newyorker--2020-06-06--Bill de Blasio Faces the Fury of New Yorkers, on and off “The Brian Lehrer Show”

The record for the most notorious radio appearance made by a New York City mayor has long been held by Rudy Giuliani , who , on his weekly WABC call-in show , berated a ferret-loving constituent for showing an “ excessive concern with little weasels ” and advised him to seek psychiatric help .
The baton has now been passed .
On Friday morning , Mayor Bill de Blasio called in to the weekly “ Ask the Mayor ” segment on WNYC ’ s “ The Brian Lehrer Show.
” It had been eleven days since George Floyd was killed @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s knee to the neck , and a week since New Yorkers began marching , en masse , to protest police brutality .
Four days earlier , de Blasio instituted a nightly curfew—first set at 11 P.M. , then moved to eight—in response to the looting of stores in midtown , SoHo , and on Fordham Road , in the Bronx .
Since then , damage to property has been minimal , but the same can ’ t be said of damage to bodies .
Each evening brings new cell-phone footage to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ shoved to the ground by police in riot gear and clubbed with nightsticks , and barraged with pepper spray and tear gas .
The police have arrested journalists ; they gassed and cuffed the state senator Zellnor Myrie .
“ The city has a problem of protests against too much police violence being met with too much police violence , ” Lehrer began on Friday morning .
“ Do you accept the premise ?
” “ No , ” de Blasio replied , testily .
The tone was set .
What followed was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , and bizarre false equivalence .
It ’ s not that de Blasio entirely denied reality .
He gestured to it in bromides .
“ I accept the premise only in this way , that I think people are deeply hurt .
There ’ s an anger , there ’ s a pain , over what ’ s wrong in policing in America and in New York City that we have to fix , ” he told Lehrer .
When a caller from Manhattan reported seeing police officers without face coverings , de @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , and added , “ What bothers me even more is reports of officers covering their badge number or their name up and not turning on their body camera when they should.
” His daughter , Chiara , he said , had witnessed a protest crowd calling for a police officer to turn on his body camera ; the officer did not comply .
( He didn ’ t mention that , after Chiara was arrested at a protest , the Sergeants Benevolent Association—the same union that , this past February , announced @ @ @ @ @ @ @ war ” on the Mayor—tweeted out an image of her police report , in what was , evidently , a targeted doxing attempt , exposing personal information that included her address and driver ’ s-license number . )
But these were generalities , without specific proposals for remedy .
De Blasio ’ s current strategy seems to be to promise that individual officers will be held accountable for individual misdeeds , though given that he refused to call for the dismissal of Daniel Pantaleo , the officer who killed Eric Garner , with @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s not exactly clear what kind of accountability he has in mind .
On Saturday morning , de Blasio tweeted a statement from the police commissioner , Dermot Shea , announcing the suspension of two officers , one who was caught on camera pushing a woman to the ground , and one who had pulled down a protester ’ s face mask to blast him with pepper spray .
Time and again , in the Lehrer interview , de Blasio stressed that , from what he had seen , the majority of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ policed .
That , however , does not take into account the remarkable show of force that the N.Y.P.D .
has mustered for the moment : the caravans of police cars , two dozen strong , that trail protesters as they march in the early evening , dousing whole avenues in their flashing lights ; the officers who follow on foot , clutching their batons , as if waiting for the slightest provocation to go into action ; the helicopters that hover , siege-style , over residential neighborhoods , so loud as to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Lehrer asked the Mayor to respond to the violence in the Mott Haven neighborhood of the Bronx on Thursday night , when police “ kettled , ” or corralled , protesters before going in for arrests .
The scene , brutal and chaotic , was well documented by protesters and journalists , including the Gothamist reporter Jake Offenhartz .
On Offenhartz ’ s Twitter feed , you can see a man—who is white—approaching officers with his hands in the air , and getting shoved to the ground , and another man who @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ bashed in.
” You can see a video clip of China Williams , a black man in a white T-shirt , with his hands tied in plastic handcuffs behind his back , waiting in line to be loaded onto a corrections bus , shouting that he is a janitor who got “ bum-rushed ” by the police while leaving work in a nearby building .
What did de Blasio make of all of this ?
Not much .
“ There was explicit warning in the case of that gathering in the Bronx @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
“ Groups organizing that event advertised their desire to do violence and create conflict.
” Lehrer again pressed the point .
Wasn ’ t there a way to distinguish between looters and peaceful protesters ?
Didn ’ t kettling push people closer together than they needed to be , given that the city is still recovering from the coronavirus pandemic ?
“ Respectfully , I ’ m not hearing objectivity in your question , ” de Blasio said .
“ Brian , I don ’ t know what your reporters are telling @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Lehrer asked whether de Blasio ’ s policy called for the police to arrest people who remained outside past curfew .
That blame-the-press response , with its Trumpy intonations of “ fake news , ” coupled with the Mayor ’ s insistence that New Yorkers should not believe their own eyes , should give major pause to his supporters—if there are any left .
On Wednesday , two hundred and thirty current and former members of de Blasio ’ s staff signed an open letter calling for “ radical change from the Mayor @ @ @ @ @ @ @ losing all legitimacy in the eyes of New Yorkers.
” This has been an extraordinary spring in New York City .
It began , in early March , with the Mayor urging New Yorkers to go about their ordinary business without fear of catching or spreading the coronavirus .
( Two weeks later , with the city shut down and residents huddled in terror at home , de Blasio appeared at his beloved Park Slope Y.M.C.A.
, twelve miles from his residence at Gracie Mansion , for one last workout . )
It @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of the pandemic , the urban soundtrack distilled to one long ambulance wail .
We know who has been hit hardest in this bombarded city : residents of poor and working-class neighborhoods , black and Latinx New Yorkers who have officially been deemed “ essential ” yet treated as anything but .
To see the city transform , essentially overnight , from a ghost town to one exploding with life and righteous anger has been overwhelming , in every sense .
It is frightening to think that after so much sacrifice to keep @ @ @ @ @ @ @ be helping to usher it back in .
But it is galvanizing , and beautiful , to feel united with our neighbors in a new way : to come together not for the sake of pleasure but for shared purpose .
“ People will know in their hearts when things have been made right , ” de Blasio said , with grating folksiness , at a press conference on Friday morning , before he went on the radio .
Leave the heart out of it .
Let us know by leaving our bodies @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
With his good humor , intelligence , and equanimity , he has been a balm through this awful time .
One of the routine pleasures of his show is hearing New Yorkers call in from across the city—I believe that he may be the only journalist in the country who is equally respected by members of the left and the right—and Friday was no exception .
Listeners got to hear from callers like Patrick from Yorkville , who told the Mayor that he had seen the police “ turn into werewolves at @ @ @ @ @ @ @ was furious about footage of police vans plowing into protesters .
( “ Sometimes what we see with our own eyes is the whole story and that means fast investigation and fast action , ” de Blasio told her .
“ Sometimes it ’ s not the whole story .
Sometimes there is more going on than a short video shows.
” ) Another caller , Mike from the Lower East Side , said that he worked for H.P.D.
, the New York City Department of Housing Preservation and Development , which is @ @ @ @ @ @ @ H.P.D .
gets nineteen cents for every dollar that the N.Y.P.D .
gets , ” he said .
( The N.Y.P.D .
number includes the Department of Correction . )
“ I ’ m just wondering , is H.P.D .
a fifth as important as the N.Y.P.D .
?
”

