Where do public monikers come from and what do they say about culture?

One of the more eclectic titles to enter the public domain in 2026 was Universal’s King of Jazz, a two-strip Technicolor musical revue featuring Paul Whiteman and his Orchestra, Bing Crosby, and even Oswald the Lucky Rabbit. The work features stunning visuals, comical moments, and grand musical numbers. At the center of it all is the titular “King of Jazz,” Paul Whiteman.

While the film does not accurately explain how Whiteman came to receive the name—instead presenting a fictional animated sequence from in-house director Walter Lantz—it presents the moniker as his. But how did Whiteman actually come to be known as the “King of Jazz,” and what does that say about cultural production? Let’s break down the origins of this moniker.

Jazz as a recorded venture originated with the 1917 recording of “Livery Stable Blues” and “Dixieland Jass Band One-Step” by the Original Dixieland Jass Band. The earliest origin of the word was traced to “jass” for playing something “with pep” before the spelling changed to jazz. Following this, the earliest known references to a “King of Jazz/Jass” date to 1919. On January 12, 1919, the New York based paper, The Sun, referenced Ted Lewis as “the King of Jazz.” That same year, the Ted Lewis Jazz Band recorded “Blues My Naughty Sweetie Gave Me” for Columbia.

On April 9, 1919, the East St. Louis Daily Journal gave clarinetist Horace George the moniker “the King of Jass.” Notably, Horace George was also referred to as the “Clarinet King.” Horace George’s history in music has been largely overlooked, but he was present throughout the earliest years of jazz’s development. George’s recording career—as best as we can understand today—was sparse, with only a handful of records being cut under his own name. One crucial pairing was with Shelton Brooks, composer of the jazz standard, “Darktown Strutters’ Ball.” The pairing’s partnership dissolved in June 1920. 

Paul Whiteman began recording music in 1920 with his “Ambassador Orchestra” while performing at Atlantic City’s Ambassador Hotel, before dropping the Ambassador title altogether later. Their first release came under Victor Records with “Best Ever Medley,” which included Ponchielli’s “Dance of the Hours.” Throughout the 1920s, the group—commonly known as the Paul Whiteman Orchestra—would record many popular hits. In 1924, the Orchestra teamed up with George Gershwin to make the first ever recording of “Rhapsody in Blue.” By 1930, Whiteman was the star personality called the “King of Jazz,” meant to carry the Universal Picture film of the same name. Whiteman received this name as early as August 15, 1923 at an event with New York’s Waldorf-Astoria Hotel.

That Paul Whiteman is the one to end up as the “King of Jazz” in a major Hollywood motion picture of the day is not surprising, given the social benefits that he enjoyed as a white male in the early twentieth century. Jazz was created and shaped by Black musicians, many of whom were marginalized by the recording, touring, and publicity systems that elevated white bandleaders like Whiteman. Artists like Horace George, Bessie Smith, Louis Armstrong, Duke Ellington, and countless others innovated and shaped the sound and musical language of jazz.

Recognizing this does not diminish Whiteman’s popularity or influence in his own time. Rather, it highlights the whitewashing and flattening of history and culture that arises over time. This kingly title exists within the broader social and commercial structures that shaped the musical landscape of the early twentieth century. The persistence of the moniker tells us as much about race, access, and media power as it does about musical achievement, and invites us to revisit the era with a wider lens.

Now in the public domain, King of Jazz and other recordings by Whiteman are accessible and tangible to many more of us by a simple click. The celebration of these past works further emphasizes his social benefits, but also allow for closer examination of this historical moment. There is the potential for us to discover more of Horace George’s work and other overlooked jazz artists of the time—to disentangle the moniker from one man, and to understand the broader moment without barrier.

To dive in more check out our curated list of media referenced in this post.

How Mickey’s 1930 comic strip turned borrowed hit songs into the foundation of Disney’s musical legacy.

