Utterly interesting

Motörhead’s rise to prominence in the mid-1970s represented a blistering burst of energy that would forever reshape the boundaries of rock and roll. With an uncompromising dedication to loudness, speed, and chaos, the band stood at the crossroads of punk and heavy metal, refusing to be categorized as either. At the center of it all was Lemmy Kilmister—a larger-than-life figure whose legendary lifestyle and distinct gravelly voice would become synonymous with Motörhead. However, Lemmy wasn’t alone in this revolution. Flanked by “Fast” Eddie Clarke and Phil “Philthy Animal” Taylor, the classic Motörhead lineup carved a path into rock history that was as notorious as it was influential. This is the story of how they met, who they were, and the riotous adventures that followed. Lemmy Kilmister: The Reluctant Bassist Lemmy Kilmister’s journey to Motörhead began long before he ever picked up a bass guitar. Born Ian Fraser Kilmister in 1945, Lemmy grew up in post-war Britain, where he was drawn to the rebellious sounds of rock and roll. Before forming Motörhead, Lemmy had been involved in a number of groups, including The Rockin’ Vicars, where he experienced something otherworldly on a return trip from Yorkshire. “In 1966, we were coming back over the Yorkshire Moors which, incidentally, was before I even drank beer, so it couldn’t have been some acid flashback,” Lemmy recalled. “This thing came over the horizon and stopped dead in the middle of the sky. Then it went from a standstill to top speed, immediately. We don’t even have aircraft that do that now, never mind then. So that was pretty eye-opening for me.” After that alien encounter, Lemmy moved on to more grounded experiences, notably joining the road crew of The Jimi Hendrix Experience. Working for Hendrix taught Lemmy valuable lessons about the excesses and subtleties of rock stardom. “Jimi taught me how to find drugs in the most unlikely places because that was part of my job for him,” Lemmy admitted. “That’s how I learned to function on five hits of acid. But I also learned about theatrics and performing.” His journey through the underground music scene brought him to Hawkwind, a pioneering space rock band. Lemmy joined them initially as a guitarist but quickly found himself thrust into a new role. “I’d never played bass in my life!” Lemmy exclaimed. During a live gig at Notting Hill’s Powis Square in 1971, the bassist failed to show up, and keyboardist Dik Mik urged Lemmy to take his place. With instructions to “make some noises in E,” Lemmy passed the audition and would go on to tour and record with the band. He played bass on Hawkwind’s one hit, “Silver Machine,” which reached number three in the UK charts. But Lemmy’s tenure with Hawkwind would end abruptly in 1975. After a bust at the Canadian border for carrying amphetamines, the band—whose ethos was more aligned with psychedelics—decided that Lemmy no longer fit in. “The most cosmic band in the world fired me for getting busted with the wrong kind of drugs!” Lemmy recounted with a mixture of humour and irritation. It was from this humiliating moment that Motörhead would rise. Back in London and eager to start something fresh, Lemmy formed his new band, initially called “Bastard.” When advised that the name would prevent them from ever getting on television, Lemmy begrudgingly changed it to Motörhead, named after the final song he had written for Hawkwind. Enter “Philthy Animal” The first to join Lemmy in this new endeavour was a drummer who, much like Lemmy himself, was more notorious for his wild antics than his musicianship. Phil “Philthy Animal” Taylor had been hanging around the same Hell’s Angels circles as Lemmy, often scoring dope at Lemmy’s house and passing out from his indulgence. “He was always telling us he was a drummer,” Lemmy recalled, “but we never took him seriously.” That changed when Lemmy’s initial choice of drummer failed to gel with the band in the studio. Philthy was called in as a replacement. “Phil said, ‘Sure, I’ll fuckin’ come down and do it for you,’” Lemmy remembered. Philthy proved to be just the maniac they needed, and he overdubbed the drum parts on their first album—setting the tone for the anarchic energy that Motörhead would become known for. Drugs were an inseparable part of Taylor’s existence, and like Lemmy, he had a particular fondness for speed. His manic drumming style was often fueled by amphetamines, which helped him keep up with the frenetic pace of Motörhead’s music. But while drugs and alcohol kept the engine running, they also took a toll on his health. “There were times when I thought my heart would explode,” Taylor once said. “I was playing so fast and doing so many drugs, I didn’t know if I’d survive the next gig.” “Fast” Eddie Clarke: The Final Piece of the Puzzle The last member of the classic lineup to join was guitarist “Fast” Eddie Clarke. Clarke had been working as a house painter and playing in various bands when he crossed paths with Lemmy and Philthy in 1976. His bluesy, raw guitar sound perfectly complemented Lemmy’s distorted bass and Philthy’s frenetic drumming, forming the foundation for Motörhead’s ferocious sound. Their self-titled debut album was a commercial failure upon release in 1977, but the band’s follow-up efforts would soon change their fortunes. Clarke was a key contributor to albums like Overkill  and Bomber , where the band found their signature sound of unrelenting speed and aggression. Chaos on the Road Motörhead’s live shows became infamous for their sheer volume and intensity, with Lemmy often declaring, “We are Motörhead, and we play rock and roll.” But their life on the road was anything but smooth. During the late ‘70s, punk fans adopted Motörhead as their own, even though the band wasn’t strictly a punk act. This led to a bizarre ritual known as “gobbing,” where audience members would spit on the band in a show of appreciation. “One time I saw a guy spit a big green thing on my arm,” Lemmy recalled. Rather than retaliating with aggression, Lemmy borrowed a line from Winston Churchill. He wiped the spit from his arm and said, “Tonight I’ll have a shower and I’ll be clean, but tomorrow you’ll still be a stinking asshole.” The Iron Fist Fiasco Motörhead’s rise culminated with the Iron Fist  tour in 1982, which featured an extravagant stage setup involving a giant mechanical fist. However, this Spinal Tap-esque contraption was plagued with technical difficulties. On the opening night of the tour, the band got stuck halfway up as the fist malfunctioned. Philthy nearly stepped off the drum riser and into oblivion. Despite these mishaps, the band pressed on, powered by their relentless drive and an insatiable appetite for chaos. Clarke’s exit from the band shortly after the Iron Fist  tour marked the end of the classic lineup, but by then Motörhead had already secured their place in rock history. The Legend of Lemmy Lemmy’s reputation for excess became the stuff of legend. His regular diet of speed, whiskey, and Marlboro Reds would have felled lesser mortals, but Lemmy seemed to thrive on it. His legendary lifestyle wasn’t without its consequences, though. In 1980, after years of drug and alcohol abuse, Lemmy considered undergoing a full blood transfusion. His doctor advised against it, warning that Lemmy’s blood was so toxic that healthy blood would likely kill him. One of the most notorious stories involving Lemmy occurred during a tour stop in Austin, Texas, in 1995. Ministry frontman Al Jourgensen recalled walking onto Motörhead’s tour bus and finding Lemmy dressed in full Gestapo regalia, spanking a naked woman with a riding crop. Jourgensen politely apologised and left the bus, leaving Lemmy to his eccentric pleasures. Yet beneath the debauchery, Lemmy maintained a sense of loyalty to his bandmates and fans. When Philthy fell ill in the early 2010s, Lemmy remained a close friend until Philthy’s death in 2015. The bond forged by years of playing together in the trenches of rock stardom was undeniable. Motörhead’s journey was one of rebellion, chaos, and pure rock and roll energy. From the alien encounter on the Yorkshire Moors to the heights of superstardom and back, Lemmy, Philthy, and Eddie embodied the ethos of living fast and playing loud. Despite the turbulent lifestyle that defined their legacy, their music remains timeless—a testament to a band that, against all odds, never stopped playing.