The record for the most notorious radio appearance made by a New York City mayor has long been held by Rudy Giuliani, who, on his weekly WABC call-in show, berated a ferret-loving constituent for showing an “excessive concern with little weasels” and advised him to seek psychiatric help. The baton has now been passed. On Friday morning, Mayor Bill de Blasio called in to the weekly “Ask the Mayor” segment on WNYC’s “The Brian Lehrer Show.” It had been eleven days since George Floyd was killed, in Minneapolis, by a policeman’s knee to the neck, and a week since New Yorkers began marching, en masse, to protest police brutality. Four days earlier, de Blasio instituted a nightly curfew—first set at 11 P.M., then moved to eight—in response to the looting of stores in midtown, SoHo, and on Fordham Road, in the Bronx. Since then, damage to property has been minimal, but the same can’t be said of damage to bodies. Each evening brings new cell-phone footage to Twitter of protesters corralled and barricaded, shoved to the ground by police in riot gear and clubbed with nightsticks, and barraged with pepper spray and tear gas. The police have arrested journalists; they gassed and cuffed the state senator Zellnor Myrie. “The city has a problem of protests against too much police violence being met with too much police violence,” Lehrer began on Friday morning. “Do you accept the premise?” “No,” de Blasio replied, testily. The tone was set.
What followed was a thirty-minute performance of defensiveness, denial, and bizarre false equivalence. It’s not that de Blasio entirely denied reality. He gestured to it in bromides. “I accept the premise only in this way, that I think people are deeply hurt. There’s an anger, there’s a pain, over what’s wrong in policing in America and in New York City that we have to fix,” he told Lehrer. When a caller from Manhattan reported seeing police officers without face coverings, de Blasio agreed that this was a problem, and added, “What bothers me even more is reports of officers covering their badge number or their name up and not turning on their body camera when they should.” His daughter, Chiara, he said, had witnessed a protest crowd calling for a police officer to turn on his body camera; the officer did not comply. (He didn’t mention that, after Chiara was arrested at a protest, the Sergeants Benevolent Association—the same union that, this past February, announced that the N.Y.P.D. was “declaring war” on the Mayor—tweeted out an image of her police report, in what was, evidently, a targeted doxing attempt, exposing personal information that included her address and driver’s-license number.)
But these were generalities, without specific proposals for remedy. De Blasio’s current strategy seems to be to promise that individual officers will be held accountable for individual misdeeds, though given that he refused to call for the dismissal of Daniel Pantaleo, the officer who killed Eric Garner, with a chokehold, in 2014, it’s not exactly clear what kind of accountability he has in mind. On Saturday morning, de Blasio tweeted a statement from the police commissioner, Dermot Shea, announcing the suspension of two officers, one who was caught on camera pushing a woman to the ground, and one who had pulled down a protester’s face mask to blast him with pepper spray. Time and again, in the Lehrer interview, de Blasio stressed that, from what he had seen, the majority of protests had been peaceful, and peacefully policed. That, however, does not take into account the remarkable show of force that the N.Y.P.D. has mustered for the moment: the caravans of police cars, two dozen strong, that trail protesters as they march in the early evening, dousing whole avenues in their flashing lights; the officers who follow on foot, clutching their batons, as if waiting for the slightest provocation to go into action; the helicopters that hover, siege-style, over residential neighborhoods, so loud as to render thought, and sleep, impossible.
Lehrer asked the Mayor to respond to the violence in the Mott Haven neighborhood of the Bronx on Thursday night, when police “kettled,” or corralled, protesters before going in for arrests. The scene, brutal and chaotic, was well documented by protesters and journalists, including the Gothamist reporter Jake Offenhartz. On Offenhartz’s Twitter feed, you can see a man—who is white—approaching officers with his hands in the air, and getting shoved to the ground, and another man who describes witnessing a woman getting her head “bashed in.” You can see a video clip of China Williams, a black man in a white T-shirt, with his hands tied in plastic handcuffs behind his back, waiting in line to be loaded onto a corrections bus, shouting that he is a janitor who got “bum-rushed” by the police while leaving work in a nearby building. What did de Blasio make of all of this? Not much. “There was explicit warning in the case of that gathering in the Bronx,” he said, echoing Shea. “Groups organizing that event advertised their desire to do violence and create conflict.”
Lehrer again pressed the point. Wasn’t there a way to distinguish between looters and peaceful protesters? Didn’t kettling push people closer together than they needed to be, given that the city is still recovering from the coronavirus pandemic? “Respectfully, I’m not hearing objectivity in your question,” de Blasio said. “Brian, I don’t know what your reporters are telling you,” he said, when Lehrer asked whether de Blasio’s policy called for the police to arrest people who remained outside past curfew. That blame-the-press response, with its Trumpy intonations of “fake news,” coupled with the Mayor’s insistence that New Yorkers should not believe their own eyes, should give major pause to his supporters—if there are any left. On Wednesday, two hundred and thirty current and former members of de Blasio’s staff signed an open letter calling for “radical change from the Mayor, who is on the brink of losing all legitimacy in the eyes of New Yorkers.”
Protesters outside the Mayor’s residence, Gracie Mansion, in Manhattan. Photograph by Andrew Kelly / Reuters
This has been an extraordinary spring in New York City. It began, in early March, with the Mayor urging New Yorkers to go about their ordinary business without fear of catching or spreading the coronavirus. (Two weeks later, with the city shut down and residents huddled in terror at home, de Blasio appeared at his beloved Park Slope Y.M.C.A., twelve miles from his residence at Gracie Mansion, for one last workout.) It continued as the city became the epicenter of the pandemic, the urban soundtrack distilled to one long ambulance wail. We know who has been hit hardest in this bombarded city: residents of poor and working-class neighborhoods, black and Latinx New Yorkers who have officially been deemed “essential” yet treated as anything but. To see the city transform, essentially overnight, from a ghost town to one exploding with life and righteous anger has been overwhelming, in every sense. It is frightening to think that after so much sacrifice to keep the virus at bay, we may be helping to usher it back in. But it is galvanizing, and beautiful, to feel united with our neighbors in a new way: to come together not for the sake of pleasure but for shared purpose. “People will know in their hearts when things have been made right,” de Blasio said, with grating folksiness, at a press conference on Friday morning, before he went on the radio. Leave the heart out of it. Let us know by leaving our bodies intact instead.
But back to Brian. With his good humor, intelligence, and equanimity, he has been a balm through this awful time. One of the routine pleasures of his show is hearing New Yorkers call in from across the city—I believe that he may be the only journalist in the country who is equally respected by members of the left and the right—and Friday was no exception. Listeners got to hear from callers like Patrick from Yorkville, who told the Mayor that he had seen the police “turn into werewolves at eight,” and Mayat, who was furious about footage of police vans plowing into protesters. (“Sometimes what we see with our own eyes is the whole story, and that means fast investigation and fast action,” de Blasio told her. “Sometimes it’s not the whole story. Sometimes there is more going on than a short video shows.”) Another caller, Mike from the Lower East Side, said that he worked for H.P.D., the New York City Department of Housing Preservation and Development, which is responsible for developing affordable housing. “H.P.D. gets nineteen cents for every dollar that the N.Y.P.D. gets,” he said. (The N.Y.P.D. number includes the Department of Correction.) “I’m just wondering, is H.P.D. a fifth as important as the N.Y.P.D.?”
This, I learned later, was Michael Perles, who is twenty-eight—although, as he told me when we spoke on the phone on Friday afternoon, he’ll be twenty-nine in a few days. “It’s been a crazy Gemini season,” he said. He has worked at H.P.D. for two and a half years. Given the number that the coronavirus has done on the city’s finances, the question of budget cuts for the coming fiscal year is particularly fraught. For the past week, activists have been calling on New Yorkers to ask City Council members to vote no on the Mayor’s proposed budget for 2021, which includes significant cuts to education programs but reduces the N.Y.P.D.’s budget by a mere third of a per cent; even Scott Stringer, the comptroller, has expressed concern. On the radio, de Blasio had first assured Perles that he was listening to him and other New Yorkers—“I’m listening from my heart and soul”—and then went on to justify the cuts, while touting the city’s “redistribution” of money into programs like pre-K for all and paid sick leave. The N.Y.P.D.’s budget is six billion dollars; between 2014 and 2019, spending on the police department increased by twenty-two per cent.


newyorker--2020-06-06--What to Stream: Billy Woodberry’s Documentary About the Poet Bob Kaufman

