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Timothy Andrés Pabon Wins AudioFile Earphones Award for Cultural History Audiobook
Timothy Andrés Pabon Wins AudioFile Earphones Award for Cultural History Audiobook

Yahoo

time19 hours ago

  • Entertainment
  • Yahoo

Timothy Andrés Pabon Wins AudioFile Earphones Award for Cultural History Audiobook

FREDERICK, Md., July 30, 2025 /PRNewswire/ -- Award-winning voice actor and director Timothy Andrés Pabon has been honored with a 2025 AudioFile Earphones Award for his narration of " The Last Great Dream: How Bohemians Became Hippies and Created the Sixties" by Dennis McNally, published by Hachette Audio. The recognition highlights Pabon's ability to bring historical depth and vocal nuance to this sweeping account of America's mid-century countercultural movement. "Receiving this award is incredibly humbling," said Pabon. "This project meant a great deal to me because it was not just about recounting history—it was about embodying a cultural moment. I wanted listeners to hear the heartbeat of a generation through my performance." The audiobook explores the cultural and political rise of the Grateful Dead in the context of the 1950s and 1960s American counterculture. AudioFile Magazine praised Pabon's performance for elevating McNally's dense research into a vivid narrative experience: "Pabon deftly manages long lists of names, deep scholarship, and stories of bohemian life… Sounding at times like a newscaster, at other times like a fan, and occasionally like a participant, Pabon ensures that the great cultural and political counterculture of the mid-20th century is even more fascinating." "To prepare, I immersed myself in period broadcasts, poetry readings, and oral histories to capture the voices and energy of the era," Pabon added. "The performance was built on understanding not just what people said—but how they said it, and why it mattered." The audiobook is available through major retailers and audiobook platforms. Purchase on Amazon: About Timothy Andrés Pabon Timothy Andrés Pabon is a Frederick, Maryland–based voice actor, director, and performance coach with more than 500 audiobook narrations to his name. Known for his versatility, preparation, and vocal authenticity, he collaborates with major publishers and serves as a mentor to aspiring narrators and authors through personalized coaching and group workshops. For more information, visit View original content to download multimedia: SOURCE Timothy Andrés Pabon Error in retrieving data Sign in to access your portfolio Error in retrieving data Error in retrieving data Error in retrieving data Error in retrieving data

Forever young: Revisiting the ground-breaking musical documentary The Last Waltz 50 years later
Forever young: Revisiting the ground-breaking musical documentary The Last Waltz 50 years later

Irish Times

time19 hours ago

  • Entertainment
  • Irish Times

Forever young: Revisiting the ground-breaking musical documentary The Last Waltz 50 years later

