Saturday, June 27, 2015
Against big ideas
Sam Leith’s comment on the trend in non-fiction publishing is spot-on, and Toby Mundy’s analysis of it typically insightful. (And I’m not saying that just because you’re the new director of the Samuel Johnson prize, Toby – though, you know, congratulations and all.) Sam echoes my impression, though I suppose as someone published in the UK by Bodley Head (rightly exonerated here as a noble exception) and in the US by the University of Chicago Press, I would say this. It is good to have critical reviewers around, like Steven Poole and Bryan Appleyard, who will challenge this Gladwellization of non-fiction, but I fear they’re fighting against the tide. Sam’s complaint about the way the mainstream trade publishers seem mostly interested in books that offer a single “big idea” that explains everything about being human/history/the brain/the economy/the internet/the universe (until the next one comes along) is very well founded. Life is not just complex (in which case “complexity theory” would explain it all right?) but complicated. So are most areas of science. So are people. We need ideas and narratives that help us unravel the threads, not ones that pretend it is all just one big rope. This seems especially problematic in the US, where it feels ever harder – outside of the university presses – to publish a serious discussion of any topic rather than an airport book in which the subtitle tells you all you need to know. It’s very reassuring to hear that being published there by a university press there is increasingly a guarantor of substance.
Tuesday, June 16, 2015
The many truths of Tim Hunt
Blimey. That Tim Hunt then. It feels like any single point of view is not enough; I need a superposition of states here. I read Athene Donald explaining that, however much we can and should deplore his comments, he’s not a bad chap, and I think yes, that was very much my experience of Tim when I was on a judging panel with him: I liked him, found him not at all bigoted or oppressive or objectionable. Comparisons with Jim Watson are unfair – I think it is clear he is not that kind of person. Athene seems right to be saying, let’s not make it all about Tim, we need to focus on measures that will rid science of the blight of sexism that still evidently afflicts it.
Then I read responses and comments by Jenny Rohn, Margaret Harris and Deborah Blum, and I think yes, we mustn’t offer up feeble “he’s just a different generation” excuses and give a basically decent chap a break for making a stupid blunder. There is too much of this sort of low-level crap going on in science all the time, and when it comes from someone in a position of such authority and influence then we need to come down hard on it.
I can’t help feeling a bit sorry for Tim, seeing how genuinely distraught and despairing he seems. Christ, the man is human, and not a monster. And yet I can’t help feeling, you bloody fool, what really did you expect? And I don’t know quite what to believe anyway. Do we accept this as a bone-headed attempt at a joke, or do we believe that Tim passed up the chance to say later that of course he didn’t truly think these things? Do we believe rumours that Tim had form for this kind of thing, or accept the testimony of friends and colleagues that they’ve never seen him previously behave in a sexist manner?
The world can’t possibly need someone else saying “Here’s what we should do about Huntgate.” (I’m glad that’s not a word. Forget I wrote it.) But. Well, I’d simply like to offer a fee suggestions:
1. We stop name-calling and belitting of anyone who, while condemning the remarks, differs slightly from our own view of what is the appropriate way to deal with them. There’s no obvious right answer to that. What’s needed is discussion. (Obviously, this excludes London mayors who think Tim was merely pointing out some well known gender differences, and who in any event reckon it is OK to make off-the-cuff jokes about “piccaninnies”.)
2. We agree that denouncements of “politically correct witch hunts” are beside the point. People on Twitter will say horrid and unfair things about Tim Hunt because people on Twitter do that. Why cares (aside from the fact that it’s intrinsically nasty)? I see no reason to call the responses of, say, UCL, a witch hunt, let alone a “politically correct” one (unless your view is that it is trendy political correctness to show disapproval of sexism and want to distance yourself from it).
3. Tim’s situation has been worsened by the timing. People are frankly and rightly sick of the sexism that exists in science. When I think that my girls, were they to choose careers in science, might have their prospects damaged by bias, harassment, and exclusion, I want to take a hammer and smash up a lot of Pyrex. Actually I think I will encourage them to do it themselves (I suspect they’ll be quite good at it). I’m not saying that Tim got worse than he deserved for this reason, but just that it’s a part of the explanation for what happened.
4. We follow Athene’s action points, and use this sad affair positively to make change happen.
5. We stop making excuses. We can all make mistakes and say thoughtless things, for sure, but having an attitude that fundamentally opposes discrimination of all sorts and recognizes it when we see it in so obvious a manner as this is not bloody hard, whether you are 17 or 70. Science is, frankly, a bit crap at this. It tolerates obnoxious fools for too long, on the grounds that they once did some good science. (I’m not talking about Tim here.) It doesn’t just tolerate them, it excuses them. I don’t give a toss how good your science is, if you don’t behave decently and respectfully then you should expect to get no respect in return.
But here’s what gives me great hope and comfort: I’m not sure science is going to be this way much longer. It’s going to take time and effort, but it will change. I am buoyed by the fact that the ambassadors for science these days (and here I’m qualified only to talk about the UK) are people for who “jokes” about women scientists (no, “girls”) falling in love and crying and working in segregated labs aren’t just objectionable but utterly bloody weird. People to whom it would never occur to say or think such an outlandish thing no matter how “confused” or “nervous” or jet-lagged or drunk they were. People like Athene Donald, like Monica Grady, Alice Roberts, Maggie Aderin-Pocock, Brian Cox, Jim Al-Khalili, Mark Miodownik, Ed Yong, Andrea Sella. Certain older members of the science-communication fraternity (I use the word advisedly, and mention no names) might just purse their lips and mutter about witch hunts and the waste of scientific eminence. But their time is over.
Then I read responses and comments by Jenny Rohn, Margaret Harris and Deborah Blum, and I think yes, we mustn’t offer up feeble “he’s just a different generation” excuses and give a basically decent chap a break for making a stupid blunder. There is too much of this sort of low-level crap going on in science all the time, and when it comes from someone in a position of such authority and influence then we need to come down hard on it.
I can’t help feeling a bit sorry for Tim, seeing how genuinely distraught and despairing he seems. Christ, the man is human, and not a monster. And yet I can’t help feeling, you bloody fool, what really did you expect? And I don’t know quite what to believe anyway. Do we accept this as a bone-headed attempt at a joke, or do we believe that Tim passed up the chance to say later that of course he didn’t truly think these things? Do we believe rumours that Tim had form for this kind of thing, or accept the testimony of friends and colleagues that they’ve never seen him previously behave in a sexist manner?
