There are a lot of headbands in the National Basketball Association. And socks and towels and jerseys. And on every one of them; in fact on just about all things NBA, there is the logo. You know the one. It’s one of the most recognized images in the world. And anyone who has the slightest interest in basketball knows that the guy in the image is Jerry West. Everyone, that is, except the NBA, which tends to hedge questions about the logo saying that they don’t have a record of who it is.

How is it possible that we all know it’s Jerry West, but someone whose job is to run the NBA is unsure? It’s not. League officials know as well as anyone who the logo is modeled after, but they want to move away from the idea that it is a specific person.

“They want to institutionalize it rather than individualize it,” says the logo’s designer Alan Siegel, in an interview with the L.A. Times. “It’s become such a ubiquitous, classic symbol and focal point of their identity and their licensing program that they don’t necessarily want to identify it with one player.”

Siegel, who designed the mark in 1969 has no confusion about who the player on the logo is saying, “It’s Jerry West.”

Assigned the job of designing a logo for the NBA, Siegel was flipping through photos when he came across one of West that suited him. He used the image to create the logo. No big story, no confusion, it’s West.

A Swing and a Miss
A slightly more interesting story of sports logos is that of Major League Baseball. The current design pre-dates the NBA logo by one year and presumably provided inspiration for the West design as Siegel also worked for the firm that created the MLB logo and the designs share several similarities. With the baseball design however, it’s understood that the logo is not a specific person, but a nondescript generalization with an added bonus that the silhouetted image can be seen as either a right-handed or left-handed batter.

It’s a brilliant and oft-imitated design that has inspired countless creations, and it was created in one afternoon, with magic markers, by graphic designer Jerry Dior. And that’s where this story gets good. Well, it used to be where the story got good, but now the situation has resolved itself a bit.

For 40 years, Jerry Dior wasn’t publicly acknowledged for his massive contribution to professional baseball. While graphic designers often go unrecognized for their work, Dior had expressed that it would be nice to get some kind of acknowledgment for his long-standing design. Nothing major; maybe throw out a pitch or something. In 2009, Dior got his wish. He was recognized in a pre-game presentation in Yankee Stadium.

Of Dior’s design and his long-awaited acknowledgment, baseball commissioner Allan H. Selig said, “Jerry Dior created a symbol that has stood the test of time…the silhouetted batter is instantly recognized worldwide as the official emblem of Major League Baseball. I’m glad that we have been able to acknowledge Mr. Dior’s contribution to our national pastime.”

Of the honor Dior said, “I would like to thank everyone at Major League Baseball for making this day possible. This is one of the most exciting days of my life.”

In an interview with MLB.com, Dior expressed his pride in the longevity of his design. “Every other design I’ve done has been dropped or changed or updated over the years,” he said. “This is the only thing I can point to that hasn’t changed in 40 years. It’s the proudest I’ve ever been of my work.”

So there you have it: the guy who designed the MLB logo is Jerry Dior and the guy on the NBA logo really is Jerry West. Now go outside and play.

What name do you associate with the “We Can Do It” poster? Rosie the Riveter? Yeah, me too; until recently, anyway. Turns out, we’re wrong. Kind of. The iconic image captures an era and serves to remind us of a great—though somewhat unintentional—wave of American feminism that will always be associated with Rosie the Riveter, but, it’s not Rosie.

Let’s start at the beginning. In the early 1940s, as U.S. men were enlisting en masse to fight in World War II, there was a shortage of workers in the munitions-providing, industrial labor force, and women were called upon to enter the workplace, or take on new duties therein. It was quite a transition to go from homemaker to airplane maker or laundry attendant to steel worker and a propaganda project called the “War Production Coordinating Campaign” was created to inspire and motivate women to take on these new positions, and to encourage the support of their sometimes reluctant families. Much of the campaign consisted of posters displayed throughout towns and workplaces, and women responded. They took on all types of jobs from office and clerical work to factories where they welded, riveted, drilled, pressed metal, ran assembly lines and more.

In 1942, inspired by Rosalind P. Walter, a wealthy woman who took a night shift at an airplane-building factory, songwriters Redd Evans and John Jacob Loeb wrote a song entitled “Rosie the Riveter,” which celebrated the strength and dedication of the women who had embraced the war-time challenge. With lines like: She’s making history / Working for victory and Keeps a sharp lookout for sabotage / Sitting up there on the fuselage, it became a popular favorite and was recorded by numerous artists.

Around the same time, the Westinghouse Corporation in Pittsburgh, Pa. hired artist J. Howard Miller to create a series of in-house posters to encourage participation in the war effort. One of his creations, which never left the building, was the “We Can Do It” poster. Modeled after one Geraldine Doyle, a Michigan factory worker who spent only a few weeks in the factory (she feared injury to her cello-playing hands), and didn’t know that she was the inspiration for the image until the mid-1980s, the poster had a surprisingly short and unremarkable life. It was displayed on the factory wall for only two weeks and then retired to a box, where it sat for 30-plus years until the 1970s, when it was rediscovered and re-imagined as the iconic Rosie the Riveter.

But fear not, there is an image of Rosie the Riveter. In 1943, Norman Rockwell created an image for the Saturday Evening Post that is a direct tribute to Rosie (check out the lunchbox and riveting gun). It’s also a stylized recreation of Michelangelo’s Isaiah as painted on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. From the buff physique and placement of the arms to the slight lean and crossed feet, Rockwell is obviously referencing Michelangelo’s creation; a fact which certainly has unexamined historical and cultural implications…but that’s for another day.

At the time of Rockwell’s Rosie painting (which incidentally, fetched $4.95 million at a 2002 auction), Saturday Evening Post circulation was over 3 million. Apparently it was this mass distribution of Rockwell’s Rosie the Riveter image that the term “Rosie” came to mean all of the women who had taken on factory and industrial work during the war. However, a copyright on Rockwell’s work limited future distribution of the image and relegated it to the realm of coffee-table books, whereas the lack of copyright on Miller’s poster allowed for widespread—albeit delayed—dissemination of the now ubiquitous image. From keychains and mugs to magnets, t-shirts and buttons, Miller’s “We Can Do It” woman has become a reminder of the strength and spirit of Rosie the Riveter. But…Rosie, she is not.