On January 13, 1930, Mickey Mouse began starring in daily comic strips. This new endeavor “functioned as many fans’ most readily available source of Mickey Mouse entertainment.”¹ Despite being a print medium, these works heavily featured musical motifs of popular songs—a staple of his contemporary cartoons. Unlike the concurrent animated shorts, which could incorporate synchronized sound, the comic strip relied on musical shorthand: fragments of lyrics, song titles, and musical notes that invited readers to “hear” the music. These musical moments are not incidental but intentional—Mickey participates within a popular cultural soundscape.

Early strips utilize the cultural cache of these already popular songs to reinforce Mickey’s own cultural relevance. Through subsequent references Mickey becomes associated with music that audiences recognize and consider culturally valuable. Ultimately, the Disney company utilizes this association—Mickey and music as culturally significant—to lend legitimacy to their own musical works. Through this technique the 1930 comics move from borrowing musical culture to manufacturing it.

The first instance of Mickey Mouse referencing a song is “Singin’ in the Bathtub”, a hit song from Warner Brothers’ The Show of Shows (1929).

March 10, 1930

A single panel—essentially a brief throwaway—the reference establishes the musical borrowing technique that the strip would employ throughout 1930. The song he borrows is a parody of The Hollywood Revue’s “Singin’ in the Rain”, thus itself working within a cultural borrowing technique.

The borrowing strategy is repeated when Mickey and Minnie “sing” the parody’s inspiration, “Singin’ in the Rain” while camping out during a rainstorm.

May 20, 1930

The song’s optimistic tone mirrors the scene’s mood, and its inclusion requires no explanation for contemporary readers. The inclusion feels natural and of the moment: another instance of deft cultural association. Viewers of the time might have been reminded of the dazzling two-strip Technicolor sequence of the song in The Hollywood Revue.

Going further back than just the prior year, Disney pulls reference to the popular 1926 song “(Looking At The World Thru) Rose Colored Glasses”

July 10, 1930

First published in 1926, “Rose Colored Glasses” is the oldest song referenced. This distance from initial publication emphasizes durability rather than novelty suggesting cultural staying power. Mickey is aligned not merely with recent hits but with songs that have proven lasting appeal. Mickey Mouse plus familiar music equals cultural relevance. At this point, Disney has established a framework that can be leveraged.

Throughout all of these references, Disney leans on the popularity and legitimacy of other musical works to establish the “sound” of their comic strip. Each song that Mickey references circulated as sheet music, 78rpm records, or in popular films of the time like The Hollywood Revue. These avenues established each song’s cultural value. By repeatedly placing Mickey alongside them, the strip transfers that value onto the character himself. Thus, it is significant when the appearance of Disney’s own original song, “Minnie’s Yoo Hoo,” appears in the strip.

October 28, 1930

First introduced in 1929’s Mickey’s Follies, “Minnie’s Yoo Hoo” utilized the new synchronized sound technology that contributed to Mickey Mouse’s popularity. In March 1930, Variety noted the song’s presence as such remarking that the “Mickey Mouse cartoons have come to the front with a theme song.” This song quickly became a marketing anthem for Mickey.

While the other musical numbers referenced by Mickey in the comic were also commercial properties Mickey’s presentation of them is not an attempt to sell those works. Rather, Disney and Mickey seek to benefit from their cultural value. By including “Minnie’s Yoo Hoo” in the strip it moves from a commercial song to a cultural work—referenced casually and without promotional framing. Its appearance signals that it belongs among the other recognizable tunes. As with the borrowed songs before it, sheet music and recordings were available for purchase, reinforcing its circulation beyond the page.

Today it is easy to assume that Disney songs have always held cultural significance. Yet, the 1930 comic strips exhibit the work required to achieve the earliest efforts of this. Through casual references to culturally popular musical works of the time, the Disney company established their own songs as culturally significant. Mickey’s work as the referential intermediary gave the in-house songs credibility that has grown since. The comics remind us that cultural dominance is rarely instantaneous; it is built, quietly and cumulatively. If you want to see how this happened go and read the 1930 comics in our collections.