Hardit Singh Malik was born on 23rd November 1894 in Rawalpindi, West Punjab, which is now part of Pakistan. He was born into a prosperous Sikh family and grew up in a large ancestral mansion with his father, three brothers, their families, and servants. His father, a contractor who specialized in building railroads and bridges, played a significant role in shaping Hardit Singh's early life. The family's success in business established them as prominent landowners in the region. His father indulged him by fulfilling all his materialistic desires, purchasing items like silk socks, elaborate playing cards, and train sets upon his request. In contrast, he refrained from asking his mother for such luxuries, knowing she would not spoil him as his father did. His mother, a devout Sikh, made it her priority to instill a strong connection to their faith in her son. She guided him towards a life focused on spirituality and service rather than material possessions. This upbringing in faith would remain steadfast within him even during his extensive travels among different people and cultures. A Sikh holy man gifted him a steel bracelet, known as a 'kara', which he wore throughout his service in World War 1. With government-run schooling in the local area of poor quality, Hardit Singh’s father enrolled him at a kindergarten run by an Anglo-Indian couple, Mr. and Mrs. Morris. Afterwards he received private tuition in English and Maths from two Indian professors of the local Gordon Mission College. His parents also taught their young son the importance of independence as a great virtue and labour of all kinds as an honour (and not disgrace). Indeed, he was made to read the famous book ‘Self-Help’ by Samuel Smiles until he knew it almost by heart. Despite a pampered upbringing, Hardit Singh grew up into more or less a healthy-minded youngster (although he did consider himself to be an insufferable brat!). Hardit Singh’s natural love for sports was encouraged by his father, who arranged coaching in cricket and tennis. Although he didn’t attend school, he was able to organise local boys and create his own teams in cricket, hockey and football against schools and private teams. Over his long and eventful life, he would continue to pursue his sporting interests wherever he went in the world. Another one of Hardit Singh’s favoured pastimes was kite-flying. It was typically played on the rooftops so accidents sometimes occurred (and hence his parents disapproved of him playing). He would get the best kites made of brightly coloured paper stretched across thin cane frames, and coat the cords with powdered glass. This type of cord would cut the cord of rival kites in aerial combats. These dogfights demanded considerable skill to manoeuvre kites into the optimal position to bring down rivals. The thrills experienced by Hardit Singh in these mock battles were a forerunner to his WW1 exploits. The young Hardit Singh had always harboured an ambition to go to England just to be able to say he had been to ‘vilayat’ (or Blighty)! He had to work hard to persuade his parents. While youngsters went abroad for studies after they had graduated from Indian universities, it was almost unheard of for a young boy to go for schooling in England. They initially rejected his suggestion but eventually gave in to the stubborn petitioner (it also helped that he would be staying with his elder brother and cousin who had already set sail for England). In 1908, a 14-year-old named Hardit Singh embarked on a journey from Rawalpindi through British India to Bombay. From there, he traveled solo on a ship to Marseilles in southern France, then took a luxurious express train to Calais. After crossing the Channel to Dover on another boat, he boarded a second train to Charing Cross, where he was greeted by his older brother, Teja Singh. Finally, he raced through the streets of London in a horse-drawn carriage to a boarding house in West Kensington. Following this, Hardit Singh attended Linton House, a preparatory school in Notting Hill. He later enrolled at Eastbourne College, a prestigious school in southern England, where he spent three joyful years playing cricket, cycling, and playfully interacting with the local girls. In 1912 he was admitted to Balliol College, Oxford. Under the able guidance of his tutor, Francis ‘Sligger’ Urquhart, he shifted his focus from Greek and Latin (his favourite subjects at school) to study modern European history. His scholastic achievements were matched by his sports prowess, getting his blues in cricket and golf. In August 1914, Hardit Singh was playing a great deal of cricket. He had completed his second year at Oxford, and had been selected to play for Sussex County. It was on the eve of a match against Kent that news broke that Britain was at war with Germany. On his return to Oxford in October practically all his British colleagues had volunteered to join the fighting services. His efforts to join the British Army as a commissioned officer were twice rejected because of the prevailing attitude towards race (no white man was ever to be commanded by a black man). With the assistance of his college tutor, Francis Urquhart, he decided to volunteer for the French Red Cross. Initially, he operated a motor ambulance provided by Lady Cunard to the French Army. He gained practical driving experience while journeying to Southampton. For a year, Hardit Singh served with the French, transporting patients to various hospitals along the Western Front. Eventually, he