Julie d’Aubigny, better known to history as La Maupin, remains one of the most elusive and intriguing figures of late seventeenth century France. She appears in memoirs, court records, scandal sheets, and later biographies as a woman who fought duels, sang leading operatic roles, loved openly across gender lines, and refused to submit quietly to social expectations. Yet much about her life remains uncertain. Her exact birthdate is unknown. Her place of death is disputed. Even some of her most famous exploits sit in the uneasy space between documentation and legend. What survives, however, is enough to sketch a portrait of a woman who lived persistently at odds with the structures of absolutist France. A childhood inside the machinery of power Born around 1673, Julie was the only child of Gaston d’Aubigny, secretary to the Count d’Armagnac, one of the great nobles of France and Master of Horse to Louis XIV. This placed her, from birth, within the orbit of royal authority. As a child she is believed to have lived at the royal riding school at the Tuileries Palace in Paris, before moving with the court to Versailles in 1682. Her formative years were spent in the Grande Écurie, the Great Stables, an environment dominated by horses, discipline, and martial skill rather than embroidery or domestic instruction. Julie’s upbringing was highly unusual for a girl of her time. Her father was an accomplished swordsman who trained the court pages in fencing, and he educated his daughter alongside the boys. She dressed as a boy, not as a theatrical gesture but as a practical necessity within that world, and she proved herself an exceptional fencer from an early age. This was not merely recreational. In a society where duelling remained a deeply embedded, if illegal, expression of honour, swordsmanship was a social language, and Julie learned it fluently. Marriage, patronage, and escape By the age of fourteen, Julie had already entered the adult world of court politics and sexual patronage. She became the mistress of the Count d’Armagnac, her father’s employer, and the relationship quickly led to an arranged marriage to a minor noble, the sieur de Maupin. The marriage appears to have been largely administrative. Some accounts claim her husband was sent off to a provincial tax post the morning after the wedding. Whether literal or embellished, the result was the same. Julie was effectively unencumbered. She soon tired of life under d’Armagnac’s control and fled Paris with a fencing master named Séranne. The pair travelled the countryside, earning what they could through fencing demonstrations in taverns and at fairs. These performances were part livelihood, part spectacle. One oft repeated story, which appears in several early accounts, recalls a man refusing to believe she was a woman because her skill with a sword was simply too great. Julie responded by removing her blouse in front of the crowd. The challenge ended there. Opera, desire, and a death sentence It was in Marseille that Julie’s second great talent emerged. She joined the local opera company and began singing professionally, quickly attracting attention for the power and darkness of her voice. Among her admirers was a young woman whose name has not survived in the historical record. Their relationship prompted swift intervention from the woman’s family, who sent her to a convent in Avignon. Julie followed. Entering the convent as a postulant, she waited. When an elderly nun died, Julie and her lover stole the body, placed it in the girl’s cell, set fire to the building, and escaped into the night. The incident caused outrage. Julie was tried in absentia by the Parliament of Provence and sentenced to death under the name “sieur de Maupin”. The judges, as one historian dryly observed, found it easier to imagine a man abducting a woman than to acknowledge the possibility of one woman rescuing another. The couple remained on the run for several months before the girl was eventually returned to her family. Julie continued alone, once again dressed as a man, moving between towns and living by her wits. King Louis XIV agreed to pardon La Maupin for her crimes. Duels and friendship During this period, Julie encountered the Comte d’Albert, a young nobleman who challenged her to a duel after a chance collision. Unaware of her sex, he fought her and was wounded. Julie nursed him back to health. Some later writers would describe him as the great romance of her life. What is more securely attested is that they became lifelong friends, and that he remained a loyal presence in her story long after many lovers had fallen away. She also began formal vocal training with a retired teacher named Maréchal, refining a voice that did not fit comfortably into existing French operatic conventions. Paris and professional legitimacy Julie returned to Paris accompanied by her new lover, Gabriel Vincent Thévenard, an ambitious singer. On their first day in the city, Thévenard auditioned for the Paris Opéra and was hired immediately. He insisted that Julie also be allowed to audition. The Opéra, reluctantly, agreed. She was seventeen. At the same time, Julie sought out d’Armagnac, persuading him to arrange a royal pardon for her conviction in Provence. Louis XIV agreed, and Julie entered the Opéra legally and openly. From 1690 to 1694 she appeared in nearly all of its major productions. Audiences adored her. She became known simply as La Maupin. Her presence on the stage mattered. French opera had largely favoured lighter female voices, while lower ranges were typically reserved for men. Julie’s contralto challenged this division. Without formal declaration, she expanded what female voices were permitted to sound like in public, and her success made that change difficult to reverse. Mademoiselle de Maupin posing for an artist in a 1902 painting. Scandal as routine Offstage, her life remained combustible. At a court ball she attended dressed as a man and kissed a young woman on the dance floor. Three noblemen challenged her to duels. She arranged to meet each of them, fought them all together, and defeated them. Since duelling had been repeatedly outlawed by royal edict, she fled to Brussels, where she became the lover of the Elector of Bavaria. Her time there ended theatrically. During a performance she stabbed herself on stage with a real dagger. Alarmed and exhausted, the Elector offered her 40,000 francs to leave. She threw the money at his emissary’s feet and departed for Madrid. In Spain she worked briefly as a maid to a countess she disliked intensely. On the night of a grand ball, Julie dressed the woman’s hair with radishes so that everyone but the countess could see them. She fled before the humiliation was discovered. Return, excess, and devotion Back in Paris, Julie was pardoned once again, this time through the intervention of Monsieur, the King’s brother. She returned to the Opéra and resumed her position at the centre of Parisian musical life. She performed at Versailles, appeared in major productions, and further established the contralto voice in French opera. Her behaviour remained erratic. She defended chorus girls from predatory nobles, clashed violently with fellow performers, became obsessed with the soprano Fanchon Moreau, attempted suicide, threatened aristocrats, and found herself repeatedly in court for assault. Her friendship with Thévenard endured despite public quarrels, including one infamous performance during which she bit his ear hard enough to draw blood. Through it all, the audience stayed with her. In spite of her breeches, her sword, her affairs with women, and her refusal to behave discreetly, she remained popular. Perhaps because of it. Love and withdrawal In 1703, Julie fell in love with Madame la Marquise de Florensac, described by Saint Simon as the most beautiful woman in France. The two lived together for two years in what one account called perfect harmony. When Florensac died suddenly of a fever, Julie was devastated. After this loss, she withdrew from public life entirely. She entered a convent and disappears from the record soon after. One later biographer claimed she died at the age of thirty three, “destroyed by an inclination to do evil in the sight of her God and a fixed intention not to”, adding that her body was discarded without ceremony. The tone of this account tells us as much about its author as about Julie. Afterlife of a reputation La Maupin’s story has been retold and reshaped for more than three centuries. Romantic writers emphasised her defiance. Later historians attempted to separate documentation from embellishment. Modern readers often see in her life an early challenge to rigid ideas of gender and desire, though any attempt to impose contemporary labels risks flattening the complexity of her world. What remains clear is that Julie d’Aubigny lived deliberately and visibly on her own terms, inside a society that rarely forgave such behaviour. She survived not by retreating from the system, but by navigating it with extraordinary audacity, talent, and refusal to apologise.