One of the monstrous failings of American cinema is how it has neglected most of the best black filmmakers .
Among the many careers that have been stifled is that of Billy Woodberry , whose first feature , the drama “ Bless Their Little Hearts ” ( streaming on Vimeo ) , was completed in 1983 .
His only feature in the nearly four decades since then is “ And When I Die , I Won ’ t Stay Dead , ” a daring and accomplished documentary about the poet Bob Kaufman—which was completed in 2015 , remains without theatrical @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the Criterion Channel .
In “ And When I Die ” Woodberry ( who has been teaching filmmaking for many years ) finds an original way to evoke Kaufman ’ s remarkable life and work , even in the poet ’ s absence .
( Kaufman died in 1986 . )
Born in New Orleans in 1925 , one of the thirteen children of a German Jewish man and a black Catholic woman from Martinique , Kaufman joined the U.S .
Merchant Marines ( at the age of thirteen ! )
and , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Francisco .
There , he started to write poetry and became part of the literary circle that would , of course , become known as the Beats .
( He has even been credited with coining the term “ beatnik.
” ) Kaufman ’ s poetry won acclaim , but his chaotic private life ( he was addicted to heroin and drank to excess ) got in the way of his public activity .
At the time of his death , he was living alone in San Francisco , largely in isolation from @ @ @ @ @ @ @ assumed that Kaufman had already died years earlier .
In “ Bless Their Little Hearts , ” Woodberry ’ s startling originality as a dramatic filmmaker was joined to a contemplative intensity—his devotion to his subject informs and tempers his display of style .
The same holds true of “ And When I Die ” : with its narrative blend of archival footage , documents , and original interviews with people who knew Kaufman , it holds to the familiar norms of the historical-documentary genre while subtly yet boldly expanding it with a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s archival research is prodigious : far from slapping a few instantly recognizable historical approximations onto the screen to evoke past events , he gives the impression of bringing to the surface dormant treasures after long hours of watching and pondering , and , with his ardently analytical and associative editing , he brings them back to life .
The most brilliant inspiration that Woodberry brings to Kaufman ’ s story is a simple twist : the film starts in the nineteen-fifties , with Kaufman ’ s literary achievement and his long @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of form and of drama , cuts back to Kaufman ’ s early life .
( Interviews with two of Kaufman ’ s sisters , his niece , and his first wife , Ida Berrocal Torres , heighten the sequence ’ s haunting power . )
At the end of the film , in a climactic flourish that ’ s as bold as it is breathtaking , Woodberry introduces Kaufman in rare clips ( from the film “ Heartbeat , ” by Will Combs ) of long-lost footage , which show him reciting @ @ @ @ @ @ @ on a note of raw intimacy that seems to burst beyond the end of the narrative .
The story that Woodberry unfolds , guided by his interviews with Kaufman ’ s family members and friends ( such as the poet A. D. Winans ) , is centered on the politics of the time , both nationally and locally .
Living in New York during the Second World War , Kaufman , as a member of the National Maritime Union , was suspected of Communist sympathies .
( The union was both strongly committed @ @ @ @ @ @ @ leaders . )
As a result , after the war , Kaufman suffered the Merchant Marine version of blacklisting , which made him largely unemployable , and he was subjected to F.B.I .
surveillance and police persecution .
He wrote fervent political poetry in the nineteen-fifties in which he compared Hitler to the San Francisco police—and named one brutal officer who had been harassing him .
The harassment had another aspect : Kaufman , a black man , and Eileen Kaufman , a white woman , were married , and the police targeted @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Winans recalls that Kaufman was arrested “ thirty-eight or thirty-nine times for drunk and disorderly , ” and Woodberry shows Kaufman ’ s police files to document the extent of the relentless harassment and surveillance that he endured .
In 1960 , Kaufman , Eileen , and their infant son , Parker , left San Francisco for New York , where he got involved with the folk-music scene , centered on Washington Square Park—a movement that ( as Woodberry displays in historical news footage and news clippings ) was itself the target of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the writer Raymond Foye says that , on the very day in 1963 that the family was going to get a ride back to San Francisco , Kaufman was arrested—for walking on the grass—and sent first to the Tombs and then to Bellevue , where he was forcibly subjected to shock treatment .
Winans tells Woodberry that , when Kaufman got back to San Francisco later that year , “ he was a shell of what he was , not only from the shock treatments but abuse of drugs and alcoholism and the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s fragility—and despite a vow of silence that he took after the assassination of John F. Kennedy , which he ( loosely ) maintained for ten years—he continued to write , and published a series of short books that raised his profile in the arts community even as his personal problems increased and his health declined .
Woodberry ’ s most prodigious artistic feat , in composing Kaufman ’ s life , is to fill the film with Kaufman ’ s poetry and to give his writing a distinctive and vital cinematic identity @ @ @ @ @ @ @ includes readings of Kaufman ’ s writing by five people—Roscoe Lee Browne , Ruby Dee , Ossie Davis , Susanne Cockrell , and Woodberry himself—often joined by jazz music , which was a passion of Kaufman ’ s as well as a frequent subject of his work .
( His son , Parker , was named for Charlie Parker . )
Woodberry ’ s soundtrack includes music by Charles Mingus , Ornette Coleman , Jackie McLean , and Steve Lacy ( who composed a setting for one of Kaufman ’ s poems , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of Kaufman ’ s work was prose poetry , and Woodberry ’ s film , too , is a devoted , impassioned prose poem , in which biography and history are fused with imaginative and illuminating renderings of Kaufman ’ s life and art .
Dee and Davis , as Woodberry shows , had a history with Kaufman .
In 1978 , they went to San Francisco to do an episode of their PBS series “ With Ossie and Ruby ” with Kaufman , but he got high and drunk on the day @ @ @ @ @ @ @ truncated .
( The show was broadcast in 1981 . )
But several years earlier Davis and Dee had made another public-television program about Kaufman ’ s life , for the series “ Soul !
” ( It ’ s available to stream on Tubi . )
In that episode , released in 1972 , Dee and Davis speak of Kaufman ’ s substance abuse , imprisonment , and hospitalization .
“ He won ’ t grant interviews , ” Davis says .
“ He won ’ t answer letters , ” Dee @ @ @ @ @ @ @ broadcast , Kaufman hadn ’ t published any new work since 1965 .
Dee calls his literary abstinence “ a suicide of the spirit , ” and seeks to find out what happened to him .
The show has only a scant biographical side , however ; rather , it exalts Kaufman ’ s art with recitations by Dee and Davis of generous selections from his poetry—accompanied live in the studio by a nonet led by the saxophonist Lucky Thompson .
In an interview with the series ’ producer , Ellis Haizlip , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Dee and Davis have a wide-ranging and frank discussion about the need for American political power to be shared with black people—and the discovery , as Davis says , that “ the old liberal mechanisms .
.
.
will no longer solve our problems.
” Davis discusses his involvement with a production company , Third World Cinema Corporation , which , he says , was founded in response to the fact that “ the average Hollywood treatment of blacks and Puerto Ricans in film was very seldom true to the black and the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ wrote about the project in Film Comment last year . )
Davis planned to keep the profits from the company ’ s films among creators of color , and also to launch a program to develop future filmmakers from these communities .
Dee adds , “ In film , I don ’ t feel any real change .
.
.
.
I ’ m still yearning to do a really fulfilling film.
” They challenged the very obstacles that a filmmaker such as Woodberry would face in attempting to launch and sustain a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ among American society ’ s many ignominious failures .

In “And When I Die, I Won’t Stay Dead,” Bob Kaufman’s writing is given a distinctive and vital cinematic identity. Photograph by Christopher Felver / Courtesy Criterion Collection
One of the monstrous failings of American cinema is how it has neglected most of the best black filmmakers. Among the many careers that have been stifled is that of Billy Woodberry, whose first feature, the drama “Bless Their Little Hearts” (streaming on Vimeo), was completed in 1983. His only feature in the nearly four decades since then is “And When I Die, I Won’t Stay Dead,” a daring and accomplished documentary about the poet Bob Kaufman—which was completed in 2015, remains without theatrical release, and is now available on the Criterion Channel.
In “And When I Die” Woodberry (who has been teaching filmmaking for many years) finds an original way to evoke Kaufman’s remarkable life and work, even in the poet’s absence. (Kaufman died in 1986.) Born in New Orleans in 1925, one of the thirteen children of a German Jewish man and a black Catholic woman from Martinique, Kaufman joined the U.S. Merchant Marines (at the age of thirteen!) and, in the mid-nineteen-fifties, moved to San Francisco. There, he started to write poetry and became part of the literary circle that would, of course, become known as the Beats. (He has even been credited with coining the term “beatnik.”) Kaufman’s poetry won acclaim, but his chaotic private life (he was addicted to heroin and drank to excess) got in the way of his public activity. At the time of his death, he was living alone in San Francisco, largely in isolation from the literary world—some people in the community assumed that Kaufman had already died years earlier.
In “Bless Their Little Hearts,” Woodberry’s startling originality as a dramatic filmmaker was joined to a contemplative intensity—his devotion to his subject informs and tempers his display of style. The same holds true of “And When I Die”: with its narrative blend of archival footage, documents, and original interviews with people who knew Kaufman, it holds to the familiar norms of the historical-documentary genre while subtly yet boldly expanding it with a powerfully personal and experiential aspect. Woodberry’s archival research is prodigious: far from slapping a few instantly recognizable historical approximations onto the screen to evoke past events, he gives the impression of bringing to the surface dormant treasures after long hours of watching and pondering, and, with his ardently analytical and associative editing, he brings them back to life.
The most brilliant inspiration that Woodberry brings to Kaufman’s story is a simple twist: the film starts in the nineteen-fifties, with Kaufman’s literary achievement and his long decline—and then, with a startling stroke of form and of drama, cuts back to Kaufman’s early life. (Interviews with two of Kaufman’s sisters, his niece, and his first wife, Ida Berrocal Torres, heighten the sequence’s haunting power.) At the end of the film, in a climactic flourish that’s as bold as it is breathtaking, Woodberry introduces Kaufman in rare clips (from the film “Heartbeat,” by Will Combs) of long-lost footage, which show him reciting his own work, sending viewers off on a note of raw intimacy that seems to burst beyond the end of the narrative.
The story that Woodberry unfolds, guided by his interviews with Kaufman’s family members and friends (such as the poet A. D. Winans), is centered on the politics of the time, both nationally and locally. Living in New York during the Second World War, Kaufman, as a member of the National Maritime Union, was suspected of Communist sympathies. (The union was both strongly committed to racial equality and run by Communist leaders.) As a result, after the war, Kaufman suffered the Merchant Marine version of blacklisting, which made him largely unemployable, and he was subjected to F.B.I. surveillance and police persecution. He wrote fervent political poetry in the nineteen-fifties in which he compared Hitler to the San Francisco police—and named one brutal officer who had been harassing him. The harassment had another aspect: Kaufman, a black man, and Eileen Kaufman, a white woman, were married, and the police targeted Kaufman because of their interracial relationship. Winans recalls that Kaufman was arrested “thirty-eight or thirty-nine times for drunk and disorderly,” and Woodberry shows Kaufman’s police files to document the extent of the relentless harassment and surveillance that he endured.
In 1960, Kaufman, Eileen, and their infant son, Parker, left San Francisco for New York, where he got involved with the folk-music scene, centered on Washington Square Park—a movement that (as Woodberry displays in historical news footage and news clippings) was itself the target of police harassment. In the film, the writer Raymond Foye says that, on the very day in 1963 that the family was going to get a ride back to San Francisco, Kaufman was arrested—for walking on the grass—and sent first to the Tombs and then to Bellevue, where he was forcibly subjected to shock treatment. Winans tells Woodberry that, when Kaufman got back to San Francisco later that year, “he was a shell of what he was, not only from the shock treatments but abuse of drugs and alcoholism and the like.” Yet, despite Kaufman’s fragility—and despite a vow of silence that he took after the assassination of John F. Kennedy, which he (loosely) maintained for ten years—he continued to write, and published a series of short books that raised his profile in the arts community even as his personal problems increased and his health declined.
Woodberry’s most prodigious artistic feat, in composing Kaufman’s life, is to fill the film with Kaufman’s poetry and to give his writing a distinctive and vital cinematic identity. Throughout the film, the soundtrack includes readings of Kaufman’s writing by five people—Roscoe Lee Browne, Ruby Dee, Ossie Davis, Susanne Cockrell, and Woodberry himself—often joined by jazz music, which was a passion of Kaufman’s as well as a frequent subject of his work. (His son, Parker, was named for Charlie Parker.) Woodberry’s soundtrack includes music by Charles Mingus, Ornette Coleman, Jackie McLean, and Steve Lacy (who composed a setting for one of Kaufman’s poems, sung by Irene Aebi). Much of Kaufman’s work was prose poetry, and Woodberry’s film, too, is a devoted, impassioned prose poem, in which biography and history are fused with imaginative and illuminating renderings of Kaufman’s life and art.
Dee and Davis, as Woodberry shows, had a history with Kaufman. In 1978, they went to San Francisco to do an episode of their PBS series “With Ossie and Ruby” with Kaufman, but he got high and drunk on the day of the shoot and the production was truncated. (The show was broadcast in 1981.) But several years earlier Davis and Dee had made another public-television program about Kaufman’s life, for the series “Soul!” (It’s available to stream on Tubi.) In that episode, released in 1972, Dee and Davis speak of Kaufman’s substance abuse, imprisonment, and hospitalization. “He won’t grant interviews,” Davis says. “He won’t answer letters,” Dee continues. At the time of the broadcast, Kaufman hadn’t published any new work since 1965. Dee calls his literary abstinence “a suicide of the spirit,” and seeks to find out what happened to him. The show has only a scant biographical side, however; rather, it exalts Kaufman’s art with recitations by Dee and Davis of generous selections from his poetry—accompanied live in the studio by a nonet led by the saxophonist Lucky Thompson.
In an interview with the series’ producer, Ellis Haizlip, which is included in the broadcast, Dee and Davis have a wide-ranging and frank discussion about the need for American political power to be shared with black people—and the discovery, as Davis says, that “the old liberal mechanisms . . . will no longer solve our problems.” Davis discusses his involvement with a production company, Third World Cinema Corporation, which, he says, was founded in response to the fact that “the average Hollywood treatment of blacks and Puerto Ricans in film was very seldom true to the black and the Puerto Rican experience.” (Monica Castillo wrote about the project in Film Comment last year.) Davis planned to keep the profits from the company’s films among creators of color, and also to launch a program to develop future filmmakers from these communities. Dee adds, “In film, I don’t feel any real change. . . . I’m still yearning to do a really fulfilling film.” They challenged the very obstacles that a filmmaker such as Woodberry would face in attempting to launch and sustain a career—obstacles that nonetheless remain and that are among American society’s many ignominious failures.