Maybe you don’t know Nudie suits by name, but you almost certainly have seen them. Lots of them. They’re those classic—and totally over-the-top—Western-style dress suits that are adorned with such images as wagon wheels, cacti, crosses, naked women, guitars, horses and marijuana leaves; made from colorful cloth and a generous helping of rhinestones. They’ve been worn by some of the biggest rock and country stars of the last century, from Hank the first, Roy Rogers and Porter Wagoner to the Burrito Brothers, Elvis Presley and the guys from Wilco. To rock a Nudie suit is to give a humongous nod to the golden age of country music, the glam-fabulousness of TV-era Hollywood and a tailor whose creative vision launched an entertainment revolution.

Born 1902 in Kiev, Russia, Nudie Cohn (born Nuta Kotlyarenko) spent his boyhood years learning the garment business as a tailor’s apprentice. At age 11, to escape the Antisemitic violence of Czarist Russia, he was sent with his brother to live in America. The story goes that he traveled around the country working odd jobs including shoeshine boy, and later, a stint as professional boxer. In 1934 he married Helen “Bobbie” Kruger and the couple moved to New York City and opened Nudie’s for the Ladies; a shop specializing in custom undergarments for showgirls. The move proved to be the first step on a path that would lead the Cohns to fashion and trend-setting greatness.

The Nudie showgirl garments—think blinged-out g-strings and brassieres—provided plenty of sparkle and pizazz for the girls’ stage show, and when the Nudies moved to Los Angeles several years later, Nudie took his reputation for flash and his knack for bedazzling along with him. Credited as being the first to adorn a Western suit with rhinestones, Nudie combined his fascination with Americana with his deft skills as a tailor and set out to clothe the cowboy stars of Southern California.

The Cohns originally approached—and landed—country notables Spade Cooley, Lefty Frizzell and Tex Williams as clients of their business and models for their new, eye-catching ensembles. Encouraged by their success and rolling with momentum, they established a shop—originally called Nudie’s of Hollywood, and later changed to Nudie’s Rodeo Tailors—in North Hollywood, and set out to catch two of the biggest fish in the pond; the singing cowboy Roy Rogers and his wife and co-star Dale Evans. They eventually met and developed a life-long friendship with the two and secured the position of custom tailor to the cowboy power-couple of stage and screen, outfitting them for just about every major appearance that they made.

Photo by romana klee on Flickr

From there, the floodgates opened and Nudie’s started designing and making suits for a star-studded roster of clients that included John Wayne, Gene Autry, Hank Williams, John Lennon, Cher, Elton John, Webb Pierce, Elvis Presley, Steve McQueen, Hank Snow, ZZ Top, America and Gram Parsons, among countless others. Cohn’s flamboyant, one-of-a-kind outfits were soon on the lips and backs of stars of all make, and he became one of the most sought-after clothiers in Los Angeles; the King of Western Wear. He had successfully blurred the lines of the entertainment style world and his suits were seen on stages, red carpets, televisions and big screens everywhere. Buck Owens and Roy Rogers, long-time appreciators of the Cohns and their creations, are said to have worn Nudie suits to their final resting places.

With the wild success of Nudie suits, Cohn became a high-profile fellow regularly seen rocking his own lively suits. He made a point however, of wearing colorful, yet mismatched boots with his outfits to remind himself of his humble beginnings; that there was a time that he could not even afford matching shoes.

In 1984, when Nudie Cohn passed away, Dale Evans gave the eulogy to a packed house of just about everyone the Nudies had ever clothed. For ten years after Nudie’s death, Bobbie kept the shop going, but in 1994 they closed the doors, laying to rest the incredible tale of a visionary man who was able to clothe an era, and leave behind a legacy of inimitable brilliance.

That being said, I’m one of the sad sacks he was talking about who’s in a bit of a nostalgic haze regarding pennies. Pulling them out of circulation would, in my mind, further close the door on an era and way of life that I would rather not see go by the wayside. I’m not talking about those new, unnaturally shiny things that are being churned out today, I’m talking about the good old copper workhorses that have seen us through a depression, war and peace, some dark days of injustice, and some glorious times filled with hope. They’re small enough that everyone had them, and they’re sturdy enough that the one that was clung to during the depression, may be the same one that’s in your pocket right now. That, in my mind, is very cool. Just think about all of the things that an old penny has been through. I like to imagine a time when you could walk into a diner and, for a few pennies, get a cup of coffee, some pie, and leave a little tip.

The head teller at my bank assures me that she’s heard nothing about the discontinuation of pennies, and if it ever were to happen, it would be many years down the road, so I shouldn’t worry. I guess I’ll just have to wait and see.

I imagine that my appreciation of pennies started when I was a kid, and a penny in hand meant that you could buy a gumball at the next stop. But, my real appreciation of them came when, several years ago, a young friend of mine turned me onto the idea of collecting wheatbacks: you know, the pennies with the two stalks of wheat on the reverse side? The ones that aren’t too common, but still pop up from time to time? The ones that you probably haven’t given much thought to? Yeah, those. They’re called wheatbacks, or wheaties or wheat heads or wheat pennies, and they actually have a pretty interesting story.

One cent coins have existed in the U.S. since 1793, and have gone through a variety of designs, from wreaths and eagles, to coronets and heads. Not unlike today, when new designs were released, the public either disliked or approved of the coins, and the designs either had a short run—the Flowing Hair series ended within a year—or decades-long runs—the Indian Head penny lasted 50 years.

Introduced by then president Theodore Roosevelt in 1909, wheatbacks were created to commemorate the centennial of Abraham Lincoln’s birthday. He hired sculptor Victor D. Brenner to design the new coin, and here’s where the story gets interesting: Brenner included his initials, VDB, on the design, which was an ordinary practice among coin and other die designers, but for some reason, inclusion of his VDB was met with public outcry. Some objected that he was simply a workman doing his job and shouldn’t be acknowledged on the coin, others were concerned that the meaning of the VDB had some caballistic undertone that was of questionable intent, some Southerners did not take kindly to having Lincoln on their penny, and some complained that the wheat stalks were not an accurate visual representation of the grain. All in all, the wheatback penny, while being quickly scooped up by collectors and Lincoln appreciators, was the cause of much scandal, and provoked many cries for recall.

Brenner defended the placement of his initials as quite commonplace, his design of the wheat stalks well-planned and intentional, and an overall surprise at the furor. Although a recall never came, Brenner’s initials were removed from future pressings of the penny.