sought to enlist in the French military, particularly aiming for the Air Force. Upon his acceptance, he informed his former tutor, Francis Urquhart, who then penned a stern letter to Major-General David Henderson of the Royal Flying Corps (RFC). In the letter, he questioned why, if Hardit Singh was deemed suitable by the French as a British national, he was not considered acceptable by the British Armed Forces. This correspondence had the desired effect, leading to a meeting with General Henderson, after which Hardit Singh was commissioned as Hon. 2/Lt H. S. Malik, RFC, Special Reserve, on 5 April 1917. Not only was he the first Indian in any flying service in the world, he was also the first non-Brit with turban and beard – which was against every British Army regulation of the day – to become a fighter pilot. As a cadet in Aldershot, Hardit Singh wore a specially-designed flying helmet over his turban. This would later earn him the affectionate nickname of ‘Flying Hobgoblin’ from ground crews. Hardit Singh learnt fast – he was selected for fighters and went ‘solo’ in a Caudron after just two-and-a-half hours instruction. He was posted to Filton, near Bristol, flying the Avro 504, the BE 2C, the Sopwith Pup, the Nieuport and finally the Sopwith Camel, the most advanced fighter at this time. At Filton, RFC pilots were taught combat tactics, including the famous Immelmann Turn. Hardit Singh got his wings in under a month. Posted to No.28 Squadron and equipped with the Camel, the formation soon flew out to St. Omer in France, then to an airfield in Flanders near the village of Droglandt. Here, Malik’s flight commander was the legendary Major William Barkar, a Canadian who would later win the Victoria Cross for gallantry. Barkar was considered the greatest all-round pilot of World War One, and he personally initiated Hardit Singh into the art and science of aerial combat, leading him into the first actions, including those against the legendary ‘Red Baron’, Manfred von Richthofen. In one major dogfight, with over a hundred British and German fighters scrapping over the battle lines, Hardit Singh shot down his first German Fokkerand. He went on to notch another eight aerial victories in the weeks ahead, before he himself was wounded in action, but survived in amazing circumstances. On 26 October 1917, Barker took Malik over the lines in an attack on an enemy airfield in poor weather. They were surprised by a large number of German fighters, and although Hardit Singh shot one down, his aircraft was struck by an incredible 450 bullets, two of which pierced his leg. Seriously (but not fatally) wounded, and with his petrol tank hit, he crash-landed in France. He survived, having lost much blood and broken his nose. A stint in hospital followed, then a posting to Northern Italy, where No. 28’s Camels had been sent to bolster the Italian front after the disaster at Caporetto. There was a long train journey to Milan, where the ladies apparently thought the turbanned pilot especially exotic. He was wounded again in a dogfight and was invalided home, this time complicated by an acute allergic reaction to the castor oil used to lubricate the Camel’s rotary engine. Hardit Singh returned to England in February 1918 and rejoined the service, now known as the Royal Air Force, with No. 141 Squadron based at Biggin Hill. This squadron was specifically established to defend London against Zeppelins and Botha bombers. In the summer of 1918, Lieutenant Hardit Singh went back to France and flew Bristol Fighters with No. 11 Squadron until the war ended. Like many others, he began preparing for life after demobilisation. When a senior British officer inquired about his plans post-war, he mentioned that he intended to first take some leave to visit home, and then either continue serving in the RAF in India or join the Indian Civil Service, as he had planned before the war. After the armistice in November 1918, Hardit Singh secured eight months leave and began his journey home after an 11-year absence. It was by a strange coincidence that the ship he boarded at Marseilles was the very same that he had travelled on in 1908 when making his way to England. On-board the P&O vessel he was befriended by an Indian Army officer, Captain Keen of the 28th Punjabis. One evening Keen asked the Sikh what his plans were. Hardit Singh told him that he would join the RAF in India. Keen warned him: ‘You know we don’t want Indians in the RAF. You will find one fine day you will go up and your plane will break up in the air.’ He arrived at Bombay on 10 March 1919, and travelled by train across the dusty plains and up into the hills to his home. He received a hero's welcome in Rawalpindi. In his post-war years, he fell in love, got married, but had to promise to leave flying. He also enjoyed a distinguished career as a civil servant and diplomat. He became Prime Minister of Patiala State and then, Indian High Commissioner to Canada; still later, he was named Ambassador to France. His unique experience saw him involved in the discussions that led to the founding of the Indian Air Force in 1932. After retirement in 1956, he returned to his first love, golf, playing until the age of 88, even with two German bullets still embedded in his leg. In 1983, Hardit Singh was interviewed by historian Charles Allen about his wartime experiences. You can hear this interview on our Spoken Histories page. The ‘Flying Hobgoblin’ died in New Delhi on 31 October 1985, three weeks before his 91st birthday.