The world can’t possibly need someone else saying “Here’s what we should do about Huntgate.” (I’m glad that’s not a word. Forget I wrote it.) But. Well, I’d simply like to offer a fee suggestions:
1. We stop name-calling and belitting of anyone who, while condemning the remarks, differs slightly from our own view of what is the appropriate way to deal with them. There’s no obvious right answer to that. What’s needed is discussion. (Obviously, this excludes London mayors who think Tim was merely pointing out some well known gender differences, and who in any event reckon it is OK to make off-the-cuff jokes about “piccaninnies”.)
2. We agree that denouncements of “politically correct witch hunts” are beside the point. People on Twitter will say horrid and unfair things about Tim Hunt because people on Twitter do that. Why cares (aside from the fact that it’s intrinsically nasty)? I see no reason to call the responses of, say, UCL, a witch hunt, let alone a “politically correct” one (unless your view is that it is trendy political correctness to show disapproval of sexism and want to distance yourself from it).
3. Tim’s situation has been worsened by the timing. People are frankly and rightly sick of the sexism that exists in science. When I think that my girls, were they to choose careers in science, might have their prospects damaged by bias, harassment, and exclusion, I want to take a hammer and smash up a lot of Pyrex. Actually I think I will encourage them to do it themselves (I suspect they’ll be quite good at it). I’m not saying that Tim got worse than he deserved for this reason, but just that it’s a part of the explanation for what happened.
4. We follow Athene’s action points, and use this sad affair positively to make change happen.
5. We stop making excuses. We can all make mistakes and say thoughtless things, for sure, but having an attitude that fundamentally opposes discrimination of all sorts and recognizes it when we see it in so obvious a manner as this is not bloody hard, whether you are 17 or 70. Science is, frankly, a bit crap at this. It tolerates obnoxious fools for too long, on the grounds that they once did some good science. (I’m not talking about Tim here.) It doesn’t just tolerate them, it excuses them. I don’t give a toss how good your science is, if you don’t behave decently and respectfully then you should expect to get no respect in return.
But here’s what gives me great hope and comfort: I’m not sure science is going to be this way much longer. It’s going to take time and effort, but it will change. I am buoyed by the fact that the ambassadors for science these days (and here I’m qualified only to talk about the UK) are people for who “jokes” about women scientists (no, “girls”) falling in love and crying and working in segregated labs aren’t just objectionable but utterly bloody weird. People to whom it would never occur to say or think such an outlandish thing no matter how “confused” or “nervous” or jet-lagged or drunk they were. People like Athene Donald, like Monica Grady, Alice Roberts, Maggie Aderin-Pocock, Brian Cox, Jim Al-Khalili, Mark Miodownik, Ed Yong, Andrea Sella. Certain older members of the science-communication fraternity (I use the word advisedly, and mention no names) might just purse their lips and mutter about witch hunts and the waste of scientific eminence. But their time is over.
Christiaan Huygens - the first astrobiologist?
Necessarily cut from my piece in Nautilus on water and astrobiology was a paragraph of very early history, in which Christiaan Huygens anticipates this whole debate with eerie prescience. I hope it’s worth filling in that bit of the story here.
Galileo had looked at the moon and saw not the smooth, featureless sphere that Aristotelians believed in but mountains and valleys, their rugged topography picked out by the raking light of the Sun at the boundary where light meets darkness. Within just a couple of decades, writers and philosophers were starting to imagine journeying to this new world, much as Columbus had travelled to the Americas. The natural philosopher John Wilkins gave a factual account in his Discovery of a World in the Moone (1638), while the French soldier and writer Cyrano de Bergerac penned a satirical account of spaceflight in The States and Empires of the Moon, published posthumously in 1657. By the end of the century, scientists were starting to speculate about what the environments of these other worlds might be like.
In his posthumously published 1698 book Cosmotheoros, Huygens asserted that plants and animals on other planets must derive their “growth and nourishment” from “some liquid principle”. But he realized that water would freeze on Jupiter or Saturn, and so “Every planet therefore must have its waters of such a temper, as to be proportion’d to its heat”: Jupiter’s and Saturn’s “waters” must have a lower freezing point, and those of Venus and Mercury a higher boiling point. In other words, it isn’t too fanciful to say that Huygens was speculating that life on other planets might use non-aqueous solvents.
In my Nautilus article I veer towards the notion that there might be non-aqueous solvents for life. In my more technical article for the book Astrochemistry and Astrobiology (eds I. W. M. Smith, C. S. Cockell & S. Leach; Springer, Heidelberg, 2013), I equivocate rather more. It seems to me that this kind of Socratic dialogue (to be absurdly grandiose about it) is the best way of approaching the problem: one can make both cases, and it is hard to adduce any clear evidence at this point for which of them we should prefer. This is what I say in that latter piece:
“Attempts to enunciate the irreducible molecular-scale requirements for (as opposed to the emergent characteristics of) something we might recognize as life have been rather sporadic, and are often hampered by the difficulty of looking at the question through anything other than aqua-tinted spectacles. From the point of view of thinking about non-aqueous astrobiological solvents, a review of water’s roles in terrestrial biochemistry surely raises one key consideration straight away: it is not sufficient, in this context, to imagine a clear separation between the ‘molecular machinery’ and the solvent. There is a two-way exchange of behaviours between them, and this literally erases any dividing line between the biological components and their environment.
The key questions here are, then, necessarily vague. But the more we understand about the biochemical aspects of water, the less likely it seems that another solvent could mimic its versatility, sensitivity and responsiveness, for example to distinguish any old collapsed polypeptide chain from a fully functioning protein. It is perhaps this notion of responsiveness that emerges as the chief characteristic from a survey of water’s biological roles. It can be manipulated in three dimensions to augment the influence of biomolecules. It can receive and transmit their dynamical behaviours, and at the same time it can impose its own influence on solute dynamics so that some biomolecular behaviours become a kind of intimate conspiracy between solute and solvent. This adaptive sensitivity seems to facilitate the kind of compromise between structural integrity and reconfigurability that lies at the heart of many biomolecular processes, including molecular recognition, catalytic activity, conformational flexibility, long-range informational transfer and the ability to adapt to new environments. It is easy to imagine – but very hard to prove! – that such properties are likely to be needed in any molecular system with sufficient complexity to grow, replicate, metabolize and evolve – in other words, to qualify as living.