In 1918, presumably after the hubub had died down, and to acknowledge the craftsmanship of the design, Brenner’s initials were restored to the penny; this time on the obverse side, below Lincoln’s shoulder. In 1959, in honor of the sesquicentennial of Lincoln’s birth, the wheat stalks were replaced by an image of the Lincoln Memorial, moving the good old wheaties to the annals of history and numismatics, the study of currency.

See? There’s some history there, and an interesting story surrounding pennies. I imagine that they will disappear at some point; it being a bit absurd to spend twice as much as they’re worth to make them. And, unlike the original, 100% copper pennies, the new ones are only 2% copper. They’re mostly made of zinc. Kind of kills the romance doesn’t it? But, for the time being, I’ll keep collecting my little wheatbacks and enjoying the idea that there was a time that a handful of pennies could keep you happy and well-fed.

And by the way, I’m missing a pocket of the early-era wheatbacks – my oldest one is from 1919. So keep an eye out for me, will you? Cheers.

The other night as I was watching the World Series, I got to thinking about the baseball days of old, and the fact that the original players wore uniforms made entirely out of wool. Curled up in a sweater on a cool autumn evening is one thing, but imagine playing baseball on a blisteringly-hot summer day in middle America, being beat by the sun for hours on end, dressed from head to toe in wool.

Photos of early ball players however, don’t show them looking hot and miserable; they generally have a very focused, sepia-toned look of satisfaction about them. Perhaps the still-decades-away emergence of synthetic sporting materials, as well as the fact that they were being paid to travel and play baseball, provided a veil of acceptance around the fact that they were outfitted in the warmest, and perhaps itchiest material available.

Wanting to find out more about the old-time players and their uniforms, I started noodling around online, and it dawned on me that the history of baseball uniforms is a tale rich in typography. Now, I’ve been accused of being hypersensitive to the ubiquitous nature of typography, and as I’ve stated here before, I’ve made many an uninterested eye glaze over when I start in about striking serifs and elegant descenders, but really, baseball is filled with great lettering: the Gothic definitiveness of the Detroit “D”; the interlocked “SF” of the Giants and “NY” of the Yankees; the classic White Sox stacked lettering; the playful halo atop the Angels “A”; the cool “MB” glove image of the Brewers. On and on it goes; every team has a logo and every logo a story, stretching all the way back to baseball’s early days.

In the 19th century, when wool uniforms reigned supreme, it wasn’t uncommon for teams to have jerseys with no lettering or logo whatsoever, and a lot of teams were identified by the color of their socks; hence the Red Sox, White Sox thing. Once clubs adopted the idea of using lettering to distinguish themselves, they generally opted to display a single letter on the front of their jerseys. In most cases, the letter was in Old English type, and was the first letter of the club’s hometown; presumably to serve as a reminder to crowds, as to where their team’s competition hailed from. Home jerseys were oftentimes void of any lettering, the assumption being that crowds knew where their team was from. The single-letter approach eventually evolved into displaying town names in their entirety across the front of jerseys.

In what must have been a long name/mother-of-invention solution, many of the hometown names were in block letters in a sort of rainbow layout, with really long names forming a really tall rainbow. Somewhere along the line, however, someone figured out that it looked really cool, and you could squeeze more letters onto a jersey if you used a script typeface and angled the word up a bit. Both block letter and script-style lettering were widely used by clubs around the country, and served to establish the classic baseball look, which still very much informs team designs today.

From little league to the majors, the classic, type-centric designs (Gothic, block, script etc.) of the days-of-old, represent integrity, style and tradition, and have become revered elements of American sports culture. Though some clubs have chosen to create a more image-based logo for merchandise and advertising, many teams still have the classic monogram on their jerseys and caps.

Baseball caps, which were initially of the full-brimmed and straw variety went through a couple of material mishaps before landing on—you guessed it—good old wool. Some of these early woolen designs had a bit of a pillbox shape going on, and some had a Little Rascals, how-does-it-stay-on look about them, but for all the decades of experimentation (somehow, the see-through green visor just never caught on) the tried-and-true, cap-with-a-bill model has remained. And on the front of those caps, for all to see, is a typographic reference to the team; sports Americana at its finest.

I imagine that what makes something classic is the fact that it works, and has held its own against the passing of time—much like baseball, wool, billed caps and typography. In a day of synthetic and instant everything, it’s nice to be able to reach for something with some history; some roots; some substance. And by the way, keep your eyes open and you’ll see it too: typography really is everywhere.

They are intelligent and well-read, and they are dangerous. You may stand a chance against one of them, if you have your wits and a sharpened tool about you, but to encounter them in their natural environment—where they tend to gather in large numbers to challenge the dominant members for status, and re-structure their hierarchy—is certain to elicit your fight-or-flight response, wherein your heart races, palms sweat and breathing quickens, as adrenaline courses through your body, and you realize that you are far from your natural element of leisurely mornings at the coffee-shop with the Monday Times.

The roots of this subculture extend all the way back to the late 1800s in Italy, when a cryptic puzzle was created and circulated under the seemingly innocuous title, “To Pass the Time.” Little was heard again until a modified puzzle emerged in England in 1913, when a man named Arthur Wynn—a clever, yet, presumably, slightly sadistic journalist—created a puzzle that was published in the New York World, and received into society; thus successfully rooting the original members of this subversive underworld on American soil.

The cryptic culture continued to grow, and its methods of communicating spread to other publications, creating what can safely be described as a cultural takeover. The 1920s were hit so hard by the craze that even the sanctity of the public libraries was not immune to the intellectual show-boating among the self-appointed members. The dictionary and encyclopedia sections were so crowded and overused in the members’ pursuit of increased status, that “legitimate readers,” needing to do serious research, were being pushed out; victims of the cult that had, by now, established itself around the country.

It was when books, specifically for this subculture, came into publication, that those in opposition to this “fad” became more vocal about the negative effect that the rapidly-spreading movement was having on decent society. It was called a “sinful waste” and “the mark of a childish mentality.” It was also predicted—incorrectly, it turns out—that this cultural craze, in its entirety, would be short-lived, and was, in fact, already dying out.

History has proven, however, that this cultural movement was far from a fad. It has established a choke-hold on millions of good people who lead otherwise normal lives. As is generally the case with addictive relationships, users are drawn toward better, faster, keener, and more. In fact, for many members of this now all-pervasive element, there is a daily need for gratification, and all of the unbecoming qualities that come with a dependent being denied his or her substance. And no one—from politicians and truck drivers, to students, business-types and artists—is safe from its grasp.

