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This chapter looks at the role of the oral history interviewer in shaping the narrative when the interviewer has a distinct nostalgic impulse, which is then surprisingly countered by many former residents. Residents talk about community and neighborliness but add back into the oral history narrative elements (including violence, crime, prostitution, and bootlegging) that jibe more closely with the historical reputation that the interviewer is attempting to counter, ultimately creating a more balanced historical view.

This chapter examines the story of the “King of Craw” John Fallis. Fallis was larger than life. He was a grocer, a bootlegger, a neighborhood boss, and a “Robin Hood” figure who gave back to the poor, he influenced the voting block that was the neighborhood, faked his own death, shot three policemen in one evening, and was a fugitive from the law. Although he was killed in 1929, his legend continues today and he endures as a symbolic presence for a neighborhood no longer in existence. This chapter takes a close look at the role of legend and folklore in oral history and resultant public memory of this community.

This chapter explores the ambivalence of the copy by examining the impact of low-quality, unauthorized digital bootlegs on the domain of experimental film, an area of practice that has historically exhibited a strong investment in medium specificity and the moral rights of the filmmaker. I confront these issues through a case study of Josiah McElheny’s The Past Was A Mirage I’d Left Far Behind (2010), a year-long installation at the Whitechapel Gallery in London that consisted of copies of historical abstract films taken from UbuWeb – an online repository of low-definition files posted without permission of the filmmakers – and projected onto prismatic screens.

This chapter interrogates how artists’ moving image has grappled with the increased ridigification of copyright that has occurred over the last two decades. Many artists champion the freedom to reuse copyrighted materials, but fail to interrogate the particular circumstances that it make possible for them to do so without retribution, while simultaneously avoiding an engagement with the significant encroachments on fair use and the public domain that have been implemented as part of new copyright legislation that seeks to control the unruliness of digital reproduction. As a counterpoint to such positions, this chapter examines Ben White and Eileen Simpson’s Struggle in Jerash (2009), a work made by repurposing a public domain film of the same title made in 1957 in Jordan. Simpson and White contest the increasing privatization of visual culture, insisting on the wealth of the cultural commons precisely as it is under threat.

This final entry draws together some larger conclusions from the previous seven chapters, specifically addressing the complexity of the relationship between the various performance platforms and locales discussed in the book. As well, it poses some suggestions for future historical work regarding the relationship between television and the musical and looks ahead at the ever-rising level of convergence and audience participation possible in an increasingly networked world. It nods to an emergent trend in showing recordings of Broadway shows in movie theatres, the launch of Broadway HD, and the role the Internet plays in distributing licensed, bootlegged, and fan-created musical texts. It notes that the book is in no way comprehensive but seeks to illuminate the string of moving parts involved in the musical’s forays into television and ultimately looks forward at what might still be coming down the pike.

This chapter discusses the Jews' bootlegging activities, with particular attention to the “rabbinic wine scandals” engendered by the Volstead Act's sacramental wine dispensation. Prohibition regulation granted special dispensation that gave American Jews access to sacramental wine for religious purposes, and established procedures by which Jews could buy and sell it. This dispensation emerged early in the Prohibition era as a massive breach through which hundreds of thousands of illegal alcohol flowed. The fact that Jewish alcohol production, purveyance, and consumption was actually built into federal Prohibition law had a profound effect on Jewish attitudes toward Prohibition, and on prohibitionists' attitudes toward Jews.

This chapter examines the creation of a regional market for Japanese popular culture, with particular emphasis on the expansion of music and television companies into East Asia since the end of the 1980s. It begins with a review of the macro politicoeconomic conditions that contributed to the transfer of Japanese popular culture to East Asia. It then provides a quantitative analysis of the market share of Japanese music and television programs in East Asia and goes on to discuss how Japanese music and television companies have become actively involved in local cultural scenes. It shows that Japanese music and television have carved out a sizable position in East Asian regional markets. The chapter also considers the role of piracy in enhancing the dissemination of Japanese cultural commodities in East Asia and the relationship between censorship and bootleg markets. It proposes a new framework for viewing the dynamism of bootleg markets in East Asia.