In 1961, Jimi Hendrix faced a big decision following a legal entanglement related to his involvement with stolen vehicles: either two years of incarceration or enlistment in the Army. He opted for military service and was subsequently assigned to the 101st Airborne Division in May of that year.  Thus began his tenure in the Army, a period often overshadowed by his subsequent rise to fame but nevertheless significant in understanding the man behind the music. Despite the demands of military service, Hendrix's musical aspirations remained undimmed. During his downtime, he continued to hone his craft, strumming his guitar in the barracks and local clubs whenever opportunities arose. It was during this time that the seeds of his future greatness were sown, as he experimented with new sounds and techniques, laying the groundwork for the revolutionary style that would later define his iconic sound. After completin g eight weeks of basic training at Fort Ord, California, arrived at Fort Campbell, Kentucky, and soon afterward he wrote to his father: "There's nothing but physical training and harassment here for two weeks, then when you go to jump school ... you get hell. They work you to death, fussing and fighting." In his next letter home, Hendrix, who had left his guitar in Seattle at the home of his girlfriend Betty Jean Morgan, asked his father to send it to him as soon as possible, stating: "I really need it now." His father obliged and sent the red Silvertone Danelectro on which Hendrix had hand-painted the words "Betty Jean" to Fort Campbell. His apparent obsession with the instrument contributed to his neglect of his duties, which led to taunting and physical abuse from his peers, who at least once hid the guitar from him until he had begged for its return. In November 1961, fellow serviceman Billy Cox walked past an army club and heard Hendrix playing. Impressed by Hendrix's technique, which Cox described as a combination of "John Lee Hooker and Beethoven", Cox borrowed a bass guitar and the two jammed. Within weeks, they began performing at base clubs on the weekends with other musicians in a loosely organized band, the Casuals. Hendrix completed his paratrooper training and, on January 11, 1962, Major General Charles W. G. Rich awarded him the prestigious Screaming Eagles patch. By February, his personal conduct had begun to draw criticism from his superiors. They labelled him an unqualified marksman and often caught him napping while on duty and failing to report for bed checks. On May 24, Hendrix's platoon sergeant, James C. Spears, filed a report in which he stated: "He has no interest whatsoever in the Army ... It is my opinion that Private Hendrix will never come up to the standards required of a soldier. I feel that the military service will benefit if he is discharged as soon as possible." On June 29, 1962, Hendrix was granted a general discharge under honourable conditions. Hendrix later spoke of his dislike of the army and that he had received a medical discharge after breaking his ankle during his 26th parachute jump, but no Army records have been produced that indicate that he received or was discharged for any injuries However, in the document below, you can make out the reasons for his discharge. “Behaviour problems, required excessive supervision while on duty, little regard for regulations, apprehended masturbating in platoon area while supposed to be on detail."

Taken at Wandsworth Prison in London in December 1872, these photographs depict the individuals who were apprehended shortly before Christmas. Many of them were arrested for theft of food and clothing during the chilly holiday season. Ellen Smith, 52, was convicted of stealing an umbrella in 1872 - she was given 10 days hard labour over Christmas The captivating images depict Thomas Mackett, aged 24, receiving a one-month hard labour sentence for stealing 9lbs of beef on Christmas Eve. Similarly, Julia Killey, aged 30, was sentenced to 21 days of labor for stealing 2lbs of bacon on the same day. Another poignant case involves Henry Marsh, an 18-year-old who was given a six-week labor sentence for stealing a coat on December 23, 1872. Lastly, the unfortunate 17-year-old James Ealing was apprehended for stealing half a pint of milk and a tin can on Christmas Eve. Robert Graham, 16, stole 11 pairs of stockings on New Year's Eve in 1872 - he was given one month of hard labour Harry Williams, 42, was convicted of stealing lumps of coal to keep warm - he was given 14 days hard labour John Kitchenside, 20, stole oats worth three shillings on 23rd December 1872 - he was given six weeks hard labour Henry Marsh, 18, stole a coat to keep warm two days before Christmas - he was given six weeks hard labour Rhoda Leaf, 30, stole a shirt from her master on 2nd December, landing her six weeks of hard labour at Wandsworth Prison Other heart-breaking examples include 18-year-old Henry Marsh, sentenced to six weeks of gruelling work for stealing a coat on 23rd December 1872. 17-year-old James Ealing was arrested for thieving a half pint of milk and a tin can on Christmas Eve. Meanwhile baby-faced John Sullivan, 17, clearly just wanted to stay warm over the winter when he was convicted for stealing a coat and lumps of coal on 16th December 1872. The teenager was given one month's hard labour for his petty crime. Other poignant shots show 22-year-old Mary Baxter who was incarcerated for robbing a tablecloth during the festive period. Ellen Smith, 52, was locked up on Christmas Day after she was given ten days hard labour for stealing an umbrella on 17th December. Edward Poller, 17, was convicted of stealing a tame pigeon - he was given one month's hard labour Caroline Lightfoot, 51, stole a drinking glass in early December 1872 - she was given two months' hard labour John Hanks, 16, stole a woollen shirt to keep warm - he was given 14 days hard labour Daniel Kelly, 16, stole half a cut of iron two days before Christmas 1872 - he was given 14 days hard labour Agnes Rose Flowers, 44, stole a short worth two shillings six pence - she received one month of hard labour Meanwhile baby-faced John Sullivan, 17, clearly just wanted to stay warm over the winter when he was convicted for stealing a coat and lumps of coal on 16th December 1872. The teenager was given one month's hard labour for his petty crime. Other poignant shots show 22-year-old Mary Baxter who was incarcerated for robbing a tablecloth during the festive period. Ellen Smith, 52, was locked up on Christmas Day after she was given ten days hard labour for stealing an umbrella on 17th December. James Ealing, 17, stole a tin can and a half pint of milk on Christmas Eve 1872 - he got one month of hard labour at Wandsworth Mary Baxter, 22, stole a tablecloth on 13th December 1872 - she was given 14 days hard labour John Powers, 15, stole fabric on 10th December 1872 - he was given one month of hard labour William Ethrington, 19, stole an axe and other tools on 21st December 1872 - he was given six weeks hard labour Sidney Lowman, 17, stole a can and a half pint of milk - he was given six weeks hard labour The crime seems understandable given that the December of 1872 was exceptionally wet – the wettest on record for England and Wales. The Victorians were very worried about crime and, following the development of the camera, police realised they could use the new technology to their advantage and took images of repeat offenders. As the use of cameras became more common taking mugshots became the norm until it was made compulsory for everyone to be photographed after they were arrested. Catherine Flynn, 63, was convicted of stealing six shillings from someone - she was given a month's hard labour John Sullivan, 17, was convicted of stealing a coat and lumps of coal in 1872 - he was given one month of hard labour Mary Sowerby, 69, was convicted of stealing a sheet on 21st December - she was given one month's hard labour

This is a timely insight from a 1959 interview with the philosopher Bertrand Russell about what he would say to a distant future generation of humans: “I should like to say two things, one intellectual and one moral. The intellectual thing I should want to say is this: When you are studying any matter, or considering any philosophy, ask yourself only what are the facts and what is the truth that the facts bear out. Never let yourself be diverted either by what you wish to believe, or by what you think would have beneficent social effects if it were believed. But look only, and solely, at what are the facts. That is the intellectual thing that I should wish to say. The moral thing I should wish to say… I should say love is wise, hatred is foolish. In this world which is getting more closely and closely interconnected we have to learn to tolerate each other, we have to learn to put up with the fact that some people say things that we don’t like. We can only live together in that way and if we are to live together and not die together we must learn a kind of charity and a kind of tolerance which is absolutely vital to the continuation of human life on this planet.” This aligns nicely with my favourite quote from Russell: “The good life is one inspired by love and guided by knowledge.” Pursue truth. Spread love. Simple, right?

