Utterly interesting

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.

It began like any other quiet Monday in the lull before Christmas. The date was 8 December 1980. All across the United States people drifted back into weekday routines after the weekend. Office workers prepared for another long stretch of winter leading up to the holidays. American football fans chatted about the Miami Dolphins and New England Patriots game scheduled for that evening. In newsrooms across the country The Washington Post syndicate saw the debut of a new comic strip, Bloom County, which would soon become a cherished fixture of the American newspaper landscape. It had all the hallmarks of an ordinary day. Yet by midnight that same evening the world would be locked into collective grief. Radio stations would switch their scheduled playlists to Beatles songs. Fans would gather in spontaneous vigils outside a darkened building in Manhattan. And millions would wake the next morning to headlines announcing that John Lennon, one of the most influential musicians of the twentieth century, had been murdered. On that winter day in New York City , a troubled man from Honolulu named Mark David Chapman achieved the purpose that had been festering inside him for months. He shot and killed John Lennon outside the Dakota building on West 72nd Street, ending the life of a musician who had spent two decades urging the world to give peace a chance. What follows is a detailed account of that day as experienced by Lennon, his fans, his colleagues and the people who witnessed the events unfold. Chapman in Hawaii The Path That Led Mark David Chapman to the Dakota John Lennon might have lived into old age were it not for the peculiar obsessions of a man he had never met. Mark David Chapman, born in 1955, had shown signs of instability and dissatisfaction long before he travelled to New York. By his own later admission he had been heavily shaped by two books. The first was J. D. Salinger’s novel The Catcher in the Rye. Chapman identified intensely with the disillusioned narrator Holden Caulfield and internalised the book’s condemnation of phoniness to an extreme degree. The second book, Anthony Fawcett’s biography John Lennon: One Day at a Time , had a more dangerous impact. During a 2000 parole hearing Chapman explained that the biography inflamed a belief that Lennon was a hypocrite who preached anti-materialism while living comfortably. According to Chapman, the book made him see Lennon as a symbol of everything Caulfield detested. This reasoning would become a core part of his justification. Chapman revealed that he had flown to New York earlier in the year intending to carry out the murder, only to abandon the attempt. Yet, as he told the parole board, the urge gradually returned. The New York Times recorded his statement: “The urges started building in me again to do this crime, and I flew back to New York on December 6th and checked into a hotel, and then on the day of December 8, stayed outside the Dakota waiting for him with intent to shoot and kill him.” He was not alone outside the building. It was not unusual for small groups of fans to gather outside the Dakota in hopes of catching a glimpse of Lennon and Yoko Ono. Chapman later told CNN that he had been distracted by conversation with other fans when Lennon arrived by taxi earlier in the afternoon. He had missed his first opportunity. By nightfall he would not miss again. The Final Photoshoot: Annie Leibovitz Visits the Dakota On the morning of 8 December, photographer Annie Leibovitz arrived at the Dakota for what was meant to be a finishing session for Rolling Stone magazine. The magazine planned a major cover story on Lennon’s return to recording after five quiet years in which he had largely withdrawn from public life. Leibovitz later told Smithsonian Magazine that she was startled when Lennon opened the door wearing a black leather jacket with his hair slicked back. “I was thrown a little bit by it,” she recalled. “He had that early Beatle look.” While she aimed for a compelling, romantic image, Leibovitz had also been thinking about the cover of Double Fantasy, the recently released album on which Lennon and Ono shared space and songwriting duties. The album cover featured the couple kissing in a simple but poignant black and white photograph. “In 1980, it felt like romance was dead,” Leibovitz said. “I remembered how simple and beautiful that kiss was, and I was inspired by it.” Her initial suggestion was a nude portrait of both Lennon and Ono, but Ono declined. Leibovitz then proposed a concept in which Lennon would pose nude while Ono remained fully clothed. She shot a test on Polaroid, and Lennon instantly approved. The resulting image, capturing Lennon curled against Ono in a gesture of raw vulnerability, would become iconic not only for its artistic power but because it was the last portrait of Lennon taken before his death. It carries the weight of those final hours. Lennon's Optimism During His Final Interview After the photoshoot, Lennon settled into an extended interview with radio host Dave Sholin from RKO Radio. The conversation, which lasted nearly two hours, now stands as one of the most bittersweet documents of his final day. Speaking with sincerity, Lennon talked about the new decade with a level of hope that contrasts painfully with what would follow. Lennon's final radio interview “I hope the young kids like Double Fantasy as well, but I'm really talking to the people who grew up with me,” Lennon said. “And saying, 'Here I am now. How are you? How's your relationship goin'? Did you get through it all? Wasn't the seventies a drag, you know? Here we are, well, let's try to make the eighties good, you know?' 'Cause it's still up to us to make what we can of it.” He also offered a strikingly prescient reflection on his creative life. “I always considered my work one piece, whether it be with Beatles, David Bowie, Elton John, Yoko Ono ... and I consider that my work won't be finished until I'm dead and buried, and I hope that's a long, long time.” Sholin later recalled being struck by the deep connection between Lennon and Ono. “The eye contact between them was amazing. No words had to be spoken. They would look at each other with an intense connection.” When the interview ended, Lennon asked Sholin for a lift to the Record Plant studio to work on a mix. Sholin agreed. Neither could have known that the short walk to the waiting car would bring Lennon face to face with his killer. The Encounter on the Pavement: Chapman Gets an Autograph As Lennon stepped out of the Dakota that afternoon he encountered Paul Goresh, a regular presence with a camera who had taken candid photographs of the musician before. While Goresh showed him some prints, a familiar figure stepped forward. Mark Chapman approached with a copy of Double Fantasy in hand. “This encounter,” Goresh would later say, “felt perfectly normal.” He even raised his camera and captured the moment, producing what would become one of the most chilling images in rock history: John Lennon signing an album cover for the man who intended to murder him. Lennon signs his record for Chapman At a later parole hearing in 2012, Chapman described the exchange: “He was very kind to me. Ironically, very kind, and he was patient with me. The limousine was waiting, his wife was waiting in the limousine, and he took his time with me, and he got the pen going, and he signed my album. He asked me if I needed anything else. I said, 'No. No, sir,' and he walked away. Very cordial and very decent man.” When asked whether he considered abandoning his plan, Chapman admitted he had hesitated briefly. “There was an inner struggle for a while there, you know, what am I doing here? Leave now. ... I did try to tell myself to leave. I've got the album, take it home, show my wife, everything will be fine. But I was so compelled to commit that murder that nothing would have dragged me away from that building.” The Final Session at the Record Plant Lennon and Ono arrived at the studio to continue work on Walking On Thin Ice, a track that Lennon had invested great creative energy into. With Ono performing the vocals, the song had been under development for some time but had not met the deadline for inclusion on Double Fantasy. According to Salon, Lennon had recently pushed guitarist Hugh McCracken to redesign the guitar parts, even contributing a blistering guitar solo himself. On the evening of 8 December Lennon and producer Jack Douglas worked intensely on the mix. Lennon leaves for the studio on the evening of his death Douglas later remembered Lennon’s excitement. When they finished for the night Lennon told Ono, “From now on, we're just gonna do this.” He even suggested that the song would mark a bold new direction for their collaborative work. He felt certain it would become a major hit. The prediction became true decades later when a remix reached the top of the American dance charts in 2003. For the original release in early 1981 Ono wrote a heartfelt liner note. “Getting this together after what happened was hard. But I knew John would not rest his mind if I hadn't. I hope you like it, John. I did my best.” The Return to the Dakota By around 10:30 p.m., Lennon and Ono decided to leave the studio. Lennon wanted to say goodnight to Sean before going to the Stage Deli restaurant with Ono. The Lennons exited their limousine on 72nd Street instead of driving into the more secure courtyard of the Dakota. At approximately 10:45 p.m. their limousine stopped outside the Dakota. Based on statements made that night by NYPD Chief of Detectives James Sullivan, numerous reports at the time stated that Chapman called out "Mr. Lennon" and dropped into a combat stance before firing. Chapman said that he does not remember calling out to Lennon before he fired, and that Lennon didn't turn around. He claimed to have taken a combat stance in a 1992 interview with Barbara Walters. The entrance to the Dakota in which Lennon was gunned down Mark David Chapman was positioned near the archway. In an interview with CNN he later described the moment: “I was sitting on the inside of the arch of the Dakota Building. And it was dark. It was windy. Jose, the doorman, was out along the sidewalk. And here's another odd thing that happened. I was at an angle where I could see Central Park West and 72nd, and I see this limousine pull up and, as you know, there are probably hundreds of limousines that turn up Central Park West in the evening, but I knew that was his. And I said, this is it, and I stood up.” He continued: “Yoko got out. John was far behind, say 20 feet, when he got out. I nodded to Yoko when she walked by me. John came out, and he looked at me, and I think he recognised, here's the fellow that I signed the album for earlier, and he walked past me.” Seconds later Chapman fired five hollow-point bullets. One bullet missed Lennon and struck a window of the Dakota. According to the autopsy , two bullets entered the left side of Lennon's back, with one exiting through his chest and lung and the other lodging in his neck, and two more bullets hit his left shoulder. Lennon, bleeding profusely from his external wounds and from his mouth, staggered up five steps to the lobby, crying, "I'm shot! I'm shot!" He then fell to the floor, scattering the cassettes he had been carrying. The gun that killed John Lennon. Chapman Waits for Arrest In the immediate aftermath there was a moment of surreal stillness. Chapman, holding the empty gun, remained by the archway. Doorman Jose Perdomo rushed towards him in shock and demanded, “Do you know what you just did?” Chapman replied, “I just shot John Lennon.” Believing the gun still loaded, Perdomo knocked it from Chapman’s hand and kicked it across the pavement. Concierge worker Jay Hastings first started to make a tourniquet, but upon ripping open Lennon's blood-stained shirt and realizing the severity of his injuries, he covered Lennon's chest with his uniform jacket, removed his blood-covered glasses, and summoned the police. Chapman removed his coat and hat to show that he was not carrying any concealed weapons and remained standing on 72nd Street, waiting for police to arrive. Chapman calmly took out his copy of The Catcher in the Rye, sat down and began reading. On the inside cover he had written the words: “This is my statement.” The Desperate Race to Hospital New York Police Department officers Peter Cullen and Steve Spiro were among the first responders. Cullen remembered arriving to find Chapman reading quietly while Perdomo yelled and Yoko Ono screamed in terror. Lennon was lying face down, bleeding heavily. Speaking with The New York Post in 2020, Officer Peter Cullen remembered how he and his partner Steve Spiro were greeted with a bizarre scene when they arrived at the Dakota: Mark Chapman reading, the doorman, Jose Perdomo screaming, and Yoko Ono in complete hysterics. Spiro slammed Chapman against a wall to cuff him, while Cullen observed that John Lennon was in bad shape, "laying face down with blood coming out of his mouth." More officers shortly arrived, two of whom — Tony Palma and Herb Frauenberger — quickly loaded Lennon into the back of a squad car, realizing immediately he was in no condition to wait for an ambulance. Cullen recalled about Chapman: “He was docile. He apologised to us for ruining our night. I turned around and said to him, 'You've got to be f****** kidding me. You're worried about our night? Do you know what you just did to your life?'” Realising the severity of Lennon’s wounds, other officers decided not to wait for an ambulance. Officers Tony Palma and Herb Frauenberger carried Lennon into the back of their squad car and sped to Roosevelt Hospital. Lennon was still alive when they left the Dakota. Frauenberger recalled telling Ono, “He’s going to the best hospital in New York City.” A few minutes before 11:00 p.m., Moran arrived at Roosevelt Hospital with Lennon in his squad car. Moran carried Lennon on his back and placed him onto a gurney, demanding a doctor for a multiple gunshot wound victim. When Lennon was brought in, he was not breathing and