneration-in-manchester-hulme-uk-city-study-manchester-10 Manchester After Engels: History of the Present (Places Journal) https://placesjournal.org/article/manchester-after-engels/

It began with a rumour. Years after the war ended, stories started circulating about a Polish doctor who had supposedly saved thousands of Jews from the gas chambers by inventing a false epidemic. Newspapers repeated it. A documentary crew went looking for it. A myth formed around the idea that one man and one clever medical trick had preserved a large Jewish population from certain death. The truth is more nuanced, grounded in the very specific nature of life in occupied Poland, in the habits of the German authorities, and in the slow and sometimes uncomfortable way historical memory evolves. Eugene Lazowski did save people. Many of them. But not in the precise way the legend later claimed. What he did manage was extraordinary in its own right. It simply deserves to be told as it really happened. Early life and medical training Eugeniusz Sławomir Łazowski was born in Częstochowa in 1913, a city known as much for its religious heritage as for its industrial sprawl. He grew up in a Catholic family and followed a familiar path for a young man with academic ambitions in interwar Poland. He studied medicine at the Józef Piłsudski University in Warsaw, qualifying shortly before the outbreak of the Second World War. He was only twenty six when Poland was invaded. A friend later remarked that Łazowski had the look of someone who noticed everything. It was a quality that would serve him well when medical improvisation became an act of resistance. War begins and the path to Rozwadow At the start of the German invasion he served as a medic in the Polish Army with the rank of second lieutenant. He was captured by Soviet forces when eastern Poland was occupied, and placed in a prisoner of war camp. Escape stories from this period are rarely tidy, and Łazowski’s account fits that pattern. He took advantage of confusion and slipped away, eventually finding work on a Red Cross train. This allowed him to continue practising medicine even while the country was torn apart. Later he settled in the small settlement of Rozwadow in the southeast, which later became part of the town of Stalowa Wola. He arrived there with his wife, and it was in this place that their daughter Alexandra was born. The town was modest, a cluster of streets, a railway line, a nearby forest, and the constant presence of German authority. Like many rural Polish communities at the time, its Jewish residents were pushed into a small ghetto. The Lazowski home bordered that area. As a doctor, he was permitted limited supplies of medicines. Those supplies were supposed to be used only for non Jewish patients. Treating Jews in any form was forbidden and punishable by death. Yet Lazowski passed medicines through holes in the fence and treated children at night. These acts were not part of any grand plan. They were quiet gestures, performed frequently enough to put him at considerable risk. Partnership with Dr Stanisław Matulewicz Working alongside Lazowski in Rozwadow was Dr Stanisław Matulewicz, a friend from university. Matulewicz had also served with the Red Cross and had a particular interest in bacteriology. It was Matulewicz who made the discovery that would allow their most famous ruse to take shape. He learned that patients injected with a harmless strain of Proteus bacteria known as OX 19 would test positive for typhus in the standard German blood tests. The test produced a cross reaction. The body recognised the presence of the organism and produced antibodies that mimicked those generated by true typhus infection. In effect, one could create the appearance of an epidemic without the disease itself being present. Dr Stanisław Matulewicz This was not a trivial matter. German authorities were terrified of typhus. The disease had ravaged armies during the First World War, and military leaders had become deeply cautious about any outbreak. Typhus meant quarantine, restrictions on movement, and the avoidance of entire villages. In 1941 and into 1942, Lazowski and Matulewicz began using this knowledge to create what became known as the epidemic that never was. How the fake epidemic worked The doctors selected patients who were already ill with other conditions and gave them the OX 19 injections so that their blood tests would resemble cases of typhus. When tests were carried out, the samples came back positive. Over time, as the number of positive samples increased, German officials concluded that the region was becoming unsafe. The doctors were careful. They avoided treating Jewish patients with OX 19 because they knew the German response to suspected typhus among Jewish communities. In those cases, authorities often responded with shootings and the burning of homes. The method was used only among the non Jewish Polish population in the surrounding villages. It bought time and space. By late 1942, the authorities had quarantined the area. German patrols were reduced. Roundups were suspended. Deportations from the village effectively stopped. People were not marched away to forced labour camps because no one wanted to enter a place thought to be filled with infected bodies. Quarantined Building in the Warsaw Ghetto, the sign in German and Polish - "TYPHUS Entry and exit strictly prohibited" This is the point at which later writers started to inflate the story. In an English language article published decades later, the journalist involved claimed that eight thousand Jews had been saved by the epidemic. It was a compelling line, especially in an era eager for stories of unexpected heroism. But it was also untrue. What really happened and who was saved The number often repeated in newspapers is eight thousand. It appears frequently but has no basis in the demographics of Rozwadow. The Jewish population of the area was nowhere near that number. Most of the local Jewish community had already been deported or murdered by the time the fake epidemic began to take effect. The ghetto in Rozwadow was small. Even its combined population with other nearby Jewish communities did not reach eight thousand. So what was the real impact of the epidemic? The quarantine protected the surrounding Polish communities. Those villages were shielded from forced labour conscriptions and from some of the violent crackdowns that were common in other rural districts. The epidemic zone encompassed several villages, and the best historical estimates suggest that several thousand Polish men, women and children avoided deportation. Lazowski did save Jewish lives, but in a different way. His clandestine treatment of ghetto residents kept individuals alive despite German restrictions. He smuggled medicines, provided care without documentation, and sometimes left supplies where they could be found. These acts were dangerous and humane. They were simply not carried out through the fake typhus epidemic. His own