We were always going to be 'Forever Young' when we gathered in the mothballed mustiness of the Aula Maxima of St Patrick's College, Maynooth , in the spring of 1979 to watch Martin Scorsese 's The Last Waltz. Bob Dylan was a guru even for the flotillas of soutaned clerics who mingled and mixed with us cool chicks: an early generation of females allowed to enter the hallowed halls of the pontifical university. We were straddling the end of flower power and the birth of punk, women's liberation and the conservatism of the recently appointed Pope John Paul II. Thus, our anthems were increasingly replacing the Tantum Ergo of Gregorian chant with the counterculture rock-'n'-roll rebellion defined by the mud fields of Woodstock in August 1969. Separated by a bridge over the Kilcock road, the old and new campus of this institution – which had trained and educated generations of Irish men in the eternal rewards of abstinence – was, throughout the decade, a hotbed of debates about politics, culture, contraception and divorce. READ MORE So, there was a definite ironic appropriateness about watching this groundbreaking Scorsese documentary within these walls. The Last Waltz comprised a series of interviews with members of the Canadian-American band called The Band, led by Robbie Robertson, about life on the road and their complex influences, from rockabilly to the blues. It was framed around a farewell concert held on Thanksgiving night 1976 in the Winterland Ballroom in San Francisco. The Band consisted of Robertson, Rick Danko, Levon Helm (the only American), Garth Hudson and Richard Manuel and they were Dylan's touring group in 1965 and played backup for The Basement Tapes. [ The Band 50th Anniversary Boxset review - an album where the stars aligned (2019) Opens in new window ] The film is widely considered to have captured an important moment in the music scene because of The Band's blend of rock, country and folk music as expressed so uniquely in such songs as Up on Cripple Creek, The Weight and The Night they Drove Old Dixie Down. Unsurprisingly, its star-studded guest list greatly enhanced the sense of a spontaneous jamboree. There was Joni Mitchell's Coyote and Van Morrison's, Caravan, Neil Diamond's Dry Your Eyes, Emmylou Harris's Evangeline and Neil Young's Helpless, all backed by The Band. Of course, we contemporary viewers had no knowledge of all the glitches: technical and personal. There was the artistic disagreement between Robertson and Helm over the inclusion of Diamond with the possible exclusion of Muddy Waters and, indeed, the fact that at the 11th hour Dylan had to be begged to allow some of his appearance be filmed. Notwithstanding these little challenges, The Last Waltz has been recognised by the Library of Congress for its 'cultural and historical significance', with many considering it a masterpiece of rock cinema. In fact, Scorsese has opined that 'it was more than just a concert, it was an opera'. Hard to believe – even accept – that it is almost 50 years since the concert was held, even though all five members of the band have now floated off into the ether. However, it was so easy to fly back across the decades, indulge the openness and naivety of young adulthood again when Westport Town Hall Theatre showed the film recently. It was for a fundraiser for the annual Westival, which coincidentally was established as a little community arts festival in 1976. It has transformed into one of the many slick cultural gatherings throughout the country: key elements of the social and economic life of many towns. [ Bob Dylan announces gigs in Dublin, Killarney and Belfast as part of UK and Ireland tour Opens in new window ] As the heavy instrumentation of the theme tune rolled and then the stage opened to The Band's interpretation of Marvin Gaye's Baby Don't Do It, the impact of that first viewing came right back to me. In the 1970s, we might have all been collecting our vinyl records of Young's Harvest and Van Morrison's Moondance and dancing to Rory Gallagher and Led Zeppelin at hops and parties, but the visual narrative presented in this film defined an era in a visceral way. Isn't that undoubtedly an initiation young people of today do not experience? From such an early age they are exposed to a multicultural world through the dominance of mass media in their lives. Whether it is music, or all the other noises that are a constant soundtrack to their lives, it seems, from my perspective, that little causes surprises any more. The melee and mishmash of artistic offerings is relentless. As I immersed myself in the vibes of the 1970s, and swayed to its music, I was also brought back to an era during which our insularity was abandoned. We were beginning to leave the dance halls where our parents had stood, drinking their red lemonades, smoking their Sweet Afton cigarettes, attending sackcloth and ashes sermons by missioners during Lent. Instead we were heading to the amphitheatre around Slane Castle and the freedom of the Rolling Stones and a contrarian who was originally called Robert Zimmermann.

The Political Legacy of Jerry Garcia
The Political Legacy of Jerry Garcia

New York Times

time20-07-2025

  • Entertainment
  • New York Times

The Political Legacy of Jerry Garcia

Jerry Garcia, the iconic frontman for the Grateful Dead, remains, nearly 30 years after his death, a revered figure, singular in his approach to life and art. A multimillionaire by the time of his death, Mr. Garcia never lost his fundamental understanding of himself as a musician, which makes him among the most relatable, if misunderstood, figures of modern times. Much of the pull he continues to exert on the culture lies in the fact that his music and his life were an exploration of what it means to be free. He was not political, per se. Though he came of age as the American counterculture bloomed — and though he and the Dead stood at the center of many of that period's most memorable occasions — he did his best to shun politics as such. He disdained candidates, avoided campaigns. 'We would all like to live an uncluttered life,' Mr. Garcia said in 1967, 'a simple life, a good life, and think about moving the whole human race ahead a step.' Mr. Garcia lived among artists and built up a community around him that was, psychologically and in some ways practically, impervious to government power. The Haight-Ashbury district in San Francisco offered one early experiment in community organization; Dead shows in later years stood as a kind of traveling bubble of freewheeling creativity, dynamic hubs of music and art, blissfully insulated from the outside world. It was, to Mr. Garcia, a ride on the rails — a little dangerous but happily in motion and in contact with others. 'There's a lot of us,' Mr. Garcia said, 'moviemakers, musicians, painters, craftsmen of every sort, people doing all kinds of things. That's what we do. That's the way we live our lives.' Would you like to submit a Letter to the Editor? Use the form below to share your thoughts on this or any other piece published in The New York Times in the past seven days. If your submission is selected, an editor will contact you to review any necessary edits before publication. Most published letters will appear in both the online and print editions. Your submission must be exclusive to The New York Times. We do not publish open letters or third-party letters. Click here for more information about the selection process. Want all of The Times? Subscribe.