had no pulse. Three doctors, a nurse, and two or three other medical attendants worked on Lennon for 10 to 20 minutes in an attempt to resuscitate him. As a last resort, the doctors cut open his chest and massaged his heart in an attempt to restore circulation, but they quickly discovered that the damage to the blood vessels above and around Lennon's heart from the bullet wounds was too great. Three of the four bullets that struck Lennon's back passed completely through his body and out of his chest, while the fourth lodged itself in h is aorta beside his heart. Several of the wounds could've been fatal by themselves because each bullet had ruptured vital arteries around the heart. Lennon was shot four times at close range with hollow-point bullets and his left lung and major blood vessels above his heart were virtually destroyed upon impact. Stephan Lynn, the head of the Emergency Department at Roosevelt Hospital, is usually credited with performing Lennon's surgery. In 2005, Lynn said that he massaged Lennon's heart and attempted to resuscitate him for 20 minutes, that two other doctors were present, and that the three of them declared Lennon's death. Richard Marks, an emergency room surgeon at Roosevelt Hospital, stated in 1990 that he operated on Lennon, administered a "massive" blood transfusion, and provided heart massage to no avail. "When I realized he wasn't going to make it," said Marks, "I just sewed him back up. I felt helpless." David Halleran, who had been a third-year general surgery resident at Roosevelt Hospital, disputed the accounts of both Marks and Lynn. In 2015, Halleran stated that the two doctors "didn't do anything", and that he did not initially realize the identity of the victim. He added that Lynn only came to assist him when he heard that the victim was Lennon. Lennon was pronounced dead on arrival at 11:15 p.m, but the time of 11:07 p.m. has also been reported. Witnesses noted that the Beatles song " All My Loving " came over the hospital's sound system at the moment Lennon was pronounced dead. Lennon's body was then taken to the city morgue at 520 First Avenue for an autopsy. Acc ording to the autopsy report, even with prompt medical treatment, no person could have lived for more than a few minutes with that many bullet wounds affecting all of the major arteries and veins around the heart. Yoko Broke the News to Sean Before he Saw it on the News. Ono asked Roosevelt Hospital not to report to the media that her husband was dead until she had informed their five-year-old son Sean, who was still at home at the Dakota. Ono said that he was probably watching television and that she did not want him to learn of his father's death from a TV announcement. However, news producer Alan J. Weiss of WABC-TV happened to be waiting for treatment in the emergency room after being injured in a motorcycle crash earlier in the evening. Police officers wheeled Lennon into the same room as Weiss and mentioned what happened. Weiss called his station and relayed the information Ono leaves the hospital with David Geffen She was led away from the hospital by a policeman and Geffen Records president David Geffen. The following day, Ono issued a statement: "There is no funeral for John. Later in the week we will set the time for a silent vigil to pray for his soul. We invite you to participate from wherever you are at the time. ... John loved and prayed for the human race. Please pray the same for him. Love. Yoko and Sean." Three days after the murder she wrote in The Washington Post: “I told Sean what happened. I showed him the picture of his father on the cover of the paper and explained the situation. I took Sean to the spot where John lay after he was shot. Sean wanted to know why the person shot John if he liked John. I explained that he was probably a confused person.” The Reaction From John's Friends George Harrison issued a prepared statement for the press: "After all we went through together, I had and still have great love and respect for him. I am shocked and stunned. To rob a life is the ultimate robbery in life. The perpetual encroachment on other people's space is taken to the limit with the use of a gun. It is an outrage that people can take other people's lives when they obviously haven't got their own lives in order." Harrison later privately told friends, "I just wanted to be in a band. Here we are, twenty years later, and some whack job has shot my mate. I just wanted to play guitar in a band." Lennon's bloodstained glasses photographed by Ono Paul McCartney addressed reporters outside his Sussex home that morning and said, "I can't take it at the moment. John was a great man who'll be remembered for his unique contributions to art, music and peace. He is going to be missed by the whole world." Later that day, McCartney was leaving an Oxford Street recording studio when reporters asked him for his reaction; he concluded his response with, "Drag, isn't it? Okay, cheers, bye-bye". His apparently casual response was widely condemned. McCartney later clarified that he had intended no disrespect and simply was unable to articulate his shock and sadness. Reflecting on the day two years later, McCartney said the following: "How did I feel? I can't remember. I can't express it. I can't believe it. It was crazy. It was anger. It was fear. It was madness. It was the world coming to an end. And it was, 'Will it happen to me next?' I just felt everything. I still can't put into words. Shocking. And I ended up saying, 'It's a drag,' and that doesn't really sum it up." Ringo Starr , who was in the Bahamas at the time, received a phone call from his stepchildren informing him about the murder. He flew to New York to console Ono and Sean. In a 1995 interview with the NME Keith Richards claimed that he was just a few miles south of the Dakota when he found out about Lennon's murder, whereupon Richards obtained a firearm of his own and went searching the streets for the alleged killer. Aftermath The day after the murder, Lennon's remains were cremated and his ashes were scattered in Central Park, in sight of the Dakota. Chapman was taken to the NYPD's 20th Precinct on West 82nd Street, where he was questioned for eight hours before being remanded to Bellevue Hospital for psychiatric evaluation . Chapman was charged with second-degree murder of Lennon, as premeditation in New York State was not sufficient to warrant charge of first-degree murder. Despite advice by his lawyers to plead insanity , Chapman pleaded guilty to the murder, saying that his plea was the will of God . Under the terms of his plea, Chapman was sentenced to 20-years-to- life imprisonment with eligibility for parole in 2000. Before his sentencing, Chapman was given the opportunity to address the court, at which point he read a passage from The Catcher in the Rye . As of September 2025, Chapman has been denied parole 14 times and remains locked up at Green Haven Correctional Facility . The Worldwide Vigil for John Lennon In the days immediately following Lennon’s death, the grief that had gathered outside the Dakota spread across the world. On 14 December 1980 Yoko Ono asked fans everywhere to refrain from gathering in New York and instead join her in ten minutes of silent reflection at the precise time Lennon’s body was cremated. In Central Park more than one hundred thousand people assembled in near total quiet despite the freezing temperatures, a silence broken only by spontaneous weeping and the distant hum of traffic. Similar gatherings took place in cities across the United States, Europe and Japan. No music was played at Ono’s request, but many fans later recalled that the silence felt more powerful than any song. It was a moment that crystallised the scale of Lennon’s influence, creating a peaceful global vigil that contrasted starkly with the violence that had taken him. For many who attended, the quiet of that December afternoon remains one of the defining memories of their youth. Every year on the anniversary of his death, the National Trust leave the bedroom light on in John’s childhood bedroom in Mendips all night. Sources Smithsonian Magazine - https://www.smithsonianmag.com/history/what-happened-john-lennons-last-day-180976410/   National Galleries of Scotland.- https://www.nationalgalleries.org/art-and-artists/42479   Washington Post - https://www.washingtonpost.com/archive/politics/1980/12/10/i-just-shot-john-lennon-he-said-coolly/41d37bda-f5dd-4133-b9eb-4bf40935ae78/ Associated Press - https://apnews.com/article/5c3fd4207e13baf7e16ce099945f7217   AP News Washington Post - https://www.washingtonpost.com/archive/politics/1980/12/11/a-confused-person/11612f3b-0b06-48e9-b2e0-4c3ad2cb8cd1/   Guardian - https://www.theguardian.com/theguardian/1980/dec/10/fromthearchive

Few names stand out as bizarrely as that of Dr Gay Hitler, a dentist who practised in Circleville, Ohio, in the mid-20th century. His name, which would shock modern audiences, was an unfortunate coincidence—an innocent reflection of a time before the name "Hitler" became synonymous with one of history's greatest evils. Yet, despite the burden of this infamous surname, Dr Gay Hitler lived a seemingly ordinary life, dedicated to his profession and his community. This is his story. Early Life and Origins Dr Gay Hitler was born Gay Ludwig Hitler on 3 September 1882 in Pickaway County, Ohio, to George Washington Hitler and Sarah J. Black. He grew up in a rural environment, part of a long-established German-American family. At the time, the surname "Hitler" held no malevolent connotations. It was simply a common German surname, one of many brought over to the United States by German immigrants in the 19th century. The name "Gay" was also not uncommon, especially in the 19th and early 20th centuries, when it carried the meaning of "cheerful" or "carefree." By sheer coincidence, his name would later become the target of ridicule and attention due to two factors entirely outside his control: the rise of Adolf Hitler and the shifting meanings of the word "gay." A Career in Dentistry After completing his education, Gay Hitler pursued a career in dentistry. Dentistry in the early 20th century was a growing field, spurred by advances in medical science and an increasing understanding of the importance of dental health. Dr Gay Hitler established a practice in Circleville, Ohio, where he quickly became a respected member of the community. His practice was a modest one, typical of small-town America. Dr Hitler treated local patients with routine dental care, ranging from extractions to fillings and cleanings. By all accounts, he was a competent and caring dentist who lived a quiet, unassuming life. He married, raised a family, and contributed to the fabric of his local community. In another timeline, his name might have been forgotten entirely, a footnote in small-town history. However, the winds of fate would take a different course. The WW1 draft registraton cards for Dr. Gay Ludwig Hitler The Rise of Adolf Hitler In the 1930s, the rise of Adolf Hitler in Germany dramatically altered the perception of the Hitler name. As Adolf Hitler's Nazi regime swept across Europe, culminating in the horrors of the Second World War and the Holocaust, the name became universally reviled. For millions, it symbolised hatred, genocide, and tyranny. The atrocities committed by Hitler's regime were so profound that the surname "Hitler" was tainted, its bearers often compelled to change their names or face public scorn. For Dr Gay Hitler, this sudden association with one of history's most notorious figures was a bitter irony. There is no evidence to suggest that Gay Hitler had any connection to the Nazi dictator—his family had settled in the United States long before Adolf Hitler's rise to power. Nevertheless, Dr Hitler was forced to reckon with the unfortunate burden his name now carried. A Quiet Life Under the Shadow of Infamy Despite the unavoidable connotations of his name, Dr Gay Hitler continued his dental practice throughout the 1930s and 1940s. Locally, people knew him simply as "Dr Hitler" or "Gay Hitler," and those in the community appeared to separate the man from the association with the Nazi dictator. Yet, one can imagine the discomfort and confusion that must have arisen whenever outsiders encountered the name for the first time. His name became the subject of local gossip and curiosity, with some even questioning whether it might have been a prank or pseudonym. Yet, Dr Gay Hitler retained his professionalism and continued his work, seemingly unperturbed by the storm of history swirling around his name. One notable feature of his life was his steadfast refusal to change his name, despite the obvious and growing stigma attached to it. Whether out of a sense of pride, familial loyalty, or simple inertia, Dr Gay Hitler remained "Gay Hitler" until his death in 1948. His name would pass into legend, leaving behind a peculiar story of a man whose life was forever linked to an accident of nomenclature. Legacy and Cultural Curiosity In later years, Dr Gay Hitler’s name has sparked morbid curiosity and even humour. His unfortunate moniker has been widely shared online and in humorous lists of unusual names. The mere juxtaposition of the words "Gay" and "Hitler" creates a kind of linguistic dissonance that, to modern eyes, is equal parts absurd and tragic. However, there is more to Dr Gay Hitler’s story than just his name. His life serves as a reminder that historical figures, no matter how obscure, are complex individuals who often find themselves caught in the tides of larger events beyond their control. For Dr Gay Hitler, a man who was simply a local dentist, history played a cruel joke, forever linking him to one of humanity’s darkest chapters. Dr Gay Hitler lived an ordinary life in extraordinary times. The unfortunate coincidence of his name and the rise of Adolf Hitler would mark him out in history, but it is essential to remember that his name was the product of a time before the horrors of the Second World War came to define it. He was a man dedicated to his profession, caring for his patients, and leading a quiet life in a small American town.