newyorker--2020-06-06--Bassoonfluencers: The World of Instagram Practice Accounts

There ’ s a lot that people don ’ t know about the bassoon : what it looks like ( long and cylindrical ) , what it sounds like ( rich , deep , slightly buzzing ) , or the name of a single person who plays it ( Edward Elgar , if you ’ ve ever heard the “ Pomp and Circumstance Marches ” ) .
But , almost every day on Instagram , Morgan Davison , a twenty-two-year-old bassoon master ’ s student at Juilliard , has answers for the bassoon-curious , providing her nearly thirty thousand followers @ @ @ @ @ @ @ from Francis Poulenc , Igor Stravinsky , and the gamut of bassoon-heavy composers .
Davison benefits from a years-old trend in the flourishing micro-niche of online orchestral practicing .
In 2017 , the renowned violinist Hilary Hahn posted an Instagram video with the caption “ # 100daysofpractice.
” The premise was simple : for a hundred days , she would post a daily video of herself practicing , letting other musicians see how she prepared for performances .
On one day , Hahn played a series of slow , precise double-stops from Robert @ @ @ @ @ @ @ another , the athletic , isolated shifts from Felix Mendelssohn ’ s Violin Concerto .
The hashtag sparked a revolution : in three years , thousands of dedicated Instagram practice accounts have emerged , in which musicians—from top-flight pros to middle schoolers—post daily clips of themselves practicing their instrument .
Since Hahn ’ s post , the # 100daysofpractice hashtag has been used three hundred and eighty thousand times .
The accounts are a way for musicians to hold themselves accountable for consistent , productive practice and to receive feedback from other musicians @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , a way to track progress over time .
Practicing , long an activity completed in solitude , with only a metronome and tuner as company , has now become its own sort of performance .
Playing to a virtual audience has become one of the few remaining incentives for musicians who are otherwise holed up at home , away from their schools , orchestras , and teachers .
“ Before the quarantine and everything , I was practicing for a concert I had in three weeks , I was practicing for a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ all these different things that were taken out of thin air , ” Alec Glass , a cello-performance major at California State University , Northridge , told me .
( His account is approaching four thousand followers . )
“ Now I ’ m posting to better myself , and people are watching and commenting , and [ it ’ s ] very encouraging.
” Davison started her account two years ago , days before her senior year of college , after realizing that she was not good enough at the bassoon to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
“ I thought for a really long time about how I could change something about myself or something about my playing or practice , ” she said .
“ I narrowed it down to my quality and quantity of practice time .
I was just not practicing as much as I needed.
” She had started playing bassoon in sixth grade , after her oboe-and-flute teacher revealed that it was her favorite member of the woodwind family .
Davison had never heard the bassoon before , so her teacher took out the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ soon as she played the low B-flat , which is the lowest note , I was completely sold , ” Davison said .
Davison quit oboe , flute , and piano lessons to focus solely on the bassoon—a decision of passion but also strategy .
“ I realized that no one played bassoon and everyone played flute , and so I got all the best parts and all the solos , because I was the only bassoon player , ” she said .
The instrument ’ s goofy reputation didn ’ t bother @ @ @ @ @ @ @ his memoir “ The Bassoon King , ” calls the instrument his “ nerd crucifix , ” and during a promotional appearance on “ The Late Show with Stephen Colbert ” he spiked one into the ground . )
Davison was a regular attendee of International Double Reed Society conventions , and enrolled in the Interlochen Arts Academy , in Michigan , an intensive arts-focussed boarding high school .
But , as Davison prepared to enter her last year of college , at the Manhattan School of Music , she confronted the cruel @ @ @ @ @ @ @ best conservatories have only a handful of bassoon spots open every year , and stable orchestral jobs are even more scarce .
She ’ d have to step up .
A bassoon practice account was the solution : if Davison had to post daily videos of herself playing , she ’ d constantly have to create something worth putting out into the world—a flubbed scale was not an option .
“ At first , I kind of started it as a joke , ” she said .
“ I only followed my close @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Oh , you can follow me back if you want , but I totally understand if you don ’ t .
It ’ s fine.
’ ” The friends did follow back , and so did thousands of others .
“ I was , like , Well , I don ’ t really understand why they ’ re following me , ” Davison recalled .
“ They probably don ’ t even know what a bassoon is.
” As she posted such clips as the eerie opening solo of Stravinsky ’ s “ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ audience began to dwarf that of any student recital .
She had always practiced with a metronome and tuner , focussing on tempo , pitch , and rhythm , but listening to herself made her strengths and weaknesses more apparent .
“ If I were to walk into a professional audition right now and play it the way that I just recorded it , would I get the job ?
” she ’ d say to herself .
Often , the answer was no .
She ’ d re-record her practices until she @ @ @ @ @ @ @ again the next day .
The viewers watching Davison ’ s videos , or those of any other popular practice account , are a mixed bag .
Some are classically trained musicians , but most are not intimately familiar with the ins and outs of the bassoon , or of classical music generally .
For John-Henry Crawford , a Manhattan-based professional cellist approaching Day 900 of what he ’ s dubbed # the1000dayjourney , the feedback that he receives on Instagram is less professional but no less helpful than what he ’ d @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Institute of Music or as a participant in international cello competitions .
“ It ’ s more of a perspective from a distance rather than a micro-perspective of , you know , ‘ This little tiny thing that you ’ re doing with your bow , ’ ” he said .
“ It ’ s less related to what you ’ re doing and more about the sound of the instrument , the pieces you ’ re playing.
” The comments from his fifty-five thousand followers are usually short and sweet : a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , ” a question about the equipment he ’ s using .
Davison gets those comments too , though she estimates that eighty per cent are men telling her how gorgeous she is .
She ’ s learned to focus on the more music-centered remarks .
As a classically trained clarinetist myself and the past owner of a short-lived practice account , I ’ ve found that the most important factor for a popular Instagram practice account isn ’ t skill—nor good looks—but consistency .
Instagram ’ s algorithm seems to reward those @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in feeds , search , and discovery .
I ’ ve seen motivated high-school violinists with more followers than the first-prize cellist in the International Tchaikovsky Competition , and internationally touring clarinet soloists upended by full-time clarinet teachers .
In the analog world , it ’ s a joy to hear renowned musicians at their most polished , performing sophisticated repertoire with superhuman command and control .
At a concert , I want the Swedish clarinet virtuoso Martin Fröst to play so well that I leave the hall unsure whether to practice arpeggios @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Instagram , I ’ m less exacting .
I appreciate the mistakes—the flummoxed look of someone who , after thirteen run-throughs , can ’ t quite nail a pesky chromatic passage .
There ’ s something comforting and inspiring about the slow crescendo of daily improvement .
Any musician has been told that “ practice makes perfect ” ( sort of ) and the premise of the ten-thousand-hour rule .
It ’ s nice to scroll back through someone ’ s feed and see that the maxims aren ’ t so far off—that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
When Davison was accepted into Juilliard for graduate school , it seemed that her practice account had done its job .
Sometimes , despite the flood of engagement that she receives on the videos , she ’ s considered deleting the account .
It was time to move on .
“ But then I get these messages from high schoolers that say , ‘ Oh my gosh , she ’ s completely revolutionized the way that I think about bassoon , ’ ‘ You ’ re so inspiring , ’ ‘ Please @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s just so inspiring and encouraging , ” she said .
“ So I plan on keeping the account for as long as possible .
And I think I can use it to really help myself grow even more .
”

