Chi Analysis

01/15/2026

"Scientists filmed a singer's throat at 4,000 frames per second to prove what made Freddie Mercury's voice literally impossible to replicate."
On April 19, 2016, a team of scientists from Austria, the Czech Republic, and Sweden published something extraordinary: scientific proof that Freddie Mercury possessed one of the most unique voices in human history.
Led by Dr. Christian Herbst of the University of Vienna, the research team published their findings in the journal Logopedics Phoniatrics Vocology. What they discovered wasn't just impressive—it redefined our understanding of what the human voice can achieve.
The study revealed that Mercury was using vocal techniques that shouldn't exist in Western rock music.
He was literally throat singing—like the traditional Tuvan throat singers of Mongolia—in the middle of rock anthems.
Most humans never speak or sing using their ventricular folds. These are tissue structures in your throat that sit above your vocal cords, and they're essentially dormant in everyday life. Opera singers don't use them. Pop singers don't use them. The only people who intentionally vibrate their ventricular folds are specially trained Tuvan throat singers who spend years mastering the technique.
Freddie Mercury? He did it effortlessly while belting out "We Are the Champions."
This is called subharmonic phonation. The researchers filmed a professional rock singer's larynx at 4,132 frames per second trying to imitate Mercury's "growl" sounds. What they saw was extraordinary: a 3:1 frequency locked vibratory pattern where both the vocal folds AND ventricular folds vibrated simultaneously. This creates a richer, fuller sound—the impression of a voice pushed to its absolute limits while maintaining complete control.
It's what gave Mercury's voice that signature intensity.
Then there's the vibrato.
Your average singer has a vibrato that fluctuates between 5.4 and 6.9 Hz—a gentle, controlled wavering of pitch. Classical singers like Pavarotti aim for a smooth, regular vibrato close to a perfect sine wave, which creates that polished, operatic sound.
Freddie Mercury's vibrato? 7.04 Hz. Faster than almost anyone in recorded music history.
But speed wasn't even the most remarkable part. Mercury's vibrato was irregular—chaotic, almost electric. Where Pavarotti's vibrato charted as a smooth wave with a regularity value close to 1, Mercury's averaged 0.57. His voice didn't just vibrate; it pulsed with an unpredictable energy that made every sustained note feel alive, dangerous, ready to ignite.
Listen to the isolated vocal track of "Bohemian Rhapsody." That shimmer, that restless quality in his voice? That's his throat moving faster and more unpredictably than conventional vocal technique should allow.
The study also debunked one popular myth while revealing another truth. Mercury's vocal range wasn't the rumored four octaves—it was a respectable but not superhuman three octaves (G2 to G5). But here's the revelation: despite being known as a tenor, Mercury was actually a baritone.
Analysis of six interviews showed his median speaking frequency at 117.3 Hz—squarely in baritone territory. Opera soprano Montserrat Caballé, who performed with Mercury, confirmed it: "He had a baritone voice." He was singing as a tenor with such complete mastery that even experts were fooled.
Think about what this means: Mercury was naturally operating outside his base range, using techniques that Western singers don't use, vibrating his throat faster than humanly typical, and doing it all while commanding a stage with theatrical brilliance.
Whether he was belting "Bohemian Rhapsody," crooning "Love of My Life," or growling through "Fat Bottomed Girls," his voice had a versatility that transcended genre. He could shift from chest voice to falsetto, from breathy to pressed, adapting his sound to whatever the song demanded.
Dr. Herbst noted something profound in the study: "The occurrence of subharmonics aids in creating the impression of a sound production system driven to its limits, even while used with great finesse. These traits, in combination with the fast and irregular vibrato, might have helped create Freddie Mercury's eccentric and flamboyant stage persona."
In other words, his voice and his persona were inseparable. The science explained the magic.
Here's the beautiful irony: When asked, most great singers can't explain how they do what they do. Freddie Mercury almost certainly didn't know he was using subharmonics or that his vibrato was operating at 7.04 Hz. He just sang. The technique was instinctive, unconscious—pure artistry unaware of its own mechanics.
That's perhaps the most remarkable part. This wasn't calculated. It was natural genius.
Freddie Mercury died in 1991, but his voice remains timeless. The study confirms what millions of fans already felt in their bones: he wasn't just a great singer. He was a phenomenon—a voice that defied the laws of conventional vocal production and redefined what rock music could sound like.
"A true artist pushes boundaries, defies limits, and leaves a legacy that echoes through time."
Freddie Mercury did all this and more. Science has now proven it.
The voice of a generation. The sound of the impossible.
A legend unmatched.

