Cipralex, Making Me Tired

brief guide to summer depressed
Most people do not associate with summer sadness. Certainly, grief is often preferred for winter landscapes, where there is enough time at home to take shelter in a self-loathing that takes us out of the cold or the monotony. For the summer, people usually prefer to happier topics, or at least a earfriendly sound, so it is no coincidence that the radios have particular predilection for the most lobotomized possible (something like a shut the fuck up and dance! ). But there are days in February when one walks with a desire to hear the Nirvana's In Utero or Pornography The Cure and yet at any bowling alley, bar or bus murgas sound, as Cordera pachanguero peeling, or latter one and pedorrísimo theme Sean Kingston (whose story behind jugosísimo censorship is another separate issue.) You also want to be walking with a film of Bergman, Antonioni or some Czech delight us three hours with a movie full of planes sepia sequence of fifteen minutes, and yet bulletin board in the options is only reinvented superheroes diet, frat animal movies and sports films. Even for those who want to dress in black, the reflection of sun threatens to calcine alive and we are forced to put on our sweaters more colorinches. The world forgets that the summer can also be a fairly miserable, full of bounce back and sweaty trip on a bus crowded. Look at one person working at two in the afternoon on a Callcenter without air conditioning and tell me if this is not the most reliable face of depression. Or watch the sun being swallowed again and again in the red horizon as gluttony studied fifteen hours a day, lamenting all what was not studied in the year. In summer, the sadness is left aside, as a nasty excretion in the middle of a corridor from which no one wants to be responsible. In summer there is a dictatorship of happiness. That's why this constant disregard to escape the sadness, claim our right to be sweaty and sad at this time of year. To this was going to do a small list of some records and films that might not make you jump off the building, but that's sure to make you succeed you feel a little more miserable. The establishment of the list was more complicated (and long) than I thought, and only mentions four albums and four films, and discarding the literary section was also prepared (but which have included it, this post would have been twelve-veneers to single spacing and Times New Roman 12). Discussions about the band more perfectly sad are very long and are enclosed by the subjective world of each one, full of recodes down from the après coup past experiences, or genealogical research on how to hit a issue at some point. Some people always look at the sad song the correlative of the author's life, in which category typically include suicidal fanatics necrophiliac rockstars. In the latter case, the suicide of someone often raise their latest albums to the fetish of the last words, where you try to search line by line, which semiologists the unspeakable, or literary detectives, the reconstruction of the scene, the evidence of the tragic end. Still, even if the worst emotional moments of musicians and filmmakers often give us the best artistic gems, but not always the case, giving the example of Kerouac, when he was in his last work was not, in general, of the same quality as what was done in his best years should be recognized that the aesthetics of resentment and have been inconceivable downturn shoots, which can be traced from the beautiful and Morrisey personal letters to the emo track sung by teens worst makeup of the house more packets from Orange County. It is true that it is unfair to evaluate the parents for their children, but somehow the Smiths with songs like I know it's over may be in trouble in paternity testing of emo, the genre that we love to hate today . At the same time, many people resort to pure solipsism and measurement of the sadness of a song, it does so with a rod of her own experiences, this being a method too imprecise to assess (in certain conditions, suffering unbearably song Xiu Xiu could be considered a holiday theme.) But reaching song is more complicated than the sum of ingredients. As an example of how this search can be deliberate, we can find Funeral Doom, a genre of metal that tries to recreate the bleak and desperate landscapes that can be created with lethargic riffs and dark, as if trying to find the epitome of the song or just depressive funeral. Personally, what I find so exceedingly deliberate as a pornography of the emotions. Still, there are things that are absolutely dismal in disks that are not as homogeneous a manner as may be some of Blood on the Tracks Bob Dylan or even some of Third Sister Lovers Big Star With of the films is exactly the same, you're always on the tightrope between a drop worth Bergman and Venezuelan soap opera.
In short (and in a post which seem to be anything but short), this is a short list of albums and movies that can have a devastating effect if someone is listening on the right place at the right time. Administered in small doses. In case of overexposure, go to this post:


Albums (download four tracks, Colors and the Kids, The eternal, The Kids and Lack-, first, in a single file. Rar)