The bassoonist Morgan Davison is part of a flourishing micro-niche of online orchestral practicing. Photograph courtesy Morgan Davison
There’s a lot that people don’t know about the bassoon: what it looks like (long and cylindrical), what it sounds like (rich, deep, slightly buzzing), or the name of a single person who plays it (Edward Elgar, if you’ve ever heard the “Pomp and Circumstance Marches”). But, almost every day on Instagram, Morgan Davison, a twenty-two-year-old bassoon master’s student at Juilliard, has answers for the bassoon-curious, providing her nearly thirty thousand followers with a running selection of practice excerpts from Francis Poulenc, Igor Stravinsky, and the gamut of bassoon-heavy composers.
Davison benefits from a years-old trend in the flourishing micro-niche of online orchestral practicing. In 2017, the renowned violinist Hilary Hahn posted an Instagram video with the caption “#100daysofpractice.” The premise was simple: for a hundred days, she would post a daily video of herself practicing, letting other musicians see how she prepared for performances. On one day, Hahn played a series of slow, precise double-stops from Robert Schumann’s piano quartet; on another, the athletic, isolated shifts from Felix Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto. The hashtag sparked a revolution: in three years, thousands of dedicated Instagram practice accounts have emerged, in which musicians—from top-flight pros to middle schoolers—post daily clips of themselves practicing their instrument. Since Hahn’s post, the #100daysofpractice hashtag has been used three hundred and eighty thousand times.
The accounts are a way for musicians to hold themselves accountable for consistent, productive practice and to receive feedback from other musicians. They are also an archival tool, a way to track progress over time. Practicing, long an activity completed in solitude, with only a metronome and tuner as company, has now become its own sort of performance. Playing to a virtual audience has become one of the few remaining incentives for musicians who are otherwise holed up at home, away from their schools, orchestras, and teachers. “Before the quarantine and everything, I was practicing for a concert I had in three weeks, I was practicing for a concerto competition, I was practicing for all these different things that were taken out of thin air,” Alec Glass, a cello-performance major at California State University, Northridge, told me. (His account is approaching four thousand followers.) “Now I’m posting to better myself, and people are watching and commenting, and [it’s] very encouraging.”
Davison started her account two years ago, days before her senior year of college, after realizing that she was not good enough at the bassoon to get into top master’s programs. “I thought for a really long time about how I could change something about myself or something about my playing or practice,” she said. “I narrowed it down to my quality and quantity of practice time. I was just not practicing as much as I needed.” She had started playing bassoon in sixth grade, after her oboe-and-flute teacher revealed that it was her favorite member of the woodwind family. Davison had never heard the bassoon before, so her teacher took out the log-like instrument and demonstrated. “As soon as she played the low B-flat, which is the lowest note, I was completely sold,” Davison said.
Davison quit oboe, flute, and piano lessons to focus solely on the bassoon—a decision of passion but also strategy. “I realized that no one played bassoon and everyone played flute, and so I got all the best parts and all the solos, because I was the only bassoon player,” she said. The instrument’s goofy reputation didn’t bother her. (Rainn Wilson, in his memoir “The Bassoon King,” calls the instrument his “nerd crucifix,” and during a promotional appearance on “The Late Show with Stephen Colbert” he spiked one into the ground.) Davison was a regular attendee of International Double Reed Society conventions, and enrolled in the Interlochen Arts Academy, in Michigan, an intensive arts-focussed boarding high school. But, as Davison prepared to enter her last year of college, at the Manhattan School of Music, she confronted the cruel numbers of the bassoon world. The best conservatories have only a handful of bassoon spots open every year, and stable orchestral jobs are even more scarce. She’d have to step up.
A bassoon practice account was the solution: if Davison had to post daily videos of herself playing, she’d constantly have to create something worth putting out into the world—a flubbed scale was not an option. “At first, I kind of started it as a joke,” she said. “I only followed my close friends and was, like, ‘Oh, you can follow me back if you want, but I totally understand if you don’t. It’s fine.’ ”
The friends did follow back, and so did thousands of others. “I was, like, Well, I don’t really understand why they’re following me,” Davison recalled. “They probably don’t even know what a bassoon is.” As she posted such clips as the eerie opening solo of Stravinsky’s “The Rite of Spring,” her audience began to dwarf that of any student recital. She had always practiced with a metronome and tuner, focussing on tempo, pitch, and rhythm, but listening to herself made her strengths and weaknesses more apparent. “If I were to walk into a professional audition right now and play it the way that I just recorded it, would I get the job?” she’d say to herself. Often, the answer was no. She’d re-record her practices until she was happy, and then do it again the next day.
The viewers watching Davison’s videos, or those of any other popular practice account, are a mixed bag. Some are classically trained musicians, but most are not intimately familiar with the ins and outs of the bassoon, or of classical music generally. For John-Henry Crawford, a Manhattan-based professional cellist approaching Day 900 of what he’s dubbed #the1000dayjourney, the feedback that he receives on Instagram is less professional but no less helpful than what he’d received as a student at the Curtis Institute of Music or as a participant in international cello competitions. “It’s more of a perspective from a distance rather than a micro-perspective of, you know, ‘This little tiny thing that you’re doing with your bow,’ ” he said. “It’s less related to what you’re doing and more about the sound of the instrument, the pieces you’re playing.” The comments from his fifty-five thousand followers are usually short and sweet: a repeated clapping emoji, “beautiful playing,” a question about the equipment he’s using. Davison gets those comments too, though she estimates that eighty per cent are men telling her how gorgeous she is. She’s learned to focus on the more music-centered remarks.
As a classically trained clarinetist myself and the past owner of a short-lived practice account, I’ve found that the most important factor for a popular Instagram practice account isn’t skill—nor good looks—but consistency. Instagram’s algorithm seems to reward those who post every day with prominent placement in feeds, search, and discovery. I’ve seen motivated high-school violinists with more followers than the first-prize cellist in the International Tchaikovsky Competition, and internationally touring clarinet soloists upended by full-time clarinet teachers.
In the analog world, it’s a joy to hear renowned musicians at their most polished, performing sophisticated repertoire with superhuman command and control. At a concert, I want the Swedish clarinet virtuoso Martin Fröst to play so well that I leave the hall unsure whether to practice arpeggios for eight hours or retire. On Instagram, I’m less exacting. I appreciate the mistakes—the flummoxed look of someone who, after thirteen run-throughs, can’t quite nail a pesky chromatic passage. There’s something comforting and inspiring about the slow crescendo of daily improvement. Any musician has been told that “practice makes perfect” (sort of) and the premise of the ten-thousand-hour rule. It’s nice to scroll back through someone’s feed and see that the maxims aren’t so far off—that the long slog can be worth it.
When Davison was accepted into Juilliard for graduate school, it seemed that her practice account had done its job. Sometimes, despite the flood of engagement that she receives on the videos, she’s considered deleting the account. It was time to move on. “But then I get these messages from high schoolers that say, ‘Oh my gosh, she’s completely revolutionized the way that I think about bassoon,’ ‘You’re so inspiring,’ ‘Please keep posting videos’—and it’s just so inspiring and encouraging,” she said. “So I plan on keeping the account for as long as possible. And I think I can use it to really help myself grow even more.”