This chapter explores the significance of Prohibition for the evolution of organized crime in Chicago. It shows that Prohibition provided the opportunity for the city's vice entrepreneurs and criminal gangs to extend their activities into bootlegging. Levee district vice mongers such as Johnny Torrio and Al Capone competed with criminal gangs such as the Valley Gang, the O'Banion Gang, the Genna Brothers, and others for control of the illegal alcohol racket. The end result was the infamous “beer wars” of the 1920s, which sparked violence on the streets of Chicago. The Capone syndicate won out in the end, establishing itself as the supreme overlord of vice and crime in Chicago. The chapter examines how, after the end of Prohibition in 1933, the Syndicate, as Capone's organization became known, extended its operations to include control of all illegal gambling in Chicago and embarked on an extensive racketeering campaign to seize control of trade associations and labor unions in the Chicago metropolitan area.

This chapter examines how collectors, listeners, and entrepreneurs took advantage of a legal gray zone—that composers deserved to benefit from recordings of their work but that record companies did not enjoy a copyright for their recordings—to rerelease old and out-of-print recordings, beginning in the 1930s. It considers how such activities landed bootleggers in court, often with indecisive results, and triggered a struggle for property rights. The chapter looks at the career of Eli Oberstein to illustrate the way some in the music business played fast and loose with sound recordings in the mid-twentieth century. It also explores the recording industry's lobbying to obtain federal copyright protection for its products, the issue of copying and distributing popular music, and the surge of bootlegging after World War II.

This chapter focuses on the spread of piracy to popular music, particularly rock, as a young generation embraced both tape technology and radical rhetoric to position bootlegging as part of a general social ferment in the late 1960s. It looks at the emergence of a large, creative, and unruly pirate market that operated parallel to the mainstream music industry, along with Congress's passage of a copyright law for sound recordings. It also considers the alliance between bootlegging and counterculture, and how it produced a legacy that documented much of the music of the age on illicit records.

This chapter examines the reality of bootlegging in the aftermath of copyright reform in the 1970s, as pirates in the United States adapted to a newly hostile legal climate by developing new networks of production and exchange. It considers the emergence of new genres such as jam music and hip-hop that challenged ideas of ownership, along with the bootlegging of live and unreleased tracks by rock artists. It also examines how followers of artists such as Kraut, the Grateful Dead, and Brucie Bee became part of a new structure for music distribution. In addition, the chapter looks at the case of the Grateful Dead, whose model anticipated the ideas and strategies of Creative Commons, the Electronic Frontier Foundation, and other copyright activists. Finally, it discusses the mixtape as a medium for bootlegging hip-hop.

This chapter examines how a variety of business interests, including record labels and software companies, coalesced behind the idea of “intellectual property” and international organizations took a series of steps to stem the rising tide of piracy around the world during the 1970s. It first considers the economic crunch of the late 1970s that hit the music industry in Europe and the United States hard before turning to a discussion of the increase in illicit copying of American goods and how piracy in developing nations piggybacked on industrialization. It then looks at bootlegging in countries such as Taiwan, Singapore, Thailand, and Nigeria before concluding with an assessment of the persistence of piracy under the new international regime and the emergence of China as a formidable foe of antipiracy campaigners.

This chapter examines how social media such as YouTube and Facebook became tools for piracy and bootlegging by recasting the Napster model of peer-to-peer sharing as social networking. It explains how social networking sites became a medium for online sharing of images, texts, and sounds copied and distributed among users. By harnessing the social relationships among people (“peers”), these websites enable the distribution of creative works that differed significantly from the mass production or broadcasting model of twentieth-century media. The chapter discusses the implications of the social world of music for copyright and intellectual property before concluding with an assessment of the economics and politics of piracy.

Some called it Downadup. Others preferred Kido. As soon as the Conficker worm started spreading over the internet on November 20, 2008, security firms agreed that they faced a pandemic and immediately began to cooperate on containing it, but they couldn’t reach a consensus about what to name it. The worm continued to propagate unabated, infecting an estimated 15 million computers, including systems in the German military and British Parliament. By the following April the media had reported on the worm so extensively that PC World compared its notoriety to the celebrity of Paris Hilton, dubbing Conficker “the world’s most famous piece of malware.” Nevertheless several security companies still insisted on calling it Downadup. And though nobody was any closer to eliminating it, the worm had acquired several more identifiers, official codes such as TA08–297A, VU827267, and CVE-2008–4250, seldom referenced by anyone. Conficker will always have conflicting monikers. Most malware does. Despite periodic attempts to standardize the naming process, no system has ever become ubiquitous. Even the first, codified in 1991 when a mere thousand viruses were in circulation, was ignored as often as it was followed by the half-dozen computer firms then in the nascent security business. And no wonder. Mandating the form Family_Name.Group_Name.Major_Variant.Minor_Variant[:Modifier] , it made Linnaean binomials seem, comparatively, to roll off the tongue. A 1999 revision only bloated the nomenclature, requiring that virus platform and malware type also be specified, while ignoring a much deeper problem: even researchers who followed the formula seldom agreed on what to call the groups and families. Each new worm or virus averaged four totally incompatible appellations—generally unpronounceable strings of letters—and every month the number of worms and viruses in the wild increased by thousands. Hackers spread much of the malware by email. You’d get a virus embedded in the attachment to a message ostensibly coming from a personal contact. If you opened the attachment the virus would take over your computer’s email software, automatically forwarding itself, now in your name, to every address on your own contact list, renewing the whole infection process.