On the afternoon of Thursday 15 July 1976, 55 year old school bus driver Frank Edward Ray collected 26 children from Dairyland Elementary School in the farming town of Chowchilla. The pupils had spent the day at the Chowchilla Fairgrounds swimming pool as part of a summer excursion organised by the school. For most of the children it had been an ordinary outing, the kind they looked forward to every year, and Ray was the familiar figure who ensured they reached home safely. As the bus made its way along a quiet rural road bordered by orchards and grazing land, Ray noticed a white van parked across the road ahead. He slowed, thinking the driver might move, but the van remained fixed in place. As soon as he stopped the bus, three men stepped out, each wearing nylon stockings pulled tightly over their faces. Before any of the children could understand what was happening, one of the men climbed the stairs of the bus and pointed a gun at Ray. Another ordered the children to stay silent. A third took Ray’s place at the steering wheel and began to drive. Ray attempted to reassure the frightened children, quietly saying, Stay close now. We will be all right. July 16, 1976: Police and parents inspect the Dairyland Union school bus after it was found near Chowchilla with all 26 students and driver missing. The man facing the camera is Denver Williams, whose daughter Lisa, 12, was among the missing. The hijacking was quick. The bus was forced off its usual route and taken along isolated back roads where no one was likely to witness what was unfolding. Years later, several local farm workers reported that they had seen the strange procession of the yellow bus followed by a van, but at the time nothing seemed unusual enough to prompt an alert. Inside the Stifling Heat of the Vans The three abductors were young men from well known families in the Bay Area. They were twenty four year old Frederick Newhall Woods and his associates James and Richard Schoenfeld. Although their families were wealthy, all three men had accumulated considerable debt. They had spent months planning a crime they believed would solve their financial problems. They had studied bus schedules, scouted rural locations and purchased supplies under false names. The inside of this van was used as the children's prison. Hostages had to use a box with a hole as a toilet. The men forced Ray and the children into two vans that had been carefully modified for the kidnapping. The windows were painted black, the interiors were lined with crude soundproofing and there were no seats. The children were packed onto the floor where the heat rose quickly. It was a Central Valley summer, with temperatures well above thirty degrees, and the enclosed vans became difficult to breathe in. Several children fainted. Others wept quietly, too afraid to speak. The journey that should have lasted a few hours stretched into almost twelve as the abductors avoided main roads and potential police checkpoints. Ray continued to reassure the children whenever he could. One pupil later remembered hearing him say through the van wall, Keep talking to each other. Keep your minds awake. His calmness in those hours became a crucial anchor for the terrified group. A Buried Trruck in a Livermore Quarry The vans finally reached their destination in the early hours of 16 July. It was a remote section of the California Rock and Gravel Quarry in Livermore, a site owned by Woods’ father. Hidden among mounds of earth was a large truck trailer that the kidnappers had transformed into an underground chamber. Weeks earlier they had excavated a deep pit using heavy equipment from the quarry, lowered the trailer into it and covered the top with sheet metal and layers of earth to disguise the structure. July 17, 1976: Alameda County Sheriff Tom Houchins briefs the news media at the Livermore quarry where the Chowchilla children were buried. They escaped through the shaft lower right in this photo The kidnappers forced the children and Ray down a ladder into the buried trailer. The interior had been fitted with mattresses, makeshift ventilation pipes, limited food, water and a crude toilet. It was clear that the abductors believed they would hold their captives for an extended period while they negotiated a ransom. They meticulously recorded the name and age of every child on individual Jack in the Box hamburger wrappers, a detail that later became one of the most haunting elements of the case. Inside the trailer, the conditions deteriorated quickly. The roof began to sag under the weight of the earth above. Dirt fell through gaps in the metal sheeting and several of the children believed the ceiling would collapse on top of them. The air was thick and difficult to breathe. There was very little food, and the milk provided spoiled in the oppressive heat. Victims being escorted by sheriff's deputies after their escape Fear, Darkness and the Beginning of a Plan As the hours passed, the fear intensified. Many of the children were too frightened even to use the makeshift toilet. Some cried through the night. Ray, who was exhausted and drenched in sweat, continued to comfort them. One eleven year old recalled Ray saying, If there is a way out, we will find it. He never stopped thinking of solutions. Workers unearth the buried kidnap van where 27 people were held hostage. The weight of dirt crushed the top What the abductors did not know was that their victims were already looking for a way to escape. Among the children was fourteen year old Michael Marshall, tall, strong and resolute. He had listened to Ray’s instructions throughout the ordeal and had begun to study the ceiling and the position of the hatch where they had been lowered. If they could reach it, they might be able to force it open. How Fourteen Year Old Michael Marshall Helped Them Escape Ray gathered the older children, including Michael, and devised a plan to stack beds and mattresses to form a platform beneath the roof. It was the only way to reach the hatch. The group worked in near silence, lifting heavy mattresses despite the cramped space. As the structure grew taller, Ray encouraged Michael to climb onto the top and test whether the hatch could be shifted. The hatch was covered by metal sheeting weighed down by two one hundred pound industrial batteries. Michael pushed at the metal plate, but at first it did not budge. Ray urged him not to give up. Using a length of wooden slat that had broken off from the interior structure, Michael wedged it into a narrow gap he had found. With considerable force he began to pry the sheeting upward. Dirt poured down into the trailer and several children screamed, convinced the ceiling was collapsing. Ray kept his voice steady, telling them to breathe and stay together. Mike Marshall, who was 14 when he helped save his fellow hostages Michael continued to push until he managed to dislodge the metal plate. The batteries slid aside and the gap widened enough for him to scrape away the packed earth above. It took nearly an hour to create an opening large enough to climb through. Once Michael pulled himself out, Ray handed the younger children up one by one. Approximately sixteen hours after they had been imprisoned underground, Ray and all twenty six children emerged into the dawn light. Reaching Safety The group was dehydrated, filthy and exhausted. They had no sense of where they were, although Ray suspected they were in a quarry. They began to walk until they reached the guard shack located near the entrance. The guard, seeing a procession of dirt streaked children and a weary bus driver approaching, was momentarily unsure if he was dreaming. When he realised what had happened, he radioed for help. Alameda County sheriffs arrived quickly. The children were taken to Santa Rita Jail because it was the closest facility with medical staff available at that hour. Doctors and emergency personnel treated them for dehydration, heat exhaustion and cuts. Several still had dirt in their hair and clothing from their emergence from the underground trailer. The sheriffs collected statements and listened carefully as the children described the abductors. The abductors entering the courthouse for a pre-trial hearing Back in Chowchilla, parents had spent the night searching fields, barns and irrigation canals, terrified that their children had drowned or had been lost in the orchards. When news arrived that the children and their driver were alive, the town erupted into tears, relief and disbelief. Hundreds of townspeople flooded the streets, embracing each other as though welcoming the children home was a collective act. The Ransom That Was Never Delivered The abductors had expected to telephone in a request for a five million pound ransom. However, the kidnappers were unable to place the call because the Chowchilla police switchboard had been overwhelmed by frantic parents and national news organisations. When the men eventually awoke from a sleep, they turned on the news and discovered that their captives had freed themselves. Their plan had collapsed before they could even issue their demand. The Investigation and Capture of the Kidnappers The FBI quickly turned its attention to the Woods family quarry after discovering that one of the vans used in the abduction had been purchased by Woods. When investigators searched the Woods family estate, they uncovered detailed notes, maps, receipts for the purchase of the trailer and vans, draft ransom letters, fake identification papers and the Jack in the Box wrappers listing each child’s name and age. It was an overwhelming volume of evidence. From left, brothers James and Richard Schoenfeld and Fred Woods are taken to prison in 1978. The search also revealed plans for a ransom drop that Woods and the Schoenfelds had designed with a surprising level of detail. They intended to have the money dropped from an aircraft into the Santa Cruz Mountains and retrieve it under cover of darkness. They had even purchased a Cadillac and painted it with flat black spray paint to serve as a getaway vehicle. Arrest warrants were issued immediately. Richard Schoenfeld surrendered after eight days. James Schoenfeld was found in Menlo Park two weeks later. Woods fled to Canada but was arrested by the Royal Canadian Mounted Police soon afterwards. Trial, Conviction and the Long Legal Aftermath All three men pleaded guilty to kidnapping for ransom and robbery. They refused to plead guilty to the charge of causing bodily harm because that charge carried a mandatory sentence of life in prison without the possibility of parole. A trial on the bodily harm count followed. The jury found them guilty, and the judge imposed the mandatory sentence. Years later, an appellate court overturned the bodily harm conviction, ruling that the cuts and bruises suffered by the children did not meet the legal definition of serious physical injury. The three men were resentenced to life with the possibility of parole. Aug. 22, 1976: Bus driver Ed Ray is surrounded by some of the children he is credited with rescuing as Chowchilla celebrates “Ed Ray and Children Day,” with parade, speeches and barbecue. Richard Schoenfeld was released in 2012. James followed in 2015. Woods, who repeatedly minimised his actions and amassed multiple disciplinary violations while in prison, had his parole denied many times. It emerged that he had been secretly running businesses from inside prison and retained access to a significant family trust. After prolonged legal argument and intervention by state officials, Woods was finally granted parole in 2022. Frederick Woods, James Schoenfeld and Richard Schoenfeld The Legacy of Ed Ray Ed Ray was celebrated as a hero, although he never considered himself one. When asked about the ordeal, he simply said, I had children in my care. It was my duty to protect them. His modesty endeared him even more to the families of Chowchilla. The children he saved remained grateful for the rest of their lives, many visiting him decades later with their own families to thank him. Ray died on 17 May 2012, and in his honour the town renamed its Sports and Leisure Park as Edward Ray Park. Every year on his birthday, 26 February, Chowchilla observes Edward Ray Day. The children after the rescue The Lifelong Impact on the Children Although the escape ended the physical danger, the psychological wounds endured for decades. Studies of the children revealed significant trauma. Many suffered nightmares about burial and abduction. Others developed severe phobias, including fear of cars, fear of darkness, fear of the wind or even fear of household appliances. Several struggled with depression, substance use or difficulties in adulthood. A few encountered the criminal justice system after exhibiting controlling or violent behaviour, shaped by unresolved trauma from their buried captivity. One survivor described the experience years later as something that never leaves you. You grow older, but the feeling of being buried alive stays somewhere in your mind. Fred Woods, Richard Schoenfeld and James Schoenfeld An Unusual Motive Among the most unexpected revelations to emerge during the investigation was the curious detail that the kidnappers had planned to use part of the ransom money to restore the Rengstorff House, a Victorian landmark in Mountain View. Woods had been fascinated by the house since childhood. For investigators, the idea that a crime of this magnitude had been designed partly to support a restoration project added another strange layer to an already extraordinary case. Sources New York Times “26 Children Seized in California Escape From Burying Van”  (July 17, 1976) https://www.nytimes.com/1976/07/17/archives/26-children-seized-in-california-escape-from-burying-van-van-is.html “Bus Driver Describes Escape From Buried Van”  (July 18, 1976) https://www.nytimes.com/1976/07/18/archives/bus-driver-describes-escape-from-buried-van.html Los Angeles Times Archives “Chowchilla Abduction Children Tell of Ordeal Underground”  (July 1976 archive) https://latimes.newspapers.com/image/381920503/ (Direct archive image from the LA Times via Newspapers.com ) Washington Post “How 26 Kidnapped Children Dug Themselves Out”  (July 1976) https://www.washingtonpost.com/archive/politics/1976/07/17/how-26-kidnapped-children-dug-themselves-out/148039d4 a778 47f2 8a1a 1643df5688da/ UPI Archive “Chowchilla Kidnappers Had Asked for $5 Million Ransom” https://www.upi.com/Archives/1976/07/19/Chowchilla kidnappers had asked for 5 million ransom/6031511512000/ California Court of Appeal – People v. Woods Official appellate ruling regarding the Chowchilla kidnappers. https://law.justia.com/cases/california/court-of-appeal/3d/108/19.html California Court of Appeal – People v. Schoenfeld (Parole release appeal documents) https://law.justia.com/cases/california/court-of-appeal/2012/c070550.html California Governor’s Office Gov. Gavin Newsom denies parole for Frederick Woods (2022 official press release) https://www.gov.ca.gov/2022/03/25/governor-newsom-denies-parole-for-frederick-woods/ BBC News “How 26 children escaped being buried alive by kidnappers” https://www.bbc.com/news/magazine 35406374 CBS News – 48 Hours “Remembering Chowchilla”  (Survivor interviews, aired 2016) https://www.cbsnews.com/news/the-kidnapping-of-26-california-children-and-their-bus-driver/ CNN “The kidnapped children who climbed out of a grave” https://edition.cnn.com/2016/07/15/us/chowchilla kidnapping survivors/index.html ABC30 (Fresno) Interview with survivor Jennifer Brown Hyde (2022) https://abc30.com/chowchilla kidnapping survivor jennifer brown hyde parole hearing/11679635/ People Magazine Survivors reflect on trauma 45 years later https://people.com/crime/chowchilla survivors on trauma kidnapping buried alive 1976/ Oxygen Documentary: “The Chowchilla Kidnapping” (2023) Official programme page https://www.oxygen.com/chowchilla

When people think of the Empire State Building, they picture a towering, steel-framed icon slicing into the Manhattan skyline. But behind its 102-storey silhouette lies a story just as awe-inspiring—one not made of glass or stone, but of grit, courage, and camaraderie. For all the attention paid to its architecture and engineering, it’s the men who built the Empire State Building—often without harnesses, walking steel beams hundreds of feet in the air—who brought this colossus to life. The Human Beings Behind the Behemoth Constructed during the depths of the Great Depression, the Empire State Building was more than just a marvel of engineering. It was a symbol of ambition in a time of despair. But while much has been written about the race to the sky between New York’s developers, it’s the ironworkers, riveters, and labourers who truly carried the city upward—literally. These men, often Irish and Italian immigrants along with a significant number of Mohawk ironworkers from the Kahnawake reserve near Montreal, made the impossible routine. Working with minimal safety gear and no formalised health and safety regulations, they climbed and strode across thin steel beams as if they were pavements. They hoisted girders into place, guided them with their boots while suspended from cables, and sometimes even lay down to rest on the steel bones of the building itself. Many of them gained reputations as daredevils, though they would’ve likely just called it “a day’s work.” Photographers from newspapers and magazines were captivated by the spectacle. The high-flying antics of these workers, silhouetted against the sky or dangling nonchalantly over the city below, made for irresistible front pages. Their images are now etched into the visual legacy of American industry. “The Best Open-Air Show in Town” The New York Times  at the time described the construction site as “the best open-air show in town.” Crowds often gathered below, staring up in awe as the workers strolled along narrow steel beams with no railings in sight. They were acrobats of industry, balancing tools and swinging hammers as they chatted or smoked cigarettes, hundreds of feet in the air. Meanwhile, The Daily Mail  in London likened the workers to mythic figures from Greek antiquity: “They were right there, in the flesh, outwardly prosaic, incredibly nonchalant, crawling, climbing, walking, swinging, swooping on gigantic steel frames.” Among these ranks were the riveters, perhaps the most vital and hazardous job of all. Working in coordinated teams, they would heat steel rivets until they glowed red-hot, toss them across beams with metal tongs, and hammer them home to fasten the building’s steel skeleton. The sound of their tools, sharp, rhythmic clangs echoing across Midtown, became the music of progress. Weather: The One True Enemy Despite their seeming invincibility, the workers were wary of one element above all: weather. When rain turned steel slick or frost numbed fingers, even the most seasoned ironman would hesitate. Cold winds could transform a simple misstep into tragedy. Work would often be paused when the conditions became too treacherous, but only then. There was little room for fragility in the sky. By the Numbers: Building a Legend Construction of the Empire State Building officially began on March 17, 1930. In a mere 13 months, the project was completed—a pace virtually unheard of today. At the peak of construction, over 3,500 workers were employed, with a record 3,439 present on a single day—14 August 1930. Despite the high-risk work, official records list just five worker deaths, a figure that’s often debated. The New York Daily News  estimated 14 fatalities, while the socialist publication The New Masses  exaggerated it further with unfounded rumours of 42 deaths. Regardless of the true toll, it remains a testament to both the dangers faced and the skill with which they were navigated. The total cost of the project—including the demolition of the old Waldorf–Astoria Hotel which once stood on the site, came in at $40,948,900 (roughly $564 million in 2025 currency), significantly under its $60 million budget. This was an astonishing feat considering the speed, scale, and era of construction. The Empire State Building officially opened on 1 May 1931, some 45 days ahead of schedule. President Herbert Hoover ceremonially lit up the tower from Washington, D.C., pushing a button that illuminated the skyscraper’s lights and ushered in a new chapter of American ambition. Standing Tall Amid Economic Collapse The opening of the Empire State Building coincided with one of the darkest economic periods in US history. New York’s skyscraper boom had reached a saturation point, and for a time, the building was nicknamed the “Empty State Building” due to its low tenancy rates. For over a decade, its occupancy hovered around just 25 percent. Profitability would not arrive until the 1950s, when rising prestige and improved transportation made it an attractive destination for renters. In the meantime, its status as the world’s tallest building—at 1,250 feet—ensured that it became a landmark, both literal and cultural. A 222-foot antenna was added in 1950, allowing television and radio signals to be broadcast from the tower, bringing the building a new purpose in the post-war media age. More Than Steel and Stone As the first structure in the world to exceed 100 floors, the Empire State Building was the crowning achievement of the skyscraper age. It surpassed both the Chrysler Building and 40 Wall Street, its main rivals, and closed the curtain on a dramatic era of architectural one-upmanship. What truly made it iconic, however, were the individuals who lived the build day by day—those who climbed, riveted, and balanced in mid-air to make this vision possible. They didn’t seek glory, only work. But in doing so, they became immortalised—not just in steel and glass, but in the timeless photographs, newspaper clippings, and lore of a building that continues to captivate nearly a century later.