In the history of American photography, the name Karl Moon stands out for his captivating portrayal of Native American life. Born in 1879, Moon embarked on a journey that would immortalize the cultures, traditions, and faces of indigenous peoples across the American West. His work not only captured moments in time but also served as a bridge between worlds, bringing the rich tapestry of Native American life to a wider audience. Raised in Wilmington, Ohio, Carl (originally Karl) Everton Moon loved reading stories about Native Americans as a boy. He followed his Western aspirations to Albuquerque, New Mexico, where he set up a studio in 1904 and began photographing, painting, and travelling among Pueblo tribe members he befriended. Moon's photographic career blossomed in the early 20th century, coinciding with a period of rapid change for Native American communities. During this time, the United States government was implementing policies aimed at assimilating indigenous peoples into mainstream American society, often at the expense of their cultural heritage. Moon's lens offered a counter-narrative, preserving the dignity and authenticity of Native American life. “Photographing the American Indian in his natural state was the principal aim of Carl Moon,” wrote Tom Driebe, author of In Search of the Wild Indian: Photographs & Life Works by Carl and Grace Moon. “He tried to show the Indian as he lived before civilization hampered his freedom ... and changed his picturesque customs and mode of dress.” Moon knew he was working against the clock of forced acculturation. “About the only thing we have thus far overlooked taking from the Indian,” he wrote, “is his right to perform his religious rites with their accompanying dances in his own way.” One of Moon's notable ventures was his collaboration with the Navajo Nation in the early 1900s. His photographs captured the everyday activities, ceremonies, and landscapes of the Navajo people, providing a window into their world. Among his subjects were prominent Navajo leaders such as Hoskininni, a respected medicine man, and Hastiin Klah, a renowned Navajo singer and weaver. Moon's images of Navajo hogans, sheepherding scenes, and traditional ceremonies offer a glimpse into a way of life that has endured for centuries. In 1907 Moon moved to Arizona and for seven years gathered paintings and photographs for the Fred Harvey Company at the Grand Canyon; there, he also served as the official photographer for the Santa Fe Railroad and studied painting with visiting artists, including Thomas Moran, Louis Akin, and Frank Sauerwein. Moon married artist Grace Purdie in 1911, and the two travelled the Southwest documenting Native culture. In 1914, the couple settled in Pasadena, California, and embarked on a series of 22 illustrated children’s books about American Indians. In addition to the Navajo, Moon ventured into other tribal territories, including the Apache, Hopi, and Pueblo communities. His photographs of Apache warriors, Hopi kachina dancers, and Pueblo pottery makers captured the diversity and resilience of Native American cultures. Moon had a keen eye for detail, often highlighting the intricate craftsmanship of indigenous artifacts and the rugged beauty of the Southwestern landscape. Moon's work was not without controversy, however. Some critics have accused him of romanticising Native American life and perpetuating stereotypes. Indeed, his photographs often portrayed indigenous peoples through the lens of the "noble savage" archetype prevalent in early 20th-century America. Despite these criticisms, Moon's photographs remain valuable historical documents that offer insight into a pivotal period in Native American history. In 1923, Moon approached railroad magnate and art collector Henry E. Huntington with the proposition of selling 300 photographic prints and 24 oil paintings, “an addition that Moon felt would ‘give the student of the future the true colouring of the Indian and his surroundings,’ ” says Jennifer A. Watts, curator of photographs at The Huntington Library in San Marino, California. Moon died in 1948 in San Francisco; his art lives on at The Huntington, where the collection is being arranged, described, and digitized. “The Moon photographs are not only an important visual resource for scholars and students of tribal peoples at the turn of the 20th century,” Watts says, “but sensitive, beautifully rendered portraits that reveal the artist’s deep admiration for the peoples he photographed.”

Embark on a journey into unfamiliar territory with urban photographer David de Rueda. David explores and photographs eerie abandoned places around the world, including ghost towns and deserted buildings that may be closer to home than you realize. David de Rueda , Instagram

By the early 1970s, Johnny Nash was a rising star, particularly in the UK, where his smooth reggae-influenced hit “I Can See Clearly Now”  was becoming a massive success. Nash had been pivotal in bringing reggae to a wider international audience, especially after spending time in Jamaica, where he worked with local artists, including a then-unknown Bob Marley. At that time, Marley was still relatively unknown outside Jamaica, and although he had begun gaining recognition with The Wailers, his journey to international superstardom was still in its early stages. Nash and Marley had become friends in Jamaica, where Nash was deeply inspired by the sounds of reggae. Nash’s move to bring Bob Marley and his bandmates to the UK was motivated by his desire to help his friend find success in Europe, and this partnership led to a peculiar sequence of events, culminating in the gig at Peckham Manor School. The Journey to Peckham In 1972, Marley travelled to London with Johnny Nash and his manager, Danny Sims. Nash had secured a record deal with CBS, and Marley was hoping for similar luck. Nash had promised Marley an opportunity to record some of his songs for CBS, but the deal never quite materialised as expected. Despite the setbacks, Marley continued to write, tour, and collaborate with Nash. While Nash was in the process of promoting his music in London, an opportunity arose for the two to perform at a local school in Peckham. This wasn’t a major concert venue, but a simple school hall. The idea was to provide a free and intimate show for the schoolchildren, many of whom had no idea they were about to witness two future music legends. The Peckham Performance The gig was low-key. Marley and Nash, both at different stages of their careers, arrived at the school with little fanfare. For Marley, this was just another chance to perform, not knowing that in a few short years, he would become a global icon, known for his revolutionary music and message of peace, unity, and justice. Nash, already more established, was happy to share the stage with his Jamaican friend. According to attendees, the performance was nothing short of remarkable. The two performed a mix of reggae and pop tunes, with Marley contributing some of his lesser-known tracks, while Nash performed some of his hits, including “Stir It Up” —a song penned by Marley himself. One witness recalled the event years later: “It was unreal. We had Bob Marley and Johnny Nash right there in our school hall. Marley played the guitar, and Nash’s voice was so smooth. It felt like we were witnessing something special, but we didn’t fully understand just how legendary it would become.” This impromptu gig served as a brief but unforgettable experience for the lucky students and staff present that day. Many would later reflect on the moment as a rare opportunity to see two stars at a time when Marley’s fame had not yet reached its peak. Keith Baugh talks about his role in the making of a legend and how he found himself taking these iconic photographs. ----------------------------------------- Photos and words by Keith Baugh In March 1972, Bob Marley and Johnny Nash performed a free gig at a secondary school in south London (above) after a chance encounter with an art teacher in a central London nightclub. Ex-NUT member Keith Baugh tells Max Watson about his role in the making of a legend and how he found himself taking these iconic photographs. 