And, as if one country weren’t enough, the subculture has spread worldwide. There are differences in layout and languages, but the principle is the same: the takeover of otherwise healthy minds, with cryptic messages in need of solving. Be it for two minutes or two hours, the workings of this secret, frustratingly organized society are a force that should not be taken lightly. Its leaders are very different from you and me. Their minds see things in ways that most of good people don’t. And don’t make the mistake of underestimating the underlings. They are sharp, ambitious, and will do just about anything to advance their standing.

Talk to your kids about the dangers of becoming involved, even peripherally, with this group of people. Beware of the intensity and persistence of the movement’s lure—it is a wolf in sheep’s clothing. And keep an eye on your neighbors. Incredible amounts of cryptic information can be passed to millions of people without a single word ever being spoken. The best way to protect your family is to be a proactive lookout. Remember: these people can, and will, outsmart you, and they are everywhere.

Good luck, and may your wits be about you.

From the outside, it appears that the collector has such a deep appreciation of the object that the acquisition of it fills what would otherwise be a void in mind, body and soul. I’ve come to realize, however, that in many cases, what is more valuable than the object itself, is the story that the holder of the object can tell.

Think about it. What do you do after you’ve acquired that one piece that you’ve always wanted in your collection? If you’re like me, with a seemingly insatiable desire for music, you swoon over it for a moment, perhaps give it a spin or two and then put it on the shelf with the other albums. But, by acquiring the piece, you’ve joined the club of people who have experienced, and can tell first-hand, the story of that piece. And that, in many instances, is more valuable than the piece itself. I’m thinking here about a rare record, a collectible trading card, or a numbered print; something that is cool to own, and perhaps a bit hard to come by, but not outrageously expensive.

Then there are the items that drive collectors crazy; those pieces whose monetary value goes so far beyond any satisfaction you could possibly glean from bragging rights, that it approaches the absurd: an un-pasted copy of the Beatles “Butcher Cover,” an Action Comics #1 in mint condition, or, the hero of our story: a little stamp with an upside down airplane on it, known affectionately as the Inverted Jenny.

In 1918, the U.S. Postal Service inaugurated its air service. To commemorate the historic event, they released a stamp with the image of a Curtiss Jenny—the bi-plane chosen to transport the mail—on it.

In a twist of fate, the little stamp that may well have gone on to the annals of postal obscurity, has instead inspired multi-million dollar deals, and solidified itself as one of the most famous images in the history of collecting, as a sheet of the commemorative stamps was printed and sold with the image of the plane inverted.

You have to look closely to spot the error, but once you do, it’s obvious that the plane is upside-down; an error that keeps auction-types on their toes, and poor collectors in what can only be a state of resignation, that the coveted piece will, most probably, never be theirs. Single Inverted Jennys regularly fetch nearly a million dollars at auction, and a block of four stamps sold, in 2005, for $2.7 million.

Back in the day, inverted stamps were not terribly uncommon. When two colors were used on a printing press, the paper—in this case a sheet of stamps—had to be fed through twice; once for each color. If you’ve ever tried to make double-sided copies of something, you know that getting it right can be an exercise in trial and error, and that you usually end up sending a couple of trials to the recycling bin. It’s kind of like that.

Printing errors happen. The throwaways are scrapped, and the intended prints are kept. The story of the Inverted Jenny, is that the printers caught their mistake early in the run, and destroyed at least three sheets. But one sheet slipped through, and was purchased, at his local post office, by a collector by the name of W.T. Robey, who, interestingly enough, had mentioned to another collector friend that he should be on the lookout for inverted stamps.

When Robey requested a sheet of the commemorative stamps and spotted the inverts, his “heart stood still” and he asked to see the other sheets, all of which had the intended, right-side-up design. The story gets a bit vague here, as Robey told a few different versions of it, but apparently the next week included contact with journalists, collectors, and the postal inspector, and the hiding of the now-famous sheet, before he sold it for $15,000 to someone who immediately flipped it for $20,000.

The third owner was advised that the stamps would be worth more split up than in a sheet, so a block of eight and several blocks of four were pulled out, and the rest of the stamps pieced off to collectors individually, thus furthering the allure of one of the great stories in postal (and printing) history.

What sets collectible, inverted stamps apart from their printer’s scrap pile counterparts is the fact that they were, at some point, sold to the public; an occurrence that holds a regular spot in postal lore. There are stories from around the world of mis-printed stamps that have slipped past the eye of the printer and out into the public, but none—from what this non-philatelist can tell—more famous than the Inverted Jenny.

This is the kind of tale that collectors live for. The stamp, in and of itself, would not even get your letter from here to there. The entire value of the Inverted Jenny is in its story, and what a great story it is. The question is: would you pay a million dollars to tell it?

Our mall trips generally involved doing a whole lot of nothing, but there were three stops that made a day at the mall something to look forward to all week: a visit to the photo booth, a flip through the records at Woolworth’s and a stop at the Keyhole; that muggy little shop that was packed from floor-to-ceiling with novelty and rock paraphernalia.

The Keyhole had all the things that kids loved and parents hated; candy cigarettes, those screaming-whistle things, black light posters and bulbs, silky banners of the latest artists, tattoo magazines, gag gifts, and the reason for my regular visits: band buttons.

They had several spinning displays that had so many different buttons on them that they overlapped and concealed each other. They had buttons from every band and musician that I loved: Michael Jackson, Duran Duran, the Thompson Twins, Culture Club, the Cure, Depeche Mode, the Police, and so on.

The buttons were cheap enough that I could pick up one or two each visit, but their cultural significance greatly outweighed their kid-friendly price. As I’m sure you remember, adolescent culture pushes you to define yourself, yet it doesn’t provide the funds or freedom that such a massive undertaking requires. Opportunities to create an independent reality are few and far between, but music—and the cultures that spring up around it—provides a nice little portal of entry into self-exploration and expression.

I see this happening with my young friends. They gravitate toward music that speaks to them; that gives them a glimpse into different realities; that gets them moving down the intimidating-yet-exhilarating road of self-determination. And, since listening to music is a one-way affair, they start expressing their new-found musical freedom through the means that are available to them: writing on binders, jeans and shoes, buying t-shirts of their favorite artists, going to shows, and wearing band buttons; those perfect little totems of music fandom.