In these respects it does seem challenging to postulate any solvent that can hold a candle to water – not so much in terms of what it does, but in terms of the opportunities it offers for molecular evolution. This is by no means to endorse the dictum of NASA that astrobiologists need to ‘follow the water’. But hopefully it might sharpen the question of where else we might look.”
Galileo had looked at the moon and saw not the smooth, featureless sphere that Aristotelians believed in but mountains and valleys, their rugged topography picked out by the raking light of the Sun at the boundary where light meets darkness. Within just a couple of decades, writers and philosophers were starting to imagine journeying to this new world, much as Columbus had travelled to the Americas. The natural philosopher John Wilkins gave a factual account in his Discovery of a World in the Moone (1638), while the French soldier and writer Cyrano de Bergerac penned a satirical account of spaceflight in The States and Empires of the Moon, published posthumously in 1657. By the end of the century, scientists were starting to speculate about what the environments of these other worlds might be like.
In his posthumously published 1698 book Cosmotheoros, Huygens asserted that plants and animals on other planets must derive their “growth and nourishment” from “some liquid principle”. But he realized that water would freeze on Jupiter or Saturn, and so “Every planet therefore must have its waters of such a temper, as to be proportion’d to its heat”: Jupiter’s and Saturn’s “waters” must have a lower freezing point, and those of Venus and Mercury a higher boiling point. In other words, it isn’t too fanciful to say that Huygens was speculating that life on other planets might use non-aqueous solvents.
In my Nautilus article I veer towards the notion that there might be non-aqueous solvents for life. In my more technical article for the book Astrochemistry and Astrobiology (eds I. W. M. Smith, C. S. Cockell & S. Leach; Springer, Heidelberg, 2013), I equivocate rather more. It seems to me that this kind of Socratic dialogue (to be absurdly grandiose about it) is the best way of approaching the problem: one can make both cases, and it is hard to adduce any clear evidence at this point for which of them we should prefer. This is what I say in that latter piece:
“Attempts to enunciate the irreducible molecular-scale requirements for (as opposed to the emergent characteristics of) something we might recognize as life have been rather sporadic, and are often hampered by the difficulty of looking at the question through anything other than aqua-tinted spectacles. From the point of view of thinking about non-aqueous astrobiological solvents, a review of water’s roles in terrestrial biochemistry surely raises one key consideration straight away: it is not sufficient, in this context, to imagine a clear separation between the ‘molecular machinery’ and the solvent. There is a two-way exchange of behaviours between them, and this literally erases any dividing line between the biological components and their environment.
The key questions here are, then, necessarily vague. But the more we understand about the biochemical aspects of water, the less likely it seems that another solvent could mimic its versatility, sensitivity and responsiveness, for example to distinguish any old collapsed polypeptide chain from a fully functioning protein. It is perhaps this notion of responsiveness that emerges as the chief characteristic from a survey of water’s biological roles. It can be manipulated in three dimensions to augment the influence of biomolecules. It can receive and transmit their dynamical behaviours, and at the same time it can impose its own influence on solute dynamics so that some biomolecular behaviours become a kind of intimate conspiracy between solute and solvent. This adaptive sensitivity seems to facilitate the kind of compromise between structural integrity and reconfigurability that lies at the heart of many biomolecular processes, including molecular recognition, catalytic activity, conformational flexibility, long-range informational transfer and the ability to adapt to new environments. It is easy to imagine – but very hard to prove! – that such properties are likely to be needed in any molecular system with sufficient complexity to grow, replicate, metabolize and evolve – in other words, to qualify as living.
In these respects it does seem challenging to postulate any solvent that can hold a candle to water – not so much in terms of what it does, but in terms of the opportunities it offers for molecular evolution. This is by no means to endorse the dictum of NASA that astrobiologists need to ‘follow the water’. But hopefully it might sharpen the question of where else we might look.”
Friday, June 12, 2015
Set for chemistry: a longer view
It seems quite a lot of folk liked to hear about the old chemistry sets that I discussed in my article in Chemistry World. It was certainly a blast writing it. I didn’t mention, because she asked me not to quote yet, that Rebecca Onion has also been looking into this topic – I hope it’s OK to say now that she'll shortly be publishing something rather wonderful on it. In any event, I thought it would be worth putting up the full original article here. The images are, except where indicated, all courtesy of the Chemical Heritage Foundation, and I reckon that their exhibition in the autumn is going to be fabulous.
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As you’re reading Chemistry World, I bet you had a chemistry set. Maybe you tinkered with a substantial rack of test-tubes containing compounds that would now be considered daring: potassium permanganate, sodium thiocyanate, perhaps supplemented with stronger stuff bought at the chemical supplier’s or “borrowed” from school: nitric acid, lumps of sodium under oil. Younger readers might have been denied such pleasures, having to be content with litmus paper for measuring soil pH. Today’s sets are likely to be more about “kitchen chemistry” or “colour chemistry”, using nothing more hazardous than bicarb and food dyes.
The content, appearance and aspirations of your chemistry set age you as much as your choice in music. When I recently got to look at the marvelous collection in the vaults of the Chemical Heritage Foundation in Philadelphia, I was struck by how these alluring boxes encode social narratives. They reflect changing perceptions of chemistry and science as a whole, shifts in the social strata of the target consumers, in attitudes to gender and in the objectives of science education. “Chemistry sets and science kits contained much more than vials of chemicals, test tubes, and microscopes”, says art historian and independent curator Jane E. Boyd, who is curating an exhibition of the CHF’s sets that opens in October. “Their colourful boxes and cases also held manufacturers’ ambitions for success and prestige, parents’ hopes and anxieties for the future lives of their sons and daughters, and children’s own desires for fun and excitement.”
What were these sets for? Are they toys? Were the meant to educate or to amuse? Why were they produced, and for who? And why do they seem – I’m sure it isn’t just me – to pack such a nostalgic punch?
The magic of chemistry
Chemical sets aimed at children started to appear from around the 1830s. One of the earliest was the “No. 1. Youth’s Laboratory, or Chemical Amusement Box”, produced in 1836-7 by the chemist Robert Best Ede. It contained “more than 40 Chemical preparations and appropriate apparatus, for enabling the enquiring youth… to perform above 100 Amusing and Interesting Experiments with perfect ease and free from danger.” These cabinets were luxury items: Ede’s was mahogany-cased and sold for the tidy sum of 16 shillings. Historian Melanie Keene of Cambridge University has shown, while the contents of the nineteenth-century cabinets were quite ambitious in their chemical scope, containing such compounds as potassium “superoxalate”, “prussiate” and “bi-chromate”, the emphasis of the booklets was on making chemistry “familiar”, with reference to household items such as soap or candles [1].