memoir, published in Polish in 1993 as Private War and later translated into English by his daughter, makes this clear. One Jewish man in the area remembered being given medicine by the doctor at night. Others recalled that he would quietly pass food when it was possible. These were small acts, but they mattered. Later, when asked by documentarians about his fame as the Polish Schindler, Lazowski’s daughter noted that her father never disputed the embellished claim. She also pointed out that his memoir contradicted it repeatedly. The German response to typhus among Jewish populations would have been lethal, and the numbers alone proved the legend was impossible. The journalist who created the inflated claim admitted on camera years later that he had not verified the facts. He did not know Polish and had relied on partial translations. The exaggerated story took on a life of its own. The end of the war and the decision to emigrate After the war Lazowski continued to practise medicine. Like many Polish professionals, he faced political pressure as the country fell under Soviet influence. In 1958 he emigrated with his wife Maria and their daughter Alexandra to the United States. The Rockefeller Foundation awarded him a scholarship, and he built a new life in Chicago. By the mid nineteen eighties he had become a professor of paediatrics at the University of Illinois. He wrote more than one hundred scientific papers, and colleagues remembered him as genial and quietly proud of his past. Only in later years did he begin to speak publicly about the epidemic story. The fame amused him. According to his daughter, he enjoyed telling the tale but did not volunteer corrections unless asked. He continued practising medicine in some form until 2004. He died in 2006 at the age of ninety three. Memory, myth and the historical record The story of Eugene Lazowski raises interesting questions about how wartime experience becomes remembered. It is true that he did not single handedly save eight thousand Jews. It is also true that he and Dr Matulewicz used science and a clever understanding of German fears to shield thousands of Polish villagers from deportation. Both things can be true without diminishing either achievement. In 2019, journalist Barbara Necek directed a documentary titled In Search of the Polish Schindler. The film explored the myth directly and featured interviews with the journalist who had first published the exaggerated version of events. It also featured Lazowski’s daughter, who explained that her father did not correct the record because he found the attention pleasant. Historical memory often simplifies. In this case the simplification grew so large that it overshadowed what was actually done. What remains is still remarkable. A doctor and his colleague found a way to save lives using nothing more than a harmless bacterium, a knowledge of German bureaucracy, and a willingness to risk death. They resisted quietly and without spectacle. Their work protected Polish families in the surrounding villages, kept Jewish residents in the ghetto alive through secret medical care, and gave Rozwadow a fragile pocket of safety in a violent time. Lazowski once remarked in an interview that he had only wanted to behave like a decent human being. That may be the truest summary of his actions. The Faked Epidemic that Saved Hundreds of Lives - https://culture.pl/en/article/the-faked-epidemic-that-saved-hundreds-of-lives Investigation on a fake Polish Just - https://k-larevue.com/en/investigation-on-a-fake-polish-just/ How a faked typhus outbreak spared 8,000 Poles from the Nazis - https://www.timesofisrael.com/how-a-faked-typhus-outbreak-spared-8000-poles-from-the-nazis/ How a Fake Typhus Epidemic Saved a Polish City From the Nazis - https://www.atlasobscura.com/articles/how-a-fake-typhus-epidemic-saved-a-polish-city-from-the-nazis Sheep in Wolf's Clothing: The “Epidemic” that Duped the Nazis - https://www.discovermagazine.com/sheep-in-wolfs-clothing-the-epidemic-that-duped-the-nazis-173 Typhus: War and Deception in 1940’s Poland - https://www.aspet.org/docs/default-source/education-files/2018_tpharm_special_compilation_issue.pdf?sfvrsn=65192d2_0 About Eugene Lazowski - https://collections.carli.illinois.edu/digital/collection/uic_pw

Paul McCartney was in London, somewhere between the chaos of tours and the pressure of delivering yet another Christmas album, when he heard a remark that stuck. A man in the United States had described Mick Jagger and The Rolling Stones as “good, but plastic soul.” McCartney liked the phrase. He later called it “the germ of Rubber Soul.” It was a self aware little joke. The Beatles were white lads from Liverpool drawing heavily on African American soul and rhythm and blues. “Plastic soul” was a way of admitting that what they did was their own imitation of an art form they revered but could never truly claim as their own. Out of that self deprecating phrase came one of the most important records of the 1960s. Rubber Soul was not just another Beatles album to keep the machine running. It was the point where the group began to turn inward, to treat the studio as an instrument, and to think of an album as a single artistic statement rather than a set of potential hit singles padded with filler. In the process, they helped change how rock music worked for everyone else. Rubber Soul at the turning point of 1965 By the time the Beatles began work on Rubber Soul in October 1965, they were in an unusual position. They were at the peak of global fame yet oddly at risk of feeling out of date. Pop careers in the early 1960s were often short. In that context, a band that had been dominant since 1963 could easily start to look tired. Around them, other British groups were hardening the sound and pushing the subject matter. The Who were issuing loud, slogan driven singles that sounded far more aggressive than anything the Beatles had done. The Rolling Stones had just released “I Cant Get No Satisfaction,” a snarling complaint that made “Help!” sound almost polite by comparison. The Kinks were already writing satirical character songs and flirting with Indian influenced sounds. The Beatles catalogue, rich as it was, still revolved largely around energetic covers and relatively straightforward boy girl love songs. 