Chr Pow (kər pau)

Artist/Fucktard

[Soulwood_B @Soy_tuMamita]

La mejor explicación que he visto de lo que sucedió el 9/11.

[Alex Boge @alexboge]

I find these World Trade Center simulations by Kostack Studio fascinating because they remove the smoke and let you see the collapse much more clearly.

In the real footage, so much is hidden by fire, dust, debris, distance, and chaos that many people come away with the impression that the towers simply dropped straight down into their own footprints.

But that is not really what happened.

These simulations make it much easier to see that the collapse begins in the heavily damaged and fire-weakened region, the upper section starts moving and tilting, and the destruction then propagates downward through the structure.

The towers do not simply disappear vertically into their own footprints. Large portions of the upper structure and exterior are moving outward and to the side as the collapse develops. Much of that motion is simply obscured in the real videos once the enormous debris cloud forms.

And this is also why I find these simulations useful when people describe the collapses as looking like “controlled demolition.”

Strip away the smoke and dust and the resemblance becomes much less convincing.

What you see is a highly asymmetric structural failure beginning around the aircraft-damaged and fire-affected floors, followed by an enormous moving mass progressively overwhelming the structure beneath it. There is tilting, rotation, exterior columns peeling away, debris being thrown far outside the building footprint, and structural failure occurring chaotically as the collapse moves downward.

That is very different from the neat mental image usually implied by “controlled demolition,” where structural supports are deliberately severed in a carefully timed sequence to produce a predetermined collapse.

And importantly, we already know what preceded these collapses.

Both towers suffered massive aircraft-impact damage. Fireproofing was stripped from portions of the structure. Large, uncontrolled fires then burned across multiple floors - for about 56 minutes in the South Tower and about 102 minutes in the North Tower - heating and weakening structural components until collapse initiated.

Once that upper mass began moving, the loads imposed on the floors and structure beneath became vastly greater than anything they had been designed to carry.

The result was progressive collapse.

No, an animation is not proof simply because it looks convincing, and these are not official NIST simulations. They are visualizations built under particular assumptions.

But as visualizations, I think they are extremely useful.

They let you see something the original footage often cannot show clearly: beneath that enormous cloud of smoke and debris was a complicated, violent, asymmetric structural failure - not two buildings neatly dropping straight down into their own footprints.

A note on the simulation: this is not intended to reproduce the collapse down to the exact motion of every beam, floor panel, and fragment of debris. No practical simulation could do that. Its value is in modeling the large-scale structural behavior - how the major sections deform, move, tilt, separate, and progressively fail. Think of it as a visualization of the mechanics and overall collapse behavior, not a frame-by-frame reconstruction of where every piece of steel ultimately landed.

[ke-animator 🧪 @eviIdeadtwo]

imagine this being your first and only impression of director matt johnson

[Michelle #AmericaOnly🇺🇲 @MichelleRM68]

I've never heard of a more insanely fkd up idea for a school sanctioned field trip in my life, but this guy telling the story the way he did about it is PURE GOLD!!🤣👇

Hint: They went to pick cotton!🤯

[F♯A♯∞, fka ☕️ @coopercooperco]

1am and you know what that means. I’m thinking about one of the greatest guys to ever live: Mike Schank.

[SPIN @SPIN]

Call it an acquired taste, but Macy Gray’s voice sounds like it was made to sing Radiohead's "Creep."

(📹 via @macygray)

[Music over time🎻 @Peal8888]

Two Minutes. One Take. Nothing to Hide.

How does a two-minute performance, shot in a single unedited take back in December 1964, manage to paralyze a modern audience scrolling through hyper-edited, high-tech content?

There are no flashy stage lights, no frantic cuts, and no safety net for error. The camera simply rests on the artist, capturing a gaze so intensely human that it feels like witnessing an intimate secret. Every micro-expression and breath is laid bare, pulling us out of our digital fatigue into a moment of undivided presence.

To understand the weight of this clip, one must look at the constraints of 1960s television. Recording technology of the era offered no luxury for post-production trickery. Auto-tune did not exist, and editing magnetic tape was a painstaking process. A single-take performance meant the band, the lighting crew, and the vocalist had to hit absolute perfection simultaneously. Every high note and movement demanded uncompromising mastery at the exact instant the camera rolled.