Robert Best Ede’s “Portable Laboratory”, c.1836. Wellcome Library, London.
It wasn’t until the second half of the nineteenth century that toy manufacturers began to make commercial sets as educational tools tailored for the affluent middle classes. The intended audience is clear from one of the CHF’s earliest items, a Chemcraft set sold around 1917 by the Porter Chemical Company in Hagerstown, Maryland, one of the major manufacturers of chemistry sets in the USA throughout most of the twentieth century. Like Ede’s set almost a century earlier, it is housed in a handsome wooden box with the ingredients kept in elegant little wooden bottles. The lid shows a well-bred young lad in suit and tie, hair neatly gelled, bending over his little burner under the watchful eye of his father.
Alongside but independent of the chemical cabinets, science popularizers of the nineteenth century produced how-to manuals describing experiments for children using household ingredients. Ede’s earliest cabinets were intended to accompany the popular 1823 book on chemical experimentation, Chemical Recreations by John Joseph Griffin – but Ede’s company later sold them independently with its own bespoke pamphlet. These two traditions of the cabinet and the booklet merged, so that when the cabinets became available to a wider “toy” market at a slightly cheaper price from the 1900s, the accompanying instruction manual became indispensible.
Both the early chemistry sets and the experimental booklets had a strong link to the tradition of “performative chemistry” that developed during the nineteenth century. Dramatic chemical demonstrations were a hallmark of the public talks at the Royal Institution given by Humphry Davy and Michael Faraday in the early part of the century. “These performances were intended to make chemistry ‘familiar’, as enticements to active practical investigations that could be carried out in the home”, says historian of science Salim Al-Gailani of the University of Cambridge, who has made one of the few detailed studies of chemistry sets [2]. He says there is a clear link between publications such as Faraday's book of his RI lectures, Chemical History of a Candle (1861), the penny-pamphlet handbooks, and later chemistry-set manuals.
Chemistry displays, lodged somewhere between music-hall spectacle and public education, were refined at institutions such as the Royal Polytechnic Institute in London, where lecturers like John Henry Pepper wowed audiences with chemical magic. Pepper, best known for devising the illusion of “Pepper’s ghost” used in performances of Hamlet and A Christmas Carol, went on to set up his own Theatre of Popular Science and Entertainment at the Egyptian Hall in London, the home of Victorian stage magic, and took his show on tour in the USA and Australia. Some stage magicians were even contracted to write popular treatises on chemistry.
A chemical manual from c.1894, in which the link to stage magic is clear. (Harry Price Library, UCL)
This link between stage magic and the early chemistry sets is personified in Albert Gilbert, the founder of the A. C. Gilbert Company of New Haven, Connecticut, which was the main US rival to Porter’s Chemcraft and became one of the biggest toy firms in the world. Gilbert was a stage magician, and he founded his company in 1909 to supply materials for magic shows, marketed under the brand Mysto Magic.
The early Chemcraft sets reflect this association too, promising “Mysterious experiments in chemical magic.” There were hints of a connection with alchemy, for example in the suggestion that the deposition of copper onto iron was a kind of transmutation. The manuals offered tips on how to stage a magical demonstration, combining practical instruction with the misdirection and sleight-of-hand methods of the magician. This dabbling with the old imagery of alchemy was sometimes filtered through racial stereotyping that seems shocking now. One Chemcraft manual suggested that the performer dress as some sort of Oriental fellow, like a “Hindu prince or Rajah.” And he would need an assistant “made up as an Ethiopian slave”, with “his face and arms blackened with burned cork”. He should be given “a fantastic name such as Allah, Kola, Rota or any foreign-sounding word.”
“The influence of ‘natural magic’ continued to shape the iconography and pedagogical function of chemistry sets well into the twentieth century”, says Al-Gailani. Even one of the CHF’s most recent sets, from around 1994, was marketed under the “Mr Wizard” brand, harking back to the American television show Watch Mr Wizard produced and presented by Don Herbert from 1951 to 1965. Herbert aimed to demonstrate the science behind the everyday, and he revived the show (and the brand) from 1983 to 1990 as Mr Wizard’s World for the children’s channel Nickelodeon.
Still revealing the magical secrets of nature in the 1990s?
While children might delight in the prospect of mysterious thrills, the parents who forked out for these sets were more likely to be persuaded by the idea that they would be educational and improving. Chemistry experimentation was often presented in the late nineteenth century as morally virtuous: as Griffin put it, “Chemistry is a subject qualified to train both the mind and the hands of young people to habits of industry, regularity, and order”. Such manuals stressed cleanliness, dexterity and common sense – a stark contrast to the “diabolical sorcery” that one might find promised in magic-themed chemistry. The early twentieth-century makers of chemistry sets sometimes tried to reconcile the contradictions by suggesting that they were demystifying the stunts still then being pulled off by mediums and spiritualists. As one Gilbert manual put it in 1920, “We explain how they are performed by purely natural means.”
This tension, says Boyd, is just one of the “many contradictions inside these eye-catching boxes: between dreams and reality, structured learning and free exploration, mysterious magic and rational science, safety and danger.” The boxes in which the kits were housed sent out contrasting messages about what home chemistry was all about. Many show the experimenter as a young scientist, in the time-honoured chemist’s pose of holding up a test-tube or flask of coloured liquid. Some offer a futuristic, utopian vision of science as saviour, perhaps with the tubes of a chemicals plant hovering in the background. “Experimenter today, scientist tomorrow”, promises a Chemcraft manual from 1934.
A brave new world promised by Chemcraft.
“Experimenter today, scientist tomorrow”
Toys for the boys
The imagery throughout is decidedly male. “Manufacturers’ expectations and assumptions about masculinity are particularly apparent in chemistry set marketing copy in the United States in the twentieth century”, says Al-Gailani. He points out that, after the Second World War, chemical experiments that might earlier have been presented as “magic”, such as invisible ink, would instead be likened to the crime-sleuthing associated with the FBI, “an institution that was immensely influential in defining and popularising the predominant ‘all-American, square-jawed’ masculinity of the post-war era”. Chemistry was not just a male but a manly affair. The disheveled “mad scientist”, while beginning to feature in movies, is nowhere to be found here – instead, the young experimenter is smartly dressed and well disciplined, accustomed to following instruction (manuals). If he obeyed the rules, a chemistry set wasn’t just a recreational pursuit but a preparation for a career in science.