There are figures in twentieth century sport who seem to exist at the edges of what most societies were prepared to tolerate. Violette Morris was one of them. For a time she was a household name in French athletics, known for breaking records across a bewildering range of sports and for carrying herself with a confidence that unsettled those who preferred women to remain in tidy categories. At the height of her career she competed in football, boxing, water polo, discus, javelin, shot put, cycling, swimming, diving, motor racing and even amateur aviation. She captured national titles, won international medals, pushed into male dominated teams and outperformed many seasoned competitors. Yet by the late 1930s she had become one of the most divisive public figures in France. It is a story shaped by talent, stubbornness, prejudice and the long shadow cast by war. Morris was adored by some, condemned by others, and in the end destroyed by the political forces she chose to embrace. Her life remains fascinating not because she was heroic or virtuous, but because she stood squarely in the middle of the cultural tensions of her age. Her refusal to bend to expectations sometimes revealed admirable self determination. Her later actions during the occupation brought her into alignment with one of the most destructive regimes in history. To understand her requires sitting with that contradiction. Early years and the development of an athlete Violette Morris was born on the 18th of April, 1893 in Paris to Baron Pierre Jacques Morris, a retired cavalry officer, and Elisabeth Marie Antoinette Sakakini, who came from a family of Palestinian Arab origin. With a military father and a cosmopolitan mother, her childhood was one of both structure and distance. Much of her adolescence was spent in the convent of L Assomption de Huy in Belgium. Accounts from later interviews suggest that she saw convent life not as a place of quiet retreat but as a testing ground where physical contests became a source of confidence and escape. Morris in 1913 In 1914, just as the First World War erupted, she married Cyprien Edouard Joseph Gouraud in Paris. The marriage did not last and they divorced in 1923, but the timing of the union placed her right in the middle of the social and personal upheavals brought on by war. Learning to drive in a landscape of destruction The war changed almost everything for Morris. With so many men mobilised for military service, women stepped into roles they had rarely been offered. Morris learned to drive during this period, at a time when driving itself carried a sense of mechanical daring and physical independence. Her aptitude behind the wheel was immediate. She joined the French Red Cross as an ambulance driver and was soon on the front lines at Verdun and later at the Somme. The experiences were brutal. Verdun between February 1916 and December 1916 was one of the deadliest battles in European history. Ambulance drivers endured artillery fire, collapsing roads, and the constant pressure of reaching wounded soldiers quickly enough to make a difference. Morris then served as a motorcycle courier at the Somme, which required navigating shell scarred terrain to deliver messages that could not be entrusted to unreliable phone lines. There are no flamboyant stories of heroics here, only the everyday endurance required of women who drove under fire. Yet her wartime service fed her belief in her own capabilities. She emerged from it with a sense that physical risks were something to be embraced rather than avoided. A multi sport powerhouse in the 1920s With the armistice in 1918, Morris threw herself into sport. The list of her activities in the 1920s is almost difficult to comprehend. She played football for Fémina Sports from 1917 to 1919 and then for Olympique de Paris between 1920 and 1926. She represented France on the women s national team. She was selected to train with the national water polo squad despite the absence of an official women s programme. She boxed, often against men as well as women, and earned a reputation for toughness in the ring. Her achievements in track and field were even more remarkable. She won medals at the Women s World Games in 1921 and 1922 and again in 1924. She competed in discus, javelin and shot put, capturing gold in discus and shot put in 1924. Her personal motto was widely reported in the press: What a man can do, Violette can do. At a time when women in sport were caught between growing visibility and persistent criticism, Morris stood out for refusing to soften her image. She wore tailored trousers, smoked heavily, swore confidently, and made little effort to present herself as conventionally feminine. She was open about her relationships with women and was known in Parisian artistic circles. Josephine Baker , Jean Marais and Jean Cocteau were among her acquaintances. Cocteau even stayed on the houseboat she shared with her partner Yvonne de Bray in 1939 and wrote his play Les Monstres sacrés there. The move into motor racing Motor sport became one of her greatest passions. Morris had her breasts removed in 1928 in a procedure she later explained as being necessary to fit more easily into tight racing car cockpits. Whether this was the sole reason is uncertain and historians have noted that her desire to live more freely in masculine coded clothing likely influenced the decision. The choice nevertheless shocked many contemporaries and was seized upon by critics who already objected to her unconventional lifestyle. Violette Morris at the Bol d’or race in 1923 where she finished seventh. She drove a Benjamin cyclecar and became a dedicated competitor in endurance races such as the Bol d Or, where she won the 1927 event. Her participation in the Tour de France Automobile in 1923, the Grand Prix de San Sebastian in 1926 and various long distance mountain courses demonstrated both stamina and technical skill. She was known for making her own mechanical adjustments and for understanding the cars she drove in a way that many drivers of the era did not. The conflict with French sporting authorities Her career should have continued its upward trajectory, but social tensions collided with her public persona. In 1928 the Fédération Féminine Sportive de France refused to renew her sporting licence. The reasons cited involved her behaviour, her clothing choices, alleged roughness in matches and accusations of providing stimulants to teammates. She was barred from competing in the 1928 Olympics. Morris fought back in court in 1930, arguing that the decision had destroyed her ability to earn a living. The trial quickly became a public spectacle. An old ordinance from 1800 restricting women from wearing trousers in public was revived against her. Her sexuality was not mentioned directly but was made an unspoken part of the proceedings. She lost the case. The bitterness of the experience shaped her sense of alienation. She later made a statement that was censored in the press, accusing France of being ruled by schemers and cowardice and predicting national decline. Whether this was an emotional outburst or a deeper conviction, it foreshadowed her decisions in the decade ahead. Financial struggle and the slide into political extremism After losing her licence, Morris opened a car parts shop in Paris. She and her employees built racing cars, but like many small businesses during the Great Depression, it failed. With her sporting career blocked and her business gone, she relied on teaching tennis and occasional performances as a singer on the radio. Morris in front of her Paris automotive store, 1928 In this vulnerable period she became acquainted with individuals connected to the growing far right network in Europe. One of her former racing rivals, Gertrude Hannecker, was later identified as an undercover agent working for the German regime. Whether this relationship directly facilitated Morris's later collaboration is debated, but by the mid 1930s she had begun to sympathise with Germany and accepted an invitation to the 1936 Berlin Olympics as an honoured guest. The houseboat incident and a brief moment of public sympathy In January 1933 Morris moved into a houseboat, La Mouette , with her partner, Yvonne de Bray, which was moored on the Seine at Pont de Neuilly in northwest Paris nea r the Bois de Boulogne. Livin g off inheritance annuities, she took up singing and was successful enough in the hobby to be broadcast performing on the wireless. On Christmas Eve 1937, while having dinner with friends and neighbors Robert and Simone de Trobriand at a restaurant in Neuilly, the trio encountered a drunk and aggressive young man named Joseph Le Cam. The unemployed ex-Legionnaire became embroiled in a heated argument with Simone de Trobriand. Morris was able to calm the man after some time. The following evening, after more drinking in Montmartre, Le Cam arrived at Morris' houseboat and another argument took place, this time between Morris and Le Cam. Le Cam left the houseboat, but soon returned after seeing Simone de Trobriand boarding La M ouette . They had argued the night before and Le Cam rushed back to the houseboat, brandishing a knife, and threatened both Morris and de Trobriand. Morris pushed Le Cam several times before he lunged at her and she produced a 7.65mm revolver. Morris fired four shots, the first two into the air, the following two at Le Cam. He later died in hospital. She was arrested and held for four days but acquitted in March, 1938 when the court accepted her version of events. For a brief moment the public saw her less as a social rule breaker and more as a woman defending herself and her househol d. Collaboration during the occupation When Germany occupied France in 1940, Morris aligned herself with the authorities of Vichy France and with German officials. The extent of her collaboration remains debated among historians. She helped source petrol, drove for high ranking officials and ran a garage that serviced Luftwaffe vehicles. These activities were factual. More controversial are claims that she participated in interrogation and counter espionage. Writer Raymond Ruffin argued that she worked to identify members of the British Special Operations Executive and the Resistance, and that she engaged in torture. Historian Marie Jo Bonnet and others note that there is no direct archival evidence confirming such acts, suggesting that her reputation may have been amplified by public hostility toward her pre war behaviour. Regardless of the exact nature of her collaboration, Morris became widely despised. Her earlier life had already made her a polarising figure, and during the occupation she found herself positioned as a symbol of betrayal. Whether she embraced that image or simply accepted it as a consequence of her choices is unclear. The ambush at Lieurey On 26th of April, 1944 Morris was travelling in a Citroën Traction Avant through rural Normandy with the Bailleul family, who themselves held positions favourable to the occupation authorities. Members of the Maquis Surcouf group had sabotaged the vehicle earlier that day. When the car faltered, Resistance fighters emerged and opened fire. Morris, the Bailleul couple and their two children were killed. Her body remained unclaimed at a morgue and she was buried in an unmarked communal grave. Her name quickly became shorthand for collaboration, moral deviance and the dangers of stepping outside approved norms. Understanding a difficult legacy Violette Morris is not a figure who lends herself to easy interpretation. The qualities that made her a remarkable athlete were the same qualities that created conflict with the institutions of her time. Her independence, her relationships with women, her refusal to conform and her ability to excel in physically demanding sports threatened conventional ideas about femininity. Yet the bitterness of her exclusion from sport contributed to decisions that harmed others and aligned her with an occupying regime. To write about her is therefore not to celebrate her nor to condemn her simplistically. It is to recognise a life shaped by extraordinary competence, stubborn defiance and ultimately destructive choices. Her story remains compelling because it reveals the tensions between personal identity, public expectation and political power in early twentieth century France. Sources Marie Jo Bonnet Violette Morris Une vie d exceptions Ed du Rocher ISBN 9782268071635 Anne Sebba Les Parisiennes How the Women of Paris Lived Loved and Died Penguin Random House ISBN 9780297870975 Jennifer Hargreaves Sporting Females Routledge ISBN 9780415059943 Raymond Ruffin La Femme Tonnerre Editions France Empire ISBN 9782704804619 Archives Nationales de France Police files on collaboration series F7 Bibliothèque Nationale de France Press archives 1917 to 1944 International Olympic Committee Historical Womens Games documents

It is one of those stories that feels almost too perfect for music history. In 1989, as glossy synth beats were drifting out of fashion and British music was hunting for its next direction, three unlikely figureheads found themselves sitting around a battered pub table in south London. Nick Cave was working his way out of addiction and into a sharper artistic future, Mark E Smith was continuing his uncompromising reign over The Fall, and Shane MacGowan was riding the stormy heights of The Pogues. The eighties had been defined by excess, artificial brightness and polished surfaces. These three men were the opposite. So when the NME brought them together for what they grandly called a Pop Summit, the scene looked nothing like the polished photo shoots of the decade they were supposedly ushering out. Instead, it meant a twenty pound bar tab per person, a pub with a gothic ambience, and two patient journalists. One was James Brown, not that James Brown, and the other was Sean O Hagan, yes that one, if you are thinking of Nick Cave’s recent memoir collaborator. Their job was theoretically to record whatever came out of the trio’s mouths. In practice, you suspect it required both of them simply to keep the afternoon from collapsing into pure chaos. They gathered at The Montague Arms, a once beloved and famously eccentric pub with taxidermy, naval bric a brac and dusty chandeliers. It was an environment that suited all three men, since each had built his career in some form of dazzling gloom. What happened inside that pub has become one of the small legendary moments of British rock culture. Opening Shots and Shared Insults The conversation began the way conversations with volatile artists often do. With a jab. “So the NME thinks we’re the last three heroes of rock n roll, do they?” Nick Cave asked. Shane MacGowan fired back without missing a beat. “Smarmy fuckers. What they actually mean is that we’re the three biggest brain damaged cases in rock n roll.” Given the surroundings, it was not entirely unfair. They were meeting in a pub near Millwall’s old Den. It was not exactly the spiritual home of delicate pop craftsmanship. Mark E Smith clarified the matter with the bluntness that only he could provide. “Apart from Nick. Nick’s cleaned up.” Cave answered with a rare moment of cheerful modesty. “Yeah, my brain’s restored itself.” None of this stopped Smith from appreciating his company. Their friendship went back years and had been forged in the margins of British music. Cave remembered their early days in London with a certain fondness. When The Birthday Party arrived from Australia, bringing a wild energy that was sometimes invigorating and sometimes simply dangerous, they were not welcomed by many. But Smith and his endlessly rotating line up in The Fall made room. “We were friends with The Fall, and we were friends with The Pop