01/15/2026

In the mid-1800s, as steam-powered fire engines became common, fire departments transitioned from hand-pulled engines to much larger wagons pulled by horses. Firehouses were often multi-story buildings: the stables with horses and equipment were on the ground floor, while sleeping quarters, kitchens, and sometimes hay storage were on the upper floors.

Architects and firemen installed narrow spiral staircases leading upstairs because these compact stairs were difficult or impossible for horses to climb, helping keep the animals where they belonged, with the equipment, not wandering into the firemen’s living spaces attracted by smells like cooking food. 

However, spiral stairs created a new problem for the fire crews themselves. When the alarm sounded, dozens of firefighters had to race down tight, twisting stairs to reach the horses and engines below, which was slow and inefficient in an emergency.

In 1878, in Chicago’s Engine Company No. 21, a practical breakthrough occurred: a fireman named George Reid used a long wooden hay-lifting pole to slide from an upper floor to the ground faster than his colleagues on the stairs, inspiring Captain David B. Kenyon to install a permanent sliding pole. This allowed firefighters to descend directly and quickly to the apparatus floor, often saving precious seconds in getting the horses hitched and the engine rolling. 

Once introduced, the fire pole spread rapidly across firehouses in the U.S. and later in other countries as a practical response innovation. By around 1880 the Boston Fire Department installed the first brass pole, and poles became a defining feature of many fire stations into the 20th century. Over time, as horses were replaced by motorized fire engines, the original need for spiral stairs to restrain horses disappeared.

Many modern stations now build single-story sleeping and apparatus floors or use safer alternatives like slides, but the legacy of those early architectural choices, spiral stairs to control horses and poles to speed descent, remains a fascinating part of firefighting history.

01/14/2026

He invented television. He never got to enjoy what it made possible.
San Francisco, 1930s. Philo Farnsworth conceived electronic television at age fourteen, sketching the idea on a school chalkboard. By his early twenties, he had built a working system that could scan images electronically—something mechanical television could not do.
The invention worked.
When Farnsworth demonstrated it publicly, the implications were obvious. Whoever controlled this technology would shape mass communication for generations. That realization attracted powerful attention.
RCA arrived.
Led by David Sarnoff, RCA had resources Farnsworth did not: teams of lawyers, manufacturing muscle, and political influence. The company challenged his patents relentlessly, arguing that their own engineers had developed the same ideas independently.
Farnsworth fought back—and won on paper.
Courts repeatedly affirmed that the invention was his. RCA was forced to license his patents. But the legal battles dragged on for years, draining Farnsworth financially and emotionally. While RCA scaled television into a global industry, Farnsworth spent his time defending ownership instead of building a business.
The stress took its toll.
As television spread into millions of homes, Farnsworth saw little of the wealth it generated. His patents eventually expired. The leverage disappeared. RCA made billions. He did not.
By the 1950s, Farnsworth had stepped away from television entirely. He struggled with depression and bitterness. Friends said he could not bear to watch television programs built on a technology he had pioneered and lost control of.
He died in 1971 at age 64.
At the time of his death, television was everywhere. Networks were thriving. Advertisements flooded screens. The medium he created shaped culture, politics, and daily life.
His widow survived on a small income. RCA never apologized. The original laboratory where the first electronic television was built was later replaced by a parking lot.
Recognition came late, and quietly.
Farnsworth’s name appeared in textbooks long after corporations had claimed the spotlight. The world remembered television. It forgot the man who made it possible.
When innovation is taken by those with better lawyers instead of better ideas, who does progress really serve?