1965 changed that landscape. the Beatles play Shea Stadium On tour in North America that summer, the Beatles played the famous Shea Stadium concert to more than 50,000 people. In the same period they met Bob Dylan again, heard the Byrds take folk and Beatles style jangle into new territory, and finally met their early hero Elvis Presley. They also watched American soul and Motown acts up close, paying attention to the records from labels like Stax and Motown that dominated US radio. Those encounters fed into their writing as soon as they returned to London. Rubber Soul is the sound of that influence being digested and reimagined. It draws from folk, soul, pop and early psychedelia without belonging neatly to any single category. Critic Tim Riley later suggested that rather than being simply a folk rock album, it represents a step toward a broader synthesis of everything that made 1965 such an explosive year in rock and roll. It was, in other words, the moment the Beatles stopped reacting and began redefining the field again. From “plastic soul” to Rubber Soul The phrase that became the album title came directly from McCartney. After hearing Jagger described as “plastic soul,” he adapted it with a typically dry Beatles twist. The band knew perfectly well that when they attempted soul music, they did so from outside the tradition. Ringo Starr later put it simply in a press conference, saying they and other British acts “have not got what they have got” compared to the American soul singers they loved. Calling the record Rubber Soul was a way of acknowledging this with a mixture of humour and ambition. Rubber suggested flexibility and stretch, maybe even something a little distorted. Soul pointed to the music that inspired them. The title could be read as an admission of inauthenticity, but it also implied that whatever they were creating was their own variant of soul music stamped out in Liverpool rather than Memphis or Detroit. Fittingly, Rubber Soul also became their first album where the name “The Beatles” did not appear on the front cover. By late 1965 the four faces themselves were brand enough, and their control over their image was strong enough, that a title and a slightly strange photograph were all that was needed. Recording Rubber Soul in four dense weeks Recording began at EMI Studios in London on the 12th of October, 1965 and wrapped up by mid November. For the first time in their career, the Beatles were able to work on an album without having to squeeze sessions between film shoots or intensive radio schedules. They still faced a tight deadline to have a new record ready for the Christmas market, but crucially they were freed from many of the other demands that had defined their early years. That short window led to 13 days of sessions totalling more than one hundred hours of recording, plus additional days of mixing. George Martin, no longer a direct EMI staff producer after co founding Associated Independent Recording, returned to oversee the project. Engineer Norman Smith handled the technical side for the last time on a Beatles album before moving on to become a producer in his own right. The sessions were intense enough that the band were recording into the early hours most nights. They interrupted the process only for two public obligations. On the 26th of October they travelled to Buckingham Palace to receive MBEs from Queen Elizabeth the Second, and in early November they filmed their parts for a television special, The Music of Lennon and McCartney. The rest of the time they lived in the studio, writing and arranging on the fly. The group were determined that the album would consist entirely of original material, as they had already managed with A Hard Days Night. When a session had to be cancelled because Lennon and McCartney did not yet have enough new songs, Martin rejected the idea of padding the record with outside compositions. They dug back into the Help sessions to rescue “Wait,” and even put down an instrumental jam, “Twelve Bar Original,” which stayed in the vaults until the 1990s. They also recorded “Day Tripper” and “We Can Work It Out” during these sessions, intending them as a single to sit alongside the album. To avoid endless television promotion, the group filmed promotional clips for both songs, an early example of what would later become the promotional video or pop video standard. Drugs, Dylan and the move inward By 1965 the Beatles were no longer drinking their way through the touring circuit. Marijuana had become a central part of their lives and creative process. Lennon would later call Rubber Soul “the pot album.” Ringo Starr observed that during this period “we were expanding in all areas of our lives, opening up to a lot of different attitudes.” The relaxed pacing and reflective tone of much of the record mirrors that shift. Bob Dylan had already nudged Lennon toward more introspective, ambiguous writing. On Rubber Soul, that influence becomes fully visible in songs like “Nowhere Man,” “Girl” and particularly “Norwegian Wood,” which frames an extra marital encounter as a small, wry, slightly unsettling short story. The Byrds also played a significant role. Their twelve string Rickenbacker sound, inspired in the first place by Harrison in the A Hard Days Night era, came back across the Atlantic and fed into George Harrison’s playing on “If I Needed Someone” and his melodic solo on “Nowhere Man.” Another drug was beginning to reshape perspectives too. Harrison and Lennon had both taken LSD by this point, initially by accident, and later by choice. The drug made a strong impression on Harrisons outlook. He later said it had opened up “this whole other consciousness” and made the circus of fame seem strangely empty. Paul McCartney, living in central London and closer to art and literary circles than to the suburban domesticity of his bandmates, held back from LSD for another year, which created a slight distance between him and the others for a time. Taking control of the studio Musically, Rubber Soul marked a new sense of control in the studio. Lennon later recalled that it was the first record where they felt able to demand particular sounds rather than simply accept standard practice. They attended mixing sessions, experimented with instruments and tape, and worked closely with George Martin to blur the line between song writing and sound design. Paul McCartney switched from his familiar Höfner bass to a solid body Rickenbacker, which allowed more precise, melodic bass lines and a deeper tone. George Harrison brought a Fender Stratocaster into the sessions, notably for the chiming lead line on “Nowhere Man.” Guitars were capoed, layered and recorded with heavy high frequency emphasis to create fresh textures. The group also began using unfamiliar instruments. Harrison had encountered the sitar while filming the Help movie. His curiosity grew during the summer tour, helped along by conversations with Roger McGuinn and David Crosby of the Byrds. On “Norwegian Wood” he used the sitar not as decoration but as a central melodic voice, setting off what Ravi Shankar later called “the great sitar explosion” in Western pop. Elsewhere, the band introduced a harmonium, most clearly heard on “The Word,” which may be one of the first uses of the instrument in a rock context. McCartney added a fuzz bass part on Harrisons song “Think for Yourself,” creating a snarling counterline under the vocal. For “In My Life,” Lennon asked Martin to play something “like Bach.” Martin recorded a piano solo with the tape running slow, then played it back at normal speed, generating a bright, harpsichord like sound that became one of the albums most distinctive touches. Three part