Group, and these were great English bands. Particularly at that time. They were the saviours of the music scene because there was so much shit that was happening at that time. Terrible, boring kind of stuff. And Mark Smith’s lyric writing was just incredible, so they had a huge impact, but we weren’t involved in a scene, we just knew them.” It was never a cosy friendship. Smith was famously prickly and nobody would have described any of these men as eager to mingle with the cool crowd. What they shared was not so much a lifestyle as a sensibility. They each wrote songs that lived between literature and chaos, between poetry and pub fights. They were drawn to the edges of things, and each in his own way tried to give a voice to lives and emotions that pop music often ignored. Outsiders Talking About Being Outsiders This was why the discussion soon turned to the subject of fashion and the avoidance of it. Cave observed, with surprising calm, “I think we’ve all tended to create some kind of area where we can work without particularly having to worry about what’s fashionable.” For the only known time in history, Mark E Smith agreed. “Yes, fair enough,” he said, before shifting instantly back into critique. “But I think there’s a lot of big differences in this trio here. Nick was very rock n roll to me but he’s turned his back on it which was cool. Shane’s more, I dunno. To me, The Pogues are the good bits from the Irish showband scene, like The Indians. You had that feel, probably lost that now. Your work’s good though.” There was no pretence in the room. MacGowan simply shrugged off the analysis with one line that summed up his lifelong attitude to public attention. “Fuck it man. Who wants to work in a place where there’s all these people looking at you?” Smith’s reply was instantaneous. “Are you talking about your gigs? You should stop doing them, then.” From there the talk unravelled in a tangle of theology, philosophy and the kind of insults that only good drinking companions can get away with. At one point MacGowan remarked, “I don’t go round saying Socrates was a cunt Jesus Christ was an idiot, do I?” Smith countered with one of his most notorious lines. “Jesus Christ was the biggest blight on the human race, he was. And all them socialists and communists, second rate Christianity. It’s alright for you Catholics.” Then he added, with comic timing, “I was brought up with Irish Catholics. Some of my best friends are Irish Catholics.” It was absurd. It was provocative. But it was also the exact sort of chaotic magic that the NME had hoped for. Mythologies, Subconscious Journeys and the Inner Theatre of Songwriting When the conversation drifted back towards their actual work, it grew unexpectedly reflective. MacGowan, who often resisted the mythologising that hovered around him, insisted, “Nobody created my mythology. I certainly didn’t.” Yet he immediately dug deeper into Cave’s own lyricism, offering a reading that would not have been out of place in an academic paper. “It seems to me that in your songs, Nick, you’re doing a Jung style trip of examining your shadow, all the dark things you don’t want to be. A lot of your songs are like trips into the subconscious and are, therefore, nightmarish.” He elaborated with unusual care. “You’re exploring the world through the subconscious. I’ve done that on occasions for various reasons, whether it be illness or self abuse, or whatever. Once things start to look grotesque I don’t write them or sing them. I couldn’t write them the way you do, I couldn’t, making nightmares into living daylight…” Cave, who is rarely caught off guard, seemed genuinely touched. “I think you do a pretty good job of it in some of your songs.” In this moment their artistic kinship became clear. All three were drawn to the ragged edges of human experience. They wrote songs that embraced the grotesque, the comic, the violent and the tender. They never flinched from the messy realities of life. Whether through Cave’s brooding narratives, Smith’s jagged repetition or MacGowan’s poetic slur, each man wanted to make sense of the world through honesty rather than polish. The Summit That Accidentally Captured an Era Ending Their conversation at The Montague Arms has since become part of musical folklore. It was messy and brilliant. It showed three artists who had survived the eighties on their own terms and were about to help shape the next decade in ways nobody predicted. Instead of shiny pop perfection, they offered literature, satire, raw emotion and wit so sharp it could slice through the thickest hangover. The Pop Summit did not deliver profound conclusions, but it revealed something more valuable. It showed three men who were not trying to be saviours at all. They were simply following their own crooked paths and pulling British rock music into new, stranger and far more interesting places. And as Nick Cave has since reflected in later interviews with Sean O Hagan, moderation is a far better companion than the excesses that once powered afternoons like this. Even so, the legacy of that pub meeting remains a reminder that sometimes the most chaotic conversations can illuminate the deepest truths about art, survival and the strange beauty of unvarnished honesty. The full transcript of the conversation is available over at The Quietus , but below, you can read a relatively small excerpt. Do you think it’s accurate to describe the three of you as outsiders? Nick Cave: “I think we’ve all tended to create some kind of area where we can work without particularly having to worry about what’s fashionable.” Mark E. Smith: “Yes, fair enough. But I think there’s a lot of big differences in this trio here. Nick was very rock ‘n’ roll to me but he’s turned his back on it which was cool. Shane’s more, I dunno. To me The Pogues are the good bits from the Irish showband scene, like The Indians. You had that feel, probably lost that now. Your work’s good though.” Shane MacGowan: “Fuck it man. Who wants to work in a place where there’s all these people looking at you?” MES: “Are you talking about your gigs? You should stop doing them, then.” SM: “Can’t afford to.” MES: “Fuck it, you could fight not to if you don’t like it.” SM: “…and leave the rest of them in the lurch?” MES: “Nah, the rest of your band will always complain about not working. If you’re paying them a wage tell them to stay at home and behave themselves.” SM: “It’s a democracy, our band.” MES: “Why aren’t they here with you then?” SM: “Cos the NME didn’t want to interview them.” MES: “Cos nobody’d recognize them.” SM: “That’s it! They want to interview us because we’ve got distinctive characteristics. They just want to interview three high-brow loonies. (Laughs)” MES: “In that case you should have brought your mate Joe Strummer along.” SM: “I said high-brow loonies.” How do each of you approach the actual mechanics of songwriting? MES: “When you ask about that, you just induce fear in a songwriter. I just go blank.” NC: “It’s not a cut and dried process.” SM: “For a start I ‘ve got to be out of my head to write. For a lot of the time it’s automatic writing. ‘Rainy Night In Soho’ was automatic.” MES: “It’s gotta be subconscious and off the wall. He says he’s got to be out of his head, and a lot of the time I have too. Sometimes, I just wake up and do it. It’s one of the hardest questions you ever get asked. For instance, you sometimeshear things that would make a great idea for a song but you never carry them out.” SM: “I do. Like ‘The Turkish Song Of The Damned’ was a Kraut trying to tell me something and I misheard him. He said ‘Have you heard ‘The Turkish Song’ by The Damned’. Then I woke up.” MES: “My German song’s better than yours, I bet. This is like one of those night-time discussions on Channel 4.” NC: “I write songs in batches and then record them and then can’t write again for ages. I try and build one song upon another, they may not obviously look inter-related but often one song acts as a springboard into another.” SM: “You haven’t been back to the swamps for a while, have you.” NC: “The swamps? Heh, heh. I’ve written a novel about that.” MES: “Nick thinks a novel’s two pages long. Very novel, heh, heh.” SM: “What’s it called?” MES: “It’s called It’ll Be Ready In Another Five Years. You should write more aggressive songs, Nick, you’re getting too slow.” NC: “I haven’t sat down and thought about the mood before I wrote them.” MES: “I find your work almost English Lit oriented, like Beckett, things crop up again and again.” NC: “And your songs are very deceptive Mark, in the way they’re sung. They may appear at times like streams of consciousness but that’s deceptive.” MES: “One thing that really annoys me is that stream of consciousness thing. I wouldn’t let on to it normally, but it annoys the shit out of me. I put a lot of hard sweat into them, I think about them. They have an inner logic to me so I don’t really care who understands them or not. I see writing and singing as two very different things. My attitude is if you can’t deliver it like a garage band, fuck it. That’s one thing that’s never been explored, delivering complex things in a very straightforward rock ‘n’ roll way. My old excuse is if I’d wanted to be a poet, I’d have been a poet.” SM: “And starved.” MES: “I listen to your songs, Shane, and I see the old Ireland coming up there and it moves me and I boogie to it. I like your stuff believe me or not. I can listen to Peter Hammill and I know he’s not enjoyable, not even entertaining but I like it. I’ve got a very old fashioned attitude that I shouldn’t give any of my secrets away.” SM: “What are you doing here then?” MES: “I can write, boy, I can write. That’s what I do. People like you sit round moaning about the state of pop music… The trouble is that it’s too bloody easy for people, that’s why music is in the sorry state that it is. Any idiot, actors mainly, can go in there, sing a chord, bang on a machine… I’m not objecting to that but when people get at me for trying to say something in a rock ‘n’ roll mode it’s as if I’m the freak.” SM: “All this talk about the state of music, rock ‘n’ roll music, Irish music, soul, funk.” MES: “Salsa.” SM: “It’s been proved by Acid House that anyone can make a record.” MES: “We’re not thick, we all know that.” SM: “Look, I’m talking about the implications of Acid House.” MES: “There’s nothing new in Acid House for me, pal. I’ve been using that process for years. Bloody years. It might be new for you but don’t assume it’s new for anyone else, because you’re fucking wrong, pal.” SM: “What the fuck are you talking about? Have you made an Acid House record?” MES: “It’s the same process, right. Have you had some sort of bloody revelation about Acid House?” SM: “Hah! It’s obvious if you listen they put Eastern melodies over it, bits of this and that…” MES: “That’s what music should always have been like.” SM: “It always was.” MES: “Why haven’t you been doing it for years then pal?” NC: “I think they have been doing it. I’ve heard zithers and so on. Eastern stuff, Turkish stuff.” MES: “We had jazz arrangements in ’82 when the rest of those tossers were playing cocktail lounge music and fucking pseudo new wave, so don’t talk to me about it because I know what I’m talking about pal.” SM: “Fucking hell, what’s he on about?” Sources Original NME Pop Summit piece (1989) Tony Fletcher archive of the full NME Pop Summit transcript https://tonyfletcher.net/blog/2013/11/25/the-nme-pop-summit-nick-cave-mark-e-smith-shane-macgowan-1989/ Nick Cave interviews and primary commentary Nick Cave in conversation with Sean O Hagan for The Guardian (2023) https://www.theguardian.com/music/2023/sep/04/nick-cave-sean-ohagan-interview-faith-anger-music Nick Cave archive at Red Hand Files (on writing, mythology and personal philosophy) https://www.theredhandfiles.com/ Shane MacGowan archives and interviews The Guardian profile: Shane MacGowan, the outsider poet of The Pogues https://www.theguardian.com/music/2014/nov/27/shane-macgowan-profile-the-pogues RTE documentary archive on the life of Shane MacGowan https://www.rte.ie/culture/2023/1130/1410884-shane-macgowan-life-career-irish-punk-poet/ Mark E Smith and The Fall sources BBC Radio Four archive on Mark E Smith’s lyrical style https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b09m1zcv The Quietus: The Fall and Mark E Smith retrospective https://thequietus.com/articles/23806-mark-e-smith-the-fall-obituary-tribute Context on The Montague Arms South London Press feature on the history of The Montague Arms https://londonnewsonline.co.uk/the-montague-arms-a-legendary-south-london-pub-lost/ Academic context on Cave, MacGowan and Smith as literary songwriters British Library sound archive essay on literary songwriting https://www.bl.uk/20th-century-literature/articles/songwriting-and-literature Journal of Popular Music Studies, discussion of outsider songwriting (open access) https://online.ucpress.edu/jpms/article/31/4/1/115289/Outsider-Voices-in-Popular-Music Music journalism history and the NME’s late eighties editorial direction Rock’s Backpages archive of NME late eighties editorial style https://www.rocksbackpages.com/Library/Publication/nme National Library of Scotland: Music press culture in the eighties https://www.nls.uk/learning-zone/music-culture/music-press/

If you ever need proof that the inventor of a musical instrument can have a stranger backstory than the people who eventually play it, then the life of Adolphe Sax is where you should begin. His later achievements were so substantial that it is easy to forget he spent much of his childhood apparently waging an accidental one boy battle against the concept of survival itself. The future inventor of the saxophone fell out of windows, swallowed pins, drank acid and walked straight into explosions. His mother once looked at the unfortunate little boy and declared that he was surely not long for this world. Yet somehow this accident prone child grew up to help reshape the sound of modern music (some might not be terribly thankful about that though...) This is the strange and surprisingly charming story of Antoine Joseph Adolphe Sax, the Belgian instrument maker who gave the world the saxophone and survived enough mishaps to make even the most reckless Victorian adventurer wince. Early Life The Ghost Child of Dinant Antoine Joseph Sax was born in November 1814 in the riverside town of Dinant, a place of copper work, craftsmen and the background clang of metal on metal. His parents Charles Joseph Sax and Marie Joseph Masson were themselves instrument designers. They spent their lives shaping brass instruments in their workshop, which did nothing to discourage young Adolphe from tinkering with tools whenever the adults were not looking. Although he was christened Antoine Joseph, everyone called him Adolphe from childhood, and the name stuck. It was probably around the time of his third accident that neighbours began to wonder if the boy might be cursed. At one point he fell from the third floor of a building and crashed head first onto stone. He was carried home because everyone assumed he had died on impact. On another day he found a bowl containing acidic water used by his father for industrial processes and drank it because he believed it was milk. He eventually recovered, although how anyone could drink acid and walk away from the experience is a question medical historians still quietly ask themselves. He then swallowed a pin for good measure and later managed to fall onto a hot stove. He also caused a gunpowder explosion that left him badly burned. The drumbeat of misfortune seemed to accompany him everywhere. He also enjoyed being hit on the head by random airborne objects. A falling cobblestone once struck him so hard