Did girls get a look in? A British Lott’s set from around 1915 claims that it is for both boys and girls, and reassuringly places the home chemistry lab in what looks rather like a domestic kitchen, albeit with (highly questionable) periodic tables on the walls. But if girls did chemistry, it was with a view to preparing them for their obligations in “mother’s kitchen”, not the laboratory. As a Chemcraft manual put it in 1933 “in the home, the housewife who knows nothing of the chemistry of the foods she prepares or the materials which she uses daily is handicapped”. The man who knows no chemistry is handicapped too, the manual adds – but strictly in the professional, not domestic, domain. It was the father’s duty to inculcate such knowledge in his son in preparation for a life of work, just as the mother should educate her daughter in the chemistry of cooking and domestic chores.
A Lott’s chemistry set made in England, c.1915
For boy’s only?
When Gilbert finally produced a set specifically for girls in the late 1950s, fetchingly decorated in pastel pink, it is not exactly a “chemist’s set” at all. Instead it reminds the girl who squints into a microscope, while her big sister looks on encouragingly, that all she can aspire to is to use her natural domestic skills to become a “lab technician”.
…or for girls too (if they don’t aspire too high)?
Keeping safe
By the 1970s things seem to have improved a little. Both girls and boys, as golden-haired and wide-collared as David Soul, feature on the lid of Johnny Horizon’s chemical set, although the girl seems to be reduced to looking on adoringly as her brother (boyfriend?) does the measuring and pouring. Yet this is no longer marketed as a chemistry set: in the post-Silent Spring era it is now an “Environmental Testing Kit”. “Is the air around you polluted?” it asks. You can examine river waters for contamination too, and the set promises that you and your family “will be able to do more about our environmental problems.”
A chemistry set post-Silent Spring.
How times change. What would those who bought the Johnny Horizon kit have made of Chemcraft’s offering from the late 1940s, which includes “safe experiments in atomic energy”, including – probably my favourite element (literally) of the entire CHF collection – uranium ore and a “radio active screen”? The latter is incorporated into a “spinthariscope”, a device first invented by the chemist and entrepreneur William Crookes in 1903, which uses a zinc sulfide phosphor screen to reveal the scintillations of alpha particles.
Home experiments in atomic energy, c. 1948.
Compare this with the Tree of Knowledge Chem-Science set from around 2000-2005, which – despite offering standard experiments such as the bicarb-vinegar volcano and litmus testing – assures the buyer that the “35 fun activities” contain “no chemicals”.
The Tree of Knowledge Chem-Science set (c.2000-2005) takes no risks.
If you’re inclined to bewail this apparent taming of home chemistry for kids, bear in mind that social anxieties about safety are nothing new. A concerned parent wrote to the Times in 1903 warning that “the placing in the hands of young boys of such ingredients as chlorate of potash, sulphur, &c., must always be deprecated as a temptingly dangerous proceeding”. (If only we could have responded by saying “Yes, that’s the point.”)
“The idea that the sets used to have terribly dangerous materials in them, and then these gradually got nanny-stated out, isn’t fully supported by the sets themselves”, cautions CHF curatorial assistant Elisabeth Berry Drago. “Even the earliest sets contained fairly innocuous stuff: things that were corrosive, or shouldn’t be inhaled, but not intrinsically deadly or dangerous.”
Compare, for example, the contents of the Lott’s chemistry set from around 1915 with those of a 1965 Skil Craft set (see Box): there was rather little change over five decades. “The ads and print material demonstrate that a concern for safety and toxicity was not a late development, but something that was very much a part of the context from early on”, says Drago. “Even in 1917 the onus is on safety.” The Porter Chemcraft set from that era insists that it is “Perfectly safe” and “Contains no poisonous or otherwise harmful substances”. Yet there was probably more concern about the sources of heating than about the chemical ingredients. Early chemistry sets contained Bunsen burners, Drago says, while later even “alcohol lamps with open flames are not considered child-safe any more.”
This wasn’t simply a matter of changing perceptions of what was hazardous, but also of who was to blame: as medical historian John Burnham of Ohio State university has argued3, there was an increasing tendency over the course of the twentieth century to switch the responsibility for child safety from parents (particularly mothers) to manufacturers and the “engineering” of the childhood environment. If manufacturers were to be held responsible for accidents, they weren’t going to take any risks.
“There is no doubt that contents of today's chemistry sets are far tamer than they were a few generations ago”, says Al-Gailani. But he is not convinced that this is the only or even main reason behind the much lamented “decline in popularity of the chemistry set.” To understand that, he says, “we need a much better understanding of wider shifts in the toy industry, especially the perceived profitability of scientific toys, and the place of chemistry in popular culture.” He thinks that the perception that the chemistry set should play a role in drawing children into science “has a lot to do with the iconic status of the chemistry set in writing about scientific careers and nostalgia for a less risk-averse era” – that it’s a story we tell, but not necessarily the right or complete one.
Smells and stinks
The chemistry set today is rarely marketed with the sobriety of the past. It emphasizes science as fun – smelly, disgusting, tactile and visual. We will surely one day be judged for this, for better or worse. There are certainly dangers in suggesting that chemistry is going to be relentlessly fun and entertaining, selling itself on stinks and bangs, as UCL chemist Andrea Sella argued when accepting the Royal Society Faraday Prize for communicating science this year.
But those sensual delights are harder to procure anyway when the range of chemicals permitted in a chemistry set is constrained. One alternative – some will see as a poor one, lacking the true tactile and aromatic sensations of chemistry – is the CHF’s Chemcrafter app, tellingly displayed in a 1950s visual style.
The chemistry set of the future? The Chemcrafter app from the Chemical Heritage Foundation.
Yet the questions confronting manufacturers now are in some ways not so different than ever they were. Should chemistry be made to feel exotic or familiar? Are chemistry sets about fun or sober instruction, and how far can the two be combined? Should they be marketed at the children (and which children?), or their parents? Whatever answers we find will say a lot about us.
Totally gross: chemistry sets today.
__________________________________________________________________________
Box: What’s in the Box?