1.  David Gerstein and J. B. Kaufman, Walt Disney’s Mickey Mouse: The Ultimate History, 40th Anniversary ed. (Koln: Taschen, 2020), 121. ↩︎

What do a Belgian boy reporter, a forgotten 2008 webpage, and the Wayback Machine have in common? They all played a role in uncovering Tintin the Belgian detective’s earliest adventures as part of Public Domain Day 2025. 

Intellectual Property rights lawyer Aaron Moss summarizes that the earliest 1929 Tintin stories became part of the U.S. public domain in 2025, while copyright continues elsewhere. Since Tintin was not published in the English language in 1929, those wanting to utilize the original stories must return to the original French-language publication. But when those sources are nearly 100 years old and from a different country, that makes tracking them down difficult.  Even the best methods face unforeseen limitations when materials go out of print, become costly, or when websites go offline and inaccessible.

Luckily, we live in the 21st-Century with the connective power of the internet. Instead of traveling to Europe and searching in an archive to find original copies of Le Petit Vingtième, the initial children’s periodical that Tintin was published in, we can go online.

Even with the internet’s advantages, trying to find materials from that original 1929 publication proved to be challenging. Most searches for the initial Tintin story, In the Land of the Soviets, led me to republications with story alterations, later translated versions, or subsequent stories from beyond 1929. Yet, as each door kept closing, a window opened when reviewing the Le Petit Vingtième Wikipedia page. Buried in the description of the 1934 cover featured on the page was a link to a webpage from 2008. While the link was still on the page, it had rotted, now leading only to a dead page. Fortunately, we have the Wayback Machine.

When plugging the rotted link into the Wayback Machine, I found an archived fan Tintin site. From that single archived link, my world of Tintin was blown wide open. Utilizing the Calendar feature of the Wayback Machine, I was able to navigate to a 2012 archive of the original 1929 comic strip. There were Tintin and Snowy in their original French appearance, along with the ensuing run of this initial tale. What had been obscure and abstract in its public domain status was now tangible and accessible thanks to the Wayback Machine.

The ability to locate the original Tintin stories in such an accessible way would not be possible without the Wayback Machine. The idea of 1 trillion web pages archived can be overwhelming in the abstract, but stories like this one remind us that the Wayback Machine is a portal to a living archive—enriching knowledge, culture, and access beyond the average lifespan of a link on the live web. The Wayback Machine supports and encourages creativity and reuse, and it feeds our common knowledge and cultural heritage.

This post is published with a CC0 license, dedicating it to the public domain.

What makes Pooh Pooh? The answer lies not only in author A.A. Milne’s prose, but also in the quiet genius of E. H. Shepard’s original illustrations. With Shepard’s work now in the public domain, it’s the perfect opportunity to revisit how these deceptively simple drawings became cultural touchstones.

Some of my favorite all time books are the Winnie-the-Pooh novels by A. A. Milne. They’re stories of childhood, of learning lessons, of escapism, and, ultimately, of having to grow up. These texts are written with wit, humor, warmth, and a cadence that brings joyful surprises on every page. And, these stories benefit from the enchanting illustrations of E. H. Shepard. Born on December 10, 1879, he was a frequent collaborator of Milne’s and a titan among British illustrators. His sketchy illustrations bring the story’s text to life, and they cause the reader’s imagination to expand. Without them, these books would not have the same identity that they do now. The stories would persist, but the strong visual identity of the characters takes them a step beyond to stick in readers’ minds. Now, in the public domain, we can appreciate these books and Shepard’s illustrations with a more rigorous attention. Let’s examine some of my favorites, how they elevate the story/situation of the text, and why they mean so much to the reader.

Pooh and Piglet in the snow – Winnie-the-Pooh (Chapter III: In Which Pooh and Piglet Go Hunting and Nearly Catch a Woozle)

Shepard depicts Pooh as shirtless throughout the books except when it is cold and snowy outside. For the story it functions as characterization, showing Pooh’s adaptation to the cold. Unintentionally, however, Shepard laid the seeds for Pooh’s iconic design in most media. This shirt would later become a visual anchor for Pooh’s identity, reaching further iconic status when it was colored red for the first time on the cover of a 1932 record.