harmonies were sharpened and stretched. On songs like “Nowhere Man,” Lennon, McCartney and Harrison arranged their voices in tight, bright chords that owed as much to the Byrds as to their own early work. The production emphasised separation left and right in the stereo image, allowing listeners to notice individual musical details instead of a single blur of sound. Not everything in the studio felt comfortable. Engineer Norman Smith later remarked that something had changed between the Help and Rubber Soul sessions, that the old family atmosphere was beginning to thin as the band demanded more from each track. The tension was sometimes creative, driving them to refine ideas rather than rush them, but it also signalled the first faint cracks between Lennon and McCartney as writers with slightly different priorities. John Lennon & George Harrison during the recording of Rubber Soul at EMI Studios in London, England | 3 November 1965 The songs that made Rubber Soul feel different Rubber Soul opens with the sly funk of “Drive My Car,” a McCartney song with strong input from Lennon and Harrison. The main riff, suggested by Harrison and modelled loosely on Otis Reddings “Respect,” gives the track a playful soul groove. The lyric about an ambitious actress who tells the narrator he can be her driver if she makes it as a star is full of innuendo and role reversal. Critics have seen it as a light satire on the materialism and status chasing that surrounded the band at the time. “Norwegian Wood” follows, and with it the sitar. Lennon wrote the song about an affair, disguising the details so his wife Cynthia would not recognise them. The lyric is brief and ambiguous. The narrator visits a woman, sits around talking, is invited to sleep in the bath while she goes to bed, and then, in a final act of mayhem he burns down her flat the next day. Musically the track draws on English folk, mixing a droning acoustic pattern with the sitar line and slipping into a slightly different mode in the middle section. It is an oddly calm setting for a story that is emotionally sharp and morally murky. On “You Wont See Me” and “Im Looking Through You,” McCartney turns his attention to the strains in his relationship with actor Jane Asher. He later described “You Wont See Me” as having a Motown feel, with a bass line inspired by James Jamerson. The lyrics describe a partner who has grown distant and uncommunicative. “Im Looking Through You” returns to similar territory but with a more frustrated edge, contrasting acoustic verses with harsher rhythmic sections. “Nowhere Man” was, in Lennons words, a song that arrived in his head more or less fully formed after hours of writer block. It was also one of the first Beatles songs to step away completely from the boy girl template. The “nowhere man” of the lyric is a kind of version of Lennon himself, paralysed by indecision and self doubt. By writing in the third person, he managed to express his insecurities and dissatisfaction in a way that felt both intimate and universal. The bright harmonies and crisp guitar lines keep the song from sinking into gloom. George Harrison had two songs on the album. “Think for Yourself” carries a sharp, almost bitter message to a lover or friend who has been weak or compromised. In spirit it has something in common with Bob Dylans “Positively Fourth Street.” The unusual harmonic choices and the combination of clean bass and fuzz bass give it a slightly unsettled atmosphere. “If I Needed Someone,” written for model Pattie Boyd, works as both a love song and a statement of complicated loyalty, suggesting that if the singer were not already committed, he might have been interested in someone else. Musically, it sits at the crossroads of raga like drone and Byrds style jangle. Lennons “Girl” is one of the albums most intriguing tracks. He later said he had written it about an idealised woman he had yet to meet, a figure some have linked retrospectively to Yoko Ono. The song blends Greek flavoured melody with a nostalgic European feel. The way Lennon inhales sharply during the chorus was exaggerated in the mix, creating a hissing sound that some listeners have interpreted as a nod to smoking joints. McCartney and Harrison sang a soft “tit tit tit” behind parts of the vocal, a small joke that is a reoccuring theme in a fair amount of their songs (fish finger pie, etc). “In My Life” sits close to the emotional centre of the record. Lennon wrote the lyric after being prodded by journalist Kenneth Allsop to write something more personal, something that reflected the imagination and honesty of his prose in the book In His Own Write. The result is a compact reflection on childhood friends, lost places and the way present love can coexist with past affection. Lennon later called it his “first real major piece of work.” McCartney has said he composed much of the melody at a piano, taking some inspiration from Smokey Robinson and the Miracles. Whether one takes Lennons version or Pauls, the collaboration produced one of the finest Beatles songs. Not every track is progressive in the same way. “What Goes On,” revived from an older Lennon idea and completed quickly, gave Ringo Starr a chance to sing in his familiar country style and earned him his first co writing credit. “Run for Your Life,” based partly on a line from an Elvis Presley song, is a darker piece in which the narrator threatens his partner with violence if she is seen with another man. Lennon later expressed regret about the lyric, which sits oddly alongside the more reflective and less possessive songs on the record. Paul McCartney had one of his biggest early ballad successes in “Michelle,” a tune he had been playing around with since the late nineteen fifties. For Rubber Soul he and Lennon completed it, adding a middle section that Lennon partly lifted from a Nina Simone treatment of “I Put a Spell on You.” The half serious, half comic use of French phrases gave the song a distinctive flavour and helped it become one of the most covered Lennon McCartney compositions. Across these songs runs a common thread. Relationships are no longer simple or idealised. Communication breaks down. People disappoint each other. Nostalgia is tempered with an awareness of change and mortality. This was still pop music, tuneful and concise, but the emotional palette had deepened noticeably. Two versions one album In Britain, Rubber Soul appeared on Parlophone on the 3rd of December, 1965 with fourteen tracks, all original. In North America, Capitol Records reconfigured the album as it had done with previous Beatles releases. Four songs “Drive My Car,” “Nowhere Man,” “What Goes On” and “If I Needed Someone” were removed and held back for the compilation Yesterday and Today. In their place Capitol added “I Have Just Seen a Face” and “Its Only Love” from the British version of Help. Sequenced this way, the American Rubber Soul tilted even more strongly toward acoustic textures. Capitol opened the record with “I Have Just Seen a