In the world of literature, where words wield the power to evoke emotions and transport readers to far-off realms, the dedication page is often an overlooked gem. Traditionally a space for authors to express gratitude or pay homage, it has evolved into a canvas for wit and humour, offering a delightful prelude to the narrative that follows. #funnybookdedications

If the thought of drinking beer that was once inside another person turns your stomach, you might have some sympathy for Corona beer lovers in 1987. By then, Corona Extra had established itself as a sensation in the United States, despite having been introduced to the market only eight years earlier in 1979. Its branding as the ultimate "California surfer" beer — synonymous with carefree, beachside living — quickly made it a national favourite. By the mid-1980s, Corona was the second most popular imported beer in the U.S., trailing only Heineken. The beer’s meteoric rise seemed unstoppable. Produced by Grupo Modelo in Mexico, Corona had found a sweet spot in American tastes and culture. But suddenly, the tide turned. Stores began refusing to stock it, sales nosedived, and public opinion soured seemingly overnight. The culprit? A bizarre and damaging rumour that claimed Corona beer contained urine. According to the rumour, disgruntled Mexican workers had supposedly urinated into beer bottles intended for export to the U.S. This outlandish claim painted the alleged act as a form of revenge against their northern neighbours. The whisper campaign spread through the distribution networks, fuelling paranoia among consumers. Whether driven by xenophobia, competitive sabotage, or sheer absurdity, the rumour threatened to derail one of the most successful beer brands of its time. Sadly, this obvious lie was believed by many beer drinkers. In some towns, sales went down by almost 80 percent, and stores all over the country returned shipments. Though not everyone believed the ridiculous rumour, enough people panicked and spoke out against the company for there to be irreversible consequences on sales and brand name. Panicking, Michael J. Mazzoni of Barton Beers, the company that distributed Corona, decided to investigate into the matter to see in what way the company’s reputation could be salvaged. He somehow managed to trace the rumour back to one of Heineken’s retailers, Luce and Son, Inc., who were eager to chip away at Corona’s growing market share. Corona’s parent company sued for $3 million in damages. A settlement was reached, and, Luce and Son, along with representatives of other beer companies who had been happy to repeat the rumour, agreed to issue public statements denying the veracity of the allegations. The damage to Corona’s reputation had been sustained, though and not just to the beer: the rumour fed upon and amplified racist stereotypes against Hispanic culture. It took the company years to recover, and it has taken them even longer to dispel the falsehood that, perhaps, prevented their becoming the most popular imported beer in the U.S.. Articles dedicated to dispelling myths about beer continue to struggle to debunk the rumour. And even people who are sound enough to realise the rumour is a blatant lie, often have a hard time dispelling the unpalatable image of urine as they see the yellow, foamy beer. So much so, that Urban Dictionary lists “Mexican piss water” as a derogatory name for Corona. Old rumours die hard. #rumours #mexicanpiss #sabotage

In 1887, a young journalist named Nellie Bly made history with a daring undercover assignment that forever changed the landscape of investigative journalism and mental health reform. Those words, describing New York City’s most notorious mental institution, were written by Bly after she got herself committed to Blackwell’s Island. Her shocking exposé, “Ten Days in a Madhouse,” catapulted her to fame and shed light on the horrendous conditions within the asylum, ultimately leading to significant reforms. Enter Nellie Bly In the late 1880s, New York newspapers were rife with harrowing stories of brutality and abuse in the city’s mental institutions. Into this grim narrative stepped Nellie Bly, a plucky 23-year-old with an unyielding determination to make a difference. Born Elizabeth Cochrane, she adopted the pen name Nellie Bly after a popular Stephen Foster song. At a time when female journalists were mostly relegated to society pages, Bly was determined to break into the male-dominated world of hard news. Bly’s editor at The World, intrigued by her tenacity, challenged her to come up with an audacious stunt to prove her mettle as a “detective reporter.” Bly accepted the challenge with gusto, deciding to infiltrate Blackwell’s Island and report on the conditions firsthand. The Crazy-Eye Makeover To prepare for her assignment, Bly underwent a dramatic transformation. She dressed in tattered second-hand clothes, stopped bathing and brushing her teeth, and practiced looking deranged in front of a mirror. “Faraway expressions look crazy,” she noted. Assuming the alias Nellie Moreno, a Cuban immigrant, she checked herself into a temporary boarding house for women and began acting irrationally. Her erratic behavior soon had other residents fearing for their lives. “It was the greatest night of my life,” Bly later wrote. The police were called, and within days, Bly was moved from court to Bellevue Hospital’s psychiatric ward. Her act was so convincing that the chief doctor diagnosed her as “delusional and undoubtedly insane.” Other newspapers took an interest in the “mysterious waif with the wild, hunted look in her eyes,” further solidifying her cover. Soon, Bly found herself aboard the “filthy ferry” to Blackwell’s Island. The Horrors of Blackwell’s Island Opened in 1839, Blackwell’s Island was initially envisioned as a progressive institution focused on humane rehabilitation. However, funding cuts turned it into a nightmare. Staffed partly by inmates from a nearby penitentiary, the asylum was notorious for its brutal treatment of patients. While previous writers, including Charles Dickens in 1842, had reported on the poor conditions, Bly was the first to go undercover. What she found exceeded her worst fears. Doctors were oblivious, and orderlies were “coarse, massive” brutes who “choked, beat, and harassed” patients. Foreign women who couldn’t speak English were often deemed insane and locked away. Patients endured rancid food, dirty linens, insufficient clothing, and ice-cold baths that resembled torture. Bly vividly described one such bath: “My teeth chattered and my limbs were goose-fleshed and blue with cold. Suddenly I got, one after the other, three buckets of water over my head – ice-cold water, too – into my eyes, my ears, my nose and my mouth. I think I experienced the sensation of a drowning person as they dragged me, gasping, shivering and quaking, from the tub. For once I did look insane.” Worst of all was the endless isolation: “What, excepting torture, would produce insanity quicker than this treatment? . . . Take a perfectly sane and healthy woman, shut her up and make her sit from 6 a.m. to 8 p.m. on straight-back benches, do not allow her to talk or move during these hours, give her no reading and let her know nothing of the world or its doings, give her bad food and harsh treatment, and see how long it will take to make her insane. Two months would make her a mental and physical wreck.” Despite dropping her crazy act upon arrival, Bly found that her sane behavior only confirmed the doctors’ diagnosis. “Strange to say, the more sanely I talked and acted, the crazier I was thought to be,” she wrote. Near the end of her stay, Bly’s cover was nearly blown when a fellow reporter who knew her arrived to investigate the mysterious patient. Bly convinced him to keep her secret, and after ten harrowing days, The World sent an attorney to arrange for her release. Going Public and Making History Two days after her release, The World published the first installment of Bly’s exposé, “Behind Asylum Bars.” The psychiatric community was stunned, and the public was outraged. Newspapers across the country lauded Bly’s courageous efforts. Overnight, she became a star journalist. For Bly, the true victory was the impact of her work. “I have one consolation for my work,” she wrote. “On the strength of my story, the committee of appropriation provides $1,000,000 more than was ever before given, for the benefit of the insane.” Although the city had already been considering budget increases for asylums, Bly’s articles undoubtedly hastened the process. A month after her series ran, Bly returned to Blackwell’s with a grand jury panel. Many of the abuses she reported had been corrected: food and sanitary conditions were improved, foreign patients were transferred, and abusive nurses had been removed. Her mission was accomplished. A Legacy of Courage Bly’s career continued to soar with other sensational exploits, including a record-setting 72-day trip around the world in 1889, inspired by Jules Verne’s “Around the World in Eighty Days.” In later years, she founded her own company and designed steel barrels used for milk cans and boilers. Bly passed away in 1922, but her legacy endures. Her life has inspired a Broadway musical, a movie, and a children’s book. Nellie Bly’s bold undercover investigation not only launched her career but also brought about much-needed reforms in mental health care. Her fearless determination to expose the truth continues to inspire journalists and advocates for social justice to this day.