Piglet’s portrayal demonstrates how gesture and expression reveal personality beyond the written page. Shepard’s illustrations become an active storytelling partner to Milne’s text.

“Suddenly Winnie-the-Pooh stopped, and pointed excitedly in front of him. “Look!” “What?” said Piglet, with a jump. And then, to show that he hadn’t been frightened, he jumped up and down once or twice in an exercising sort of way”. 

Despite its static nature, the illustration creates a sense of movement through jumping. Piglet’s pose, extended arms and kicked-out leg, convinces the reader that Piglet is jumping in an “exercising sort of way” rather than just being frightened. Shepard’s drawing enhances the text by leaving viewers with strong character imagery. Even the snowy environment becomes believable against a plain background, as the pair leave small scattered footprints behind. Shepard enhances Milne’s prose, transforming simple descriptions into lasting visuals that inform culture and character for Pooh and Piglet.

Piglet carries (and pops) a balloon – Winnie-the-Pooh (Chapter VI: In Which Eeyore Has a Birthday and Gets Two Presents)

Shepard uses scale, motion, and comedic timing to reveal Piglet’s personality more vividly than words alone can. Throughout the books, Piglet’s small size shifts for the visual storytelling needs. At first glance, Piglet looks cute carrying the balloon with a jaunty gait and uptilted head, but then the scale hits: the balloon towers over him, and he’s straining just to wrap his arms around it. That struggle becomes a window into his character: anxious but committed, small but determined to be a good friend. Shepard lets the image do the talking, showing Piglet’s devotion without a single word.

Ultimately, Piglet’s physical limitations get the best of him as he ends up popping the balloon, leaving it as tattered scrap. Milne captures the chaos in a single explosive line:

“Bang!!!???***!!!”

Shepard’s diptych captures the split-second transformation from proud gift-bearing to sudden uncertainty as the balloon goes from full to scrap in just one frame. Shepard depicts this suddenness with lines trailing behind Piglet as he’s still being carried by the momentum of that sudden pop. In two simple images, Shepard depicts character, action, and consequence.

I won’t spoil how the chapter ends, but it’s a happy ending.

Eeyore buried in the snow – The House at Pooh Corner (Chapter I: In Which A House Is Built at Pooh Corner for Eeyore)

Eeyore is the most deeply depressed of the Pooh characters, and Shepard visualizes that melancholy literally: snow piling up over him. Even the imagery surrounding himself turns gloomy. There is a darkness within the sky, being shaded with grey and dark spots reflecting the dark atmosphere that hangs around Eeyore daily. From the first image, Eeyore’s head sadly droops down, and, as the images continue, the snow obfuscates his face showing his total resignation to his lived reality. The effect is poetic: the invisible burdens of depression made real, a cold blanket piling up over him.

Unsaid in the images is what Milne conveys in the text, that Eeyore has already done the hard work: reaching out to a friend. Eeyore stands in the snow as he speaks with Christopher Robin seeking help to restore his stick house and get out of the cold. He even looks on the bright side that “we haven’t had an earthquake lately”. Even in stillness, these drawings ask us to notice Eeyore’s effort: he is still here and still trying. Shepard gives his quiet resilience a shape we can see.

Christopher Robin comes along – The House at Pooh Corner (Chapter VI: In Which Pooh Invents a New Game and Eeyore Joins In)

One of the core themes of the second book is the end of childhood. Christopher Robin is often absent, with mentions of his time now being spent at school. Any moment he returns to the forest carries an added emotional weight, a reminder that these carefree days are fleeting. Milne’s text sets the scene:

“Christopher Robin came down from the Forest to the bridge, feeling all sunny and careless, and just as if twice nineteen didn’t matter a bit, as it didn’t on such a happy afternoon”

Shepard’s illustration reflects these words. Christopher Robin is drawn with a light, unburdened gait — hand in pocket, a single bite missing from the apple he carries — as if there’s no rush to finish anything. The surrounding environment has a sense of relief and carefree energy as plants rustle in his wake, and curved strokes in the sky suggest a bright breeze carrying the moment forward. Undefined territory in front of Christopher Robin suggests possibility, as if the future is unknown and undefined for him. Christopher Robin literally steps into this undefined future. This image truly does enhance the text and elevates it for the audience as we can more readily imagine and feel ourselves in its place. There is no worry about “twice nineteen” in sight. 