Face,” giving it a pronounced folk feel. Many listeners and later commentators have therefore remembered the US record as a definitive folk rock statement, even though the broader British version is more eclectic. Odd quirks entered the picture. Some stereo pressings of the American album included false starts at the beginning of “Im Looking Through You.” The mix of “The Word” differed too, with extra vocal treatment and a slightly altered balance. Regardless of configuration, for many fans Rubber Soul felt like a complete work rather than a grab bag of singles and filler. The absence of a big hit single on the album itself, at least in the US market, strengthened that sense. The double A side single “We Can Work It Out” and “Day Tripper” sat alongside the album in late 1965 but not on it, which gave the LP its own distinct identity. The cover that signalled a new phase Visually, Rubber Soul looked different from earlier Beatles records. Photographer Robert Freeman shot the group in the garden of Lennons home. When projecting one of the images onto a piece of card to test how it would look as a cover, the card slipped back, stretching the proportions. The group liked the effect. It made their faces longer, slightly distorted, almost as if the image itself had been pulled and moulded. The original Bob Freeman image for the cover George Harrison later said the cover helped them lose the “little innocents” label and matched the sense that they were now, in his words, “fully fledged potheads.” The picture, combined with the lack of the band name, signalled a group stepping away from straightforward mop top presentation and into something stranger and more adult. Illustrator Charles Front created the Rubber Soul lettering. He has said he was inspired by the idea of tapping a rubber tree and watching the globules of latex swell and bulge. The rounded, flowing letters became part of the emerging visual language of the mid nineteen sixties and influenced many later psychedelic poster designs. Release, reception and chart success Rubber Soul reached British shops on three December nineteen sixty five, the same day as the “We Can Work It Out” and “Day Tripper” single. Advance orders for the album neared half a million in the United Kingdom alone, a remarkable figure for an LP in that era. In the Record Retailer chart it quickly climbed to number one and stayed there for eight weeks. It lingered in the charts for much of the following year. In the United States, the Capitol version was released on six December. It topped the Billboard album chart in January nineteen sixty six and remained in the top position for six weeks. Within nine days of release, it is estimated to have sold more than one million copies in America. Those numbers helped demonstrate that rock albums could sell in quantities approaching major singles. Contemporary reviews were largely enthusiastic, though not unanimously so. New Musical Express praised the recording artistry and sense of adventure. Newsweek, which had earlier treated the Beatles rather dismissively, now hailed them as “the bards of pop,” pointing to the blend of musical styles on the record. American jazz critic Ralph Gleason saw Rubber Soul as evidence that rock was broadening its appeal across age groups and social backgrounds. Some British pop journalists were more cautious. Writers in Melody Maker and Record Mirror noted that parts of the album felt subdued compared to the groups early explosive singles, and a few complained that the songs lacked the immediate excitement they expected. In hindsight, those reservations have often been read as a sign that critical language and expectations had not yet caught up with the direction in which the Beatles and their peers were heading. Over the decades, retrospective assessments have been far kinder. Greil Marcus, in an influential essay, called Rubber Soul the best Beatles album, praising the way almost every track felt inspired and necessary. Later critics have frequently described it as the first truly classic Beatles album and the key transitional work between Beatlemania and the more experimental period of Revolver and Sgt Pepper. Commercially, the albums impact has endured. In the United States it has been certified multiple times platinum, reflecting millions of sales. In the United Kingdom it eventually achieved platinum status under the modern certification system. After its original release, songs such as “Michelle,” “Norwegian Wood,” “Nowhere Man” and “In My Life” became standards in their own right, widely covered by other artists. Influence and legacy The importance of Rubber Soul lies partly in what it did for the Beatles themselves and partly in what it did for everyone else. Internally, it gave the group a template for treating the album as an integrated artistic project. George Martin later said that with Rubber Soul they began to think of albums as art on their own, complete entities rather than just collections. The record also confirmed that Lennon, McCartney and Harrison could each bring more varied, personal and formally ambitious material to the band. Externally, the album helped shift the centre of gravity in popular music. Brian Wilson of the Beach Boys has spoken many times about how hearing Rubber Soul inspired him to make Pet Sounds, an album conceived as an attempt to equal or surpass it in cohesion and emotional depth. Ray Davies of the Kinks, Pete Townshend of the Who, and members of the Rolling Stones all took note, moving toward more crafted and conceptually unified records. The use of sitar on “Norwegian Wood” sparked a wave of interest in Indian classical instruments and modalities in rock and pop. The baroque keyboard flavour of “In My Life” pointed toward what would later be called baroque pop or baroque rock. The emotionally complex relationship songs, with their shades of doubt and disillusion, opened paths for singer songwriters and rock lyricists to look beyond simple romance. Perhaps most importantly, Rubber Soul helped convince listeners and critics that popular music could sustain serious attention as art without losing its accessibility. The presence of more reflective lyrics, novel instrumentation and careful sequencing within a very listenable thirty five minutes meant that people who had previously dismissed rock as teenage noise began to argue about it in newspapers, magazines and university classrooms. Over time, the album has continued to appear near the top of lists of the greatest records. Rolling Stone placed it near the top of its rankings of all time albums, while other critics have stressed its role in opening up the possibilities of progressive rock, psychedelia and sophisticated pop. Even writers who prefer Revolver or the White Album often concede that Rubber Soul was the crucial first step that made those later records possible. In a later reflection, Paul McCartney said that Rubber Soul felt to him like “the beginning of my adult life.” Lennon remarked bluntly that “you do not know us if you do not know Rubber Soul.” Taken together, those comments capture what the album did for the Beatles. It allowed them to grow up in public, to bring their private doubts and expanding horizons into the songs, and to ask their audience to grow with them. Sources The Beatles Bible Rubber Soul album guide https://www.beatlesbible.com/albums/rubber-soul AllMusic review and credits for Rubber Soul https://www.allmusic.com/album/rubber-soul-mw0000192938 Mark Lewisohn The Complete Beatles Recording Sessions - https://www.beatlesbookstore.com/the-beatles-recording-sessions/ Ian MacDonald Revolution in the Head The Beatles Records and the Sixties - Revolution in the Head: The Beatles' Records and the Sixties : MacDonald, Ian: Amazon.co.uk : Books