Band buttons are utilitarian, and the greatest tool of advertising and expression in the history of music scenes. I often marvel at the fact that you can tell so much about a person by the music that they listen to, and what better way to get right to the chase than to just wear your favorite bands on your clothing? I don’t even have to say, “I like the Black Keys.” It’s right there on my favorite jacket, next to the Cure and Neko Case buttons. But that particular combination is just one of many possible combinations. I have a bunch of buttons that regularly rotate around my hoodies, t-shirts, jeans and bags. The colors can be utilized to make anything look like an outfit, and their mere presence never fails to open up interesting conversations about music.

As far as I can tell, buttons were first created for political purposes and were originally made of different metals, with designs printed right onto them. The game changed when cellulose hit the scene. The protective coating it provided meant that images could be printed on paper, and then sealed around a button. This technique allowed for an increase in the colors, details, text and price of buttons. Suddenly, anyone could become a button-maker.

Somewhere around the time of the early Beatles, buttons became a widespread pop-culture phenomenon. The peace sign, the happy face, the “War is Not Healthy”; it was an explosion of self-expression that was accessible to everyone. Bands, artists, activists, individuals and companies started using buttons to further their cause.

Buttons started out pretty humble in size. Some of the early political ones are tiny. Then they moved a bit bigger with 2 and 3 inch buttons. Then, in a slightly unfortunate move, they became enormous, and every mom in the bleachers had a button of her kid’s face taking up a good 5 inches across her chest. I think that there was a collective-conscious decision made, however, that those ones were a bit much, and most of the sporty-oversizers have been retired to the cork-boards of memorabilia.

Once saucer-sized buttons faded from the scene, 2 and 3 inch buttons held it down for a while, but they felt a bit dated, and it was hard to find really great ones. Then—excuse me if I tear up a bit here—came the emergence and takeover of the 1” button. They are perfect. You can say everything that you need to say, put an interesting graphic on it, stamp out a couple of hundred of them and bam, you’re in the game. The 1 inchers are small enough to be slightly inconspicuous; they require that you’re actually in front of the wearer to see what they are. But, they’re still big enough that you can build an outfit around their colors and design, and rock a small, yet totally visible image of your favorite band, with pride.

I’m sure that some consider me a bit too old to be wearing band buttons, and maybe it seems like I’m over-stating the importance of these little things, but to me, band buttons represent things that I really dig: creativity, music, design, type, print-culture, expression and diversity. So, in the spirit of remixing a poem that has never really spoken to me anyway, when I am an old woman, I shall wear band buttons.

In 1927, upon completion of this epic cross-country highway, the city of Reno hosted Nevada’s Transcontinental Highways Exposition and erected an arch in their pre-casino downtown area in honor of the event. The sign, which simply stated the name and dates of the exposition, was the first incarnation of what has gone on to become one of the most famous human-made landmarks in the west, the Reno arch.

Over the years, the arch has gone through several incarnations. In 1929, realizing that the arch was promoting an event that had come, gone and was old news, the Reno City Council held a contest for a new slogan to be placed upon the arch. The winner of the contest, and recipient of the $100 prize was G.A. Burns of Sacramento with his slogan, “Reno, the Biggest Little City in the World.”

Following the contest, the wording that advertised the highway exposition was removed from the sign, Burns’ new slogan placed in its place, and Reno, with its declaration of worldwide renown, put itself on the map.

As with all things new, there was some public foot-dragging and protesting, and in 1934, the slogan was removed and replaced with the lone word, “Reno,” which radiated an electric-green hue into the night, courtesy of the latest scientific wonder-product, neon lighting. However, removing the slogan from the sign provoked more outcry than keeping it, and in 1935, the slogan was returned to its rightful place on the sign.

As years turned into decades, the sign lost its novelty, and in the early 1960s, it was decided that the original, steel sign should be retired. It was taken down, shuffled around to different locations, put into storage, pulled out to be used on movie sets, and finally placed on Lake Street, near the National Automobile Museum.

The sign that was erected in its place was the oh-so-hip, classic mid-century America, geometric arch that stands in my childhood memories as the most glorious sight that a young, road-weary traveler could see. After seemingly unending hours of blazing-hot desert driving (AC was an unrealized luxury), the excitement of finally reaching Reno was almost unbearable. The Circus Circus clown, the enormous hotels with their pools and ice machines, the casinos that were lit up and flashing with millions of moving lights, and the most wonderful sign, with its fabulous orange octagons and star of promise, spanning across the main drag, welcoming you to the “Biggest Little City in the World.” It was truly euphoric.

For nearly 25 years, this incarnation of the arch touted its hipness, until hip became tired, and the city needed to re-up its image as a vacation destination, not just a one-time cool, historic town. The arch was donated to the town of Willits, California, and now holds the phrase “Willits: Gateway to the Redwoods.” In 1987, a flashier, bigger and brighter arch replaced the orange octagonal sign, and now fills the hearts of today’s weary travelers with the same joy and relief that the arch, in all of its incarnations, has been affecting for over 80 years.

In 2009, in a gesture of progress and sustainability, the city of Reno replaced the 2,076 incandescent 11 watt bulbs in the arch with energy efficient 2.5 watt LED bulbs, and gave the old bulbs away as souvenirs to spectators; a small gesture in an over-illuminated town to be sure, but a step in the right direction.

On a recent trip to and from the Rockies, my partner and I made our regular lunch stop in Reno. After a bit of meandering, we found ourselves standing under the arch, at the entrance to a free blues festival. The streets were packed and the music was loud and good-time bluesy. Folks were drinking and dancing, kids were playing, and the backdrop to it all was the long-standing landmark welcoming everyone to the biggest little city in the world.

There is, however, one significant difference between college chemistry and typography. The only practical thing you learned in chemistry is why water boils faster with a dash of salt thrown in (it boils at a lower temperature, remember?). Whereas typography, you use (and abuse) all day, every day. Whether you’re scribbling a hand-written note or typing something on a computer or hacking your way through language (and human decency) rules with today’s tXt MsG gRmaTcL NtMreS, you are putting to use the current evolutionary phase of the alphabet, which in my world, is a really cool thing, so I’ve taken to educating my friends (a little at a time) and now you (I promise it won’t hurt) about the magnificent world of typography, starting with the beloved ampersand.