newyorker--2020-06-06--Trump Was Role-Playing Churchill—What a Colossal Flop

If the battle of Lafayette Park turns—as seems possible—into Donald Trump ’ s most telling misadventure , part of the credit should go to Winston Churchill .
Churchill seems to have been on the President ’ s mind since the moment he entered the Oval Office , where he moved a bust of the former British Prime Minister , to replace one that Barack Obama , in what used to pass as a scandale , had returned to the British Embassy , which owns it .
Later , Trump , on the eve of passing his tax cut , invited @ @ @ @ @ @ @ special showing of “ Darkest Hour , ” the film , from 2017 , about Churchill and the Blitz .
But it was this week ’ s trek across the street , past a plaza tear-gassed free of peaceful protesters , that really allowed Trump ’ s Churchill fantasies full play .
As the White House press secretary semi-coherently told reporters the next day , the President had acted “ like Churchill—we saw him inspecting the bombing damage and it sent a powerful message of leadership to the British people.
” As it @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ The Splendid and the Vile , ” a fine new account of Churchill and the Blitz , by Erik Larson .
It could be argued that the world is in no great need of another Churchill biography—indeed , I might be inclined to argue it , since there ’ s much about the man to dislike .
He was , among other things , a stone racist , able to regard the greatest leader of his century , Gandhi , and see a “ malignant subversive fanatic ” and a “ half-naked @ @ @ @ @ @ @ career offered a year , from 1940 to 1941 , of unparalleled courage and meaning , and Larson ’ s account of it , constructed from diaries of some of Churchill ’ s intimates , conveys just how remarkable—and how utterly not Trumpian—that season really was .
There were a few similarities .
Churchill had a great desire for quick fixes , and spent countless hours indulging his science adviser ’ s absurd schemes for laying “ aerial mines ” —call it his hydroxychloroquine .
Also , Churchill was undisciplined in his diet @ @ @ @ @ @ @ champagne and oysters than to Diet Cokes and hamburgers .
In the main , however , it ’ s nearly impossible to imagine two more different leaders .
When protesters ventured too near the White House , Trump retreated to the bunker beneath it ( in order , he now contends , to “ inspect ” the premises ) .
Churchill had a bunker , too , as one might hope , since the Nazis were doing their utmost to concentrate their bombing on the Whitehall area of Westminster , where he lived @ @ @ @ @ @ @ writes , “ no raid was too fierce to stop him from climbing to the nearest roof to watch.
” One cold night , “ while watching a raid from the roof of the building that capped the Cabinet war rooms , he sat on a chimney to keep warm , until an officer came up to ask him politely to move—smoke was backing up into the rooms below.
” When raids occurred , he dispatched his staff to the shelter beneath 10 Downing Street , “ but did not himself follow , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ working.
” ( Another nontrivial difference is that Churchill did a lot of work . )
When a large unexploded bomb was discovered right next door , in St. James ’ s Park , he stayed put , “ expressing concern only for ‘ those poor little birds ’ ” —the pelicans and swans— “ in the lake.
” Courage , then , but also language .
It ’ s Trump ’ s enemy : he ’ s cursed with a limited vocabulary , and uses the same few words over and over @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in the Times on Wednesday , “ almost every word out of Trump ’ s mouth ” in recent days “ seems to be some variation on ‘ dominate.
’ ” “ If you don ’ t dominate , you ’ re wasting your time , ” he said in a call with the nation ’ s governors , who must have been staring at their phones wondering how that was supposed to work in the streets of their cities .
“ Domination , ” he said , speaking of troops in Minneapolis @ @ @ @ @ @ @ thing to watch.
” Language , of course , was Churchill ’ s greatest ally : when half his army was trapped at Dunkirk , when Britain alone was standing up to the Axis , when the Luftwaffe sent the greatest air armada in history against Britain ’ s capital city , he had mainly words to rally his people .
And—although he was no orthodox believer—he spoke in the unmistakable cadences of the King James Bible .
Trump looks uncomfortable even holding the Bible ; Churchill knew its intonations so well that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
With the news that the French had signed an armistice with the Nazis , he told the House of Commons , “ Let us therefore brace ourselves to our duties , and so bear ourselves that , if the British Empire and its Commonwealth last for a thousand years , men will still say : ‘ This was their finest hour.
’ ” But the greatest difference was the feeling that Churchill inspired in the hearts of his people .
Larson ’ s most moving chapters follow Churchill as he walks through @ @ @ @ @ @ @ with the fires still raging , and always against the advice of his tiny security detail .
When , in April of 1941 , the Germans bombed Bristol with staggering effect , Churchill appeared there almost immediately for an unannounced visit , touring “ the worst-hit areas on foot .
He walked briskly .
This was not the halting meander that might have been expected of an overweight sixty-six-year-old man who spent many of his waking hours drinking and smoking.
” His single bodyguard “ stayed close , one hand in his pistol @ @ @ @ @ @ @ crowd of men and women , Churchill took off his bowler and put it on top of his walking stick , then held it aloft so that those outside the immediate crush could see it and know he was there.
” He moved on from there to a commencement ceremony at Bristol University , where “ the building next door was still in flames , ” and where “ people kept on arriving late with grime on their faces half washed off , their ceremonial robes on over their fire-fighting clothes which were @ @ @ @ @ @ @ confer an honorary degree to the Australian Prime Minister , he said , “ Many of those here today have been all night at their posts and all have been under the fire of the enemy in heavy and protracted bombardment .
That you should gather in this way is a mark of fortitude and phlegm , of a courage and detachment from material affairs worthy of all that we have learned to believe of Ancient Rome.
” As his car drove back to his waiting train , accompanied the whole way by @ @ @ @ @ @ @ children , his daughter Mary described the scene in her diary : “ These are not mere fairweather friends .
Papa has served them with his heart and his mind always through peace and wars , and they have given him in his finest and darkest hour their love and confidence.
” It ’ s difficult to imagine a greater contrast with our current President , who needed police in riot gear and National Guard troops to clear the way for him simply to walk across the street .
But it ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ also love to cosplay Churchill .
Tom Cotton—the junior senator from Arkansas , who supports using U.S. troops against American citizens—accepted the “ statesmanship award ” at the Claremont Institute ’ s annual Churchill Dinner , in 2018 , using the occasion to rally against the “ cosmopolitan élites.
” The world , Cotton told the assembled conservative grandees , “ is a struggle for mastery and dominance .
.
.
in which you run the show or the show runs you .
Dictators organize their domestic order with force and violence and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ lives and grasp on power , so they understand this all too well.
” Indeed .

If the battle of Lafayette Park turns—as seems possible—into Donald Trump’s most telling misadventure, part of the credit should go to Winston Churchill.
Churchill seems to have been on the President’s mind since the moment he entered the Oval Office, where he moved a bust of the former British Prime Minister, to replace one that Barack Obama, in what used to pass as a scandale, had returned to the British Embassy, which owns it. Later, Trump, on the eve of passing his tax cut, invited key members of Congress over for a special showing of “Darkest Hour,” the film, from 2017, about Churchill and the Blitz. But it was this week’s trek across the street, past a plaza tear-gassed free of peaceful protesters, that really allowed Trump’s Churchill fantasies full play. As the White House press secretary semi-coherently told reporters the next day, the President had acted “like Churchill—we saw him inspecting the bombing damage and it sent a powerful message of leadership to the British people.”
As it happens, I’d been reading “The Splendid and the Vile,” a fine new account of Churchill and the Blitz, by Erik Larson. It could be argued that the world is in no great need of another Churchill biography—indeed, I might be inclined to argue it, since there’s much about the man to dislike. He was, among other things, a stone racist, able to regard the greatest leader of his century, Gandhi, and see a “malignant subversive fanatic” and a “half-naked fakir.” But Churchill’s long career offered a year, from 1940 to 1941, of unparalleled courage and meaning, and Larson’s account of it, constructed from diaries of some of Churchill’s intimates, conveys just how remarkable—and how utterly not Trumpian—that season really was.
There were a few similarities. Churchill had a great desire for quick fixes, and spent countless hours indulging his science adviser’s absurd schemes for laying “aerial mines”—call it his hydroxychloroquine. Also, Churchill was undisciplined in his diet, though his tastes ran more to champagne and oysters than to Diet Cokes and hamburgers.
In the main, however, it’s nearly impossible to imagine two more different leaders. When protesters ventured too near the White House, Trump retreated to the bunker beneath it (in order, he now contends, to “inspect” the premises). Churchill had a bunker, too, as one might hope, since the Nazis were doing their utmost to concentrate their bombing on the Whitehall area of Westminster, where he lived and worked. However, as Larson writes, “no raid was too fierce to stop him from climbing to the nearest roof to watch.” One cold night, “while watching a raid from the roof of the building that capped the Cabinet war rooms, he sat on a chimney to keep warm, until an officer came up to ask him politely to move—smoke was backing up into the rooms below.” When raids occurred, he dispatched his staff to the shelter beneath 10 Downing Street, “but did not himself follow, returning instead to his desk to keep working.” (Another nontrivial difference is that Churchill did a lot of work.) When a large unexploded bomb was discovered right next door, in St. James’s Park, he stayed put, “expressing concern only for ‘those poor little birds’ ”—the pelicans and swans—“in the lake.”
Courage, then, but also language. It’s Trump’s enemy: he’s cursed with a limited vocabulary, and uses the same few words over and over. As Gail Collins pointed out, in the Times on Wednesday, “almost every word out of Trump’s mouth” in recent days “seems to be some variation on ‘dominate.’ ” “If you don’t dominate, you’re wasting your time,” he said in a call with the nation’s governors, who must have been staring at their phones wondering how that was supposed to work in the streets of their cities. “Domination,” he said, speaking of troops in Minneapolis. “It’s a beautiful thing to watch.” Language, of course, was Churchill’s greatest ally: when half his army was trapped at Dunkirk, when Britain alone was standing up to the Axis, when the Luftwaffe sent the greatest air armada in history against Britain’s capital city, he had mainly words to rally his people. And—although he was no orthodox believer—he spoke in the unmistakable cadences of the King James Bible. Trump looks uncomfortable even holding the Bible; Churchill knew its intonations so well that his every formal sentence sounded like scripture. With the news that the French had signed an armistice with the Nazis, he told the House of Commons, “Let us therefore brace ourselves to our duties, and so bear ourselves that, if the British Empire and its Commonwealth last for a thousand years, men will still say: ‘This was their finest hour.’ ”
But the greatest difference was the feeling that Churchill inspired in the hearts of his people. Larson’s most moving chapters follow Churchill as he walks through one bombed district after another, often with the fires still raging, and always against the advice of his tiny security detail. When, in April of 1941, the Germans bombed Bristol with staggering effect, Churchill appeared there almost immediately for an unannounced visit, touring “the worst-hit areas on foot. He walked briskly. This was not the halting meander that might have been expected of an overweight sixty-six-year-old man who spent many of his waking hours drinking and smoking.” His single bodyguard “stayed close, one hand in his pistol pocket.” When “engulfed by a crowd of men and women, Churchill took off his bowler and put it on top of his walking stick, then held it aloft so that those outside the immediate crush could see it and know he was there.”
He moved on from there to a commencement ceremony at Bristol University, where “the building next door was still in flames,” and where “people kept on arriving late with grime on their faces half washed off, their ceremonial robes on over their fire-fighting clothes which were still wet.” When Churchill rose to confer an honorary degree to the Australian Prime Minister, he said, “Many of those here today have been all night at their posts and all have been under the fire of the enemy in heavy and protracted bombardment. That you should gather in this way is a mark of fortitude and phlegm, of a courage and detachment from material affairs worthy of all that we have learned to believe of Ancient Rome.” As his car drove back to his waiting train, accompanied the whole way by throngs of men, women, and children, his daughter Mary described the scene in her diary: “These are not mere fairweather friends. Papa has served them with his heart and his mind always through peace and wars, and they have given him in his finest and darkest hour their love and confidence.”
It’s difficult to imagine a greater contrast with our current President, who needed police in riot gear and National Guard troops to clear the way for him simply to walk across the street. But it’s not just Trump—the G.O.P.’s harder-liners also love to cosplay Churchill. Tom Cotton—the junior senator from Arkansas, who supports using U.S. troops against American citizens—accepted the “statesmanship award” at the Claremont Institute’s annual Churchill Dinner, in 2018, using the occasion to rally against the “cosmopolitan élites.” The world, Cotton told the assembled conservative grandees, “is a struggle for mastery and dominance . . . in which you run the show or the show runs you. Dictators organize their domestic order with force and violence and live in constant fear for their own lives and grasp on power, so they understand this all too well.” Indeed.