Why yoga is a breeding ground for fascists
Why yoga is a breeding ground for fascists

Telegraph

time18-07-2025

  • Entertainment
  • Telegraph

Why yoga is a breeding ground for fascists

What do you think about when you think about yoga? For most people, the word conjures pleasant images of people doing 'downward-facing dog' or 'warrior pose', with a vague air of Indian mysticism. But Stewart Home is not most people. To the man who may be Britain's most avant-garde writer and artist, yoga is a swindle that dupes the well-meaning middle classes. It's also a breeding ground for fascists. It isn't even particularly good for you. His new book, Fascist Yoga: Grifters, Occultists, White Supremacists and the New Order in Wellness, is a serious treatise on a zeitgeisty topic. This is unusual, as the 63-year-old Londoner, described on the jacket as 'a legend of counterculture', is best known for his controversial fiction. Among the highlights, if that's the right word, are 69 Things to do With a Dead Princess (2002) – which features a conspiracy theory that the dead body of Diana, Princess of Wales was driven around Grampian stone circles until it decomposed – and a parody of the London literati called C--t Lickers Anonymous (1996). Others in the Home backlist include Blow Job (1997), a pulpy tale of skinheads and anarchists, and C--t (1999), in which an author writes about tracking down the first 1,000 women he bedded and having sex with them again. Home has never troubled bestseller lists, and is still published by tiny independent houses, but he has become one of our best-known and most influential cult novelists. The Times Literary Supplement once said that 'Home's deliberately bad writing does for the novel form what Viz does for the comic strip'. Jenny Turner, a contributing editor at the London Review of Books, wrote in 2002: 'I really don't think anyone who is at all interested in the study of literature has any business not knowing the work of Stewart Home.' In particular, he's obsessed with slaughtering sacred cows. Take Art School Orgy (2023), which imagined a young David Hockney in all manner of depraved scenarios. 'I had [major] publishers interested,' he says. 'But they asked if I could change the names of the characters. It wouldn't have been very funny if I had.' (He claims that Hockney was amused.) 'People just freak out. 'You can't do that, [Hockney] is a national treasure!' But it was fine. You decide where you want to make compromises, and I'm less inclined to make them than some people.' I suggest to Home that this unwillingness to compromise with some of polite society's mores might be why he isn't more famous on the British literary scene, and with British readers, than somebody with his abilities and work-rate should be. He laughs. 'Probably. But it's just what happens. It'd be nice to have a bit more money coming in.' Anyway, the cultural mainstream is not for Home. I ask, for instance, how he feels about contemporary literary A-listers such as Sally Rooney and Jonathan Coe. 'I don't read any of that stuff. I've looked at the odd page of it, but it's just not my interest. I often read the first page of a book and then know 'Not for me, too literary – conventionally literary.' Right now, I'm reading the new Chris Kraus novel.' One former A-lister he has read, and intensely disliked, was Will Self. In the early 1990s, after Self criticised Home for giving his work a bad review in a newspaper column, Home handed out badges during a street protest that said 'Will Self is Stupid'. (The Self piece was apparently a case of mistaken identity: the offending review, in the NME, was written by the late Steven Wells.) Does Home still think Self is stupid? 'I don't think about him, to be honest. He married a good friend of mine, Deborah Orr, although I didn't see her when they got married. [She is] sadly dead.' Home's new book was conceived when he got into yoga – which he did for a startling reason. 'I wanted to read my books standing on my head,' he says earnestly. 'I would do a half-hour lecture standing on my head… I think it's reasonably safe, but as I got older I cut down on the amount of time I spent doing it. You can allow yourself to sink into your neck, which isn't very good.' (Home also paints standing on his head, with the brush put between his toes, and explains at length that it's best to do so in an attic room with a sloped roof.) So he joined classes at a municipal gym near his central London council flat. But he soon bristled at what he found to be a 'worldview grounded in essentialism and anti-empiricism'; he hated the 'occult-saturated health misinformation' that his instructors 'spewed forth'. They went on about how ancient the practice was, how important chakras were, and the remarkable benefits of doing these simple moves. 'I found some of what the yoga teacher said incredible,' he says. 