The Rolling Stones tend to get introduced as one of the greatest live bands in history, and fair play, they’ve spent nearly sixty years proving it. Even now, they still show up and blast through sets as if the whole ageing process was merely a suggestion. But for a band so famously loud and loose on stage, their studio work is just as interesting, even if it tends to get pushed aside in favour of tales about hotel-room furniture flying out of windows. Behind the scenes, Jagger and Richards never approached recording with the neat, lab-coat precision of Pink Floyd or The Beatles . Those bands were busy fine-tuning tape loops and exploring the limits of studio engineering. The Stones’ approach was more along the lines of: wander in, see what happens, and hope inspiration turns up before the engineer gives up and goes home. Sessions were often chaotic, beautifully scruffy, and powered by whatever riff Keith had stumbled across at three in the morning. Keith, of course, operated on his own schedule, which rarely aligned with concepts like “daylight” or “eight hours of sleep”. Engineers would recall him turning up at impossible times, cigarette already lit, muttering something about a new idea he needed to try “right now”. Half the time these half-awake experiments ended up becoming the backbone of a song. And because the Stones rarely bothered pretending that demos were strictly private, those early recordings now give us a rare look at the bones of some of their most iconic tracks. Two of the most revealing are the demos for ‘Wild Horses’ and ‘Gimme Shelter’, both featuring Keith on lead vocals. It’s always a bit disorienting at first. Keith’s voice is absolutely fine, and his solo albums prove he can carry a tune. But we’re so conditioned to hearing Mick front these songs that Keith’s versions feel like wandering into the wrong cinema screen by mistake. You know you’re in roughly the right place, but something’s definitely off. Take ‘Gimme Shelter’. The song came out of a dark patch in 1969, which might be why it has that creeping, end-of-the-world feeling. Richards famously came up with the riff while watching a storm roll in over London. They recorded it at Olympic Studios during a period when the Stones were shaking off the last bits of sixties idealism and gearing up for something grittier. Add in its later connection to Altamont and Merry Clayton’s spine-splitting vocal, and the song’s mythology practically writes itself. Compared to all that drama, Keith’s early vocal sounds a bit like he’s just testing the plumbing before the house gets built. ‘Wild Horses’, though, is a different story. Recorded during their stop at Muscle Shoals Sound Studio in Alabama in December 1969, the track belonged to Keith long before it became a polished album classic. His demo of it actually suits his voice surprisingly well. The song often gets linked to Marianne Faithfull, but Keith brushed that aside. “Everyone always says this was written about Marianne but I don’t think it was; that was all well over by then,” he said later. “But I was definitely very inside this piece emotionally.” He also described the song as a perfect example of how he and Jagger worked: “If there is a classic way of Mick and me working together this is it. I had the riff and chorus line, Mick got stuck into the verses. Just like ‘Satisfaction’, ‘Wild Horses’ was about the usual thing of not wanting to be on the road, being a million miles from where you want to be.” You can absolutely hear that in the demo. Keith sounds like a man who has stared into the middle distance for several hours contemplating life, travel, and probably the state of his hotel room. His voice has a kind of worn tenderness, and the guitar is gentle, almost apologetic. Later covers might be technically stronger, but Keith’s version has that unpolished honesty you only get when someone’s recorded themselves while feeling all of it rather deeply. That’s the charm of these demos. They strip away the swagger, the stadium lights, the decades of mythology, and leave you with the actual process: someone with an acoustic guitar, a half-formed idea, and the determination to get it down before the moment slips away. Before the legend and the live spectacles, this is how the songs started. A bit messy, a bit sleepy, a bit brilliant. Exactly like the Stones, really.

In 1981 Paul McCartney flew to Monteserrat, where Beatles producer George Martin had installed a state-of-the-art studio, to begin work on his Tug Of War solo album. One song in this album is Get It, to which recording session he invited Carl Perkins to provide vocals. Carl loved the experience and the following morning he wrote My Old Friend for Paul in appreciation. In fact, he recounted to Paul that usually when he writes he needs a pen and a sheet of paper to record his thoughts on, but this time the words just stuck with him. He then played the song to Paul. And Paul, upon hearing the song, left the room crying. ‘After I finished,’ he recalled, 'Paul was crying, tears were rolling down his cheeks, and Linda said, ‘Carl, thank you so much.’ I said, ‘Linda, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you both cry.’ She said, ‘But he’s crying, and he needed to. He hasn’t been able to really break down since that happened to John.’ And she put her arm around me and said, ‘But how did you know?’ I said, ‘Know what?’ She said, ‘There’s two people in the world that know what John Lennon said to Paul, the last thing he said to him. But now there’s three, and one of them’s you, you know it.’ I said, ‘Girl, you’re freaking me out! I don’t know what you’re talking about!’ She said that the last words that John Lennon said to Paul in the hallway of the Dakota building were, he patted him on the shoulder and said, ‘Think about me every now and then, old friend.’ And that, with minor alterations, was the chorus line of Perkins’ song, ‘McCartney really feels that Lennon sent me that song, he really does.' Here’s the YouTube video with Paul and Carl together in 1993. Paul obviously tried to hold his emotions. “If we never meet again this side of life, in a little while, over yonder, where there’s peace and quiet, my old friend, won’t you think about me every now and then?”

