Welcome to Three Tune Tuesday
A Journey into the Soundtrack of the Past
Why Three Tune Tuesday?
Because it’s more than nostalgia—it’s a time machine. By listening closely to these century-old voices, we rediscover the roots of today’s music and the stories of the people who sang them. Each crackle and hiss carries history: resilience in hard times, laughter in the face of change, and artistry that still resonates.
Where to Listen
- Right here at Blind Skeleton, the podcast home of Three Tune Tuesday.
- On Apple Podcasts.
- Or wherever you enjoy your weekly dose of vintage sound
Whether you’re a history buff, a music lover, or simply curious, Three Tune Tuesday offers an inspiring window into the past. Tune in each week to experience the melodies and stories that laid the groundwork for the music we know and love today.
Browse All Episodes
Every Tuesday, Boneapart and Yulia spin three songs from 78rpm records more than 100 years old: ragtime, early jazz, blues, vaudeville, Tin Pan Alley, dance bands and forgotten hits from the 1900s to the 1920s.
Each episode follows a theme of the week, and every track is an acoustically recorded, public-domain gem played on period-appropriate phonographs and gramophones from a private collection of 78 rpm records. Along with the music come the stories: who made these recordings, what the world sounded like when they were new, and why these voices deserve to be remembered.
Whether you’re a record collector, a lover of old-time music and the Jazz Age, or just curious what people were dancing to a century ago, pull up a chair. Three tunes, every Tuesday, played the way they were first heard.
A Blind Skeleton production.
Three records this week about things that won’t stay put after dark, arranged by how far away they are. First, from 1911, “That Mysterious Rag” — Irving Berlin and Ted Snyder writing a song about a tune that gets into your sleep and wakes you up screaming, and then making it catchy on purpose. The haunting is the record you bought. Then back to 1903 and the best ghost in the English language: Benjamin Binns has been hanged, he’s allowed home for one hour after midnight, he finds his widow remarried and her new husband wearing his old clothes — and instead of weeping about it, he explains his new job. He’s working séances now. Rapping tables, playing the instruments. The thing that goes bump in the night has a trade. And we finish in 1908 with “The Phantom Brigade,” a ghost army built entirely out of a dynamic marking: it comes out of silence, marches past, and dissolves, and nothing is ever shown to you. It’s the quietest record of the three and the only one that raises the hair on your arms. One other thing. On all three discs, somebody’s name is a lie — and not one of those lies was sinister. That’s just how the record business worked in 1908.