newyorker--2020-06-07--Sunday Reading: Racial Injustice and the Police

This past week , protests took place in every U.S. state and in many foreign cities , an uprising ignited by the killing of George Floyd .
The demonstrations speak to the larger malignancy of racism and police abuse over the decades .
This week , we ’ re bringing you a selection of pieces that examine racial injustice and police misconduct from both contemporary and historical perspectives .
In “ The Death of George Floyd , in Context , ” Jelani Cobb writes about the painful events surrounding Floyd ’ s murder , and , in “ No Such @ @ @ @ @ @ @ describes how policing in America is often mediated by race .
In “ Freddie Gray ’ s Voice , ” Amy Davidson Sorkin recounts the death , in police custody , of the twenty-five-year-old Gray , and considers the growing perception that political institutions are unresponsive to incidents of police brutality .
Dexter Filkins chronicles the transformation of local police departments into heavily militarized forces that resemble the U.S. Army or the Marines .
In “ Remembering Sandra Bland ’ s Death in the Place I Call Home , ” Karen Good Marable @ @ @ @ @ @ @ up with , as a young black woman living in Texas , and contemplates the disturbing nature of Bland ’ s arrest and subsequent death .
In “ The Power of Looking , from Emmett Till to Philando Castile , ” Allyson Hobbs reflects on the importance of videos and other images in exposing police brutality and sharing victims ’ experiences with the world .
Finally , in “ Back on the Bus , ” Calvin Trillin looks back on the months that he spent reporting alongside the Freedom Riders , a group @ @ @ @ @ @ @ into the South in order to challenge the policies of segregationists in the early nineteen-sixties .
It ’ s both necessary and , at this point , pedestrian to observe that policing in this country is mediated by race .
When did local police forces , in their equipment and tactics , come to resemble armies of occupation ?
When Freddie Gray was put in a police van , it was a black box that he entered .
That is too often a summary of the criminal-justice system as a whole .
The @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Castile echoed the funeral of Emmett Till in surprising ways .
There is no such thing as “ racial profiling ” —there is simply racism .
Prairie View , the Texas town where Bland was arrested , is home to a black university and also carries a long legacy of racism .

This past week, protests took place in every U.S. state and in many foreign cities, an uprising ignited by the killing of George Floyd. The demonstrations speak to the larger malignancy of racism and police abuse over the decades. This week, we’re bringing you a selection of pieces that examine racial injustice and police misconduct from both contemporary and historical perspectives. In “The Death of George Floyd, in Context,” Jelani Cobb writes about the painful events surrounding Floyd’s murder, and, in “No Such Thing as Racial Profiling,” he describes how policing in America is often mediated by race. In “Freddie Gray’s Voice,” Amy Davidson Sorkin recounts the death, in police custody, of the twenty-five-year-old Gray, and considers the growing perception that political institutions are unresponsive to incidents of police brutality. Dexter Filkins chronicles the transformation of local police departments into heavily militarized forces that resemble the U.S. Army or the Marines. In “Remembering Sandra Bland’s Death in the Place I Call Home,” Karen Good Marable revisits the cautionary tales that she grew up with, as a young black woman living in Texas, and contemplates the disturbing nature of Bland’s arrest and subsequent death. In “The Power of Looking, from Emmett Till to Philando Castile,” Allyson Hobbs reflects on the importance of videos and other images in exposing police brutality and sharing victims’ experiences with the world. Finally, in “Back on the Bus,” Calvin Trillin looks back on the months that he spent reporting alongside the Freedom Riders, a group of civil-rights activists who rode integrated buses into the South in order to challenge the policies of segregationists in the early nineteen-sixties.
—David Remnick
Photograph by Stephen Maturen / Getty
It’s both necessary and, at this point, pedestrian to observe that policing in this country is mediated by race.
Photograph Courtesy Craig Atkinson
When did local police forces, in their equipment and tactics, come to resemble armies of occupation?
When Freddie Gray was put in a police van, it was a black box that he entered. That is too often a summary of the criminal-justice system as a whole.
Photograph by Bettmann / Getty
The viral video of the shooting of Philando Castile echoed the funeral of Emmett Till in surprising ways.
There is no such thing as “racial profiling”—there is simply racism.
Remembering the Freedom Riders.
Prairie View, the Texas town where Bland was arrested, is home to a black university and also carries a long legacy of racism.