In circa 1915, the British Lott’s Bricks Chemistry Set No. 5 contained the following:
“Alum powder, ammonium carbonate, ammonium chloride, borax, calcium carbonate, charcoal (powdered), Congo red, copper sulfate, iron filings, iron sulfate, lime, manganese dioxide, potassium bichromate, potassium permanganate, potassium iodate, potassium iodide, potassium nitrate, “Sky blue”, sodium bicarbonate, sodium bisulfate, sodium carbonate, sodium nitrite, sodium thiosulfate, strontium nitrate, sulfur and zinc.”
In 1965 the Skil Craft Chemistry Set contained these ingredients:
“Ammonium chloride, gum arabic, cobalt chloride, sulfur, calcium chloride, sodium silicate solution, phenolphthalein solution, tannic acid, sodium ferrocyanide, manganous sulfate, sodium thiosulfate, ferric ammonium sulfate, sodium salicylate, borax, sodium bisulfate, and aluminum sulfate.”
__________________________________________________________________________
References
1. M. Keene, Ambix 60, 54 (2013).
2. S. Al-Gailani, Stud. Hist. Phil. Sci. 40, 372 (2009).
3. J. C. Burnham, J. Soc. Hist. 29, 817 (1996).
The Chemical Heritage Foundation’s exhibition Science at Play: 100 Years of Chemistry Sets and Science Kits runs from October 2015 to September 2016 in Philadelphia.
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As you’re reading Chemistry World, I bet you had a chemistry set. Maybe you tinkered with a substantial rack of test-tubes containing compounds that would now be considered daring: potassium permanganate, sodium thiocyanate, perhaps supplemented with stronger stuff bought at the chemical supplier’s or “borrowed” from school: nitric acid, lumps of sodium under oil. Younger readers might have been denied such pleasures, having to be content with litmus paper for measuring soil pH. Today’s sets are likely to be more about “kitchen chemistry” or “colour chemistry”, using nothing more hazardous than bicarb and food dyes.
The content, appearance and aspirations of your chemistry set age you as much as your choice in music. When I recently got to look at the marvelous collection in the vaults of the Chemical Heritage Foundation in Philadelphia, I was struck by how these alluring boxes encode social narratives. They reflect changing perceptions of chemistry and science as a whole, shifts in the social strata of the target consumers, in attitudes to gender and in the objectives of science education. “Chemistry sets and science kits contained much more than vials of chemicals, test tubes, and microscopes”, says art historian and independent curator Jane E. Boyd, who is curating an exhibition of the CHF’s sets that opens in October. “Their colourful boxes and cases also held manufacturers’ ambitions for success and prestige, parents’ hopes and anxieties for the future lives of their sons and daughters, and children’s own desires for fun and excitement.”
What were these sets for? Are they toys? Were the meant to educate or to amuse? Why were they produced, and for who? And why do they seem – I’m sure it isn’t just me – to pack such a nostalgic punch?
The magic of chemistry
Chemical sets aimed at children started to appear from around the 1830s. One of the earliest was the “No. 1. Youth’s Laboratory, or Chemical Amusement Box”, produced in 1836-7 by the chemist Robert Best Ede. It contained “more than 40 Chemical preparations and appropriate apparatus, for enabling the enquiring youth… to perform above 100 Amusing and Interesting Experiments with perfect ease and free from danger.” These cabinets were luxury items: Ede’s was mahogany-cased and sold for the tidy sum of 16 shillings. Historian Melanie Keene of Cambridge University has shown, while the contents of the nineteenth-century cabinets were quite ambitious in their chemical scope, containing such compounds as potassium “superoxalate”, “prussiate” and “bi-chromate”, the emphasis of the booklets was on making chemistry “familiar”, with reference to household items such as soap or candles [1].
Robert Best Ede’s “Portable Laboratory”, c.1836. Wellcome Library, London.
It wasn’t until the second half of the nineteenth century that toy manufacturers began to make commercial sets as educational tools tailored for the affluent middle classes. The intended audience is clear from one of the CHF’s earliest items, a Chemcraft set sold around 1917 by the Porter Chemical Company in Hagerstown, Maryland, one of the major manufacturers of chemistry sets in the USA throughout most of the twentieth century. Like Ede’s set almost a century earlier, it is housed in a handsome wooden box with the ingredients kept in elegant little wooden bottles. The lid shows a well-bred young lad in suit and tie, hair neatly gelled, bending over his little burner under the watchful eye of his father.
Alongside but independent of the chemical cabinets, science popularizers of the nineteenth century produced how-to manuals describing experiments for children using household ingredients. Ede’s earliest cabinets were intended to accompany the popular 1823 book on chemical experimentation, Chemical Recreations by John Joseph Griffin – but Ede’s company later sold them independently with its own bespoke pamphlet. These two traditions of the cabinet and the booklet merged, so that when the cabinets became available to a wider “toy” market at a slightly cheaper price from the 1900s, the accompanying instruction manual became indispensible.
Both the early chemistry sets and the experimental booklets had a strong link to the tradition of “performative chemistry” that developed during the nineteenth century. Dramatic chemical demonstrations were a hallmark of the public talks at the Royal Institution given by Humphry Davy and Michael Faraday in the early part of the century. “These performances were intended to make chemistry ‘familiar’, as enticements to active practical investigations that could be carried out in the home”, says historian of science Salim Al-Gailani of the University of Cambridge, who has made one of the few detailed studies of chemistry sets [2]. He says there is a clear link between publications such as Faraday's book of his RI lectures, Chemical History of a Candle (1861), the penny-pamphlet handbooks, and later chemistry-set manuals.
Chemistry displays, lodged somewhere between music-hall spectacle and public education, were refined at institutions such as the Royal Polytechnic Institute in London, where lecturers like John Henry Pepper wowed audiences with chemical magic. Pepper, best known for devising the illusion of “Pepper’s ghost” used in performances of Hamlet and A Christmas Carol, went on to set up his own Theatre of Popular Science and Entertainment at the Egyptian Hall in London, the home of Victorian stage magic, and took his show on tour in the USA and Australia. Some stage magicians were even contracted to write popular treatises on chemistry.
A chemical manual from c.1894, in which the link to stage magic is clear. (Harry Price Library, UCL)
This link between stage magic and the early chemistry sets is personified in Albert Gilbert, the founder of the A. C. Gilbert Company of New Haven, Connecticut, which was the main US rival to Porter’s Chemcraft and became one of the biggest toy firms in the world. Gilbert was a stage magician, and he founded his company in 1909 to supply materials for magic shows, marketed under the brand Mysto Magic.