So, as I was saying, the “&” symbol is an ampersand, and you will be surprised at what a rich history this charming little glyph has. To get to know it a little better, we need to look at the symbol itself and the word “ampersand.”

The Symbol
Now, here’s where you need to stay with me. Sometimes script letters, when placed next to each other, collide. A common culprit is the lower-case “f.” If it is placed next to an “i” or “l,” the top of the “f” tends to crash into, overtake or otherwise impede upon the dot in the “i” or the oh-so upright integrity of the “l.” So, a character called a ligature was created that gracefully combines the two offending letters into one glyph. Got it? Congratulations. You now know more about typography than most people.

The Latin word for “and” is “et.” Way back in the first century, the “e” and “t” were occasionally written together as a ligature. The ligature took many forms, and over the years moved away from the recognizable word “et” and more toward a stylized glyph that came to be understood as the symbol for “and.” Unlike many of the other ligatures that fell out of common use and are seen now only in publications that value typographic detail and correctness, the ampersand was widely accepted and integrated into popular use, and is now a commonly seen, and used, character.

The Word
Once embraced by the populace, the “and” symbol was placed in the honorific position of being the only ligature included in the alphabet, and was considered the 27th letter. It was simply called, “and.” When children were learning the alphabet, they were encouraged to say. “and per se” (“per se” is Latin for “by itself”) before letters that were also words in their own right, such as “I,” and “A,” and the poetic, but seldom used “O,” (think “O Holy Night”) as well as the hero of our story, the “&.” So the recitation would go something like this: “And per se A, B, C, D, E, F G, H, and per se I, J, K, L, M, N, and per se O, P, Q, R, S, T, U, V, W, X, Y, Z, and per se and.” Since “A,” “I”, and “O” already had names, they were simply called what they were. But, the “and” symbol was without a proper name, and was commonly referred to as “and per se and” which very nicely slurs right into ampersand, and with that bit of non-enunciation, a star was born.

In Conclusion
Now that you know a bit of the history of the ampersand, my hope is that you’ll start noticing all of the interesting forms that it—and all the letters and glyphs—take. And if you’ve fallen in love with with the ampersand, you’re in good company. Among typography enthusiasts, it is among the most celebrated and re-interpreted of all the characters. There is even a blog that is dedicated entirely to all-things ampersand. And, while its a bit tricky to draw (it took me 13 tries to get it just right), once you have it in your repertoire, you can dazzle your friends with your ampersand-ability, and the next time some type-nerd starts rambling on about serifs and em-dashes, you can shut them up with your story of the ampersand. We’ll see who’s the rambler then.

If you’ve been in or around the Bay Area music scene anytime in the last decade, you have almost certainly encountered Willoughby’s work. She has produced a steady stream of posters for shows ranging from small, last-minute house shows to huge, multi-day festivals in the forest, and everything in between. The scope of her portfolio is mind-boggling; page after page of posters, announcing performances by some of the most interesting and cred-heavy artists around, including Will Oldham, Fleet Foxes, Stephen Malkmus, Bert Jansch, Sleepy Sun, Mudhoney, Black Francis and Animal Collective; and that’s just scratching the surface. Willoughby is, quite literally, identifying, furthering and documenting an era of music.

And, she’s doing it all by hand, from her bedroom, one show at a time. “I sit in my chair, with a board on my lap and just have at it,” she says about her technique. She used to pencil, ink and then color her posters, but rarely does so anymore, and when asked how much in advance she plans out her drawings, she responds, “Not at all.” Willoughby is in the enviable position of being able to let her creativity and vision guide the image. “I’ve been really lucky,” she says, “because I don’t generally get assigned images. I usually just start.” For her, having a pre-conceived notion of what an image needs to be, takes her out of her comfort zone. “When I have something that I know it has to end up as, it’s terrifying,” she says, “because I don’t know what it’s going to end up as.”

When Willoughby started designing flyers and posters for shows, it was because there was an obvious need. “My first posters were for house shows in Santa Cruz,” she says, “because we didn’t have any way to get the word out. The internet wasn’t that important yet, and people would just scrawl the name of bands on paper.” But Willoughby saw that posters could be great vehicles for spreading the word. “I like to draw,” she says, “and I was interested in conveying the information in the most eye-catching way possible.” So she started making posters for local bands like Residual Echoes, Loyal Sons and Daughters, Frog Eyes, and Comets on Fire, and the more she made, the more in-demand her talents became. “People wanted me to do it and I wanted to do it and I got to be a part of something that was fun,” she says, and reminisces about the DIY freedom of the house shows. “It was all about making a situation that you could exhibit your art without other people OK-ing it.”

Meanwhile, down in Big Sur, a music-lover named Britt Govea had started putting on shows under the name FolkYeah, and needed a poster artist. When Willoughby, who had developed a reputation for creating engaging and eerily beautiful drawings met Govea, a new chapter in her poster-making story began. “I just lucked out,” she says. “It was a situation of being in the right place at the right time.” Govea was quietly promoting shows and creating a community around the music that he loved, and he started calling on Willoughby to provide the posters for his events. What began as a trickle of shows turned into a stream and as FolkYeah grew, so did the connection that was made between Willoughby’s art and great shows. A Willoughby poster can be spotted across the room, and will, most certainly, catch the eye of any music lover in-the-know, as Govea has presented an incomparable parade of amazing, somewhat under-the-radar artists, and created a community around the music that he loves. As Willoughby says, “Britt wanted to create an environment that he wanted to be in.”

The more recognizable Willoughby’s art became, the more jobs she was offered, and what started with flyers for local shows has gone worldwide. “I mostly work in the San Francisco to Los Angeles region,” she says, “but I’ve done art for English bands, Ukranian bands, French bands, Japanese bands, Australian fashion designers; it’s definitely reaching across an ocean and connecting to other people.”

And the wave of hand-made posters that has emerged in the wake of Willoughby’s success? “I’m always stoked when someone is making an artistic rock poster,” she says. “Things used to be made by hand; you could feel that a person made [a] sign and I just don’t feel that from all the signs and advertisements that I see.”

Willoughby, whose art has promoted and celebrated bands from around the world, and helped to weave a community of music-lovers together, sees posters as an essential element of live-music. “Posters generate excitement and give visuals to a sound,” she says, “which is always exponential in its return.”

Visit notesfrombelow.com to see more of Stacie Willoughby’s work.
For more information on FolkYeah concerts, check out folkyeah.com.