that he toppled into a nearby river. A passer by dragged him from the water just in time. There were also times when he nearly died from sleeping in a room filled with dangerous fumes while varnish dried on furniture. The detail that he slept peacefully through these incidents tells you everything you need to know about Adolphe Sax and his particular approach to life. His mother apparently surveyed the constant injuries and said with maternal certainty that her son was surely condemned to misfortune and would not live. Local people went one step further and began calling him the ghost child of Dinant. Despite these gloomy predictions he kept going. By his teenage years he had become quite an accomplished musician and by the age of fifteen he had already entered two flutes and a clarinet of his own design into a competition. He went on to study flute, clarinet and voice at the Royal Conservatory of Brussels. It turned out that the boy who could barely stay alive had a gift for design and a flair for imagining instruments that did not yet exist. The Young Inventor and the Trouble with Rivals After leaving the Royal Conservatory, Sax ignored the sensible career of becoming a professional musician and instead plunged into the world of invention. His parents continued running their traditional instrument business, but he preferred to stay in the workshop experimenting with designs that others would have considered entirely unnecessary or absurd. One of his earliest successes was a redesign of the bass clarinet. Previous versions were bulky and uncooperative, but Sax created a more refined version and patented it in his early twenties. It was a small taste of the innovation that was still to come. He then moved to Paris in 1842, a change of scenery that would alter his life and reshape European music in the process. Paris at the time was a competitive place for instrument makers. Rivalries were fierce, lawsuits were common and the French music establishment was notoriously suspicious of young foreigners who arrived with ideas. This did not deter him. Instead, he plunged head first into a series of new inventions with his usual slightly chaotic enthusiasm. He began by working on a new type of valved bugle, later known as the saxhorn. He did not invent the bugle itself, but the way he improved its design completely altered its performance. His models featured precise valving and a clear, full sound that composers quickly noticed. Composer Hector Berlioz became one of his earliest and loudest supporters. Berlioz heard the saxhorns and announced that they were revolutionary. It is said that in 1844 he arranged an entire piece to be performed only on saxhorns simply to show off what the instruments could do. For a young Belgian trying to break into the Parisian musical world, praise from Berlioz was like receiving a personal blessing from Olympus. These new instruments came in seven sizes and created a family of sounds that bridged traditional divides between brass and woodwind. They also laid the groundwork for the modern flugelhorn and contributed to the evolution of the euphonium. Sax also designed the saxotromba in the mid eighteen forties which enjoyed only a brief moment of popularity. Still, for someone who nearly died every four or five months during childhood, this level of productivity was astonishing. The Invention of the Saxophone By the early eighteen forties Sax had turned his attention to something entirely new, a hybrid instrument that would combine the expressive agility of a woodwind with the powerful projection of a brass instrument. The result was the saxophone, patented in June 1846. Between his initial designs and his final patent he created models ranging from tiny sopranino to enormous subcontrabass instruments that were so large they looked as though they required their own building permit. Not every size was ever constructed, though Sax insisted they were perfectly feasible. The saxophone fascinated composers almost immediately. Berlioz continued to champion the instrument, writing that it was capable of producing a wide range of tones from soft and melancholy to forceful and brilliant. Despite this glowing endorsement the instrument struggled to find a regular place in the traditional orchestra. It was too robust for the delicate passages of classical woodwinds yet too flexible and lyrical to seem at home among the brass. Military bands, however, instantly understood its potential. The saxophone could cut through outdoor noise, project across open spaces and handle technical passages with ease. Soon it spread from France to other European countries and later to America where it would eventually help define entire genres. Crimean War Projects and the Strange Machines That Never Happened During the Crimean War Sax unveiled two inventions that are proof he occasionally allowed his imagination to wander several miles beyond practicality. The first was the Saxotonnerre. This was meant to be a gigantic organ powered by a locomotive engine. He believed it could be heard across all of Paris at once. For reasons that defy easy explanation, the French authorities chose not to proceed with the construction of a city wide sound blaster. His second unbuilt invention was the Saxocannon, a colossal artillery piece capable of firing half ton projectiles powerful enough to destroy an entire average sized city. Whether he proposed this seriously or simply got carried away with wartime patriotism is unclear. At any rate, no one felt the need to hand him a military contract. There is something almost endearing about these unrealised inventions. They show that at heart Adolphe Sax loved spectacle. He could imagine an instrument or machine so bold and so loud that it would force the world to pay attention. Teaching, Troubles and Bankruptcy Although he experienced moments of success, Sax also spent much of his life in the courtroom. Rival instrument makers were angered by his patents and repeatedly challenged them. He in turn sued those who produced imitations of his inventions. The result was a twenty year legal battle that drained his finances and pushed him into bankruptcy three separate times. He declared bankruptcy in 1852 then again in 1873 and finally in 1877. Yet even during these difficulties he achieved significant professional milestones. In 1857 he was appointed a professor at the Paris Conservatory where he taught saxophone as part of the new curriculum. His instruments continued to influence brass and woodwind design throughout Europe and the saxhorn family became a particular favourite of British brass bands. Groups like the Jedforest Instrumental Band and the Hawick Saxhorn Band emerged in the Scottish Borders, carrying his name into local music cultures. Despite his early fame and the international spread of his ideas, Sax never became wealthy. His lawsuits were constant and his rivals persistent. He also suffered from lip cancer for several years in the eighteen fifties although he made a full recovery. By the time he died of pneumonia in 1894 he had returned to poverty, a melancholy end for a man whose inventions shaped the sound of the nineteenth century and beyond. He was buried at the Cimetière de Montmartre in Paris, the final resting place of many artists who, like him, transformed their craft and left behind legacies far larger than their bank accounts. Legacy The Sound That Outlived the Man Today the saxophone is one of the most recognisable instruments in the world. It is a staple of jazz, a favourite of military bands, a familiar presence in orchestral experiments and an essential part of popular culture. From early ragtime to bebop to soul and rock, the saxophone became a voice capable of swagger, sorrow, comedy and longing. It is almost comical to think that the sleek instrument at the centre of so many iconic musical moments was invented by a man who barely survived childhood. In a way, it suits the story. Adolphe Sax spent his early years defying the odds and his later years battling competitors, inventors, critics and creditors. Yet nothing could stop his ideas from travelling across the world. His mother once said he would not live. She was wrong. Through his inventions, he never really died. Sources The Story of Adolphe Sax Inventor of the Saxophone https://www.brusselsmuseums.be Adolphe Sax Biography https://www.britannica.com Hector Berlioz and the Instruments of Adolphe Sax https://www.hectorberlioz.org The Saxhorns and Brass Band Development https://www.brassbandresults.co.uk Paris Conservatory Archives Adolphe Sax https://gallica.bnf.fr

If you wander through antique shops or browse online listings today, you will inevitably come across a Victorian hair wreath displayed under glass, its delicate blossoms fixed to looping wire stems, its tendrils arranged in careful spirals. The seller might describe it with a lowered voice, invoking nineteenth century tragedy. “A mourning wreath,” they’ll say. “Made from the hair of the dead.” It is a story people expect to hear, and an easy one to accept. The Victorians, after all, had a reputation for elaborate rituals of grief. They were a society who wrapped mirrors in black cloth, wore mourning jet for years, and staged photographic portraits beside coffins. It seems only logical that these intricate hair wreaths belonged purely to a world of sorrow and remembrance. But that tidy narrative is wrong. Or, at best, only partially correct. The idea that Victorian wirework hair pieces were mainly or even primarily mourning objects is one of the most enduring misconceptions in the study of nineteenth century material culture. As with many myths that thrive today, it is built on a fragment of truth that has been allowed to eclipse a much larger, more nuanced reality. Most Victorian hair wreaths, in fact, were made not from the hair of the dead, but from the hair of the living. This broader truth reveals something far richer than the stereotype suggests. These pieces were sentimental, communal, genealogical, ceremonial, artistic, and sometimes competitive. They were made not only in sorrow but in joy, pride, affection, and creativity. One nineteenth century manual even insisted that the technique required “live hair, that is, hair from the head of a living person”, a detail that forces us to reconsider nearly everything we assume about these objects. Victorian women were not simply makers of mourning relics. They were artists, archivists, and ingenious craftswomen, shaping identity, community, and memory through a medium that was as intimate as it was enduring. What follows is a journey through that wider world. Hairwork in the Victorian Imagination: More Than Mourning The Victorians lived at a time when hair held both practical and symbolic power. Its permanence made it an ideal material for keepsakes. Its intimacy made it personal. Its availability made it democratic. Hair could be kept without destroying anything. It could be transformed without diminishing the person from whom it came. It was both self and symbol. The cultural historian Margaret Wharton once wrote that “Victorian sentiment was materialised through the smallest possible trace,” and nothing captured this better than a lock of hair. Because Victorian mourning culture was so visible – so codified, so theatrical, so explicitly material – it is easy to conflate the existence of hairwork with the rituals of grief. But the record tells a different story. Most hairwork was not produced after death. It was instead a sign of affection, kinship, or celebration. These pieces appeared in parlours, not just because they honoured relatives, but because they represented an entire living community. Many wreaths functioned like a family tree in three dimensions. Each curl of hair belonged to a specific individual. Children were represented next to parents, cousins with cousins, branches growing outward in literal, physical form. Some wreaths were made by entire church congregations, collecting strands from every member. Others were produced at community gatherings, where women exchanged hair as tokens of friendship. The anthropologist Elizabeth Gaskell remarked in 1884 that “hair, being the most lasting part of the body, is the most suitable for tokens of love,” a line that captures why these objects were not confined to mourning alone. They expressed connection long before they expressed loss. Sentiment, Friendship and the Art of the Living In the nineteenth century, exchanging hair was a tender gesture, one far removed from the emotional reserve associated with the Victorian stereotype. Friends, lovers, siblings and parents all participated in the custom. Hair was braided into jewellery, set beneath crystal, or shaped into floral sprigs for display. A great many of the surviving wreaths are sentimental works created from the hair of living relatives. They might include the hair of a newly married couple, a mother and her daughters, or a circle of friends attending school together. The emotional language behind them was far closer to the keepsake album or the autograph book than to the funeral relic. They recorded relationships that were active and ongoing. These objects were displayed proudly in front parlours, not as reminders of death but as symbols of affection. To a Victorian visitor, a hairwork wreath signified intimacy and involvement. It was not morbid. It was deeply human. Hairwork as Genealogy: An Embodied Family Tree Some wreaths expand this idea even further. They act as literal genealogical records, mapping family lines through clusters of carefully arranged flowers. A typical family hair wreath might show branching compositions emanating from a central point, each new tendril marking the birth of a new generation. The arrangement expressed continuity. Its circular shape often symbolised unity or unbroken love. In these cases, hair was not a memento of loss but a celebration of life in progress. Families sometimes worked on these pieces over decades, adding new hair as children were born or married. The result was a living archive, an evolving portrait of a household. The historian Louise Price once described such wreaths as “the intimate census,” a phrase that captures their dual role as artistic objects and family documents. They formed a record more personal than signatures on paper, preserving a tangible part of each life. Communal Hairwork: Congregations, Towns and Shared Identity While family hair wreaths form the majority of privately held examples, the nineteenth century also produced wreaths that represented whole communities. These could include the hair of every member of a church congregation, a small town, a social club or a charitable society. These communal wreaths were displayed in public buildings or meeting halls. Their purpose was symbolic, representing unity, cooperation and belonging. They visualised the collective body of the group in a literal material sense. Each person contributed something, however small. Each contribution was preserved. Such pieces reveal an aspect of Victorian social life that is often forgotten: community crafts were not limited to quilts or samplers. Hairwork, too, could be a communal act. Rites of Passage: Hairwork as Transformation Hair did not only represent relationships. It also represented change. Some pieces commemorate life-changing moments: a young boy’s first haircut, a girl entering adulthood, a woman taking religious vows, or an individual undergoing a significant social transition. The act of cutting hair itself could be ceremonial. In some cases, the hair was formed into small framed arrangements. In others, it was shaped into a floral motif or simple wreath. The meaning here differed from mourning entirely. These works captured transformation rather