01/13/2026

When Ron Howard answered the phone in late June 2012, he already sensed it might be the last time he’d hear Andy Griffith’s voice. Andy’s health had declined, and their calls had become less frequent. But this one was calm, steady, and intimate. They didn’t talk about Hollywood, careers, or the old days on “The Andy Griffith Show.” Andy spoke softly about kindness. About how important it was to be gentle with people, especially when you don’t know what battles they’re facing.

Ron, who had first met Andy as a six-year-old playing Opie in 1960, later said that final conversation stayed with him in a way few others had. They hadn’t seen each other on screen for decades, but the emotional shorthand between them had never faded. Ron didn’t press for wisdom or anecdotes. Andy didn’t offer any last words of legacy. He simply reminded him that being kind was more important than being right, more powerful than being clever, and more lasting than being famous.

Andy Griffith passed away on July 3, 2012, at age 86. In the months that followed, Ron Howard returned to directing with a project very different from his previous films. He took on “Hillbilly Elegy” (2020), a story steeped in Appalachian struggle, addiction, family heartbreak, and human dignity. Critics would later debate the politics of the film, but Ron made it clear what had shaped his approach. He referenced that final call with Andy as the emotional blueprint.

He said in interviews that Andy’s message became a kind of compass while shooting scenes involving broken homes, desperate choices, and frayed relationships. The idea that every character, no matter how flawed, deserved grace. During one emotional sequence in “Hillbilly Elegy,” a young man pleads for understanding while his mother spirals into relapse. Ron made sure that moment landed not with judgment, but with quiet compassion. He directed with the memory of Andy’s voice in his ear.

Ron and Andy had spent years navigating fame together, albeit from different vantage points. Andy had been the calm presence, the North Carolina native who taught Ron about timing, stillness, and patience on set. Ron, wide-eyed and eager, had absorbed it all. But as adults, their relationship transformed into one of mutual respect. They didn’t see each other often, but every phone call ended with warmth.

In 2003, when Andy Griffith was honored with the Presidential Medal of Freedom, Ron sent a personal note that read less like a colleague’s praise and more like a son’s letter. He wrote about the lessons Andy had taught without ever announcing they were lessons, how to treat crew members by name, how to pause before reacting, how to carry humility even when the spotlight is on you.

That same humility informed how Ron spoke of Andy after his death. He didn’t post grand tributes. He didn’t write a memoir chapter or give teary interviews. He simply said that Andy had given him a gift in that last phone call. A reminder that filmmaking, at its best, reflects who you are when no one is watching.

Ron once said, “Directing is about understanding people. That last conversation with Andy… it wasn’t about scripts or shots. It was about how to see people.”

The final thing Andy Griffith said to Ron Howard before they hung up that day was, “Be kind, Ron. Be kinder than you feel.” Those words didn’t fade with the dial tone. They showed up in how Ron led his actors, how he framed each scene, and how he told a story that some dismissed but he knew needed tenderness.

In moments when the world urges cold efficiency, the right voice reminding you to choose kindness can shift everything. Ron Howard listened. And then, quietly, he passed it on.