Christopher Robin, Pooh, and Piglet on the bridge – The House at Pooh Corner (Chapter VI: In Which Pooh Invents a New Game and Eeyore Joins In)

Building on the carefree attitude from the previous image, Shepard shows Christopher Robin lingering on a bridge with nothing to do and nowhere else to be: an essential part of childhood. The lush natural environment surrounding the characters, note Pooh and Piglet also on the bridge, contrasts the mentioned school setting that Christopher Robin came from. Nature is the escape from school and responsibilities.

When turning to Pooh and Piglet, Shepard gives the duo their own moment of friendship. Piglet gently rests his hand on Pooh, a subtle gesture of comfort and reassurance, that goes unsaid by text. Piglet’s touch emphasizes his need for reassurance as he is the only one without a bar separating him from the river. Shepard’s illustration enhances the three’s friendship as they look out at the river in shared silence, content simply to exist in each other’s company. Milne’s text reinforces this idea:

“For a long time they looked at the river beneath them, saying nothing, and the river said nothing too, for it felt very quiet and peaceful on this summer afternoon.”

Christopher Robin and Pooh in silhouette – The House at Pooh Corner (Chapter X: In Which Christopher Robin and Pooh Come to an Enchanted Place, and We Leave Them There)

Since The House at Pooh Corner has been about leaving childhood behind all along, it naturally ends with a goodbye. For many of us, childhood doesn’t vanish all at once, but slowly fades as we hold onto the pieces that matter most. In a story, though, it has to end somewhere. Milne suggests that this ending is an enduring enchanted place.

“So they went off together. But wherever they go, and whatever happens to them on the way, in that enchanted place on the top of the Forest, a little boy and his Bear will always be playing.”

This sentiment is reflected in Shepard’s illustration: two silhouettes holding hands mid leap. Etching themselves onto the page and reinforcing their enduring connection. Their slight leap evokes a playfulness and a sense of things not yet complete as they have yet to fall. These two creative choices reinforce the “always” of Milne’s words. The finality is not in the goodbye, but in the forever of the moment in which we leave them, as referenced in the title of the chapter. And, reflecting the form of the book, they are always there whenever we seek to return.

Shepard’s illustrations bring meaning and life to the text. The next time you read through the Pooh books, take a moment to appreciate the scratchy stylings of E. H. Shepard, and think about what they say for the characters and scenarios. And of course this could be done as soon as you want. Both the 1926 and 1928 books are in the public domain and our collections!

The Wonderful Wizard of Oz is the American fairy tale. Like other fairy tales that resonate across time and cultures, this story has seen retellings time and again that morph, recontextualize, and expand the story. This phenomena continues with the second half of the Wicked film duology releasing this November with Wicked: For Good. Let’s explore some of the stories and lore of this American fairy tale that now live in the public domain. All these different stories crafted the lore and world of Oz in the imaginations of audiences around the world. 

Books and Literature

Oz originates in L. Frank Baum’s The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, published in 1900. Its basic plot is well known: Dorothy of Kansas is swept away to Oz via cyclone. There she meets an exotic cast of characters including the Scarecrow, Tin Woodman, and the Cowardly Lion. Along her journey she faces many challenges in an episodic style as she seeks to return home with the Wizard’s help. 

Many fans might believe the Wicked Witch is the novel’s central antagonist, but in fact she appears in just one chapter in the original text. Her larger role in the plot is an association with the 1939 film, an interpretation that became highly influential, as nearly every later Oz story riffs on this idea, including Wicked. Baum would not reuse the Wicked Witch in later novels.