'When you go back to the older sources for that stuff, they'll claim that a shoulder stand, or whatever, will cure leprosy. It's quite absurd.' View this post on Instagram A post shared by Stewart Home (@stewarthome1) Home also came to fear that something altogether more sinister was lurking beneath yoga's surface. He read about Eric Atwood, a far-Right provocateur who in 2016 was photographed in a newspaper in a half-lotus pose, his hands in prayer position with a neo-fascist Celtic-cross flag behind him and a 'Make America Great Again' cap resting on his right knee. So it was that Home, with literary élan, decided to investigate the origins of yoga and why it was seemingly so popular with such people. According to Home, the key character in the early development of yoga as we know it is Pierre Bernard, a self-styled American yogi dubbed 'The Great Oom', who operated at the beginning of the 20th century. Bernard was, Home says, in truth a Californian escapologist who sprinkled some 'orientalist fairy dust' on his circus moves and packaged it as a profound and ancient 'Aryan' practice. That tradition was picked up by the 20th century's fascists and neo-fascists, such as the Italian thinker Julius Evola – a favourite of the likes of Steve Bannon – who wrote guides to yoga and Hindu spirituality. All of this, according to Home, has trickled down into the attitudes of the 'crunchy moms' of West Coast America, who are sceptical of vaccines and love Robert F Kennedy Jr. In other words, being the sort of person that buys into yoga woo-woo is also the sort of person who might buy into conspiracy theories and extreme beliefs. It's exactly the sort of provocation out of which Home has made a career: something to make those who are immersed in a cultural mainstream that he regards as effete and onanistic clutch their pearls in horror. It can be difficult to know how sincerely any of Home's output is meant to be read. But Fascist Yoga approaches its subject with a seriousness that's palpably absent in Home's previous books. He admits that it has 'a bit more of a straighter edge… it just felt the right way to treat the material.' Home is fit, with the physique of a man a couple of decades his junior, as he demonstrates when, for our photographer, he holds the lotus pose for a long time in the hot London sun. 'I do tai chi, for my sins, which I enjoy – but I tend to stay away from teachers who start telling you how it's a 5,000-year-old tradition, because it isn't,' he says. 'I don't really understand why saying something is old makes it good. Someone had to invent it at some point and whether that was two weeks ago or 5,000 years ago doesn't make that much of a difference.' His upbringing may go some way to explaining the zaniness of his career. He was adopted as a baby and grew up in Merton, south-west London; by the age of about 12, he had developed 'a critical interest in the occult' and was reading books on the topic. His mother was a bohemian drug addict, and had worked at Murray's Cabaret Club at the same time as Christine Keeler. Home was briefly the bassist in a ska band, and by the end of the 1970s had begun writing fanzines and experimental texts. He has been a sui generis writer and artist ever since. As a non-mainstream Leftist – of that camp, but not a fan of the Labour Party – he has often been lumped in with anarchists, to his chagrin. In 1994, he wrote a column about them, at a time when the British tabloids were frantic that they might become violent insurrectionists. 'I was saying they couldn't organise a p--s-up in a brewery, which seemed to go down a lot worse with anarchists than saying they were a violent threat to society.' The piece led to people following him around London, and to the suspicious appearance of claims that he was an undercover police officer or a child trafficker. Home has since been more circumspect about revealing anything of his personal life. As we talk, we walk around Bunhill Fields, a burial ground on the fringe of the City of London, and the final resting place of Daniel Defoe and William Blake. The original plan had been to talk at his nearby flat, but Home didn't want to be photographed there, whether inside or outside it. And, given his writing has been full of bilious invective, he's surprisingly softly-spoken. So much of his work has been about sex. Dead Princess is highly pornographic; in some scenes, a ventriloquist's dummy gets involved. Doesn't he believe that some things in literature can be beyond the pale? 'I think some things are in bad taste. Racist jokes are in bad taste. Lots of things are in bad taste. But I don't necessarily believe the same things as other people. 'There's a lot of sexual repression now. I think we've been moving backwards, in that [literature about sex] is either divided into porn, or quite sanitised, in a lot of mainstream culture. And if I read my old books with younger audiences, and you just use words like 'C--t'…' He mock-gasps. C--t, he points out, 'is just a book, and it didn't get the same reaction at the time. As long as it's not used in a kind of misogynistic discourse, I don't have a huge problem with Anglo-Saxon. I think it depends on context as well. I think it would be quite hard to get a lot of the early books published now. It was very hard to get Art School Orgy published.' Home has often been accused of writing things that seem to make factual claims, yet are palpably untrue. Does objective reality matter? 'What I particularly enjoy doing is telling people things that are true and have them not believe me,' he replies. Is that because you have told so many untruths, I ask. 'Maybe. I'm not sure. I also enjoy people thinking something shouldn't exist.' Take the Necrocard, a joke organ-donor card for supporters of 'sexual liberation' for necrophiliacs; he devised that one after a friend needed a kidney transplant. An error by the printer meant that Home had about 50,000 of them, which he handed out to people in Soho. 'The local Aids hospice was desperate for as many as they could have,' he says with not a little relish. But when it comes to yoga, it's different. 'If people want to do yoga, I can't stop them, and I wouldn't want to stop them,' he says. 'But I think they should be informed about what it is, where it comes from and what the potential risks are of some moves.' For once, Stewart Home appears to be serious.

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