In no particular order.

In the late 1970s, the music world was undergoing a seismic shift. Two genres, punk rock and heavy metal, emerged from the underground, seemingly evolving side by side. Both were raw, rebellious, and loud, yet the two movements ran parallel to each other, rarely converging. But there are moments in history when these musical paths cross, creating something magical and unique. One such moment occurred on August 24, 1977, when AC/DC played CBGB in New York City, a venue synonymous with punk rock and new wave. The Australian rockers were on their first American tour, promoting their latest album Let There Be Rock , which had been released in June of that year. The band was fresh off the road, playing a mix of club dates and supporting acts at arenas—including, surprisingly, REO Speedwagon. At this point, AC/DC had yet to fully infiltrate the American mainstream, but they were steadily building a following. Their raw energy, electrifying performances, and bad-boy attitude resonated with the burgeoning punk scene in NYC. CBGB: The Meeting of Punk and Rock CBGB was already legendary by 1977. It was the epicentre of punk in the United States, where bands like The Ramones, Blondie, and Patti Smith honed their craft. Yet, on this summer night, CBGB’s stage hosted a lineup that reflected a rare convergence of musical styles. Sharing the bill with AC/DC were Talking Heads, known for their quirky, intellectual approach to punk, and The Dead Boys, one of the more abrasive and confrontational punk bands of the time. For AC/DC, this wasn’t just another gig—it was a chance to prove their mettle in front of an audience that was famously sceptical of anything outside their insular scene. But if there was any doubt about how the punk crowd would receive a hard-rocking band from Australia, those doubts were quickly erased. A Night to Remember AC/DC’s performance at CBGB was nothing short of explosive. With Bon Scott’s gravelly voice leading the charge, Angus Young’s manic, schoolboy-uniformed presence on guitar, and the band’s relentless energy, they won over the crowd. Punk fans loved AC/DC because they embodied the same rawness and rebellious spirit that defined their movement. They weren’t polished or corporate—they were wild, untamed, and gave everything on stage. In many ways, AC/DC was the perfect band for CBGB. Their sound, while rooted in hard rock, carried the same kind of stripped-back, no-nonsense attitude that punk fans adored. Songs like “Let There Be Rock” and “Whole Lotta Rosie” were fast, loud, and rebellious—qualities that made them natural allies of the punk ethos. The poster for the night confirms the eclectic mix of bands, showcasing how genres that were supposedly at odds with each other could share the same space and thrive together. For a brief moment, punk rockers and heavy metal fans were united by their love of loud, aggressive music. It was a night that showcased how the boundaries between genres can blur, and how music, at its core, is about attitude more than anything else. AC/DC's Time in New York City New York in 1977 was a chaotic and vibrant city, with a thriving music scene that was both gritty and glamorous. While AC/DC was busy performing at iconic venues like CBGB, they were also soaking in the atmosphere of a city that had been the birthplace of so many different musical movements. From the rise of disco in the clubs of Manhattan to the underground punk revolution brewing in places like CBGB and Max’s Kansas City, New York City was alive with creativity and energy. For AC/DC, playing in New York was more than just a tour stop—it was an opportunity to immerse themselves in the raw, electric atmosphere of the city. When they weren’t performing, they could be found roaming the streets of lower Manhattan, visiting iconic landmarks like Times Square and soaking in the grittier side of the city. It was a stark contrast to the band's humble beginnings in Australia, and the energy of New York undoubtedly left a lasting impression on them. AC/DC's stint in the States would continue through the winter of 1977, with the band steadily building their American audience. Their relentless touring schedule, combined with their reputation for electrifying live performances, helped solidify their place in the pantheon of rock gods. Punk’s Love for AC/DC Punk fans’ admiration for AC/DC didn’t end with the CBGB gig. Over the years, AC/DC would maintain a loyal following among punk rock enthusiasts. Bands like The Ramones, who shared a similar dedication to simplicity and power, often cited AC/DC as an influence. The same spirit that drove punk rock—the desire to strip music down to its rawest, most elemental form—was at the heart of what AC/DC did. Both punk and heavy metal grew out of a dissatisfaction with the mainstream music of the early ‘70s, which had become overly commercialised and bloated. AC/DC’s music was a rejection of that, just as much as punk rock was. Their no-frills, straightforward approach to rock resonated with those who wanted music that was honest, unpretentious, and loud. A Night Where the Lines Blurred AC/DC’s gig at CBGB stands as a rare moment when two seemingly divergent genres came together in the same space. On August 24, 1977, punk rockers and hard rockers stood side by side, united by a shared love for music that was raw, energetic, and real. For AC/DC, it was a chance to show the world that they belonged on any stage, in any city, and in front of any crowd. Their time in New York City was brief but impactful, and this legendary gig would go down in history as one of the moments where punk and heavy metal crossed paths, proving that, at the end of the day, rock ‘n’ roll is all about breaking boundaries and bringing people together, regardless of the genre.