Let’s take a moment for the typewriter shall we? Remember those heavy, wonderful machines that would get lugged out when there was something important to write? With those tiny, quick-striking arms holding letters that were just the size for your fingers to explore? The thrill of the line-ending bell, the cool metal of the return bar and the surgical methodology of applying the white tape? What memories.

At a time when word processors were found in most homes, I still kept a typewriter around for late nights and pseudo-philosophical rants. Working from a typewriter made me feel like a real writer; a tortured soul desperately trying to type my way into existence. You had to really strike those keys to make your words. You had to be confident and precise and when the ribbon started drying up you had to commit your ideas to those keys with even more conviction.

Sadly, I’m not sure where my typewriter ended up. It was probably lugged one too many times in one too many moves or sat collecting dust until an impulsive thrift store run sent it into the void, but the memories it created are many and true.

There’s a typewriter and cash register shop in town that I keep meaning to pop into. My intent is to take photos of the vintage machines, but I think my subconscious has been holding me back, knowing that I’m going to fall in love with them and betray my eternal de-cluttering cause by bringing home a typewriter, the first piece of a new collection.

While researching typewriter history and culture a few months ago, I was referred to typewriter ribbon tins as something I might be interested in as a design, history and typography enthusiast. I didn’t know it, but a one-way door was being opened into design paradise.

Ribbon tins are just that; they’re the tins that housed the replacement ribbons for typewriters. They were a common purchase and there was great competition between companies to secure a customer’s loyalty by outdoing other companies with their tin designs. There was something for everyone; a design for every personality, business or tortured writer. They ranged from very conservative and stark business designs to the latest art movements and fashions, from animals to travel and historical figures…you name it, there was a tin. Once the ribbons were taken out, the tins were kept around for other uses (paperclips, buttons etc) so it’s not uncommon to find them around, and as with all things vintage, there is a small but passionate underworld of ribbon tin collectors.

Really, ribbon tin collecting makes a great hobby. They’re wonderfully inspiring, a cool piece of history, fun to search for, small enough to store easily and way lighter than a typewriter.

Outstanding video on ribbon tins created by offaloffice

Special thanks to Janine Vangool for the use of her beautiful ribbon tin photographs. To see more tins, visit her flickr page. She also runs Uppercase, the fabulous blog focused on making, curating and publishing visual culture.

This post originally appeared on House of Cat

And so it goes at the sideshow. Maybe you’ll see something amazing, maybe you’ll be tricked, or maybe you’ll see something you wish you never had. But sideshow-loving folk can’t resist the allure of the bizarre, the grotesque and the oddly gifted. On the way out, I looked back at the banners: Man Eating Snake, Five Legged Goat, Sword Swallower and of course, World’s Smallest Horse, and marveled at how easily we had been taken in by the faded and weathered signs; the very picture of the sideshow.

Between the mid-1800s and mid-1900s, sideshows were a popular form of American entertainment. With as many as 100 traveling sideshows roaming the country, they provided the mostly-rural townspeople a break from their everyday lives, and a glimpse into life beyond their isolated towns, bringing curios from around the world. As the semi-literate audiences relied heavily on visual cues, sideshow banners—the primary means of advertising the sideshows—were generally figurative in nature, simple in style, light on lettering and as eye-catching as possible. Easily seen from a distance, the banners served to draw crowds and dollars, and designate the sideshow area.

A utilitarian tradition that has changed very little in 150 years, sideshow banners were made from relatively inexpensive, easy to come by canvas that was lightweight, conveniently rolled and stored, quickly hung, and could be painted on the fly. The trade-off was that the banners had a short life, as the weather, sun and constant rolling, rendered them cracked, faded and aged beyond their years. But as sideshows were always on the move, portability was key and the banner tradition remained.

Once a banner had outlived its usefulness as an attention-getter, it was generally re-purposed (get ready to cringe) as a tarp, or an oil rag; a practice that led, much to the dismay of sideshow-art collectors, to very few of the old-time banners being around today. There are some that hang in galleries and sideshow collections, but most of the them probably spent their retired years as colorful, painted rags.

The attractions that the banners advertised ranged from daring feats like knife throwing and bear wrestling, to physical novelties like rubber men and bearded women. They included unusually proportioned people and animals, mentalists and fortune tellers, “exotic” (read: totally racist) faraway-land kind of stuff, and whatever else the owners thought they could make a buck off of, including trickery. Many a taxidermist was hired to create some hybrid species, combining the top of one animal with the bottom of another and calling it a one-of-a-kind. The lifeless and obviously fake nature of these displays however, led to the addition of a new, one-word selling point on the banners: Alive!

However, no matter how good the banners, or how freakishly delightful the attractions, no sideshow could compete with the emergence of the television in the mid-1900s. Families suddenly had the entire world in their living rooms and could find, with the flip of the dial, all sorts of odd, curious and delightful stories. A new era had begun and sideshows, no longer relied upon for communication between the isolated towns, found attendance waning and audience wow-ability slipping.

A final blow came when it was decided that it wasn’t right to exploit differences, and that sideshows were unethical and immoral. The sideshow performers cried out that this was the only way many of them could make a living, and that they were perfectly content, but the ever-heavy moral fist had landed and sideshows began their slow march into the history books.

Like all great movements though, sideshow culture never completely died. Collectors, performers and appreciators provided enough of a heartbeat to keep sideshows alive, and the end of the 20th century saw a resurgence in sideshow culture. It was a modified version of the original, with body piercings, pain-tolerance and disgusting dares being the main draws, but nonetheless, it helped to revitalize the notion of sideshows, and it introduced sideshow culture to a new generation.

And through it all, the sideshow banner has remained. What began as a device of practicality has become a defining feature of the sideshow. And while original banners are hard to come by, you can still see sideshow banner art everywhere, from album covers to boardwalk signs, t-shirts to galleries, and even…at the circus sideshow, where you can stand in line to see what the banner advertises as the World’s Smallest Horse; though I wouldn’t recommend it.

Thanks to sideshow collector, buyer and enthusiast Ballyhooligan for the use of the great photo.

Always on the lookout for new marketing angles, and inspired by the custom designs that kids were creating on their roller skate cases, a few like-minded owners created skate stickers with their rink logos on them and distributed them freely to patrons. The promotional move worked like a charm, as people were happy to slap the stickers on their gear and represent their home rink. When other rink owners caught sight of the stickers, they created their own and the trend quickly spread across the country.