'Towards the end of March 1972 I visited the Bag O’Nails nightclub off London’s Carnaby Street with my friend Martin who worked for CBS recording studios.' During the evening a couple of very cool dudes sauntered over and joined us at our table. Martin introduced me to the American singer Johnny Nash, who had just recorded an album at CBS, and then to Bob Marley who leaned over with a big smile and quietly said: “I just the songwriter.” One of the album tracks recorded by Johnny was the Bob Marley song Stir It Up, which had been released as a single a couple of weeks earlier. The record was not selling well and both Johnny and Bob were clearly frustrated that the disc had not broken into the top 40, which would have automatically meant national radio and TV exposure. Martin talked over publicity options with plans for interviews on local radio stations involving travel to far-flung parts of the UK, which didn’t seem to go down so well with the two musicians. It was at that moment I broke into the conversation and said: “Why don’t you guys come down to the school in Peckham where I teach and do an acoustic performance for the students? The school has a large games hall and you would have a target audience of a few hundred record-buying teenagers.” Johnny said: “Yeah! that sounds cool.” Bob smiled and said: “Nice.” By the following day I had completely forgotten about the suggestion. Two stools, no amps, no microphones Three days later I had a telephone call saying that the gig was definitely on for Thursday morning and Martin would drive Johnny and Bob to Peckham Manor School by 10am. I was asked to confirm that the school would agree to this. They would require a low stage with two stools, along with seating for as many students as possible. There would be two guitars, no amplifiers and no microphones. It was going to be a stripped-back acoustic gig. The following morning I outlined plans to the head teacher who liked the idea of ‘famous’ CBS recording musicians visiting the school and approved students being off-timetable after morning break. It was all systems go and I kept my fingers crossed, hoping they would turn up. Sure enough, they pulled into the school car park on time. As we walked to the games hall we passed a group of kids playing football. Bob smiled and, obviously aware of London’s football tribes, said: “Them all support Millwall? I support Tottenham Hotspur.” “Probably best to keep that to yourself,” I replied and we laughed. A little later in the games hall coffee bar I chatted with Bob and Johnny as they tuned their acoustic guitars. Bob told me that he had written more than 400 songs. These included some of his most famous compositions soon to become huge international hits, including Sun is Shining, One Love, Don’t Rock My Boat, Kaya and Trenchtown Rock. I remember asking Bob if he rated Bob Dylan as a songwriter and he said: “Me like his songs about women,” and laughed. I mentioned Dylan’s Just Like a Woman, and he said: “Yeah, that’s the one.” Johnny Nash’s ‘crystal clear voice’ Johnny and Bob entered the cavernous games hall space to a tumultuous explosion of clapping, foot stomping and cheering that took a good few minutes to subside. Johnny introduced the first song, Hold Me Tight, saying it had got to number five in the UK and USA singles charts. A mesmerising and loping reggae beat emerged from the two guitars with Bob throwing in some exquisite lead guitar high up the neck and then Johnny Nash’s crystal clear voice filling the hall with the lyrics: “I don’t want to hear it, No more fussin’ and fightin’ baby.” The song ended with raucous applause and Johnny followed with another hit song Cupid, his voice filling every corner of the vast space. Bob Marley then looked over at Johnny and with a broad smile said this next song, Trenchtown Rock, was a number one hit for Bob Marley and the Wailers in Jamaica last year. There was huge applause, then Marley’s signature ‘chick-ee chick-ee’ reggae guitar set the groove followed by those unforgettable lyrics: “One good thing about music, when it hits you feel no pain.” The students were encouraged to join in with the final chorus. Although a fabulous story, many would quite rightly question the authenticity of the event. Fortunately, I had with me my old, battered 35mm Practica camera with 15 remaining frames of a Tri-X black-and-white film. Guessing the light settings I got to take shots of the performance, a couple of unseen shots in the coffee bar and my favourite – this panoramic photograph of Bob and Johnny playing football in the playground. Bob smiled and, obviously aware of London’s football tribes, said: “Them all support Millwall?” Johnny then turned up the pressure with a sublime performance of his soon-to-be worldwide hit I Can See Clearly Now. The head whispered in my ear: “What a voice and what great role models these young men are for our students.” Four more songs, including a shared vocal on Guava Jelly, took us up to a Q&A session. The first question was: “What was it like to be in a recording studio?” Johnny replied that it was humbling to work with so many talented musicians, that you had to be focussed and well prepared and could not afford to waste time. Bob smiled and said that he preferred recording in Jamaican studios because the sun was always shining and between recording songs you could go outside and play football. Of course the next question was aimed at Bob: “Which football team do you support?” After a long pause he gave a considered answer that pleased everyone: “Jamaica!” Johnny was asked: “What car do you drive when you are in America?” The reply was, always a Cadillac. Finally, Bob was asked why he wore a hat indoors. He laughed and took off his striped beanie, letting his baby dreadlocks spring out. He said it was part of his religion and talked for a while about Rastafarian philosophy. The audience, however, wanted more music. On to the final two songs. The first was the Marley song Reggae on Broadway, with the two singers sharing alternate verses. Everyone was invited to join in on the chorus and once more the games hall was filled with clapping and stomping and a joyous sound of two to three hundred voices. A smiling Johnny Nash introduced the final song, the newly released single Stir It Up, with a request that the students encourage their brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, cousins and friends to go out and buy the record and help get it into the top 40. Then once more Bob’s ‘chick-ee’ guitar introduction led into an extended and sublime version of the song. Bob and Johnny spent 15 minutes signing photographs and then after coffee and donuts we walked through the playground. Irresistible draw of playground footy Bob saw a group of students playing football and could not resist getting involved (pictured below). The ball was passed to the singer and, with guitar in hand and the broadest smile, he demonstrated some exquisite ball control skills. After one of the most memorable mornings for everyone who witnessed the performance, the two musicians headed for the car and drove back to central London.

Early Life and Ideological Foundations Ilich Ramírez Sánchez, more widely recognised as Carlos the Jackal, was born on October 12, 1949, in Caracas, Venezuela. His father, a Marxist lawyer, named him after Vladimir Ilyich Lenin, embedding a revolutionary spirit in his identity from birth. Raised in an environment charged with political activism and ideological fervor, Carlos’s early exposure to Marxist-Leninist thought and fervent support for the Palestinian cause set the stage for his future endeavours. In 1966, Carlos moved to London to attend Stafford House Tutorial College, where his radicalization deepened. His tenure at Patrice Lumumba University in Moscow, known for nurturing leftist militants, further solidified his revolutionary convictions. Despite being expelled for disruptive behavior, Carlos found his calling in the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine (PFLP) in 1970, marking the commencement of his notorious career in international terrorism. The Nature and Motivations of His Crimes Carlos the Jackal’s criminal activities were driven by a blend of ideological commitment to Marxism-Leninism, anti-imperialism, and fervent support for the Palestinian cause. His actions were strategically designed to draw global attention, destabilise Western interests, and advance his revolutionary agenda. Assassinations and Bombings Carlos’s initial foray into terrorism began with targeted assassinations and bombings. In December 1973, he attempted to assassinate Joseph Sieff, a prominent Jewish businessman and vice president of the British Zionist Federation. Although Sieff survived a gunshot to the head, this incident marked Carlos as a formidable operative willing to engage in extreme violence to further his political objectives. In 1974, Carlos meticulously planned and executed a string of bombings throughout the city of Paris, France. His strategic targets were carefully selected to strike at the heart of Western commerce and infrastructure, aiming to instill fear and chaos in the population. The coordinated attacks were carried out with precision, targeting trains, office buildings, and even a bustling shopping mall, leaving a trail of destruction and devastation in their wake. The aftermath of Carlos's orchestrated bombings was nothing short of catastrophic, with numerous innocent lives lost and countless others injured. The scenes of destruction and chaos that unfolded in the aftermath of the attacks sent shockwaves through the