In the early months of 1971, amid a turbulent time for all four former Beatles, John Lennon sat down to write a letter to Paul and Linda McCartney. The correspondence, scrawled on two sheets of paper bearing the letterhead of Bag Productions – the company Lennon had formed with Yoko Ono – captures a raw and painful moment in the aftermath of the Beatles’ disintegration. Far from offering a note of reconciliation, Lennon’s words reflected anger, hurt, and a profound sense of betrayal. The letter itself was triggered by an earlier note sent by Linda McCartney. In her letter, Linda had chastised John for not having made a public announcement regarding his decision to leave the Beatles. This, she implied, left Paul to face the fallout alone, particularly in the eyes of fans and the press. Paul was indeed struggling. In interviews and later reflections, he would admit that during this period, he was descending into unhealthy coping mechanisms: “I hit the bottle,” he said bluntly. “I hit the substances.” The Beatles, once a symbol of collective creativity and brotherhood, had ended in rancour, and the personal cost was heavy. Page 1 John’s reply to Linda – often referred to simply as the “Lennon Letter” – is not an uplifting read. It is a glimpse into the bitterness that coloured his life during this period. Lennon accused Paul and Linda of being self-righteous, insinuated that Paul had always sought to control the Beatles’ direction, and expressed resentment at what he perceived as a lack of recognition for Yoko’s role in his life and music. The letter is often quoted for its curt, lacerating lines, including Lennon’s assertion: “Do you really think most of today’s art came about because of the Beatles? I don’t believe you’re that insane – Paul – do you believe that?” Lennon’s discontent was partly rooted in long-standing frustrations. Throughout the final years of the Beatles, tensions had simmered between John and Paul, with conflicts ranging from musical disagreements to business decisions, particularly regarding the management of the Beatles’ finances following the death of their original manager, Brian Epstein. When Paul chose to sue his fellow Beatles in order to dissolve their partnership formally – a decision he found agonising but necessary – the personal wounds widened into chasms. The 1971 letter also reveals John’s defensive loyalty towards Yoko Ono. In it, he lambasted Linda’s apparent suggestion that Yoko had been a divisive influence, asserting instead that his relationship with her had given him a sense of personal and artistic freedom he had not experienced within the Beatles. “I had to either be married to them or Yoko,” he wrote. “I chose Yoko.” Page2 The correspondence further laid bare a divergence in their personal philosophies. Lennon, who was immersing himself in radical politics and avant-garde art, bristled at what he saw as Paul and Linda’s bourgeois lifestyle. The tone of the letter fluctuates between sarcasm, hurt, and outright hostility, indicating how deeply Lennon had internalised the resentments of the past few years. For Paul McCartney, this letter was yet another blow during a deeply painful period. Having been portrayed by some media outlets as the man who had “broken up the Beatles,” Paul found himself isolated. His first solo records, McCartney  (1970) and Ram  (1971), were critically divisive, and his heavy drinking and drug use reflected a man struggling with depression and disillusionment. The once-solid friendship between Lennon and McCartney, forged in their Liverpool youth and solidified in the backrooms of Hamburg and the studios of Abbey Road, seemed utterly broken. Over time, the vitriol softened somewhat. By the mid-1970s, Lennon and McCartney would reconnect socially, even spending relaxed, music-filled evenings together during Lennon’s so-called “Lost Weekend” period in Los Angeles. However, the bitterness captured in that 1971 letter never fully disappeared, and it would take years for the mutual affection underlying their fraught relationship to be acknowledged again openly. The 1971 letter stands today as a stark testament to how creative partnerships, even the most successful in popular culture, can be undone by personal wounds and miscommunications. It also humanises Lennon and McCartney, showing them not as mythic icons but as young men overwhelmed by the collapse of something they had built together, something that had defined their lives and identities. In that moment, neither Lennon nor McCartney was capable of extending a hand of reconciliation. Instead, they were mired in anger and sadness, emotions poured into angry songs, private letters, and bitter interviews. Yet, despite everything, the deep connection between them endured in subtle ways until the end of Lennon’s life. It is a relationship that remains as complex and fascinating to historians and fans alike as the music they created. Full Transcript: I was reading your letter and wondering what middle aged cranky Beatle fan wrote it. I resisted looking at the last page to find out -I kept thinking who is it – Queenie? Stuart’s mother?—Clive Epstein’s wife?—Alan Williams?—What the hell—it’s Linda! You really think the press are beneath me/you? Do you think that? Who do you think we/you are? The ‘self-indulgent doesn’t realize who he is hurting’ bit—I hope you realize what shit you and the rest of my ‘kind and unselfish’ friends laid on Yoko and me, since we’ve been together. It might have sometimes been a bit more subtle or should I say ‘middle class’—but not often. We both ‘rose above it’ quite a few times—& forgave you two—so it’s the least you can do for us—you noble people.—Linda—if you don’t care what I say—shut up!—let Paul write—or whatever. When asked about what I thought originally concerning MBE, etc.—I told them as best as I can remember—and I do remember squirming a little—don’t you, Paul?—or do you—as I suspect—still believe it all? I’ll forgive Paul for encouraging the Beatles—if he forgives me for the same—for being—‘honest with me and caring too much’! Fucking hell, Linda, you’re not writing for Beatle book!!! I’m not ashamed of the Beatles—(I did start it all)—but of some of the shit we took to make them so big—I thought we all felt that way in varying degrees—obviously not. Do you really think most of today’s art came about because of the Beatles?—I don’t believe you’re that insane—Paul—do you believe that? When you stop believing it you might wake up! Didn’t we always say we were part of the movement—not all of it?—Of course, we changed the world—but try and follow it through—GET OFF YOUR GOLD DISC AND FLY! Don’t give me that Aunty Gin shit about ‘in five years I’ll look back as a different person’—don’t you see that’s what’s happening NOW!—If I only knew THEN what I know NOW—you seemed to have missed that point…. Excuse me if I use ‘Beatle Space’ to talk about whatever I want—obviously if they keep asking Beatle questions—I’ll answer them—and get as much John and Yoko Space as I can—they ask me about Paul and I answer—I know some of it gets personal—but whether you believe it or not I try and answer straight—and the bits they use are obviously the juicy bits—I don’t resent your husband—I’m sorry for him. I know the Beatles are ‘quite nice people’—I’m one of them—they’re also just as big bastards as anyone else—so get off your high horse!—by the way—we’ve had more intelligent interest in our new activities in one year than we had throughout the Beatle era. Finally, about not telling anyone that I left the Beatles—PAUL and Klein both spent the day persuading me it was better not to say anything—asking me not to say anything because it would ‘hurt the Beatles’—and ‘let’s just let it petre out’—remember? So get that into your petty little perversion of a mind, Mrs. McCartney—the cunts asked me to keep quiet about it. Of course, the money angle is important—to all of us—especially after all the petty shit that came from your insane family/in laws—and GOD HELP YOU OUT, PAUL—see you in two years—I reckon you’ll be out then—in spite of it all, love to you both, from us two. P.S. about addressing your letter just to me—STILL….!!!