The stickers ranged from one-color, roller skate and wing logos, to full-color, die-cut pieces of design mastery. The designers of the stickers, most of whose names have been lost over the years, branched out from simply creating a logo, and started exploring different themes for their stickers. Some of the more popular ones included aeronautics, the old-west and cowboy culture, patriotism, animals, love, humor and the roller rink equivalent of the pin-up girl. The design variations were as numerous as the different rinks and the acquisition of a sticker was as easy as rolling in to get one.

The existence of thousands of different roller skate stickers, all given away for free, and the fact that each sticker represented a different rink, brought on a severe case of collector-itis. Skate enthusiasts began sharing, trading and collecting stickers from as many varying rinks as they could. With rare and hard-to-find stickers being the most desirable, the highest trading value was placed on those stickers that came from out of the way places or whose designs were more intricate, with multiple colors, detailed images and custom shapes.

Roller skating sticker enthusiasts traded with friends and picked up stickers where they could. In those pre-Internet days, they were somewhat limited in how they found fellow traders. However, in 1948, a group of sticker collectors decided to turn their hobby into an organization, and they created the Universal Roller Skating Sticker Exchange (URSSE). With annual conventions at different locations around the U.S., sticker enthusiasts would travel the country, with their binders full of stickers, to attend the meetings. They would make friends, show and tell their collections, trade wares and celebrate roller skating and skating stickers with other collectors.

Over the next 30 years, URSSE membership grew to 4,000 members, and even when the Golden Age of roller skating was replaced by the glitz of the disco era, rink owners, who were well-aware of the trading community, were still printing stickers. The last official meeting of the Sticker Exchangeoccurred in 1989 in Cornwell Heights, Pennsylvania, where the few remaining members, aware that the golden age had moved on to the inline age, voted to disband.

The way the roller skating sticker phenomenon happened, with its remarkably un-Capitalist spirit, and the DIY wrangling of cultural artifacts from around the country, created a unique movement that existed outside the realm of commercialism. Skate enthusiasts took their love of skating and skate stickers and created a community of friends that transcended geography. We’re left with an amazing and inspiring snapshot of the people and the designs of the Golden Age of Roller Skating.

Special thanks to Lou Brooks for the inspiration, information and access to his roller skating sticker images. If you are interested in learning more about The Golden Age of Roller Skating and the designs it produced, check out his delightful book, Skate Crazy: Amazing Graphics from the Golden Age of Roller Skating.

My love affair with letters goes back as far as my mind does. Remember the cool perfection of the carved ABC blocks? And the frustration that there was only one of each? Twenty six letters is just not enough for any serious wordsmith.

A few years later when I discovered comic strips, the thing that captured my attention was the uniformity of the letters. It was amazing to me that each artist had developed a style that was uniquely and consistently their own. Comic book letterers are still a great source of inspiration. The notion that the entirety of one’s job is to draw letters is truly breath-taking.

During my junior high years, my shoes, books, jeans, binders and whatever else I had lying around were covered with words. I wrote band names, my name, my friends’ names and important declarations all over everything. This is a long-running rite of passage as Chuck Taylors and binders everywhere are still covered in young adult angst and individuality and presumably always will be, but the thing that set me apart from my peers was sheer numbers. They would write Thompson Twins on their binder then move on. I would write Thompson Twins then I would write it fifteen more times, in fifteen different styles until it had just the right feel. A bit OCD? Fair enough. But, I prefer to think of it as the work of a budding type enthusiast.

As I grew into adulthood I did, for the most part, stop writing on my clothes—but only because I had discovered the perfect companionship of a sketchbook. The model I buy is small enough to fit into my purse but big enough to let me stretch out in. If you were to look at all my sketchbooks from all the years, you would see lettering. You’d stumble over some rants, some not-very-good drawings and some notes-to-self, but you’d pretty much be looking at a lot of letters. I’ve inadvertently created several typefaces just by searching for my own perfect style. In fact, I’m a bit skeptical about the whole handwriting analysis thing because I can pull out a bunch of writing styles that are all my own. This alone probably provides ample material for analysis, but that’s for another time.

It wasn’t until I was in my thirties that I had the (second) great coming out of my life. I was sitting in Digital Media 1, hoping to pick up some Photoshop skills when the instructor introduced a topic that changed my life forever; she started talking about typefaces and how each one has a distinct personality, how there is a perfect use for each face and (here’s where it got really good) that there are people who have devoted their entire lives to the study and creation of type.

“What did she just say?” My heart started racing. I couldn’t believe what I had just heard. Was I sweating? Could my classmates tell? “That’s me!” I was screaming inside. “There’s a name for me! These are my people! How could I not have known?” It was a personal breakthrough of big-bang proportions that set my creative universe into motion.

I latched onto typography and read everything I could get my hands on, taking a particular interest in the history of printing. Did you know that before the printing press was created, monks would copy bibles by hand? That’s a bit much even for me. What happened if you screwed up a letter on a page that took you 3 days to create? I hate to think of it. Did you also know that setting type requires that you place the letters upside down and backwards? You create a mirror image that becomes righted on the printed page. It’s an amazing field with a rich history of men and women working these tiny, metal letters with grace, speed and accuracy.

And with that image, dear reader, we’ve circled back to the sweet thrill of finding a tray of lowercase letters and yes, that is where the terms uppercase and lowercase come from. With time-bending focus, I crouched over the letters and began picking them up one by one. For the very first time, I was able to handle and feel the dense little cubes of expression that I had so completely fallen for, with their dings and ink stains, scratches and ghosts.

I worked my way through the box, marveling at their size and the amount of work it would take to fill a page with them. There were a lot of letters missing and I wondered if they had been lost, or pieced off to existing sets, or bought one by one for the three dollars the shop owner was asking. It’s kind of sad to think of breaking up a set of letters because once you do, you’ve created the same problem you had with the ABC blocks – you don’t have all the letters you need; but, as I stood up, something caught my eye; sitting on the floor was an uppercase C and it was staring right at me. It was the only uppercase letter in the whole bunch and I knew with certainty, in the same way that you know which kitten is yours, that that C was there for me.

I gave a reverential nod to the tray of letters, handed the shop owner my three dollars, slid the C into the front pocket of my jeans and walked into the light, basking in the glow of my beloved type.

Photo by Flickr user moirabot