A sample of three mugshots from the GMP Museum Today I visited The Greater Manchester Police Museum, and I can't recommend it enough. It doesn’t look like much at first glance, just another red-bricked Victorian building nestled in the heart of Manchester’s Northern Quarter. But behind its arched windows and soot-blackened stone, 57 Newton Street has seen a hundred years of crime, community, and change. Before it became the Greater Manchester Police Museum, it was a fully functioning police station, a place where officers lived above their work, crooks were processed with methodical efficiency, and the heartbeat of industrial Manchester echoed through its tiled corridors. Manchester City Police officers with their heads down in an education class at Newton Street Police Station in 1910, a building now housing the Greater Manchester Police Museum and Archives near Piccadilly Gardens. The history of this building isn’t just about policing. It’s a social record. And the early 1900s mugshots taken inside its walls, now held in its archives, offer a rare and haunting glimpse into the lives of those who passed through its cells. I've added lots of the images here but they have a Flickr library that's well worth a look. This is an image James McGrath. He was arrested in June 1881 for a failed attempt to blow up Liverpool Town Hall, linked to the Fenian movement. Tried that August, he was sentenced to life. His accomplice, James McKevitt, received 15 years and served time in Chatham Prison. Built for the Beat: A Station for an Industrial City When Newton Street Police Station opened in 1879, Manchester was one of the world’s fastest-growing industrial cities. Railways, canals, and factories had transformed it into a symbol of progress, but also brought with them overcrowding, poverty, and rising crime. The amazing looking Clara Pendlebury was 32 years old when she made this appearance in Bolton Borough Police’s book of convicted criminals – known as the Thieves Book – in 1918. She is described as having dark brown hair, grey eyes and being of sallow complexion. The record also states she stood 4 feet 10 inches tall and was a native of Hindley. She was employed as a card room hand in the cotton spinning industry. On the 8th of April she was convicted of stealing two and a half pounds (lbs) of raw cotton. She was fined 40 shillings for the offence. The city had already established a professional police force in 1839, modelled after Robert Peel’s London Metropolitan Police. But by the late 19th century, the need for more localised, residential police stations became clear. Newton Street was one of a new wave: multi-purpose buildings where officers could live, work, patrol and process suspects all under one roof. Meet Albert Haycock of Heaton Mersey in Stockport. Albert, who was 21 years old when this picture was taken in 1907, wasconvicted of 2 counts of stealing iron on the 27th of November that year. He was sentenced to 12 days imprisonment with hard labour for each offence. Its design followed Victorian principles of efficiency and discipline, a functional mix of charge office, holding cells, report rooms, stables, and upstairs accommodation. Constables lodged here with their families, climbing a narrow stairway each night to modest quarters above the cells they might have filled earlier that day. Uniformed officers and a detective of Manchester City Police taken outside their police station in Newton Heath, circa 1880. Detectives of the day liked to dress well and this officer is no exception, looking rather splendid alongside his, somewhat crumpled, uniformed counterparts. The Work of the Watchmen Being a policeman in late Victorian Manchester was a tough job. Officers in stiff tunics and spiked helmets patrolled on foot, often covering up to 20 miles in a single shift. The streets could be lawless after dark, especially in areas like Ancoats and Angel Meadow, where gangs roamed, and drunken fights were commonplace. Back at Newton Street, the charge office was the nerve centre of it all, a no-nonsense room where arrests were processed and suspects logged in longhand. The iron-barred cells, located directly behind, were dimly lit, with little more than a bench, a bucket and heavy wooden doors that shut with a final-sounding thud. Manchester City Police officers learning shorthand at Newton Street Police Station in 1910. The building, which lies close to Piccadilly Gardens in the city's Northern Quarter, is now home to the Greater Manchester Police Museum and Archives. Officers worked long hours and often saw the same names again and again, petty thieves, sex workers, fraudsters, drunkards and brawlers. It wasn’t glamorous. But it was consistent. The station provided a steady presence in a rapidly changing city. Capturing Crime: Mugshots and Manchester’s Underclass Some of the most remarkable remnants from Newton Street’s working years are its early 20th-century mugshots, many taken between 1900 and 1915. These photographs, now held by the Greater Manchester Police Museum, weren’t just for record-keeping, they became a form of social documentation. The scuttlers were gangs of young people, both male and female, that menaced the streets of Manchester and Salford towards the end of the nineteenth century. The had a specific way of dressing, often including brass tipped clogs, distinctive scarves and bell bottomed trousers, they carried weapons, which included belts, knives and guns and sported colourful names. Large-scale street battles or “scuttles” took place amongst the groups, and sometimes the numbers involved swelled to hundreds. This young man, 20-year-old William Brookes, obviously fell foul of Manchester City Police as this image appears in the forces criminal record book of 1890. Scuttlers were similar in nature to the London gangs known as hooligans, a name still in use today. Captured using glass-plate or early film photography, the mugshots are startling in their honesty. There’s no attempt to flatter or dramatise, just plain faces, lit by harsh light. Some are defiant. Others have clearly accepted their fate. The clothing, waistcoats, work shirts, crumpled caps, tells of hard labour and harder lives. The unimpressed face of Edith Towell, a domestic servant and petty thief, who repeatedly came to the attention of the police during the last years of the 19th century. Born in Leamington but a resident of Rochdale, she first appears in police