01/11/2026

November 12, 2001.
Paul McCartney flew in from London with his fiancée Heather Mills. Ringo Starr drove over from a nearby hotel — he'd come from Boston, where his daughter was fighting a brain tumor.
They were meeting George Harrison at a Manhattan hotel.
George had been battling cancer for three years. Throat cancer first. Then lung cancer. Now a brain tumor. He'd traveled to New York for experimental radiation treatment at Staten Island University Hospital.
This would be the last time the three surviving Beatles were in the same room.
They'd known each other since they were boys.
George and Paul first became friends riding the school bus to Liverpool Institute, bonding over their shared love of guitars. Later, Paul arranged an audition for George to join John Lennon's band, the Quarrymen. On the top deck of an empty bus one night, the 14-year-old George played "Raunchy" by Bill Justis — note perfect. John was impressed. "He's a bit young," Lennon said, "but by God he can play."
By 1960, they were the Beatles. Four kids from Liverpool who somehow became the biggest band in history.
They'd lived together, traveled together, created together. Fought together, too. By the late '60s, the tension was unbearable. George felt overshadowed by John and Paul's songwriting dominance. Paul could be controlling. When the Beatles broke up in 1970, George felt liberated. His triple album All Things Must Pass proved he'd been holding back songs of his own for years.
But even after the breakup, even after the lawsuits and bitterness, something remained.
They were brothers.
November 12, 2001.
Paul arrived first. Ringo soon after.
George's wife Olivia was there. George was frail. On medication. He ate a vegetarian meal and drank only water.
But he was in high spirits.
That's what everyone who was there remembers: George refused to let cancer steal his humor.
They reminisced. About the early days. About playing tiny clubs in Hamburg where they'd sleep four to a room and perform sets until 2 AM. There were jokes. There was laughter. There were tears.
Years later, Paul described the meeting: "We joked about things — just amusing, nutty stuff. It was good. It was like we were dreaming."
And something happened that never would have occurred when they were young men trying to be rock stars.
Paul held George's hand.
"Even at the height of our friendship — as guys — you would never hold hands," Paul said. "It just wasn't a Liverpool thing. But it was lovely."
After lunch, George had to leave for his radiation treatment. Ringo said goodbye — he had to get back to Boston, to his daughter. He hugged George.
Paul stayed. He spent the rest of the afternoon with George and Olivia, refusing to leave until George returned from treatment. He wanted every moment.
That was the last time all three surviving Beatles were together.
In the final weeks of George's life, Ringo visited him once more — this time in Switzerland, where George had also sought treatment. George was very ill. Could barely move. Ringo sat with him.
Eventually, Ringo said, "Well, you know, I've got to go. I've got to go to Boston."
George looked at him — weak, dying, but still George — and said:
"Do you want me to come with you?"
Those were the last words Ringo ever heard George say. A joke. Even at the end.
Seventeen days after the Manhattan meeting, on November 29, 2001, George Harrison died. He was 58 years old.
He passed away in Los Angeles, at a house arranged by longtime friend and security consultant Gavin De Becker — a quiet, private place away from cameras and crowds. His wife Olivia and son Dhani were by his side. Ravi Shankar, his mentor, was nearby. Hare Krishna devotees chanted softly.
His family released a statement:
"He left this world as he lived in it, conscious of God, fearless of death, and at peace, surrounded by family and friends. He often said, 'Everything else can wait, but the search for God cannot wait, and love one another.'"
Paul was not there when George died. He was in England.
"I am devastated and very, very sad," he said afterward. "He was a lovely guy and a very brave man and had a wonderful sense of humor. He is really just my baby brother."
Outside Paul's house, there's a fir tree. George gave it to him years ago. Paul planted it.
"George was very into horticulture, a really good gardener," Paul explained. "He gave me that tree as a present. Every time I look at it, I go, 'That's the tree George gave me.' George has entered that tree for me."
Every year on the anniversary of George's death, Paul posts something. Every year, he remembers.
November 12, 2001.
Three men who once changed the world sat in a hotel room in Manhattan and remembered when they were just boys on a bus.
They laughed about Hamburg. They cried about time. They held hands.
It wasn't a concert. It wasn't a reunion. It wasn't for cameras or fans.
It was just three friends — who happened to be Beatles — saying goodbye the only way they knew how:
With humor. With honesty. With love.
Seventeen days later, there were only two.
But for a few hours on that November afternoon, they were all together one last time.
And that — more than any song, any album, any stadium — was the gift.