The origin of the mashup is a matter of debate. According to one theory, the phenomenon began in 2001 with the XFM radio broadcast of the song “Stroke of Genius,” a bootleg remix by the deejay Freelance Hellraiser that incongruously set the pop vocals of Christina Aguilera’s “Genie in a Bottle” against garage rock instrumentals from the Strokes’ “Hard to Explain.” A competing hypothesis credits the culture-jamming Evolution Control Committee, which in 1993 satirically layered the brutal rap lyrics of Public Enemy over swinging Latin arrangements of Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass. Other theories cite Club House’s 1983 medley of Steely Dan’s “Do It Again” and Michael Jackson’s “Billy Jean,” Frank Zappa’s ’70s experiments in xenochrony, King Tubby’s ’60s dub remixes, John Cage’s ’50s compositions for a chorus of radios, and even the Renaissance practice of quodlibet. Although some of these may have been influential—and all are reminders of the role remixing has forever played in the creative process—this long tail of influences scarcely anticipates the explosion of songs combining vocals from one source with instrumentals from another following the Freelance Hellraiser’s XFM debut. In a matter of months mashups numbered in the thousands, with juxtapositions including Missy Elliott vs. the Cure, Art Garfunkel vs. Watership Down, and Whitney Houston vs. Kraftwork. Evoking a wrestling match, A vs. B became the standard formula for citing sources, generally in parentheses following a title playing on names of the original songs. (For instance, “Smells Like Teen Booty” was a mashup of Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit” with “Bootylicious” by Destiny’s Child.) The sounds of these remixes were as varied as the source materials, and the motivations were as disparate as the historical influences, with intended targets ranging from dance club entertainment to cultural critique. What these works shared, and have in common with the countless additional musical (and video) mashups that have since joined them, is the notion that culture is interactive, a feedback loop rather than a mail chute. Whether done in tribute or ridicule, or simply to create something beautiful, these songs mash up the standard distinction between consumer and producer.

Just as in chemistry, the best way to learn ethical problem solving is to confront context-rich, real-life problems (Jonsen and Toulmin 1988; Davis 1999, 143–175). The broad variety of ethical problems, or cases, presented here are hypothetical situations, but represent the kinds of problems working chemists and students face. Cases raising similar ethical questions are grouped together. To reach a diverse audience, I sometimes write several variations of the same situation. For example, a question might be posed from the perspective of the graduate student in one version and from the perspective of the research director in another. For important issues I provide cases that are accessible to undergraduates who have very little research experience, usually in the context of laboratory courses. For advanced undergraduates, some cases involve undergraduate research projects. Most of the cases involve situations encountered in graduate research in universities, but some also concern industrial chemistry. Finally, a few cases present ethical problems that arise in cooperative learning, a pedagogical technique that is becoming increasingly important in undergraduate education. Each case, or related set of cases, is followed by a commentary that outlines the important issues and discusses possible solutions. Some of the commentaries are quite extensive and actually present and defend my preferred course of action; others are brief and merely raise questions that should be considered in designing a solution. The commentaries model the ethical problem-solving method presented in Chapter 6. As I have emphasized repeatedly, most ethical problems do not have clean solutions. While some courses of action are clearly wrong, there may be several morally acceptable and defensible ways to proceed. Consequently, readers might disagree with my proposed solutions for good reasons. For example, if I use a consequentialist approach, my assessment of the relative positive and negative weights of the consequences might be challenged, or I simply might have forgotten to consider some factor. Where I have made a definite recommendation, I give the reasons for my choice and contrast it with other alternatives.