city, leaving the residents in a state of profound fear and uncertainty. The sheer scale and audacity of the bombings showcased Carlos's chilling capacity for large-scale terror, solidifying his reputation as a ruthless and formidable threat to public safety. The OPEC Hostage Crisis One of Carlos’s most infamous operations was the attack on the OPEC headquarters in Vienna on December 21, 1975. Leading a six-person team, Carlos took over 60 hostages, including 11 oil ministers, to demand the release of Palestinian prisoners and a substantial ransom. The operation was meticulously planned, reflecting his tactical acumen and ideological zeal. After a tense two-day standoff, Carlos secured safe passage and a ransom before releasing the hostages in Algeria. This high-profile act of terrorism not only underscored his strategic capabilities but also elevated his notoriety on the global stage. OPEC crisis DEC 21, 1975 Hijackings and International Collaborations Carlos’s activities extended to dramatic hijackings and collaborations with various revolutionary and state actors. Notably, he was involved in several high-profile aircraft hijackings, including the 1976 hijacking of an Air France plane. This incident was orchestrated in conjunction with the Japanese Red Army, demanding the release of imprisoned comrades. The hijacking ended with the plane landing in Entebbe, Uganda, where a raid by Israeli commandos rescued the hostages. During the raid one Israeli soldier was killed, an officer named Yonatan Netanyahu, brother of the future Prime Minister of Israel, Benjamin Netanyahu. Carlos also maintained intricate relationships with state actors like East Germany and the KGB. The Stasi, East Germany’s state security service, provided logistical support and safe havens for Carlos and his operatives. This relationship facilitated several of his operations, offering a level of protection and resources that enhanced his effectiveness. The KGB, while not directly sponsoring Carlos, maintained a tacit alliance, occasionally providing intelligence and operational support due to shared ideological goals. Team Amnon, back in Israel from the Entebbe hostage rescue operation, pose on a black Mercedes car that was a crucial part of the rescue operation, July 4, 1976. Capture and Subsequent Legal Proceedings Carlos eluded capture for nearly two decades, thanks to his adept use of aliases and international connections. However, his capture on August 14, 1994, marked a significant turning point. At the time, Carlos was undergoing treatment for a varicocele, a condition causing enlarged veins in the scrotum, at a hospital in Khartoum, Sudan. Under international pressure, particularly from France, the Sudanese government cooperated with French intelligence. In a covert operation, French agents sedated and abducted Carlos, transporting him to Paris to face justice. The trial commenced on December 12, 1997. Carlos' request for release on the basis of an illegal arrest was unsuccessful. He had disagreements with his original legal team and eventually replaced them all before dismissing them. Sánchez refuted the allegations of murdering two French agents and Moukharbal in 1975, attributing the orchestrations to Mossad and denouncing Israel as a terrorist state. He told the court, "When one wages war for 30 years, there is a lot of blood spilled—mine and others. But we never killed anyone for money, but for a cause—the liberation of Palestine." During the last eight days of his trial, he presented his defence and delivered a lengthy four-hour closing statement to the court. After three hours and forty-eight minutes of deliberation, the jury reached a verdict on 23 December, finding him guilty on all charges.] He received a life sentence with no chance of parole, which was later upheld in subsequent trials that also imposed two additional life sentences. Additional trials followed, including a 2011 conviction for his involvement in four bombings in France during the 1980s, which caused 11 deaths and over 100 injuries. These sentences ensured that Carlos would spend the remainder of his life in prison. Personal Life and Legacy Carlos the Jackal’s personal life is as complex as his criminal career. He has been married multiple times. His first marriage to Magdalena Kopp, a German radical, ended in divorce. In prison, he married his lawyer, Isabelle Coutant-Peyre, in 2001, who continues to advocate on his behalf. Carlos’s life behind bars has been marked by ongoing legal battles and a continued assertion of his revolutionary beliefs. He has shown no remorse for his actions, consistently defending them as legitimate acts of war against imperialist and Zionist oppressors. His autobiography, “Revolutionary Islam,” published in 2003, outlines his ideological steadfastness and justifications for his violent past. The life and crimes of Carlos the Jackal provide a profound insight into the interplay between ideological extremism and international terrorism. His actions, driven by a potent mix of Marxist-Leninist principles and fervent anti-imperialism, left an indelible mark on the global stage. While his capture and subsequent imprisonment curtailed his reign of terror, the legacy of Carlos the Jackal remains a potent reminder of the enduring impact of radicalisation and the complexities of global terrorism. References • Reeve, Simon. One Day in December: The Story of the OPEC Hostage Taking . Bloomsbury Publishing, 2000. • Yallop, David. Tracking the Jackal . Random House, 1993. • Hudson, Rex A. “Carlos the Jackal: Anatomy of a Terrorist.” International Journal of Intelligence and CounterIntelligence , 1997. • “Carlos the Jackal Sentenced to Third Life Term.” BBC News, 2011. • Stasi Archives. “Carlos and the GDR: Terror and Espionage.” Stasi Museum Publications , 2003. • Andrew, Christopher, and Vasili Mitrokhin. The Mitrokhin Archive: The KGB in Europe and the West . Penguin Books, 1999.

The universe of Beatles bootlegs is, quite frankly, boundless. From live performances and outtakes to demos and the inevitable studio goof-offs, there are enough recordings to occupy a lifetime of listening. For many fans, the historical value of these recordings often outweighs the musical merit—some being of poor quality or fragmentary, with snippets barely holding together. For others, however, the mere fact that "the fab four" were involved somehow grants the session a mystical quality. It seems to be a common belief that everything John Lennon, Paul McCartney, George Harrison, and Ringo Starr touched turned directly to gold. Yet, for the average fan, this claim doesn’t always hold up under scrutiny. Among these countless recordings, one particular bootleg stands out— A Toot and a Snore in ’74 , a recording with undeniable historical significance but questionable musical value. This bootleg, captured at Burbank Studios in Los Angeles on the 28th of March 1974, is particularly notable because it documents the last time Lennon and McCartney ever played together. That alone makes it a piece of history worth hearing, even if the music itself leaves much to be desired. Who Was There? Aside from Lennon and McCartney, this laid-back jam session included some rather illustrious company. Stevie Wonder was there, lending his talents on electric piano. Harry Nilsson, the session’s initial catalyst, was present as well, providing some vocals and an acoustic guitar contribution. Guitarist Jesse Ed Davis and saxophonist Bobby Keys (a stalwart of the Rolling Stones’ horn section) rounded out the more musical attendees, while May Pang, Lennon’s companion during his so-called “Lost Weekend,” played tambourine. It was a session born out of spontaneity. At the time, Lennon was producing Harry Nilsson’s album Pussy Cats  during his infamous separation from Yoko Ono, which saw him embark on a drug-fuelled binge of sorts. McCartney, meanwhile, had not seen Lennon for three years, their once close friendship having deteriorated after the Beatles’ breakup. Despite the bad blood, when McCartney found himself in Los Angeles, a casual jam seemed the most natural thing in the world. And so, on that fateful night, they gathered together, old tensions momentarily set aside. Why Did They Jam Together? The answer is simple enough: it was a product of circumstance and whimsy. Lennon was in town, deep into his "Lost Weekend" phase—a chaotic period of drinking, drugs, and creative outbursts. McCartney, on a visit to Los Angeles with his wife Linda, happened to be around. Despite the animosity that had brewed between the two former bandmates following the Beatles' split, the opportunity to play together was evidently too enticing to resist. What transpired in that session was hardly a serious attempt at music-making. Rather, it was a loose, inebriated jam that meandered through covers and off-the-cuff improvisations, interspersed with lots of studio chatter. The tone was