Behind those smooth, effortless two minutes on screen lies a hidden reality of exhausting rehearsals and immense mental pressure. The serenity visible on the singer’s face was not born from chance, but forged through relentless discipline. A single blink off-tempo or a slight vocal slip near the final seconds meant scrapping the entire effort and restarting from zero. What appears to be pure spontaneous magic was actually a monument of quiet sacrifice by an entire crew.

This rare footage serves as a striking reminder of what makes human expression so compelling: pure, unfiltered sincerity. When an artist steps into the spotlight without the armor of modern edits or artificial polish, it creates an immediate, visceral connection that technology can never truly replicate.

In an era where filters dictate our visual language and every flaw is smoothed away before publication, this video stands out because of its bravery to be real. Modern content often confuses perfection with polish, yet true power lies in the courage to remain raw and vulnerable in front of an audience.

The enduring lesson here is simple yet profound: deep mastery and authentic emotion create timeless value. Instead of expending energy editing an idealized version of ourselves to fit transient trends, we build lasting impact by honing our core skills and embracing the unfiltered truth of our craft.

[John @d1052541]

THW SUPREMES "WHERE DID OUR LOVE GO" 1964
💥💥
Billboard Hot 100 No. 1, 💥

Baby, baby, baby don't leave me
Ooh, please don't leave me all by myself
I've got this burning, burning, yearning feelin' inside me
Ooh, deep inside me and it hurts so bad

[Seeds of the Soul @softhesoul136]

🎼🎤A truly outstanding, flawless performance—absolutely captivating!
🌷🎤The chemistry between the two of them is simply amazing!!!! 😍

[John @d1052541]

"Good Golly, Miss Molly" Little Richard. 1958💥💥💥

Written by John Marascalco💥

The song is ranked No. 92 on the Rolling Stone magazine's list of the 500 Greatest Songs of All Time.💥

[Emotion & Music @Emotion78687]

Cher Didn’t Need Auto-Tune to Prove What “Believe” Had Already Changed

“Believe” has a funny history.

In 1998, Cher walked into the future almost by accident. The strange, robotic vocal effect on the record was so unfamiliar that it became part of the song’s identity. It wasn't just a production trick. It became the sound of a new era of pop.

Twenty-six years later, at the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, Dua Lipa stood onstage and sang the song again.

Without that trick.

That is what caught my attention.

Dua takes the opening herself. The song sounds cleaner, warmer, more like a straight vocal performance than the record people grew up with. Then Cher appears for the bridge, and suddenly the performance stops being a young singer covering an older star.

It becomes something else.

You can hear the distance between them, but you don't hear a fight for ownership.

Dua doesn't try to impersonate Cher. That's important. Her voice sits differently — lower, smoother, more contemporary — so the first part almost feels like someone opening a door into a song she knows belongs to another generation.

Then Cher walks through it.

And now the same lyric has a different history behind it.

“Believe” was already a song about surviving the end of a relationship. In 1998, its futuristic production made that survival sound almost defiant: I'm hurt, but I'm moving forward.

In 2024, Cher is singing those words after a career that has survived fashion changes, musical fashions, film careers, television, reinvention and decades in which plenty of artists who were enormous for five years simply disappeared.

So when she sings the chorus now, I don't hear the question in quite the same way.

I hear evidence.

She really did survive.

There is also something beautifully backwards about the whole thing.

Dua Lipa belongs to the generation that inherited the pop world Cher helped reshape. Cher is standing beside her, singing a song whose production once sounded impossibly modern.

And the younger artist isn't introducing Cher to the future.

She's introducing the future to Cher.

That's why the performance works better than a conventional tribute would have.

A tribute can turn an artist into a museum piece. This doesn't.

Cher is not being presented as someone whose best work happened a long time ago. She is being placed inside the song again, next to an artist who grew up in a musical world that Cher helped make possible.

Even the missing Auto-Tune feels appropriate.

The original record needed technology to make people hear something new.

Cher doesn't need it anymore.

The song has already done its job.

The machine became ordinary.

The woman who used it became the landmark.