newyorker--2020-06-07--What We’re Reading This Summer

What We’re Reading This Summer

You don ’ t need me to tell you that reading “ War and Peace ” at some point in life is a good idea .
But I can tell you that current conditions may be ideal for the undertaking .
This is a novel that rewards deep drafts of reading over a sustained period of time .
Sure , you could gallop through it in a couple of weeks , but wouldn ’ t you rather spend a leisurely three months or so with Pierre , Natasha , and ( my own improbable favorite ) Andrei ?
I began @ @ @ @ @ @ @ smugly heroic—much as Nikolai Rostov does before the Battle of Austerlitz—as I took the brick of a book down from my shelf , where it has lived , undisturbed , since I bought it , four or five years ago .
( I have the Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky translation . )
Immediately , though , I became daunted .
Luckily , the magazine A Public Space had just chosen the novel for a virtual book club , led by the writer Yiyun Li : fifteen pages a day , which put @ @ @ @ @ @ @ second week of June .
I haven ’ t kept that pace , exactly—there have been days of reading other things , or nothing at all , and days of greedily gulping down sixty or seventy pages at a time .
But experiencing this book over such a stretch is like decanting it ; it begins to breathe , to take on new color and flavor , and to perfume everything with its own essence .
It ’ s hard to think of another novel as simple , on the level of language—the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the wonderfully brusque chapter endings—and as grandly , humanely complex .
Incidentally , just before this I read Gustave Flaubert ’ s “ Sentimental Education , ” an astounding novel published in 1869 , the same year as “ War and Peace , ” and which , like “ War and Peace , ” is concerned with private life at a time of public upheaval ; it has proved instructive to read about people trapped , as we all are , by history , and who still , as we all must , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ own lives .
“ Only unconscious activity bears fruit , ” Tolstoy writes , “ and a man who plays a role in a historical event never understands its significance .
If he attempts to understand it , he is struck with fruitlessness.
” It will take time for us to fully grasp all that we ’ re in the midst of living .
In the meantime , I turn to Tolstoy and the year 1812 .
—Alexandra Schwartz The other week , I pulled out my never-read copy of “ War and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ not in self-quarantine , then when ?
, I thought , filled with a sudden ambition to better myself .
Then I placed the book on my nightstand , where it has since remained , largely unopened .
While Tolstoy ’ s magnificent saga has been too much for my jumpy mind to delve into in these jumpy times , what the moment has proved more fitting for , at least for me , are the books of the hardboiled American crime writer Jim Thompson , who in the fifties and sixties wrote @ @ @ @ @ @ @ sharp , and filthy reads , and whose nihilistic sense of the world seems to dovetail with our current reality .
In one of Thompson ’ s best books , “ Pop .
1280 , ” from 1964 , he brings us the character of Nick Corey , the small-town sheriff who will stop at nothing to maintain his position of authority in Potts County , Texas .
In “ The Killer Inside Me , ” an earlier blood-chilling Thompson novel , from 1952 , the sheriff protagonist is a psychopathic serial killer @ @ @ @ @ @ @ sickness ” under a good-natured exterior ; in Nick ’ s case , his lackadaisical manner—and his reluctance to lay down the law—don ’ t conceal his immoral perspective so much as exist alongside it .
Nick would rather fix things to his own advantage than tell apart good from evil , right from wrong .
Can he help the sorry state of the world , full as it is of liars , fornicators , and murderers ?
And can he help that he is one of them ?
His role , he @ @ @ @ @ @ @ punish the heck out of people for bein ’ people.
” He is a corrupt man for a corrupt time , and the role he plays in society , he believes , is as inevitable as God ’ s word .
“ Do you excuse a post for fittin ’ a hole ?
, ” he rhetorically asks .
“ Maybe there ’ s a nest of rabbits down in that hole , and the post will crush ’ em .
But is that the post ’ s fault , for fillin ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ?
” —Naomi Fry “ Der Klang Der Familie : Berlin , Techno and the Fall of the Wall , ” by Felix Denk and Sven von Thülen , translated by Jenna Krumminga I ’ ve been watering a friend ’ s plants since March , when she went to her parents ’ house with no plans to return .
She ’ s a d.j.
, and one day I took this oral history of Berlin techno off her bookshelf and started reading and couldn ’ t stop .
If you can ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ can , at the very least , read about some of the best parties that ever happened .
The book begins in the divided , government-subsidized Berlin of the nineteen-eighties , with the post-punk music scene of West Berlin strung out on heroin , and East Berliners sourcing hip-hop cassettes from relatives in the West .
Radio is the great unifier , emitting clues to the young people looking for something new .
The book takes us through reunification , as the scene rejects the celebration of capitalism and finds a kind of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , and parties that go on for days .
I learned about the origins of the Love Parade , the street procession of sound trucks and dancing that marked Berlin ’ s summer of love , in 1991 ; of Tresor , the techno club that started in a basement bank vault ; and of Planet , the party in a former soap factory that had to be set up and removed every weekend because the promoters had no lease .
There is a party in a disused bunker and a party in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ plant .
The d.j.s and promoters who party from Wednesday to Monday also manage to be very methodical as they build out vacant spaces , secure permits , deal with endless plumbing issues , and import records from abroad .
Especially fascinating is the collaboration that grows between Berlin and Detroit , where four-track techno made by experimental African-American producers like the anti-corporate , drug-averse collective Underground Resistance finds a mass audience in Europe .
By the mid-nineties , the Berlin scene is devastated by the AIDS epidemic , commercialization , and too @ @ @ @ @ @ @ on—including in plenty of online playlists based around the recollections in this book .
—Emily Witt “ The Time of the Doves , ” by Mercè Rodoreda “ It was hard for me to say no if someone asked me to do something , ” Natalia , the narrator , says in the opening paragraph of “ The Time of the Doves , ” Mercè Rodoreda ’ s 1962 novel about the Spanish Civil War—a book that feels as fresh and pure and unsettling as a wind blowing your front door open and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ tired from selling pastries all day , but her friend Julieta has appeared at the bakery and convinced her to go to a party in the town square .
“ I was dressed in white , my dress and petticoats starched , my shoes like two drops of milk , my earrings white enamel , three hoop bracelets that matched the earrings , and a white purse Julieta said was made of vinyl with a snap shaped like a gold shellfish.
” It ’ s there , at the Plaça del Diamant , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ man with eyes like a monkey , who calls her Colometa ( “ little dove ” ) and tells her that she ’ ll be his wife by the end of the year .
The nickname is apt—Natalia is helpless , dignified , tragic—and so is Quimet ’ s prediction : soon , they ’ re married , with two small children .
As Natalia ’ s world shrinks to her apartment and her new job cleaning the house of a rich family , the world obliquely begins to change .
There is @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ; conflict breaks out in the streets , and Quimet joins the People ’ s Republican Army .
Natalia is left alone in Barcelona , with her starving children and the half-wild flock of birds that Quimet was trying to raise on the roof .
Rodoreda , who attended school for only three years and married her mother ’ s brother when she was twenty , began publishing fiction in the nineteen-thirties , in the lead-up to the conflict she depicts in this novel : she always wrote in Catalan , a language @ @ @ @ @ @ @ power , in 1939 .
She wrote “ The Time of the Doves ” in exile , in Switzerland , and it has slowly gained recognition both as a canonical work of Catalonian literature—Rodoreda is often called the most influential Catalan writer of the last century—as well as a vital , vivid , existential novel about war .
The un-self-conscious beauty and the phantasmagoric pain in her work add up to a kind of sharp , transportive pleasure .
I was transfixed when I read it for the first time , recently .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ permeable , and keenly alive .
—Jia Tolentino

“War and Peace,” by Leo Tolstoy
You don’t need me to tell you that reading “War and Peace” at some point in life is a good idea. But I can tell you that current conditions may be ideal for the undertaking. This is a novel that rewards deep drafts of reading over a sustained period of time. Sure, you could gallop through it in a couple of weeks, but wouldn’t you rather spend a leisurely three months or so with Pierre, Natasha, and (my own improbable favorite) Andrei? I began reading the novel in March, feeling smugly heroic—much as Nikolai Rostov does before the Battle of Austerlitz—as I took the brick of a book down from my shelf, where it has lived, undisturbed, since I bought it, four or five years ago. (I have the Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky translation.) Immediately, though, I became daunted. Luckily, the magazine A Public Space had just chosen the novel for a virtual book club, led by the writer Yiyun Li: fifteen pages a day, which put us on track to finish by the second week of June. I haven’t kept that pace, exactly—there have been days of reading other things, or nothing at all, and days of greedily gulping down sixty or seventy pages at a time. But experiencing this book over such a stretch is like decanting it; it begins to breathe, to take on new color and flavor, and to perfume everything with its own essence. It’s hard to think of another novel as simple, on the level of language—the workaday metaphors, the evident similes, the wonderfully brusque chapter endings—and as grandly, humanely complex. Incidentally, just before this I read Gustave Flaubert’s “Sentimental Education,” an astounding novel published in 1869, the same year as “War and Peace,” and which, like “War and Peace,” is concerned with private life at a time of public upheaval; it has proved instructive to read about people trapped, as we all are, by history, and who still, as we all must, try to fulfill their duties to their own lives. “Only unconscious activity bears fruit,” Tolstoy writes, “and a man who plays a role in a historical event never understands its significance. If he attempts to understand it, he is struck with fruitlessness.” It will take time for us to fully grasp all that we’re in the midst of living. In the meantime, I turn to Tolstoy and the year 1812. —Alexandra Schwartz
“Pop. 1280,” by Jim Thompson
The other week, I pulled out my never-read copy of “War and Peace” from the bookshelf. If not in self-quarantine, then when?, I thought, filled with a sudden ambition to better myself. Then I placed the book on my nightstand, where it has since remained, largely unopened. While Tolstoy’s magnificent saga has been too much for my jumpy mind to delve into in these jumpy times, what the moment has proved more fitting for, at least for me, are the books of the hardboiled American crime writer Jim Thompson, who in the fifties and sixties wrote novels that still make for short, sharp, and filthy reads, and whose nihilistic sense of the world seems to dovetail with our current reality. In one of Thompson’s best books, “Pop. 1280,” from 1964, he brings us the character of Nick Corey, the small-town sheriff who will stop at nothing to maintain his position of authority in Potts County, Texas. In “The Killer Inside Me,” an earlier blood-chilling Thompson novel, from 1952, the sheriff protagonist is a psychopathic serial killer who hides what he calls his “sickness” under a good-natured exterior; in Nick’s case, his lackadaisical manner—and his reluctance to lay down the law—don’t conceal his immoral perspective so much as exist alongside it. Nick would rather fix things to his own advantage than tell apart good from evil, right from wrong. Can he help the sorry state of the world, full as it is of liars, fornicators, and murderers? And can he help that he is one of them? His role, he’s decided, is “to punish the heck out of people for bein’ people.” He is a corrupt man for a corrupt time, and the role he plays in society, he believes, is as inevitable as God’s word. “Do you excuse a post for fittin’ a hole?,” he rhetorically asks. “Maybe there’s a nest of rabbits down in that hole, and the post will crush ’em. But is that the post’s fault, for fillin’ a gap it was made to fit?” —Naomi Fry
“Der Klang Der Familie: Berlin, Techno and the Fall of the Wall,” by Felix Denk and Sven von Thülen, translated by Jenna Krumminga
I’ve been watering a friend’s plants since March, when she went to her parents’ house with no plans to return. She’s a d.j., and one day I took this oral history of Berlin techno off her bookshelf and started reading and couldn’t stop. If you can’t go to any parties, you can, at the very least, read about some of the best parties that ever happened. The book begins in the divided, government-subsidized Berlin of the nineteen-eighties, with the post-punk music scene of West Berlin strung out on heroin, and East Berliners sourcing hip-hop cassettes from relatives in the West. Radio is the great unifier, emitting clues to the young people looking for something new. The book takes us through reunification, as the scene rejects the celebration of capitalism and finds a kind of religion in electronic music, pharmaceutical-grade Ecstasy, and parties that go on for days. I learned about the origins of the Love Parade, the street procession of sound trucks and dancing that marked Berlin’s summer of love, in 1991; of Tresor, the techno club that started in a basement bank vault; and of Planet, the party in a former soap factory that had to be set up and removed every weekend because the promoters had no lease. There is a party in a disused bunker and a party in the control room of a former power plant. The d.j.s and promoters who party from Wednesday to Monday also manage to be very methodical as they build out vacant spaces, secure permits, deal with endless plumbing issues, and import records from abroad. Especially fascinating is the collaboration that grows between Berlin and Detroit, where four-track techno made by experimental African-American producers like the anti-corporate, drug-averse collective Underground Resistance finds a mass audience in Europe. By the mid-nineties, the Berlin scene is devastated by the AIDS epidemic, commercialization, and too much cocaine, but the music lives on—including in plenty of online playlists based around the recollections in this book. —Emily Witt