casual and hazy, and the title A Toot and a Snore  is telling enough—the phrase refers to Lennon offering Stevie Wonder cocaine during the opening moments of the session. “Do you want a snort Steve? A toot? It’s going round,” Lennon quipped. From there, things only got looser, the "snore" being a possible reference to the lack of any coherent direction the session took. What Did They Play? The recording itself—released in 1992 by Germany's Mistral Music—is more of a curio than anything. What survives on tape is far from a polished product, and the session is clearly more about the joy of playing than the quality of the music. It features half-hearted attempts at rock 'n' roll standards like “Lucille,” “Stand By Me,” and “Cupid,” with Lennon on lead vocals and guitar, and McCartney mostly on drums (Ringo’s drumkit, to be precise). Stevie Wonder adds flourishes on electric piano, though none of the contributions are particularly groundbreaking. Lennon and McCartney sing together on occasion, with McCartney’s harmonies slipping in every now and then. For those searching for a moment of pure magic, however, there isn’t much to be found in this impromptu gathering. Pang, who wrote about the night in her 1983 book Loving John , described the event as one filled with “joyous music,” but it’s clear that this is something you probably had to witness firsthand to fully appreciate. Richard Metzger from Dangerous Minds  captures the essence of the session aptly when he describes it as “a drunk, coked-up jam session.” That’s precisely what it was, albeit one of historical importance. And in that historical importance lies its main appeal—Lennon and McCartney, the two titans of pop music who had once dominated the world together, briefly reunited to jam once again. It was a fleeting glimpse of what might have been, if only for one more night. When Lennon later spoke of the session in a 1975 interview, he reflected on it with a certain warmth. “I jammed with Paul,” he recalled. “We did a lot of stuff in L.A. There was 50 other people playing, but they were all just watching me and Paul.” The fondness in his tone suggests that the experience meant more to him than the slapdash recordings might imply. McCartney, on the other hand, recalled the night as “hazy, for a number of reasons” during a 1997 interview—likely alluding to the abundance of substances being passed around that night. Ultimately, A Toot and a Snore in ’74  holds a significant place in Beatles lore. While the recording itself may not offer much in terms of sonic brilliance, it remains a poignant document—proof that Lennon and McCartney could still come together and make music, however briefly, after all the acrimony. In that sense, it is worth a listen, if only to hear two legends setting aside their differences, if only for a fleeting, coke-laced evening. #beatleslastrecording #lostweekend

“Woody…is just a voice and a guitar. He sings the songs of the people and I suspect that is, in a way, the people….There is nothing sweet about Woody, and there is nothing sweet about the songs he sings. But there is something more important for those who will listen. There is the will of the people to endure and fight against oppression. I think we call this the American spirit.” – John Steinbeck Few American musicians have left a legacy as powerful, complicated, and contested as Woody Guthrie. His songs – “The Sinking of the Reuben James,” “Roll on Columbia, Roll on” “Union Maid” and “Pastures of Plenty”, became some of the most recognisable contributions to twentieth-century folk music. To many admirers, Guthrie was the father of the modern American folk song, a troubadour whose words carried the voices of labourers, farmers, and migrants who endured the Great Depression. Guthrie rose to prominence in an era when struggling blue-collar workers were gaining a romanticised place in the nation’s cultural imagination. The rise of radio and phonograph brought his voice into homes across America, but it was the hardship of the Dust Bowl and the political unrest of the 1930s that gave his music its edge. Yet Guthrie’s story is not a simple one of homespun virtue. His legacy reveals how a flawed, radical man became a mythologised figure of Americana. He was a poet, but also a wanderer, womaniser, absentee father, and outspoken communist. His anthem “This Land Is Your Land” — now sung in classrooms and political rallies — originally carried sharp verses challenging capitalism. The sanitisation of Guthrie tells us as much about American memory as it does about Guthrie himself. Guthrie's Birthplace, Okfuskee County, OK.1979. A Childhood of Fire and Loss Born in 1912 in Okemah, Oklahoma, Guthrie grew up in a middle-class family that unravelled through tragedy. His father, Charlie Guthrie, was a successful politician and real estate dealer, but poor investments ruined his fortunes. Woody’s mother, Nora, descended into mental illness later diagnosed as Huntington’s Chorea, a hereditary disease that would eventually devastate Woody himself. The Guthrie household was marked by trauma. Woody’s sister Clara died after setting herself on fire during an argument with Nora. Rumours swirled that Nora later set her husband ablaze, an injury he never fully recovered from. Eventually she was committed to an asylum. This instability marked Woody’s early years. He later recalled his youth to folk musicologist Alan Lomax while recording songs for the Library of Congress, painting a picture of a boy surrounded by both music and misfortune. The Road to Music In 1929, Guthrie resettled with his father and brother in Pampa, Texas. The oil boom briefly gave the town life, and it was here that Guthrie’s musical identity began to take shape. His uncle Jeff, a fiddler, let Woody accompany him at county dances. Guthrie also married young — the first of three marriages — but soon abandoned domestic life for adventure. By 1937, he was riding freight trains and hitching west. On the road he gathered folk songs from across the country and absorbed radical ideas from Wobblies, members of the Industrial Workers of the World. These encounters shaped his political and musical voice, fusing traditional balladry with biting social critique. Woody and Lefty Lou – Los Angeles Radio In Los Angeles, Guthrie found an unlikely stage. He began performing with Maxine Crissman, later known as Lefty Lou. The pair hosted a daily two-hour slot on KFVD, a progressive radio station run by Frank Burke. Their simple folk duets offered listeners a nostalgic connection to the songs of their parents and grandparents, a counterpoint to the jazz and swing dominating radio. For many Dust Bowl migrants who had landed in California, Woody and Lefty Lou’s programme was a reminder of home and identity. Guthrie’s popularity grew, but so did his awareness of the harsh realities faced by these very migrants. Firsthand Misery By the mid-1930s, some 50,000 migrants had entered California, lured by flyers promising steady work in fruit orchards. Instead they found themselves competing against thousands of others for meagre wages. Locals derided them as “Okies,” regardless of whether they came from Oklahoma or not. “No Okies” signs hung on storefronts, and paramilitary groups often crushed efforts to unionise farm labour. Migrants lived in desperate camps, forbidden by armed guards from eating fruit off the trees they harvested. Starvation and disease spread. John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath  captured this misery, and when the film adaptation was released Guthrie was asked to write a ballad about it. His 17-verse ode to Tom Joad remains one of his most haunting works. Songs for the Downtrodden The camps radicalised Guthrie. He saw families robbed of their dignity and began writing songs that gave them a voice. “Pretty Boy Floyd” became a Robin Hood ballad of sorts, celebrating an outlaw who stole from the rich. “The Jolly Banker” mocked bankers who foreclosed on farms. In the camps, he often heard the hymn “This World Is Not My Home.” It angered him. As his biographer Joe Klein explained, Guthrie believed it urged the poor to meekly await rewards in the afterlife rather than fight for justice in the present. Guthrie responded with “I Ain’t Got No Home”: I ain’t got no home, I’m just a-roaming around I’m just a wandering worker, I go from town to town And the police make it hard wherever I may go And I ain’t got no home in this world anymore. His songs became less about heaven and more about hunger, eviction, and resistance. The Almanac Singers and the War Years In 1940, Guthrie moved to New York and joined the Almanac Singers, alongside Pete Seeger, Millard Lampell, and Lee Hays. They cultivated a working-class image and played union halls and strikes, writing songs for labour causes. Initially, they opposed U.S. involvement in World War II, echoing the Communist Party line. But after Hitler