And perhaps that is the most satisfying part of watching Cher sing “Believe” in 2024.

Dua Lipa can sing the song beautifully.

But when Cher arrives, you suddenly remember something that has nothing to do with vocal technique.

**Some artists don't need to sound like the future.

They become part of the reason the future sounds the way it does.**

[Music over time🎻 @Peal8888]

Why Does This Simple Performance Still Hit So Hard?

Beverley Craven sits at a piano and sings “Promise Me.” That is almost the whole performance.

There is no big band filling every space, no complicated staging, and no attempt to turn the song into a huge vocal showcase. She is wearing a dark dress, sitting behind the piano at Birmingham Symphony Hall in 1992, and for most of the song, you are simply watching her play and sing. It sounds very simple, but that is probably why this recording has lasted so well.

“Promise Me” was already a hit in the UK by then, but hearing it this way makes you notice things that can get lost in a polished studio recording. Craven leaves the breaths in her voice. She doesn't rush the longer notes, and sometimes there is a little pause before she continues. She looks down at the keys, then back toward the audience. Nothing seems carefully designed to tell you, “This is the emotional part.” The song is allowed to do that on its own.

And the words are surprisingly direct. She isn't trying to explain a complicated relationship. Someone is about to leave, and she wants a promise before they go. That is a very ordinary human feeling. When you know you can't change someone's mind, sometimes all you can do is ask them for one thing to hold on to.

That may be why people keep coming back to this performance.

The comments under old recordings like this are full of people who heard the song decades ago and suddenly found themselves back in another part of their life. Someone remembers a breakup. Someone remembers being young. Someone heard it on the radio while studying. Someone connects it with a person they haven't seen in years. There are also people discovering Craven through YouTube who somehow know the melody already, even if they couldn't have told you who sang it.

That is one of the interesting things about old music. A song can disappear from everyday conversation without disappearing from people's memories.

Watching Craven in 1992, she is still young, but the song doesn't feel young. It has that slightly uncomfortable honesty that comes with knowing someone might walk away and you have no way to stop them. She doesn't need to act heartbroken for us to understand it. She just sings the words and lets the piano sit underneath them.

More than thirty years later, that still feels refreshing.

There are performances where the singer tries to make you remember the performance. This one does something different. It makes you remember the song, and maybe, if you have lived long enough, the person or the moment you once connected it with.

Sometimes that is enough.

[Wesley Hunt @WesleyHuntTX]

This is the definitive rendition of our National Anthem. Whitney Houston didn’t just sing it—she made us feel it. Patriotism. Pride. Purpose.

A moment that reminded us why we love this country.

Happy Birthday, America. 🇺🇸

[The Whitney Houston Platinum Club @WhitneyPlatinum]

Whitney Houston ‘How Will I Know’ live 1986

[🦋 🌷Love Music 🎶 & Dance 💃🏻🕺🏻 @Tiana_Celine_23]

Why Rita Moreno Still Stops You Cold

Some clips age. This one doesn’t.

In 1976, Rita Moreno walked onto The Muppet Show in a red dress and sang Fever while Animal tried to beat the drums into dust. The song is about heat. The show is for families. That should have been a problem. It wasn’t. She made it look easy.

She doesn’t just look beautiful in the clip. She looks in charge. The hair, the dress, the way she holds still and then moves — none of it feels decorative. It feels like a person who knows exactly how much space she is allowed to take, and then takes a little more.

What still works is the mix. She can be glamorous and funny in the same breath. She sings the song like she means it, then turns on Animal, scolds him in Spanish, grabs his head, and tells him to cool it. Later she slams the cymbals on him. He falls over and says, “That’s my kind of woman.” The joke lands because she never begs for it. She stays in control until the last second.

That control is the point. Plenty of stars can look good on camera. Fewer can look good next to a wild puppet and still feel like the most adult person in the room. Moreno doesn’t protect her glamour. She uses it. She lets the scene get messy, then she ends it on her terms.

The performance also explains why the clip keeps coming back almost fifty years later. It is sexy without being cheap, comic without being silly, and polished without going cold. Children can watch the chaos. Adults can see the craft. Both remember her.