records when convicted of stealing wearing apparel on the 28th September 1889. She was fined 40 shillings by the local magistrate but it doesn’t seem to have been a deterrent for she was back in court in Liverpool only days later when sentenced to 3 months for stealing a gold watch and £4 3s 4d. There then seems to have been a lull in her criminal activity, or at least her appearances before the court, as she does not appear in records again until 1895. This time she is convicted of stealing £7 in cash and £40 in Co-operative store cheques in – where else but the town synonymous with the Co-operative movement – Rochdale. Her story becomes confused at this point but in 1895 she appears to have served prison sentences in both Coventry and Worcester before making her final appearance on police files after being sentenced at Salford Sessions to 3 months for stealing wearing apparel and a watch in 1897. After this time she is not heard of again. Her date of birth isn't known but she is said to have been 36 years old in 1895. Some of the images you'll see of the people who had been arrested show them displaying their hands to the camera. According to one of the volunteers I spoke to, this was a way of identifying the women arrested, as many of them were missing fingers due to the dangerous mill work that employed so many at the time. In this image from 1893 the imressive hat of Mary Elizabeth Smith makes her looks more like she is going to a wedding than to prison. However her long list of offences, including larceny, obtaining money under false pretences, and more strangely “wearing apparel” saw her in and out of custody several times in the early 1890s. Perhaps the hat formed part of the evidence for her latest arrest? One photo shows a 14-year-old boy with “larceny” scribbled beneath his name. Another captures a woman in her fifties, arrested for “drunkenness and riot.” Many were repeat offenders, not hardened criminals, but products of the poverty and pressure that defined life for the urban poor, a lot of the convicted children had been arrested for stealing food. Next to the photos, handwritten ledgers recorded height, occupation, physical marks, and distinguishing features. These details now offer clues to lives otherwise forgotten. And collectively, they show a city struggling with the fallout of rapid industrialisation. Cool nickname of the day - Patrick ‘Paddy the Devil’ Cox is photographed by Manchester City Police in the 1890s. Cox, alongside his legitimate profession as a sailor also operated a potentially lucrative sideline as a ‘coiner’ in Victorian Manchester. Coining was the practice of clipping precious metal from the edge of coins or reproducing coins in their entirety but from base metal.To prevent coining, much currency was designed to be difficult to reproduce or interfere with. If you look around the edge of a modern English pound coin you will notice the words ‘DECUS ET TUTAMEN’ engraved into the rippled edge. The term means ‘An Ornament and Safeguard’ and its origins date back to the Stuart era.The information about Cox’s crimes is sparse in this early Manchester City Police intelligence ledger. We learn little of Cox but the fact that he was born in Manchester, has a sallow complexion and, among other features, had six moles on his left arm. He may well have been a lucky man and only been sent to prison. Had he been operating a century or earlier it is likely he would have received death penalty. In Wartime and Beyond As Manchester modernised, Newton Street remained a constant. During World War I, the station played a key role in managing civil order, with officers tasked with enforcing blackouts and anti-German demonstrations. Later, during the Second World War, it coordinated local defence, responded to bomb damage during the Blitz, and dealt with wartime rationing offences. James Sutch was 19 years old when this image was taken in 1920. He had just been fined £3.15s (three pounds and fifteen shillings) at court in Bolton. His crime was the theft of a bicycle. His past – like his hat – seems somewhat chequered. In 1917 he had been bound over fro twelve months for the same offence. In between, he had been fined 10/- (ten shillings) for the offence of gaming. In the post-war years, the job changed again. Radios replaced whistles. Fingerprinting and forensics were introduced. By the 1960s, Manchester was grappling with new issues, organised crime, youth gangs, and protest movements. But Newton Street soldiered on, absorbing these changes, until the building finally reached the end of its operational life in 1979. The End of the Beat — and the Echoes That Remain After the closure of the station, many other former police buildings across the UK were sold off or demolished. Newton Street, however, was spared. And though it was eventually repurposed as the Greater Manchester Police Museum in 1981, its architectural integrity remains largely untouched. Thomas Murphy is ‘assisted’ by a person unkown while having his photograph taken in this police image from the 1880s. Murphy was convicted of a variety of crimes - chiefly stealing purses – by courts in Yorkshire and Lancashire from the 1880s to 1890s. This image is taken from an early Manchester City Police intelligence ledger. Today, its cells still line the rear corridor. The charge office desk is still there, worn smooth by decades of paperwork. Visitors who pass through the same doors that once ushered in thieves, fraudsters and frightened children often comment on the eeriness, as if the past never quite left. And in a sense, it hasn’t. Because this building didn’t just police Manchester’s history, it lived it. Sources: Greater Manchester Police Museum Archives – www.gmpmuseum.co.uk “Manchester Police: A History” – Manchester City Council Heritage Services “Policing Manchester: Crime and Social Order 1830–1940” – J.A. Sharpe, Manchester Historical Review Newton Street Station records and image holdings, cited in Greater Manchester Police Museum curator notes (2021–2024) Historic England – Newton Street building listing and architectural notes: historicengland.org.uk British Newspaper Archive – Manchester Guardian articles on Newton Street arrests (1900–1940) Oral histories from retired GMP officers, collected by the Museum’s Community Heritage Project (2018–2022) Written by Holland. Editor, UtterlyInteresting.com  — exploring the strange, sublime, and forgotten corners of history.