invaded the Soviet Union, their stance shifted. Guthrie himself wrote “The Sinking of Reuben James” about an American destroyer sunk by German forces, while carrying a guitar stencilled with “This Machine Kills Fascists.” The Almanacs briefly tasted success when CBS used their “Round and Round Hitler’s Grave” for a war series. But their communist ties soon drew criticism. Offers dried up, and they became too controversial for mainstream outlets. Woody’s Political Identity “I ain’t a communist necessarily, but I’ve been in the red all my life,” Guthrie once declared. Whether or not he ever carried a Party card remains unclear, but his FBI file identified him as a communist and “Joe Stalin’s California mouthpiece.” Guthrie used humour, folk melodies, and storytelling to critique inequality. He described his politics not as communism but “commonism”: “Every single human being is looking for a better way… To own everything in Common, That’s what the Bible says. Common means all of us. This is pure old Commonism.” He disliked long political debates, preferring action and music. His philosophy was practical, rooted in empathy for ordinary workers. “This Land Is Your Land” – Protest or Anthem? Guthrie’s most famous song, “This Land Is Your Land,” began as a rebuttal to Irving Berlin’s “God Bless America.” In 1940, Guthrie bristled at Berlin’s rosy patriotism, knowing the harsh realities of poverty. His original verses included biting critiques: Was a great high wall there that tried to stop me A sign was painted said: Private Property But on the back side it didn’t say nothing— God blessed America for me. One bright sunny morning in the shadow of the steeple By the relief office I saw my people— As they stood hungry, I stood there wondering if God Blessed America for me. Guthrie in New York. Eric Schaal Time & Life Pictures/Shutterstock Later recordings left these verses out, transforming the song into a simple patriotic anthem. Yet Guthrie continued to sing them, teaching them to his son Arlo, who has performed them ever since. Pete Seeger too preserved the verses, warning against “the danger of this song being misinterpreted.” Seeger even added his own line: Maybe you been working just as hard as you’re able And you just got crumbs from the rich man’s table Maybe you been wondering, is it truth or fable This land was made for you and me. Decline and Influence By the mid-1940s, Guthrie’s health was failing. As the war escalated, Woody enlisted with the merchant marines, at least partially to avoid the draft. Ironically, though, the army inducted Woody in May 1945, the very day Germany surrendered to the Allies. After a brief and uneventful peacetime stint in the military, the army released Woody from duty to return to his second wife in Brooklyn. Throughout the late 1940s and early 1950s, Woody noticeably deteriorated as the hereditary Huntington’s Chorea, now known as Huntington’s Disease, made itself shown. Woody spent the last decade of his life in hospitals in an increasingly incapacitated state, where he nevertheless inspired his many visiting fans, including a young Bob Dylan. The Shaping of a Legacy Even before Guthrie’s death in 1967, mythmaking was underway. The 1956 benefit concert for his family at New York’s Pythian Hall was later remembered as the rebirth of folk music. It also marked Guthrie’s canonisation. The FBI’s “communist mouthpiece” became, in later decades, a celebrated cultural figure. In 1966, the Department of the Interior named a power substation after him. In 1998, the U.S. Postal Service issued a commemorative stamp. Critics like Irwin Silber remarked: “They’re taking a revolutionary, and turning him into a conservationist.” Arlo Guthrie called it “a stunning defeat” for a man who hated respectability. “Commonism” Woody was critical of the vast inequality of wealth in American society, but at the same time had an unswerving faith that the American people would ultimately do the right thing (once telling a newspaper, “I can safely say that Americans will let you get awful hungry but they never quite let you starve.”) Woody’s outlook was as much fueled by disdain for the impersonal forces of Wall Street as it was a profound empathy for the struggling common man. Woody summarized his sociopolitical philosophy as “commonism.” In his words: “Every single human being is looking for a better way…when there shall be no want among you, because you’ll own everything in Common. When the Rich will give their goods unto the poor. I believe in this Way…This is the Christian Way and it is already on a big part of the earth and it will come. To own everything in Common, That’s what the Bible says. Common means all of us. This is pure old Commonism.” Whitewashed Legacy Why was Woody’s legacy whitewashed? Woody embraced communism at its peak in the United States, but as the nuclear tension of the Cold War made the communist threat that much more immediate to Americans, prompting purges of communist influence from the government and entertainment sectors, it was likely harder to reconcile Woody’s leftist leanings with his role as an American cultural hero. As Yale cultural historian Michael Denning has written, “Cold War repression had left a cultural amnesia,” minimizing the real intellectual and cultural influence the Popular Front, and communist singers like Woody, had on American society. Eric Schaal Time & Life Pictures/Shutterstock Woody Guthrie’s Complicated Spirit Guthrie was deeply imperfect, a womaniser, absentee father, hygiene avoider, and erotic letter-writer. But his genius as a songwriter is undeniable. He wrote an estimated 1,000 songs, transforming the struggles of ordinary Americans into enduring folk anthems. His music gave voice to the voiceless. He mocked the wealthy, comforted the poor, and challenged listeners to confront injustice. As Steinbeck wrote, “There is nothing sweet about Woody, and there is nothing sweet about the songs he sings. But… there is the will of the people to endure and fight against oppression.” That is Woody Guthrie’s true legacy, not the sanitised folk hero of postage stamps, but the troubadour who sang America’s pain and resilience. Sources Joe Klein, Woody Guthrie: A Life  (1980) Will Kaufman, Woody Guthrie, American Radical  (2011) Alan Lomax recordings at the Library of Congress – https://www.loc.gov/collections/alan-lomax/ Michael Denning, The Cultural Front  (1997) “The Life and Legacy of Woody Guthrie” – Smithsonian Folkways – https://folkways.si.edu/woody-guthrie Irwin Silber, radical music commentary archives – https://www.marxists.org/history/etol/newspape/folk_music.htm

Some people juggle, some perform card tricks, and then there was Alfred Langevin—who could smoke a pipe through his eyes. A Man of Unique Talents Langevin was a resident of Detroit, Michigan, in the 1930s, a time when the world was reeling from the Great Depression and desperate for a bit of amusement. Enter Mr. Langevin, whose particular skill set was equal parts astounding and slightly unsettling. Not only could he inhale tobacco smoke through his mouth and exhale it through his eye sockets, but he could also blow up balloons and even play the recorder using his eye socket. And just to be clear—because you're probably wondering—yes, he had two perfectly normal, functioning eyes. The Science (or Mystery) Behind the Skill How exactly was Alfred Langevin able to perform this ocular sorcery? The precise reason remains uncertain, but the best guess lies in an anatomical anomaly related to his tear gland. A rare defect in the nasolacrimal system—the part of your body that connects the eyes, nose, and throat—may have created an unusual passageway, allowing him to redirect air (or smoke) in ways most of us cannot. This condition is not entirely unheard of. In fact, the same kind of tear duct oddity is responsible for an even stranger Guinness World Record: the furthest distance for "squirting milk from the eye." Yes, this is an actual competitive category, and the reigning champion is Mike Moraal from Vancouver, Canada, who propelled a stream of milk an eye-watering 8.745 feet in 2001. Alfred Langevin, Ripley’s Star Performer Langevin’s abilities did not go unnoticed. He was featured in Ripley’s Believe It or Not!  cartoon series, an institution dedicated to chronicling the weird and wonderful. He wasn’t just a footnote either—his talent earned him a place in Ripley’s famous Odditorium , the travelling museum of the strange, from 1933 to 1940. His likeness even made it onto a 1933 Odditorium  postcard, which is probably one of the few pieces of mail in history that required a double-take. Imagine, for a moment, being a guest at a 1930s dinner party where Langevin decided to demonstrate his skills. One moment, he’s lighting up his pipe, the next—smoke is emerging from his eye. You would either drop your drink in amazement or reconsider your life choices altogether.