than loss. One striking surviving example is a nun’s hair wreath created using the locks she cut upon entering her order. It embodies a symbolic death of worldly identity, but equally a celebration of new spiritual life. It is a relic of passage, not of death. Hairwork as Pure Creativity: The Domestic Art of Fancywork Not every Victorian hair wreath was sentimental at all. Some were created for no emotional reason whatsoever. They were art. Hairwork entered the world of “fancywork,” a broad category of domestic crafts that included wax flowers, shellwork, glass etching, fern pressing, and feather art. Magazines and craft manuals published extensive instructions. Women held hairwork socials. State fairs displayed competitive hair sculptures. Victorian newspapers even noted when artists purchased hair in bulk, proving that many pieces were not personal memorabilia at all. A delightful example appears in the Bourbon News  of Kentucky, 15 September 1882, describing an enormous wreath nearly three feet across, noted as “the handsomest piece of fancywork shown at our fair.” The writer adds that it required “ten months’ arduous labour and ten thousand dollars’ worth of hair and patience” to complete. The artist clearly bought hair specifically for the project, chosen for quality rather than sentiment. Some creative pieces pushed the limits of domestic craft. They were enormous, meticulously symmetrical, or technically ambitious. They functioned as displays of skill, not emotion. Why We Misread Victorian Hairwork Today If hairwork served so many different purposes, why do modern audiences assume it was always made for mourning? The answer lies partly in what survives and partly in how modern sensibilities interpret the past. Hairwork that commemorated the dead was more likely to be intentionally preserved. Sentimental or creative pieces were often discarded as tastes changed. As a result, the surviving examples are disproportionately memorial in tone, skewing our perception. Furthermore, Victorian mourning culture has become a kind of shorthand for the entire period. Popular culture gravitates toward the macabre, reinforcing a stereotype that all nineteenth century sentimentality was morbid. In reality, Victorian emotional life was far more varied. Reading the Clues: How Historians Interpret Hairwork Today Without the original documentation, it can be difficult to determine the exact intention behind a piece of hairwork. Many wreaths have lost their labels, their notes, their family stories. As a result, historians must read them carefully, using material, structure, and iconography as clues. A wreath with a completed circular shape usually gestures toward unity or continuity. An open circle, horseshoe shape, or broken loop can reference mourning. Grey hair in abundance might suggest old age, but not necessarily death. Uniformity of colour may indicate commercially purchased hair. Large quantities of one person’s hair could suggest either mourning or a rite of passage. The design itself matters. Flowers such as pansies or forget-me-nots can symbolise affection rather than mourning. Traditional mourning symbols such as willow trees, urns or funerary landscapes strongly tilt toward memorial intent. Elaborate casket-style linings often indicate mourning, yet they were also sometimes chosen simply because they made the hair appear striking under glass. Some wreaths reveal their history through repairs or additions. A piece may begin as a family tree of living individuals but later incorporate the hair of a deceased relative, creating a hybrid object that spans both celebration and loss. Such transitional pieces are among the most evocative, carrying a history of evolving meaning over time. In the end, interpretation is rarely definitive. It is an act of informed analysis rather than certainty. What matters most is understanding that these pieces cannot be reduced to a single narrative. Victorian Women as Artists, Archivists and Innovators To limit the meaning of hairwork to mourning is to flatten the lived experiences of the women who made it. These were not passive relic-makers but remarkable craftswomen. They demonstrated technical precision, aesthetic vision, botanical knowledge, and extraordinary patience. In the act of transforming hair into flowers, they expanded the possibilities of domestic creativity. Victorian hairwork represents a world where emotion, art, memory and craft intertwined. It asks us to broaden our view of nineteenth century women’s lives, their artistic pursuits, their relationships and their communal identities. Most importantly, it reveals that the Victorians were not obsessed with death. They were obsessed with connection. Sources “The Art of Hair Work: Hair Braiding and Jewelry of Sentiment.” Self-published instructional manual, 1867. https://archive.org/details/artofhairwork00mark “Fancy Work for Pleasure and Profit.” E. T. Girard, 1876. https://archive.org/details/fancyworkpleasur00gira Bourbon News, Bourbon County, Kentucky, 15 September 1882. “Society Scintillations.” https://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov/data/batches/khi_hydrangea_ver01/data/sn86069873/00212472665/1882091501/0183.pdf Gaskell, Elizabeth. “On Victorian Sentiment and Material Memory.” 1884 archival extract. https://victorianperiodicals.com Wharton, Margaret. “Tokens of Affection: Hairwork and Sentimental Craft.” Journal of Victorian Material Culture Studies. https://www.jstor.org/stable/pmc.victorianhairwork

When Douglas Kelley stepped through the iron gates of Nuremberg Prison in the autumn of 1945, the war was only months behind him but its shadows were everywhere. The stone corridors echoed with the residue of a defeated regime, and in the cells sat the men whose actions had reshaped the world with catastrophic consequences. Kelley, a 33 year old American psychiatrist, carried with him a leather briefcase filled with Rorschach inkblots and a belief that psychiatry could help decode the human mind at its darkest point. The assignment was unprecedented. Never before had the psychological states of major war criminals been clinically examined as part of an international tribunal. Kelley understood the enormity of the moment. In his own notes he wrote that “we must learn the why of the Nazi success so we can take steps to prevent the recurrence of such evil.” That idea, both hopeful and ominous, would frame everything he did over the next year. Dr Douglas Kelley He also told colleagues later that he had expected to confront raving lunatics, men whose criminality and cruelty had been born from obvious madness. Instead, what he found unsettled him more deeply than insanity ever could. A Rising Star Before The Darkness Douglas McGlashan Kelley was born in California in 1912 and grew up with a relentless intellectual drive. By the time he was in his thirties he held a medical degree from the University of California, had specialised in psychiatry and neurology, and had already contributed to research on brain chemistry. His colleagues admired his combination of scientific confidence and academic curiosity. He had no illusions about the limits of the human mind, yet he believed it could be measured, mapped and understood with precision. When the United States Army began preparing for the war crimes trials that would follow the defeat of the Third Reich, they faced a question that may sound simple but was psychologically enormous. Were the architects of Nazi terror legally sane. Could they be held responsible in the fullest sense. Or had the madness of ideology spilled over into literal psychiatric illness. Kelley seemed the ideal candidate. Brilliant, direct, meticulous, and supposedly free of strong ideological bias, he was asked to travel to Germany as the psychiatric examiner for the defendants. He accepted immediately. During the Nuremberg Trial, American guards maintain constant surveillance over the major Nazi war criminals in the prison attached to the Palace of Justice. Nuremberg, Germany, November 1945. Into Nuremberg Prison The prison was a cold, foreboding building attached to the Palace of Justice where the trials would unfold. Its cells held twenty two high ranking officials: Hermann Göring, Rudolf Hess, Joachim von Ribbentrop, Julius Streicher, Karl Dönitz, Hans Frank and others whose signatures had stamped the policies that devastated Europe. Kelley began with interviews, observation and psychological testing. He wanted to understand not simply what these men had done, but how they thought. One of his early diary entries captured his reaction perfectly. “They were not the raving maniacs I had expected to find. They were rational, intelligent, and frighteningly normal.” This realisation set the tone for his entire mission. The more he examined them, the more the idea of evil as pathology seemed to fade. Instead he found conviction, self justification and an unsettling ability to rationalise atrocity. Nazi defendants sitting in the dock during the Nuremberg Trials. The Defendants As Kelley Saw Them Robert Ley, head of the German Labour Front, offered Kelley one of his most disturbing early interviews. Ley rationalised the treatment of Jews with chilling casualness. He told Kelley that, had he been in charge, he would not have killed them, but would have denied them work and shelter, thus forcing them out naturally. “All the Jews in Germany would have quietly packed up and moved elsewhere. Is that not so.” Ley insisted again and again that he was not a murderer and reacted with fury when shown the indictment calling him a criminal. Hess behaved erratically but Kelley believed the amnesia act was theatre, a manipulative attempt to control his narrative. Streicher displayed no remorse and no sophistication, but no psychosis either. Hans Frank, the Governor General of occupied Poland, unsettled Kelley in a different way. Frank spoke eloquently about art, music, philosophy and German culture. He prayed, he reflected, he confessed. Just before his execution he would tell the court that “a thousand years will pass and Germany’s guilt will not be erased.” It was one of the most haunting public acknowledgements of wrongdoing to emerge from the trials. None of these men fit the mould of insanity. They were logical. They were articulate. They were, in Kelley’s words, “ordinary men with extraordinary power, shaped by culture and ambition, not by mental illness.” Hermann Göring in custody The Complicated Case Of Hermann Göring No relationship affected Kelley more than the one he developed with Hermann Göring. The former Reichsmarschall received him with warmth and theatrical charm. Kelley described how each morning Göring would rise from his cot, smile broadly, offer his hand and pat the place beside him as if inviting an old friend to sit. Their conversations ranged across politics, philosophy and Germany’s future. Göring was intelligent, manipulative and charismatic, with an unwavering belief in his own legacy. He told Kelley directly, “Yes, I know I shall hang. You know I shall hang. I am ready. But I am determined to go down in German history as a great man.” Perhaps the most famous conversation credited to Göring during the trials came not from Kelley but from psychologist Gustave Gilbert. The quote reflected perfectly the worldview Kelley sensed beneath Göring’s charm. “Of course the people don’t want war. But after all, it is the leaders of the country who determine policy. It is always a simple matter to drag the people along.” When Gilbert asked how leaders do this, Göring replied, “All you have to do is tell them they are being attacked and denounce the pacifists for lack of patriotism.” This philosophy disturbed Kelley deeply because it captured the psychological mechanics he was beginning to see across the defendants: obedience, nationalism and the desire to follow strong authority. When Kelley’s assignment ended in 1946, Göring wrote him a note thanking him for his humane behaviour and his attempt to understand their reasons. Kelley kept that letter for the rest of his life. The body of Hermann Göring Kelley’s Conclusions And The Public Reaction By the time his work at Nuremberg concluded, Kelley had reached a conclusion that would shock both the scientific community and the public. The Nazi leadership, he argued, did not suffer from psychosis, delusion or organic mental disease. Their behaviour had been shaped by ideology, culture, personality and opportunity, not by madness. He believed they represented a specific type of authoritarian personality: nationalistic, hierarchical, obedient to strong leadership. But he warned that this potential existed elsewhere too. He wrote that the capacity for such crimes “could be duplicated in any country of the world today.” People did not want to hear that. Douglas on TV Many preferred to believe that genocide emerged from mental abnormalities rather than through ordinary psychology. Kelley’s assessment dismantled the comfortable boundary between evil and normality and suggested that under the right pressures, ordinary individuals could commit extraordinary crimes. Colleagues criticised him. Some claimed he had been manipulated by his subjects. Others believed he saw intelligence where he should have seen cruelty. His relationship with Gilbert deteriorated as the two men published contrasting interpretations. But while society debated his conclusions, Kelley himself began to struggle with the psychological burden of everything he had witnessed. The Weight Of Nuremberg Back in the United States, Kelley accepted a teaching position at the University of California, Berkeley and continued researching and writing. But the experience had marked him. His son later described his father’s growing emotional volatility, saying that rage and depression began to shadow his life. Kelley drank heavily, obsessed over criminology, became fascinated by poisons and returned repeatedly to the question of how seemingly rational men had been capable of such horrors. Cyanide in particular began to preoccupy him, the very substance Göring had used to evade the hangman. Kelley spoke about it openly, studied its effects and told colleagues that the method of Göring’s death had been, in his words, “a brilliant finishing touch to his own narrative.” To those who knew him, it sounded analytical. With hindsight, it was chilling. The Final Collapse On New Year’s Day 1958, Kelley was at home with his wife, children and father. While cooking he accidentally burned himself and flew into a rage. His son, Doug Kelley Jr, later explained that the emotional spiral happened rapidly. Moments later Kelley appeared on the staircase holding potassium cyanide. He shouted that he would swallow it and be dead within 30 seconds. He did exactly that, collapsing in front of his family, dying from the same substance that Göring had taken twelve years earlier. He was only 45 years old. Years later his son said, “I know it’s ironic. I think maybe he knew he was on a runaway train. I think he knew what was inside, but he didn’t know how to make it go away.” The Unfinished Question Douglas Kelley’s legacy remains divided. Some remember him as an innovative psychiatrist who confronted a unique historical moment with honesty and scientific courage. Others argue he allowed himself to be too sympathetic, too impressed by the intelligence of the men he examined. Yet the question that drove him still stands. If the men who orchestrated one of history’s greatest atrocities were sane, rational and psychologically ordinary, then the nature of evil becomes something far harder to confine, diagnose or defend against. Kelley walked into Nuremberg believing psychiatry could offer clarity. What he found instead were answers that blurred boundaries, challenged assumptions and followed him until the day he died. His work remains unsettling because it refuses to let us escape the uncomfortable truth he discovered: that monstrous deeds are not always born from monstrous minds, and that the psychology of evil is far closer to ordinary humanity than anyone wants to admit. SOURCES Title: The Nazi and the Psychiatrist by Jack El Hai https://www.jackelhai.com/the-nazi-and-the-psychiatrist Title: Scientific American: The Troubled Life of the Man Who Tried to Understand Evil https://www.scientificamerican.com/article/the-nazi-and-the-psychiatrist Title: SFGate Interview with Doug Kelley Jr https://www.sfgate.com/bayarea/article/the-nazi-and-the-psychiatrist-2786162.php Title: Nuremberg Trial Archives, Library of Congress https://www.loc.gov/collections/nuremberg-trials Title: United States Holocaust Memorial Museum: Introduction to the Nuremberg Trials https://encyclopedia.ushmm.org/content/en/article/introduction-to-the-nuremberg-trials Title: Nuremberg Diary by Gustave Gilbert https://archive.org/details/nurembergdiary