The early Chemcraft sets reflect this association too, promising “Mysterious experiments in chemical magic.” There were hints of a connection with alchemy, for example in the suggestion that the deposition of copper onto iron was a kind of transmutation. The manuals offered tips on how to stage a magical demonstration, combining practical instruction with the misdirection and sleight-of-hand methods of the magician. This dabbling with the old imagery of alchemy was sometimes filtered through racial stereotyping that seems shocking now. One Chemcraft manual suggested that the performer dress as some sort of Oriental fellow, like a “Hindu prince or Rajah.” And he would need an assistant “made up as an Ethiopian slave”, with “his face and arms blackened with burned cork”. He should be given “a fantastic name such as Allah, Kola, Rota or any foreign-sounding word.”
“The influence of ‘natural magic’ continued to shape the iconography and pedagogical function of chemistry sets well into the twentieth century”, says Al-Gailani. Even one of the CHF’s most recent sets, from around 1994, was marketed under the “Mr Wizard” brand, harking back to the American television show Watch Mr Wizard produced and presented by Don Herbert from 1951 to 1965. Herbert aimed to demonstrate the science behind the everyday, and he revived the show (and the brand) from 1983 to 1990 as Mr Wizard’s World for the children’s channel Nickelodeon.
Still revealing the magical secrets of nature in the 1990s?
While children might delight in the prospect of mysterious thrills, the parents who forked out for these sets were more likely to be persuaded by the idea that they would be educational and improving. Chemistry experimentation was often presented in the late nineteenth century as morally virtuous: as Griffin put it, “Chemistry is a subject qualified to train both the mind and the hands of young people to habits of industry, regularity, and order”. Such manuals stressed cleanliness, dexterity and common sense – a stark contrast to the “diabolical sorcery” that one might find promised in magic-themed chemistry. The early twentieth-century makers of chemistry sets sometimes tried to reconcile the contradictions by suggesting that they were demystifying the stunts still then being pulled off by mediums and spiritualists. As one Gilbert manual put it in 1920, “We explain how they are performed by purely natural means.”
This tension, says Boyd, is just one of the “many contradictions inside these eye-catching boxes: between dreams and reality, structured learning and free exploration, mysterious magic and rational science, safety and danger.” The boxes in which the kits were housed sent out contrasting messages about what home chemistry was all about. Many show the experimenter as a young scientist, in the time-honoured chemist’s pose of holding up a test-tube or flask of coloured liquid. Some offer a futuristic, utopian vision of science as saviour, perhaps with the tubes of a chemicals plant hovering in the background. “Experimenter today, scientist tomorrow”, promises a Chemcraft manual from 1934.
A brave new world promised by Chemcraft.
“Experimenter today, scientist tomorrow”
Toys for the boys
The imagery throughout is decidedly male. “Manufacturers’ expectations and assumptions about masculinity are particularly apparent in chemistry set marketing copy in the United States in the twentieth century”, says Al-Gailani. He points out that, after the Second World War, chemical experiments that might earlier have been presented as “magic”, such as invisible ink, would instead be likened to the crime-sleuthing associated with the FBI, “an institution that was immensely influential in defining and popularising the predominant ‘all-American, square-jawed’ masculinity of the post-war era”. Chemistry was not just a male but a manly affair. The disheveled “mad scientist”, while beginning to feature in movies, is nowhere to be found here – instead, the young experimenter is smartly dressed and well disciplined, accustomed to following instruction (manuals). If he obeyed the rules, a chemistry set wasn’t just a recreational pursuit but a preparation for a career in science.
Did girls get a look in? A British Lott’s set from around 1915 claims that it is for both boys and girls, and reassuringly places the home chemistry lab in what looks rather like a domestic kitchen, albeit with (highly questionable) periodic tables on the walls. But if girls did chemistry, it was with a view to preparing them for their obligations in “mother’s kitchen”, not the laboratory. As a Chemcraft manual put it in 1933 “in the home, the housewife who knows nothing of the chemistry of the foods she prepares or the materials which she uses daily is handicapped”. The man who knows no chemistry is handicapped too, the manual adds – but strictly in the professional, not domestic, domain. It was the father’s duty to inculcate such knowledge in his son in preparation for a life of work, just as the mother should educate her daughter in the chemistry of cooking and domestic chores.
A Lott’s chemistry set made in England, c.1915
For boy’s only?
When Gilbert finally produced a set specifically for girls in the late 1950s, fetchingly decorated in pastel pink, it is not exactly a “chemist’s set” at all. Instead it reminds the girl who squints into a microscope, while her big sister looks on encouragingly, that all she can aspire to is to use her natural domestic skills to become a “lab technician”.
…or for girls too (if they don’t aspire too high)?
Keeping safe
By the 1970s things seem to have improved a little. Both girls and boys, as golden-haired and wide-collared as David Soul, feature on the lid of Johnny Horizon’s chemical set, although the girl seems to be reduced to looking on adoringly as her brother (boyfriend?) does the measuring and pouring. Yet this is no longer marketed as a chemistry set: in the post-Silent Spring era it is now an “Environmental Testing Kit”. “Is the air around you polluted?” it asks. You can examine river waters for contamination too, and the set promises that you and your family “will be able to do more about our environmental problems.”
A chemistry set post-Silent Spring.
How times change. What would those who bought the Johnny Horizon kit have made of Chemcraft’s offering from the late 1940s, which includes “safe experiments in atomic energy”, including – probably my favourite element (literally) of the entire CHF collection – uranium ore and a “radio active screen”? The latter is incorporated into a “spinthariscope”, a device first invented by the chemist and entrepreneur William Crookes in 1903, which uses a zinc sulfide phosphor screen to reveal the scintillations of alpha particles.
Home experiments in atomic energy, c. 1948.
Compare this with the Tree of Knowledge Chem-Science set from around 2000-2005, which – despite offering standard experiments such as the bicarb-vinegar volcano and litmus testing – assures the buyer that the “35 fun activities” contain “no chemicals”.
The Tree of Knowledge Chem-Science set (c.2000-2005) takes no risks.
If you’re inclined to bewail this apparent taming of home chemistry for kids, bear in mind that social anxieties about safety are nothing new. A concerned parent wrote to the Times in 1903 warning that “the placing in the hands of young boys of such ingredients as chlorate of potash, sulphur, &c., must always be deprecated as a temptingly dangerous proceeding”. (If only we could have responded by saying “Yes, that’s the point.”)