Beyond this original tale are numerous other novels, including another 13 by Baum and 19 by his immediate successor, Ruth Plumly Thompson. Of these 32 tales, 23 were published by the end of 1929 and are in the public domain, including all of Baum’s output. On January 1, 2026,  another Plumly Thompson novel, The Yellow Knight of Oz, will join that group. Plumly Thompson’s output ultimately surpassed Baum’s, though her imaginative contributions, including introducing a new main focal character—Peter Brown—remain underappreciated today.

Among Baum’s sequels, The Marvelous Land of Oz (1904), his first sequel, stands out for introducing Princess Ozma and expanding the mythology of Oz. It is the only one of Baum’s works to not feature Dorothy as a character in the story. Due to popular demand, she would return in Ozma of Oz (1907). In this tale she would be referred to as Dorothy Gale for the first time in the novels, although the name originated in the 1902 musical revue.

Check out all of the Oz books in the public domain in our collections!

Musicals and Sound Recordings

Part of Baum’s core campaign in expanding Oz’s reach was his ability to spread it into multi-media. In 1902, he penned the book for a musical revue that differed from his original text and introduced many more characters, including Imogen the Cow. Notable among the work are the plethora of songs created for it that were cycled in and out as the production shifted locations. 

By 1913, Baum had penned another two successful stage productions: The Woggle-Bug (1905), and The Tik-Tok Man of Oz (1913). This latter work exhibits Baum’s multi-media synergy as the play was based on prior Oz novels, Ozma of Oz (1907) and The Road to Oz (1909). He then adapted this musical into his 1914 book, Tik-Tok of Oz.

While these original Oz musical productions are unable to be viewed now, due to the impermanent nature of theatre, we can still connect to them through sound recordings. While not recordings of the actual shows, these auditory oddities act as gateways to the past. They unlock a direct link to tangible creative expression that also reflects the artistic and performing sensibilities of the time. Surviving from the time is a 1913 recording from The Tik-Tok Man of Oz: My Wonderful Dream Girl.

Explore the many elements of these productions, including sheet music, visual imagery, and sound recordings in our collections. 

Film

Rightly remembered for its masterful execution and translation of the fairytale Oz to the big screen, MGM’s The Wizard of Oz (1939) remains the primary association with Oz for most audiences. However, despite its iconic status, that version was preceded by multiple filmed adaptations. Between 1908 and 1925, at least six silent adaptations brought Oz to life, some now lost, others surviving in fragments that reveal inventive visual interpretations often drawn from the stage musicals of the era.

The first—in 1910—acts as a loose adaptation of the stage musical featuring Imogen the cow. In 1914, under Baum’s own supervision, His Majesty, the Scarecrow of Oz stands out for recycling narrative elements and characters that Baum later reshaped into his book The Scarecrow of Oz. A 1925 film, The Wizard of Oz, went feature-length with slapstick sensibility and large deviations from the source material. It was directed by and starred Larry Semon and featured Oliver Hardy in a pre-Laurel and Hardy role as the Tin Man.

Deviation from the source material was common into the 1930s with a 1933 short cartoon aptly titled The Wizard of Oz. Directed by Ted Eshbaugh, this cartoon is the first instance of an Oz film in sound and color. Building on the adaptation oddities, this film includes no dialogue, sans a simple song refrain, and it trades out a plot for lively 1930s animation and fantastical moments that fit into the inventive world of Oz. The short features an element inspired by the first book by having Kansas be monochromatic before Oz radiates with color. This shift in color would again be utilized in the 1939 Oz film. Oddly, the short does not end with Dorothy returning to Kansas, similarly to the end of the 1902 musical. Rather it ends on an inconclusive button with a giant egg hatching a tiny chicken for comedic effect. A charming oddity, it shows just how wildly Oz’s world could be reinterpreted even then. Learn more about its history and restoration process over at Cartoon Research.

Check out the extant films in our collection!

Conclusion

Oz is ingrained in American culture and remains a global icon. Today, most audiences encounter it through the 1939 film, contemporary interpretations like Wicked, or by revisiting Baum’s original 1900 classic. But beyond those familiar touchstones lies a much broader creative and cultural legacy. We hope this brief journey into the roots of Oz inspires you to explore its forgotten corners and rediscover the wonder that made it timeless in the first place.