“Un momentito, Señor.” They were the only three words Israeli intelligence Peter Malkin knew in Spanish, but they were about to change the course of history. Malkin uttered the words to a balding Mercedes-Benz factory worker headed home from work on May 11, 1960. And when the man reluctantly acknowledged him, Malkin sprang into action. With the help of three other secret agents, he wrestled the man to the ground and into a car. As they sped away, they tied him down and covered him with a blanket in the back seat. This wasn’t your average abduction. The man in the back seat was one of the world’s most notorious war criminals: Adolf Eichmann, a Nazi official who helped Germany carry out the mass murder of six million Jews during World War II. For years, he had evaded the authorities and lived in relative peace in Argentina. Now, he was in the custody of the Mossad, Israel’s secret service—and his once secret crimes were about to become public knowledge. Eichmann’s capture, interrogation and trial were part of one of history’s most ambitious secret missions. “The logistics [of the capture] were incredible,” says Guy Walters , author of Hunting Evil: The Nazi War Criminals Who Escaped and the Quest to Bring them to Justice. “ It’s like a movie plot that occurs in real life. And it woke the world up to the Holocaust.” But that awakening—and Eichmann’s capture—was decades in the making. When he first joined the Austrian Nazi party in 1932, few would have predicted that Adolf Eichmann had a future as a mass murderer. But Eichmann was both a skilled bureaucrat and a committed anti-Semite. He rose swiftly through the ranks of the party, and by 1935 he was already helping the party plan its answers to the so-called “Jewish question,” Nazi terminology for a debate over how European Jews should be treated. Though he later claimed that he was just following orders, Eichmann helped the Nazis tackle the logistics of mass murder. He attended the Wannsee Conference, the meeting at which a group of high-ranking Nazi officials coordinated the details of what they called the “Final Solution.” Though he did not make decisions there, he took notes on the conference and prepared data which were used by higher-ranking officials to determine exactly how to murder Europe’s Jewish population. After the conference, Eichmann helped implement the genocide, coordinating the deportation and murder of hundreds of thousands of Jews in German-occupied areas. But though many of the architects of the Holocaust were arrested, tried at Nuremberg and executed after the war, Eichmann escaped justice. After his capture by Americans as the war ended, he escaped, changing his identity multiple times as he travelled throughout postwar Europe. In Italy, he was given aid by Catholic priests and bishops with pro-Nazi sympathies, and reached Buenos Aires, Argentina in 1950. Eichmann had a new identity—“Ricardo Klement,” labourer. His family joined him in Argentina soon after, living a relatively quiet life as Eichmann attempted to support himself at a variety of jobs. But he wasn’t the only Nazi in the South American country, and he didn’t make a secret of his past. Eichmann had social ties to other escaped Nazis, and even sat down for an extensive interview with a pro-Nazi journalist, to whom he complained that he had made a mistake by not murdering all of Europe’s Jews. Rumours of Eichmann’s activities in Argentina made their way to the United States, Europe and Israel. But though both West German and American intelligence operations received tips on Eichmann, they didn’t follow up on the leads. “It wasn’t the job of the Americans to hunt Nazis,” says Walters. The identity card issued to Adolf Eichmann, under his new Argentinian identity Ricardo Klemen. But there was a new state that was very interested in arresting Eichmann: Israel. Thanks to Lothar Herrmann , a blind Jewish refugee who had fled to Argentina after being imprisoned in Dachau, they learned of his whereabouts and began planning one of history’s most ambitious captures. When Herrmann discovered Eichmann was in Argentina through his daughter Sylvia, who dated one of Eichmann’s sons, he wrote to Germany with the information. Surveillance photograph of Eichmann taken by a private detective A German-Jewish judge, Fritz Bauer , asked for more details, so with Sylvia’s help, Herrmann provided Eichmann’s address. Worried that Nazi sympathizers would alert Eichmann to any German investigation, Bauer covertly tipped off Mossad, the Israeli secret service, instead. Mossad assembled a “snatch team”—most of whom had seen their entire families wiped out during the Holocaust—to abduct Eichmann. Eichmann's Argentinean worker's I.D. for Mercedes-Benz, issued in the name of Ricardo Klement Their goal was not just to capture him, but to get him back to Israel where he could be tried publicly for his crimes. The plan was simple enough. As the team spied on Eichmann, they realized that his routine was extremely predicable. They decided to capture him as he walked back home after getting off of a city bus after work. The hidden home of Adolf Eichmann in San Fernando, Argentina, circa 1960. These images were surveilance photos captured by Mossad. In the bottom photo you can see the arrow marking Eichmann's house. The carefully orchestrated plan to abduct Eichmann on May 11, 1960 was almost foiled when Eichmann didn’t get off the bus at the expected time. Half an hour later, though, Eichmann got off of a later bus. Malkin and his associates accosted him on a quiet, dark street. They took him to a “safe house” in Buenos Aires, where he was interrogated for days before he was drugged and put on a plane to Israel. The trial that followed was among the first to be televised in its entirety. It gripped millions with its emotional testimony and its first-person views of the reality of the Holocaust. At the trial, Eichmann presented the same deceptively normal façade he had kept up in Argentina, an image of a meek bureaucrat who simply followed orders. That image caused political theorist Hannah Arendt to coin the term “the banality of evil,” arguing that Eichmann was not a psychopath, but a normal human. “Actually, Eichmann was a rabid zealous key Nazi who was absolutely delighted to do his bit to try and kill as many Jews as possible,” says Walters. “He wasn’t just a functionary.” Though he insisted to the end that he wasn’t responsible for the Holocaust, Adolf Eichmann was found guilty by a special tribunal. He was hanged on May 31, 1962. Adolf Eichmann walks in his slippers in the yard next to his cell, Israel, 1961.

I'm often blown away when I see work by an artist I'd never heard of before, I'm pleased to say it's a pretty much a daily occurance. But when I first set eyes on Alfred Cheney Johnston's work I couldn't believe the sheer quality and beauty of what I was looking at. They're the perfect mixture of a classical sculpture with touch of a renaissance pose, aided by the fact they were captured on large glass plates which gives them a flawless detailed look. Alfred Cheney with two examples of his Ziegfeld Follies Picture This, 1930s New York City There was a time when beauty wasn’t filtered through a phone, but through the platinum shimmer of a glass negative. In the early decades of the twentieth century, photographer Alfred Cheney Johnston became the visual chronicler of an era obsessed with elegance, excess, and female glamour. Best known for his portraits of the Ziegfeld Follies showgirls, Johnston didn’t just take pictures, he sculpted beauty. His studio, tucked away in New York City , was a revolving door of dancers, actresses, and ingénues, all hoping to be captured in his signature soft-focus style that blended stage fantasy with classical portraiture. Who Was Alfred Cheney Johnston? Born in 1885 in New York, Johnston was raised in an environment that valued refinement and culture. After studying painting at the National Academy of Design, he shifted to photography, likely encouraged by the more stable professional prospects it offered. He graduated from Yale in 1908 and went on to establish his first studio in Manhattan. Johnston's academic background and painterly instincts bled into his photography, resulting in finely composed images that felt more like portraits than publicity shots. By the 1910s, he had become the official photographer for Florenz Ziegfeld’ s theatrical revue, the Ziegfeld Follies. Ziegfeld, ever the connoisseur of glamour and spectacle, entrusted Johnston to immortalise the carefully curated beauty of his performers, something he was clearly more than capable of achieving! The Rise of the Ziegfeld Follies The Ziegfeld Follies, running from 1907 to 1931, were more than just musical theatre, they were a visual feast. Inspired by the Folies Bergère in Paris , Ziegfeld's productions celebrated American femininity in all its stylised, corseted glory. The Follies showgirls were not just dancers; they were fashion models, icons, and symbols of an opulent, pre-Depression culture. Johnston played a pivotal role in creating their visual mythology. His photographs were often the first (and sometimes only) record of these performers' brief but brilliant careers. The images featured elaborate costumes, sculptural poses, and a dreamlike aura that turned performers into semi-mythic figures. Photography as Spectacle: Johnston’s Technical Craft Johnston was a meticulous technician. He worked primarily with large-format view cameras and glass plate negatives, which allowed for incredible clarity and detail. His preferred medium, platinum prints, lent a soft grey tonal range that suited his aesthetic perfectly. His studio lighting was carefully controlled to create theatrical shadows and highlights, often mimicking the glamour of stage spotlights. Importantly, Johnston's images blurred the line between high art and commercial portraiture. Some were overtly sensual, even nude, but always with a veneer of respectability. In an era of strict moral codes, he presented the female form not as scandalous but as something sculptural and idealised, a throwback to classical beauty. The Women in Focus Johnston photographed some of the most recognisable women of the early 20th century. Billie Burke , Ziegfeld's wife and later Glinda the Good Witch in  The Wizard of Oz , was one of his early muses. Other sitters included actresses like Barbara Stanwyck , Helen Henderson, and Marion Davies. While many of his subjects are now lost to time, Johnston's images preserve their likenesses in a moment of poised confidence. These women, often in their teens or twenties, were projected into fame not just by performance but through image, Johnston's image. In some portraits, the showgirls are clothed in feathered headpieces and crystal-beaded bodices; in others, they pose nude, draped in shadows or sheer fabrics. His approach never seemed lecherous. Instead, it was reverent, almost classical. He framed these women not as objects, but as embodiments of an aesthetic ideal. Johnston’s Post-Follies Decline and Rediscovery As tastes shifted and the Great Depression tightened its grip, the Ziegfeld Follies faded from public interest. Johnston’s star dimmed accordingly. He eventually moved out of New York and continued to take private portrait commissions, but the grand days of theatrical opulence had passed. In the 1930s and 40s, Johnston donated many of his negatives to institutions such as the Library of Congress. For decades, his work sat largely forgotten, filed under the dusty categories of 'vaudeville' and 'stage photography.' Only in the late 20th and early 21st centuries did historians and collectors begin to re-evaluate his legacy. Books like  Jazz Age Beauties  by Robert Hudovernik and exhibitions at photography museums brought Johnston's work back into the spotlight, highlighting the artistic merit and cultural significance of his oeuvre. Interestingly, after Johnston’s death in 1971, a cache of nude and semi-nude portraits was discovered at his Connecticut farm. Many of these featured Ziegfeld showgirls in poses far more daring than what the public saw at the time. Speculation abounds as to whether these were private commissions for Ziegfeld himself or simply Johnston’s personal exploration of artistic freedom. Regardless of their origin, these images are now celebrated as bold works of art, challenging the boundaries of acceptable photography in their era. The Great Depression and Changing Fortunes The stock market crash of 1929 and the ensuing Great Depression devastated Ziegfeld’s empire. The producer’s financial ruin and subsequent death in 1932 marked the end of an era for Johnston, who found himself struggling to adapt to a changing world. By the late 1930s, Johnston had relocated to a farm in Oxford, Connecticut, where he continued his photographic work on a smaller scale, converting a barn into a studio. Though he briefly operated commercial studios in Connecticut in the 1940s and 1950s, Johnston never recaptured the prominence he had enjoyed during the Follies’ heyday. Nevertheless, he remained dedicated to his craft, continuing to use his beloved 11x14 camera to photograph a new generation of models. Legacy and Rediscovery In 1960, Johnston donated 245 prints to the Library of Congress, ensuring that his work would be preserved for future generations. This collection includes portraits of Follies showgirls, Broadway stars, and Hollywood legends, along with product advertisements showcasing Johnston’s versatility. Following his death in a car accident in 1971, Johnston’s work faded into relative obscurity. However, in recent decades, his photographs have been rediscovered by collectors and enthusiasts, who admire their technical precision and artistic sophistication. Today, his images fetch high prices at auctions and are displayed in galleries, serving as a reminder of an era when beauty, glamour, and artistry converged on the stage and in front of Johnston’s lens. Sources Hudovernik, Robert. Jazz Age Beauties: The Lost Collection of Ziegfeld Photographer Alfred Cheney Johnston . Universe Publishing, 2006. Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division. https://www.loc.gov/pictures New York Public Library Digital Collections. https://digitalcollections.nypl.org Smithsonian Institution Archives. https://siarchives.si.edu The Ziegfeld Club: Legacy of the Ziegfeld Follies. https://theziegfeldclubinc.com “The Ziegfeld Touch: A Glamorous Era of Showgirls and Spectacle.” American Experience , PBS. https://www.pbs.org/wgbh/americanexperience/features/ziegfeld-glamour/ V&A Museum Collections – Early 20th-Century Photography. https://www.vam.ac.uk/collections/photography