“The idea that the sets used to have terribly dangerous materials in them, and then these gradually got nanny-stated out, isn’t fully supported by the sets themselves”, cautions CHF curatorial assistant Elisabeth Berry Drago. “Even the earliest sets contained fairly innocuous stuff: things that were corrosive, or shouldn’t be inhaled, but not intrinsically deadly or dangerous.”
Compare, for example, the contents of the Lott’s chemistry set from around 1915 with those of a 1965 Skil Craft set (see Box): there was rather little change over five decades. “The ads and print material demonstrate that a concern for safety and toxicity was not a late development, but something that was very much a part of the context from early on”, says Drago. “Even in 1917 the onus is on safety.” The Porter Chemcraft set from that era insists that it is “Perfectly safe” and “Contains no poisonous or otherwise harmful substances”. Yet there was probably more concern about the sources of heating than about the chemical ingredients. Early chemistry sets contained Bunsen burners, Drago says, while later even “alcohol lamps with open flames are not considered child-safe any more.”
This wasn’t simply a matter of changing perceptions of what was hazardous, but also of who was to blame: as medical historian John Burnham of Ohio State university has argued3, there was an increasing tendency over the course of the twentieth century to switch the responsibility for child safety from parents (particularly mothers) to manufacturers and the “engineering” of the childhood environment. If manufacturers were to be held responsible for accidents, they weren’t going to take any risks.
“There is no doubt that contents of today's chemistry sets are far tamer than they were a few generations ago”, says Al-Gailani. But he is not convinced that this is the only or even main reason behind the much lamented “decline in popularity of the chemistry set.” To understand that, he says, “we need a much better understanding of wider shifts in the toy industry, especially the perceived profitability of scientific toys, and the place of chemistry in popular culture.” He thinks that the perception that the chemistry set should play a role in drawing children into science “has a lot to do with the iconic status of the chemistry set in writing about scientific careers and nostalgia for a less risk-averse era” – that it’s a story we tell, but not necessarily the right or complete one.
Smells and stinks
The chemistry set today is rarely marketed with the sobriety of the past. It emphasizes science as fun – smelly, disgusting, tactile and visual. We will surely one day be judged for this, for better or worse. There are certainly dangers in suggesting that chemistry is going to be relentlessly fun and entertaining, selling itself on stinks and bangs, as UCL chemist Andrea Sella argued when accepting the Royal Society Faraday Prize for communicating science this year.
But those sensual delights are harder to procure anyway when the range of chemicals permitted in a chemistry set is constrained. One alternative – some will see as a poor one, lacking the true tactile and aromatic sensations of chemistry – is the CHF’s Chemcrafter app, tellingly displayed in a 1950s visual style.
The chemistry set of the future? The Chemcrafter app from the Chemical Heritage Foundation.
Yet the questions confronting manufacturers now are in some ways not so different than ever they were. Should chemistry be made to feel exotic or familiar? Are chemistry sets about fun or sober instruction, and how far can the two be combined? Should they be marketed at the children (and which children?), or their parents? Whatever answers we find will say a lot about us.
Totally gross: chemistry sets today.
__________________________________________________________________________
Box: What’s in the Box?
In circa 1915, the British Lott’s Bricks Chemistry Set No. 5 contained the following:
“Alum powder, ammonium carbonate, ammonium chloride, borax, calcium carbonate, charcoal (powdered), Congo red, copper sulfate, iron filings, iron sulfate, lime, manganese dioxide, potassium bichromate, potassium permanganate, potassium iodate, potassium iodide, potassium nitrate, “Sky blue”, sodium bicarbonate, sodium bisulfate, sodium carbonate, sodium nitrite, sodium thiosulfate, strontium nitrate, sulfur and zinc.”
In 1965 the Skil Craft Chemistry Set contained these ingredients:
“Ammonium chloride, gum arabic, cobalt chloride, sulfur, calcium chloride, sodium silicate solution, phenolphthalein solution, tannic acid, sodium ferrocyanide, manganous sulfate, sodium thiosulfate, ferric ammonium sulfate, sodium salicylate, borax, sodium bisulfate, and aluminum sulfate.”
__________________________________________________________________________
References
1. M. Keene, Ambix 60, 54 (2013).
2. S. Al-Gailani, Stud. Hist. Phil. Sci. 40, 372 (2009).
3. J. C. Burnham, J. Soc. Hist. 29, 817 (1996).
The Chemical Heritage Foundation’s exhibition Science at Play: 100 Years of Chemistry Sets and Science Kits runs from October 2015 to September 2016 in Philadelphia.
BB's blues
My tribute to the late, great B. B. King for my “music cognition” column in the next issue of Sapere.
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B. B. King, who died aged 89 on 14th May, was one of the first guitarists to evolve a style of playing that instantly identified him. His sweet, plaintive sound was so closely associated with the Gibson guitars he used to call Lucille that the Gibson Corporation launched a “Lucille” model in 1980. But it was the way he played them that mattered: bending notes that strayed far from the standard diatonic scale of Western music, especially on the fifth of the scale and the famous “blue” notes of blues and jazz: the third and the flattened seventh, which in the key of C correspond to E and B flat. The “blues third” lies in an ambiguous space between the minor third (E flat in C) and the major third (E natural), so that in the convention that makes major keys “happy” and minor keys “sad”, the blues – and especially B. B.’s blues – take on a bittersweet character, the sound of loves recalled and lost.
All this from simply playing “out of tune”? Well yes, because it’s precisely this quality that animates folk music in many traditions, giving it a soul that dies whenever classically trained musicians attempt to “go popular” and bring their perfect intonation to a musical form that demands rough edges. When musicologists and anthropologists first started to study folk music seriously in the early twentieth century, at first they often took the “imperfect” tunings to reflect poor technique – until they realised that the performers (usually singers) would replicate these off-key notes precisely from one rendition to the next. They knew what they were doing.
And what they were doing was what all music so often does when it pulls the emotions: it introduces uncertainty and ambiguity, creating a tension in the listener that turns into passion.
This is an easy principle to grasp, but fiendishly hard to get right. When other guitarists sought to emulate B. B., or singers to copy Billie Holliday doing the same thing with her vocal blue notes, they risked cliché or straining for effect. It takes exquisite judgement to keep the detuning emotive rather than kitsch. You’ve got to know how far to push it, perhaps quite literally. Will B. B. bend that note from a minor right up to a major third, “resolving” the discord and telling us that the story came good in the end? No, not quite – his hopes, like his intonation, are thwarted: joy withheld at the last moment. The thrill is gone.