In the mid-1970s, David Bowie’s life was spiralling. His previous years, marked by wild success and notoriety, had driven him to the brink of a personal and artistic collapse. The glamour of fame had mutated into isolation and paranoia, fueled by rampant cocaine addiction and the excesses of his rock-star lifestyle in Los Angeles. By 1976, the need to escape this destructive environment became overwhelming, and Bowie made a life-changing decision. He fled to Berlin, a city divided both physically by the Berlin Wall and emotionally by the Cold War, but one that, for Bowie, held the promise of artistic renewal and personal sobriety. His arrival there marked the start of one of the most important and productive periods of his career. Bowie had been enamoured of Berlin since his youth, having been introduced to German expressionist art and Fritz Lang’s monumental 1927 film Metropolis  during his time at Bromley Technical High School in south-east London. He developed what he later referred to as “an obsession for the angst-ridden, emotional work of expressionists, both artists and filmmakers, and their spiritual home: Berlin.” As Bowie learned more about the artistic ethos of German expressionism, these influences found their way into his early work, especially during his time with Lindsay Kemp’s mime company in the late 1960s. These artistic connections, coupled with his desire to break from the constraints of his LA lifestyle, drew him to West Berlin in the 1970s. But Bowie’s fascination with Germany wasn’t limited to the visual arts. He was also captivated by the new wave of electronic music emerging from the country, particularly the work of Tangerine Dream and its founder, Edgar Froese. Bowie was especially inspired by Froese’s 1975 solo album Ypsilon in Malaysian Pale , which profoundly shaped his own work on Station to Station  (1976). “The randomness of the compositions fascinated me,” Bowie recalled, adding that this style would come to heavily influence his Berlin period. Thus, in 1976, seeking both personal redemption and artistic experimentation, Bowie left the sun-soaked excesses of Los Angeles and followed Edgar to Berlin. Berlin, to Bowie, was the ideal environment for reinvention. “I liked the idea of the Berlin Wall because, at that time, I felt that it was always necessary to be in a place where there was tension,” he later said. “And you couldn’t find a place with more tension than… West Berlin [with its] factional elements, both musically and artistically. There was also a very strong socialist left-wing element there which gave it this kind of anarchistic vibe. I can see why, throughout the 20th century, it was the city [that] writers continually returned to, because both the negative and positive aspects of whatever’s going to happen in Europe always emanate at some point, right back to the 1920s, from Berlin.” Bowie quickly found that Berlin’s fractured, gritty atmosphere was the perfect antidote to the artificial, hedonistic haze of LA. “I was very lucky to be there at that time, mainly because it was undergoing artistically its greatest renaissance since the Weimar days of the 1920s,” he remembered. “When I was there the whole new German expressionist period had started, and all of the German electronic bands were starting to come down to Berlin to work.” As a city that had been physically and politically divided since the construction of the Berlin Wall in 1961, West Berlin was isolated in a sea of communist East Germany. After World War II, most industries and big businesses fled the city, leaving behind empty warehouses and factories. In their place, students, artists, and counterculture figures moved in, transforming Berlin into a crucible of radical thought and artistic experimentation. “It became like a workshop,” Bowie said. “And it was just a wonderful place to be for that.” One of the artists Bowie invited to join him in Berlin was his close friend Iggy Pop. Bowie and Iggy Pop had first met in the early 1970s when Iggy’s brash, punk-inspired style of music caught Bowie’s attention. Their friendship deepened as Bowie produced two of Iggy’s albums, The Idiot  and Lust for Life . Like Bowie, Iggy was grappling with substance abuse and personal demons, and he accepted Bowie’s invitation to come to Berlin. Iggy later reflected on the unique character of the city: “In Berlin you had a city that was built to hold millions of people, and in the western half there were very few people – around half a million – and most of those were draft-dodging, grumpy German students, resistant to any western influences.” He added, “And then you had the very personable prewar leftovers: bankers, cab drivers, restaurateurs, innkeepers. And, most importantly, there was very cheap space. There was no economy. The whole premise was being propped up artificially by political pressures of the time, and that’s what made it interesting. And Bowie’s wise investment was that he’d gotten to a point that he could afford to go there.” By the time Bowie arrived in Berlin, he was ready to cast off the trappings of his previous life. Alongside Iggy, he rented a modest apartment above a car repair shop in the Schöneberg district. Bowie was nearly bankrupt due to his ongoing divorce and legal disputes with his former management, but Berlin’s low cost of living suited him. Tony Visconti, who had worked with Bowie on The Man Who Sold the World  (1970), was enlisted as producer for Bowie’s next album, Low , and later “Heroes” , both of which reflected the artist’s desire to experiment. “Berlin suited his financial situation at the time,” Visconti noted. “He was almost bankrupt… but the financial costs gave him artistic freedom.” Looking to explore new sonic territory, Bowie teamed up with Brian Eno, an avant-garde musician known for pushing creative boundaries. Eno, like Bowie, found Berlin the perfect symbol for their work. “Berlin at that time was this peculiar juncture between two cultures,” Eno said. “We were quite consciously trying to fuse high art and low art.” The fusion of funk rhythms, ambient landscapes, and avant-garde sounds led to some of Bowie’s most groundbreaking work. With Low , and especially “Heroes” , Bowie reshaped rock music by integrating the experimental, mechanical sounds of Berlin’s electronic bands with his signature glam and art rock sensibilities. The recording of “Heroes”  took place at Hansa Studios, located just 500 yards from the Berlin Wall, in a building that had once served as a Nazi ballroom. The presence of the Wall and the watchful East German guards in their towers added a palpable tension to the sessions. Tony Visconti recalled the view from the control room: “We recorded the album in the shadow of the wall… Directly in front of us was a guard tower with East German guards – you could actually see the red stars on their fuzzy hats.” This sense of physical and psychological division bled into Bowie’s music. “There was a darkness to the music I wrote in Berlin,” Bowie reflected, “but it also had a great celebratory nature to it.” Tracks like the haunting instrumentals ‘Moss Garden’ and ‘Neuköln’ (named after a district in Berlin) captured the eerie quietness of the city’s empty spaces, while the title track ‘“Heroes”’ became an anthem of defiance and hope, inspired in part by Visconti’s fleeting kiss with a backing singer near the Wall. The song’s emotional power and its connection to Berlin’s divided landscape have made it one of Bowie’s most enduring and iconic pieces. Bowie’s exploration of new sonic worlds, supported by Eno’s experimental ethos, fundamentally changed how he approached music. “I started using the album as an instrument,” Bowie explained. “If a note or sound effect would go wrong, I’d keep it, and get another four instruments to play the same wrong note. Then it sounds like an arrangement, and an integral part of the composition.” Bowie’s Berlin Trilogy— Low  (1977), “Heroes”  (1977), and Lodger  (1979)—marked a period of intense creativity and reinvention. As Brian Eno noted, “The state of mind existed before the choice of city… but Berlin encouraged strong statements.” This period not only rescued Bowie from the personal chaos of his earlier years but also revitalised his career, influencing a generation of musicians to come. When “Heroes”  was released in October 1977, it was met with critical acclaim. Though some listeners were taken aback by the dark, experimental instrumentals, the album has since been recognised as one of Bowie’s greatest achievements. Its influence extended beyond Bowie’s immediate circle, inspiring artists such as U2, Depeche Mode, and Nick Cave, all of whom would go on to record at Hansa Studios in the years following Bowie’s stay in Berlin. For Bowie, Berlin was more than just a backdrop for his creative rebirth. It was the city’s fractured, turbulent spirit, its collision of old and new, that mirrored Bowie’s own journey. As he revisited the city musically in his 2013 single Where Are We Now? , reflecting on how much Berlin had changed since his 1970s sojourn, it was clear that the city had left an indelible mark on him, as Bowie later reflected: “Berlin was a singular place, and it was there that I think I became the person I really wanted to be.”