Chronophotography is a process in which dozens of shots are layered in postproduction to produce what photographer Xavi Bou calls "Ornitographies". See more of his project here. Chronophotography is a process in which dozens of shots are layered in postproduction to produce what photographer Xavi Bou calls "Ornitographies". See more of his project here. #Chronophotography #Ornitographies

The White House project officially broke ground in 1792. When the first stones were laid, the United States was still finding its feet as a new republic. The site, chosen by President George Washington himself, sat on a modest parcel of land in the newly designated federal city of Washington, D.C. Overseen by architect James Hoban, the design drew inspiration from neoclassical styles fashionable in Europe at the time, with clear influences from Irish and Georgian architecture. The build was slow and often under-resourced. Labour was a mix of European immigrants, free African Americans, and, controversially, enslaved people who were rented out by local slaveholders. Despite the ambitions behind the project, financial pressures and logistical challenges meant it took eight full years before the building was fit for habitation. Early Residents: Adams and Jefferson Move In President John Adams was the first to move into the White House in November 1800, just before losing re-election to Thomas Jefferson. Adams and his wife, Abigail, lived in a house that was still very much a work-in-progress—unplastered walls, empty rooms, and no running water. When Thomas Jefferson took office, he moved into the White House from day one, but he quickly began making changes. Jefferson commissioned architect Benjamin Henry Latrobe to add colonnades—those elegant sequences of columns that flank the sides of the White House. Though beautiful, they had a practical use: hiding the horse stables and storage areas that no grand householder, least of all a president, wanted guests to see. The British Visit: The War of 1812 The White House’s early years were far from peaceful. In August 1814, during the War of 1812, British forces marched into Washington D.C. and set fire to many public buildings, including the White House. The attack was strategic rather than senseless destruction, although from today’s perspective, it seems shocking. The interior was gutted. Exterior walls were charred and cracked but remained standing. Rebuilding efforts began almost immediately, again led by Hoban, but it would be 1817 before President James Monroe could finally move back into a restored White House. The White House in 1846 photographed by John Plumbe Jr. Modernising the Mansion: Theodore Roosevelt’s 1902 Overhaul By the start of the twentieth century, the White House was showing its age. Rooms were cluttered with Victorian furnishings, staff were squeezed into whatever corners could be found, and the general feeling was of a house straining to meet modern demands. Enter Theodore Roosevelt. In 1902, Roosevelt launched a large-scale remodelling project, working with architect Charles McKim of McKim, Mead & White. Out went the cluttered, heavy Victorian interiors; in came cleaner lines and more modern conveniences. Bathrooms were added, electric lighting replaced the old gaslights, and, importantly, the West Wing was created to house the growing presidential staff. Despite these improvements, Roosevelt’s renovation largely focused on appearance rather than deep structural issues—a fact that would come back to haunt later occupants. Leaks, Girders, and Growing Pains: The Coolidge Years President Calvin Coolidge, who took office in the 1920s, found that the White House’s problems ran deeper than outdated decor. Water leaks plagued the upper floors, and structural surveys revealed worrying weaknesses. Coolidge responded by having the entire roof removed and replaced. A third floor was added, supported by giant steel girders—a major engineering project that increased space but also placed additional stress on the ageing original walls and foundations. The building was starting to sag under its own weight. FDR’s Indifference and the Slow Slide Toward Disaster During Franklin D. Roosevelt’s long presidency, there was little appetite for another major renovation. Despite receiving a damning report from the Army Corps of Engineers in 1941 warning about the building’s deteriorating condition, Roosevelt chose to focus on the far more pressing issues of World War II. Small patchwork repairs kept the White House operational, but no serious work was undertaken to address the underlying structural issues. The house was quietly falling apart behind its dignified facade. The Breaking Point: Harry Truman Takes Charge When Harry Truman assumed the presidency, he quickly became aware of the White House’s precarious state. Minor issues like sagging floors and creaking beams soon gave way to major concerns. In 1946, First Lady Bess Truman noticed a massive chandelier swinging without reason. Soon after, more chandeliers in other rooms began swaying, hinting at widespread structural instability. Truman, with his usual dry wit, remarked on the danger of one day falling through the floor while taking a bath, clad only in his reading glasses. The defining moment came in June 1948 when daughter Margaret Truman’s grand piano crashed through the second floor into the family dining room below. That incident made it abundantly clear: the White House was no longer safe to live in. A Catalogue of Woes By 1948, engineers documented a truly alarming list of problems: Ceilings had dropped by as much as 18 inches in places. The second floor needed a complete rebuild. The structure beneath the grand staircase was crumbling. The presidential bathtub was slowly sinking into the floor. Foundations under the interior walls were either severely compromised or non-existent, causing the interior and exterior walls to pull away from each other. Despite the urgency, 1948 was an election year, and political optics meant Truman stayed put until he secured re-election. Only then, in November, was he finally forced to move out. Choices on the Table: Restore, Rebuild, or Replace? Faced with a major decision, three options were considered: Gut and rebuild the interior, preserving the original exterior walls. Demolish the entire White House and construct a completely new executive mansion. Carefully demolish and salvage the exterior walls, and rebuild both interior and exterior from scratch. Ultimately, Congress chose the least drastic option: preserving the original shell while completely replacing everything inside. The budget was set at $5.4 million—equivalent to around $54 million today. Rebuilding the White House: A Monumental Undertaking The work required was staggering. It included: Complete removal of the existing interior (except the third floor). Salvaging and storing historic interior elements. Excavating new basement levels. Constructing new concrete foundations and a steel-framed structure. Building new interior masonry walls finished with plaster and wood panelling. Creating custom plaster mouldings. Refurbishing and replacing windows. Installing all-new plumbing, heating, ventilation, electrics, and communication systems. Beyond that, they squeezed in a broadcast studio, barber shop, medical and dental clinics, carpentry and upholstery shops, and even a bowling alley. The project was intended to last 660 days starting from 13 December 1949. One of the world’s most recognisable buildings would effectively be gutted and rebuilt under enormous time pressure, all while trying to preserve historic elements. Challenges and Delays Material shortages, caused by the ongoing Korean War, made construction even more difficult. Despite the team’s best efforts, the project ran six months over schedule and needed an extra $261,000 to complete. All things considered, it was still a remarkable achievement. When Truman finally moved back in, he was proud—but not entirely impressed with the cost. He noted in his diary: “With all the trouble and worry it is worth it—but not 5 1/2 million dollars! If I could have had charge of the construction it would have been done for half the money and in half the time!” It was a classic Truman remark: practical, frugal, and tinged with just a little exasperation.