By then she already had an Oscar, a Tony, and a Grammy. This episode gave her an Emmy. Awards are not why the video still travels. The reason is simpler. She had presence. Not the kind that asks to be liked. The kind that makes you watch until the last line.

Rita Moreno did not stay famous because she stayed young. She stayed interesting because she never made herself smaller. In that red dress, in front of a Muppet drummer, she looks like a woman who can sing, joke, command, and walk away. That is still rare. That is why the clip still works.

[𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐜 𝐕𝐢𝐛𝐞𝐬 ❤️ @NgocThach74]

❤️The relationship between the original artist, Dolly Parton, and the legendary Whitney Houston stands as one of the most beautiful and gracious stories in music history.

Far from the envy often seen in the industry, Dolly always held Whitney in the highest regard.

She once shared a moving memory of hearing the cover on the radio for the first time; when Whitney’s voice soared, Dolly had to pull her car over immediately and burst into tears, overwhelmed by how the song had been elevated beyond her wildest imagination.

For decades, Dolly maintained that Whitney never "stole" the song; rather, the late diva transformed her intimate, personal sentiment into a monumental global anthem.

This mutual respect culminated at the 1994 Grammy Awards, where Dolly Parton herself presented the prestigious golden trophy to Whitney Houston.

That night, Whitney also made history with her "white dress" performance—widely considered the greatest live vocal performance of all time. Appearing like a goddess in a pristine white mermaid gown atop a raised circular platform, she performed on a minimalist stage that allowed the audience to focus entirely on her soulful gaze and soaring vocals.

The performance served as a masterclass in vocal technique, showcasing an artist at the absolute peak of her powers.

Whitney opened with a breathtaking, nearly 45-second a cappella section, demonstrating flawless pitch control as she seamlessly locked in with the instrumentation that followed. During the climax, she employed open-throat technique and Gospel-style melisma to unleash rich, bright, and powerful belted notes.

The most powerful moment occurred when the music suddenly paused for a few seconds, giving way to a massive E-flat (Eb5) note on the words "And I..." With boundless breath support and natural vibrato, that magnificent sustained note swept through the auditorium like a tidal wave of sound, leaving even the seasoned stars in the audience awestruck.

Her performance at the 1994 Grammys was a perfect blend of dazzling beauty, consummate vocal technique, and heartfelt emotion.

When Whitney passed away suddenly in 2012, Dolly Parton bade her farewell with a tearful tribute, affirming that she would always love her.

The profound, soulful connection between the songwriter and the singer transformed "I Will Always Love You" into an immortal legend—a musical sanctuary that the world continues to revere with awe to this day.

------------------------------

[Music transcends @ngoclinh62w1]

Some voices come along once in a lifetime. Whitney Houston was one of them. ❤️ At just 35, she stood on the VH1 Divas Live stage in 1999 and delivered I Will Always Love You with breathtaking power. Simply unforgettable. 🎤✨

[Melodies & Masterpieces @SVG__Collection]

Remembering the great Catarina Valente, who passed away 2 years ago today.

[𝗧𝗶𝗺𝗲𝗹𝗲𝘀𝘀 𝗠𝘂𝘀𝗶𝗰 ✨🎵 @Hoang_HQ]

Everybody watches Plant cry. I watch the drummer.

Ann Wilson’s vocal. The choir. The balcony. All of that is in the clip. What gets me is the kit at the back.

John Bonham died in 1980 and took the band with him. Thirty-two years later his son walks out at the Kennedy Center in his father’s bowler hat and sits in the only seat that was never filled. When Jason finally opens up the drums, it doesn’t sound like a cover finding its climax. It sounds like a pulse coming back into a room that had learned to live without it.

That’s when the strings and the choir stop being decoration. They’re the size of the absence.

I don’t think Plant was only crying at the song. I think he was looking at a kid who used to run around rehearsal, now keeping his father’s time in front of the men who survived it.

Heart · Stairway to Heaven
Kennedy Center Honors, 2012

Jason Bonham on drums.

Some tributes honor a catalog.

This one honors a vacant chair.

[Sangita Myska @SangitaMyska]

Do yourself a favour and watch this: when young people hear Dolly Parton for the first time 💖