~Old Photo Club

01/10/2026

January 7, 1943. A quiet hotel room in Manhattan. Nikola Tesla—one of the greatest minds in human history—lay dead at 86 years old, alone, with just 33 cents to his name. The man who electrified the modern world, who tamed Niagara Falls, who imagined wireless communication decades before it existed, died with no family at his bedside and no fortune to show for his genius—only stacks of papers, half-finished ideas, and pigeons he had cared for like companions.

Tesla had come to America in 1884 with almost nothing and changed everything. He defeated Edison’s direct current, built the alternating current system that still powers the planet, and envisioned radio, remote control, and wireless energy long before the world was ready. But vision has a cost. Investors drifted away. His greatest dream—free global wireless power—was abandoned. By the end, he lived quietly in hotels, feeding pigeons and writing ideas no one funded.

And then something remarkable happened.

Five days after his death, over 2,000 people packed New York’s Cathedral of Saint John the Divine. Scientists. Engineers. Ordinary citizens. Nobel laureates. U.S. officials. Eleanor Roosevelt herself sent condolences. The world finally paused to honor the man it had let fade into obscurity. The FBI seized his papers, fearing what knowledge they might contain—some still classified today.

Tesla died poor.
But everything around us proves he won.

Every light that turns on.
Every power grid.
Every wireless signal.

His ideas never stopped flowing.

Nikola Tesla is the reminder history keeps repeating: genius is often buried before it is celebrated—but truth survives its neglect. He died alone, but the current he set in motion still runs through the entire world.

And it always will.

01/09/2026

Self-care can be as simple as taking your herbs and slowing down. What are you doing for yourself today?

01/07/2026

On January 7, 1943, in the quiet isolation of Room 3327 at the New Yorker Hotel in Manhattan, Nikola Tesla passed away in his sleep. He was 86 years old. There were no family members at his bedside, no colleagues, no crowds gathered to mourn. The man who had once imagined the future of the world died alone.

It was a strangely modest ending for someone whose mind had reshaped human civilization.

Decades earlier, Tesla had been at the center of scientific revolution. His work with alternating current made it possible to transmit electricity over long distances, forever changing how cities were powered. The hydroelectric system at Niagara Falls—one of the greatest engineering feats of its time—stood as living proof of his brilliance. His Tesla coil opened new paths in electrical science, and his visions of wireless communication, remote control, and global energy transmission foreshadowed technologies the world would not fully realize until long after his death.

But genius does not always walk hand in hand with comfort or recognition.

As the years passed, Tesla became increasingly isolated. He never married and had no children. He lived frugally, often moving from one hotel room to another as unpaid bills followed him. Former investors and admirers drifted away, and newer generations of scientists built upon his ideas without always knowing his name. While the world raced forward using principles he helped create, Tesla remained behind, watching quietly.

His hotel room was cluttered with stacks of papers—handwritten notes, sketches, calculations, and ideas left unfinished. Some were brilliant, others strange, many impossible to decipher. These papers represented a lifetime of relentless imagination, a mind that never truly rested. Alongside them were traces of his most unusual companionship: pigeons. In his later years, Tesla formed a deep emotional bond with the birds of New York City, feeding and caring for them daily. One white pigeon, in particular, held a special place in his heart—he once said he loved her as a man loves a woman.

When Tesla died, authorities quickly seized his belongings, fearing that his papers might contain dangerous or valuable inventions. After investigation, his documents were released to his family and eventually preserved, becoming part of his enduring scientific legacy. Many of his ideas, once dismissed or forgotten, would later be revisited with awe as technology caught up to his imagination.

Nikola Tesla did not die wealthy.
He did not die famous in the way celebrities are remembered.
He did not die surrounded by applause.

But he died having altered the direction of human history.

The lights that glow across cities, the power that flows through modern life, the wireless world we now inhabit—all carry echoes of his mind. Tesla’s life was marked by solitude, but his ideas were never lonely. They traveled forward in time, shaping a future that arrived too late for him to see.

He was a visionary whose brilliance outlived his isolation,
a man forgotten in his final years,
yet remembered by the world he helped build.

01/06/2026

12/19/2025