In the golden age of animation, before CGI and digital tools changed the game, artists had to rely on ingenuity, pencils, and a whole lot of reference footage. And when it came to adapting Lewis Carroll’s whimsical tale Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland , Walt Disney’s animators pulled out all the stops. While the final film dazzled audiences with its vibrant, surreal imagery, what most viewers never saw was the peculiar live-action process happening behind the scenes — a kind of shadow performance that guided the animators’ hands. Yes, in the making of Alice in Wonderland  (1951), real-life actors, including a teenage Kathryn Beaumont, the ever-animated Ed Wynn, and the rubber-faced Jerry Colonna, performed their roles in costume and on makeshift sets, all captured on film. These performances weren’t for release — they were tools, reference footage used by animators to bring a sense of physicality, timing, and emotion to characters drawn by hand. Let’s step through the looking glass and see how Disney brought this classic to life, with a little help from some very animated humans. This is Kathryn Beaumont. She was 11 years old when she was chosen to play Alice. She later voiced the roles of both Wendy in 'Peter Pan' and Anita in '101 Dalmatians'. A Wonderland Years in the Making Walt Disney had considered an Alice in Wonderland  adaptation as far back as the 1930s. In fact, the idea predates Snow White . His early plans even included a live-action/animated hybrid starring Mary Pickford as Alice. But with World War II delaying projects and earlier concepts proving too sombre or surreal, it wasn’t until the late 1940s that a viable version started to take shape. By the time production began in earnest, the studio decided to go fully animated — but with a twist. To capture the lively absurdity of Carroll’s world, animators would need help from live-action reference footage. This was no rotoscoping (a technique where animators trace over live-action film); Disney animators used these scenes to study movement, expressions, and timing, blending realism with the elasticity of cartoon logic. Kathryn Beaumont: The Face (and Voice) of Alice At just ten years old, British-born Kathryn Beaumont had already captured Walt Disney’s attention with her work on On an Island with You  (1948). Her prim accent and intelligent delivery made her the perfect fit for Alice. But Beaumont did more than lend her voice — she performed  Alice. For months, she acted out entire scenes in a soundstage, wearing a blue dress, interacting with invisible characters, and reacting to props on wires or held by crew members. The footage was filmed from multiple angles and became a visual bible for animators. From the way she tilted her head to express curiosity to how she flinched when the Queen of Hearts shouted, Kathryn’s live-action movements gave Alice a grounding amidst the chaos. She later provided the voice for Wendy in Peter Pan  (1953), making her one of the key figures in Disney’s early animated canon. But her work on Alice in Wonderland  remains a standout — not just for her voice but for the unseen physicality she brought to the role. The Mad Hatter’s Mad Model: Ed Wynn Ed Wynn was already a vaudeville and radio star when he was cast as the Mad Hatter. His high-pitched voice and manic comic energy were a natural match for Carroll’s delightfully unhinged character. What made Wynn’s contribution so vital wasn’t just his vocal performance, but the animated antics he acted out on set. Clad in an oversized green suit and hat, he performed entire tea party scenes opposite Jerry Colonna’s March Hare. These sessions weren’t for promotional reels — they were painstakingly shot so the animators could capture his wild gesticulations, comedic timing, and ever-changing facial expressions. Wynn’s physical performance gave the Hatter his unmistakable bounce and odd rhythms. In fact, animators reportedly used his expressions almost verbatim in the final animation, copying his over-the-top eye-rolls, spontaneous twirls, and his signature flustered energy. It was one of the earliest examples of a character performance crossing the line between live and animated acting. Jerry Colonna as the March Hare: Moustache and Mayhem Jerry Colonna — known for his bug-eyed expressions and explosive voice, brought pure chaos to the role of the March Hare. In live-action sessions, he stood in wild poses, bugged out his eyes, and shook his head like he was being electrocuted. He was the perfect foil to Wynn’s Hatter, slightly more unhinged, slightly less aware of social norms. Like Wynn, Colonna was filmed on set, gesturing with teacups and arguing with invisible dormice. Animators exaggerated his performance for the final version, but the bones of it — his exaggerated leaps, twitchy hands, and expressive moustache twitches — came directly from those filmed sessions. The chemistry between Colonna and Wynn in these sessions helped animators build the manic energy that defines the tea party sequence. It’s no coincidence that this is one of the most iconic and enduring scenes in the entire film. A Very Visual Wonderland Disney’s decision to use live-action reference wasn’t new — they’d done it before on Snow White  and Pinocchio . But Alice in Wonderland  was different in scale and tone. The animators weren’t just looking for realism — they needed eccentricity, energy, and elasticity. The live-action helped to anchor the more surreal visual designs from artists like Mary Blair, whose abstract concept art shaped the film’s vibrant palette and off-kilter layouts. Blair’s work was a significant departure from earlier, softer Disney styles. Her bold colours and flat, geometric backgrounds gave the film its distinctive look — a visual Wonderland that refused to behave. Meanwhile, animators blended Blair’s modernist influence with the expressive, performance-driven animation that live reference footage allowed. The result? A film that, while initially met with mixed reviews, became a cult classic — praised for its style, eccentricity, and enduring weirdness. Many of these behind-the-scenes reels remained hidden from the public eye until later home releases and archival documentaries. Today, they offer a fascinating glimpse into the hybrid artistry of mid-century Disney animation. They remind us that while Alice in Wonderland  may seem like a purely fantastical film, its foundations were built in a soundstage, with real people throwing teacups, playing croquet with invisible flamingos, and arguing with non-existent queens. It’s a testament to the dedication of performers like Beaumont, Wynn, and Colonna — who brought their characters to life not just with voices, but with their whole bodies. And to the animators, who translated those performances into one of the most delightfully unhinged films Disney ever made. Sources Walt Disney Archives The Art and Flair of Mary Blair  by John Canemaker The Making of Disney’s Alice in Wonderland  (Bonus material from Blu-ray release) Walt Disney Family Museum: www.waltdisney.org Disney Animation: The Illusion of Life by Frank Thomas & Ollie Johnston