Cat Power-Moon Pix (1998)
The Moon Pix of Cat Power is one of those "disks of the author, following the line of Pink Moon the The boatman's call or If I could only remember my name , ie disks too personal, almost like a snapshot of a moment in which the beneficiary or the band. All that was Chan Marshall in those days can be found on the disk, and if you pull the thread will find all what is left of the screen. Even at the very top, Chan is made ball, as it was when you burn the disc. In interviews at that time said that after What Would the community think , por un tiempo creyó que su abandono de la escena iba a ser definitivo. Se fue de Nueva York, y se alojó en Portland, oficiando un tiempo de niñera. En esa época tenía serios problemas de alcohol, pero no de esos de rock stars cabalgando la serpiente entre toda la gente linda de la escena, sino algo más bien triste y tan poco glamoroso como dormirse cagando en el baño de un boliche de cumbia. Cuenta la historia que agobiada por malas juntas y ataques de pánico, luego de vivir durante un tiempo en una granja (un back to the roots que más que placentero estuvo plagado por ataques de pánico y pesadillas –dice que fue precisamente a partir de una pesadilla que pergeñó most of their songs-) was exiled in Australia, where he conducted the recording of this album. The result is chillingly beautiful. A round disc, possibly the best of Cat Power (if only for fetish personally prefer the Dear Sir ), an album that breathes a It's now or never , with what little remains of confidence as puny as a nest in a gale. Among the major themes-the way, terribly depressing, flooding the disk, including You May know him and Say are two priceless jewels. On the one hand, Metal Heart, a subject of unexpected and disconcerting beauty like the eye of a duck, a theme which contrasts sharply in letter unthinkably with the soft, velvety sweet voice of Chan Marshall. Any femme rockstar that otherwise would have become combative defiance song (a very bad singers expanded over the fans of PJ Harvey), yet sluggishly Chan makes sweet time, as an animal that does not mind being prey, which offers serene antre the sight of the hunter. It is for this reason that fails reinterpretation Chan made this theme on his new album Jukebox: with a new vocal expressiveness much more versatile, you lose that languor which gives true meaning to the theme of separation and any other topic of love written corresponded by someone. But the brilliance of the album does not end there, and on the new theme comes through the stifling beautiful Colors and the kids What about this? Must be deeply melancholic themes are more beautiful than in the past half made fifty years. While in the Closer albums feel like a descent into hell, this is just the opposite, is a sweet melancholy and serene, but tragically true, as the violent discovery to realize that nothing will be as it was before, that past is just a fleeting frame assembly in which we can never again live in or where the same this is unattainable for some decisions are not taken past (I built a shack with an old friend / I WAS I Could learn from someone / Someone I Could Become ). This desire of living things past, that frustration and desperate attempt to rebuild a life that was lost as an arrow misses the target, these tiny but important details of life revealed, and roll up the jeans so they do not get wet on the shore , is the most genuine, deeply moving, yet sad that I heard in my life. It's a song whose lyrics is perfect, all images inexplicably stuck intravenously, and how hopeless and desperate time in which Chan says, "I Could stay here / Become Different someone / I Could Stay here / Become someone better "made me a lump in my throat that I never felt with any song.

Joy Division-Closer (1980)
Rivers of ink have been written about it as the first act of the suicide of Ian Curtis, and beyond that trend necrophiliac who is more like celebrating the death to celebrate someone's life, you can not deny that if it is hard to emerge unscathed from the listener, much more difficult must it be for those who made the disc. It is never good to draw conclusions from one's life from his artistic material (if so, with my poems and stories my parents I probably would have admitted to a clinic to treat a severe depression with electroconvulsive therapy), but listening to this album, you really can make the worst predictions. Where to begin? It is amazing how hard homogeneous in terms of darkness. The structure of the songs are barely differentiated tumor among all the same tissue that covers the disc. After an incredible production like Martin Hannet on this record, it is quite cute consider the fact that Trent Reznor as the master of the dark in terms of production. The sublime weather is handling the battery monotonous Atrocity Exhibition a drum that sounds like a tribal ritual cannibalistic, hypnotic synths Heart and soul, Hook's bass is a candiru waiting in the cold waters of Passover, the "Where They Have Been" final Decades Curtis and his voice faltering, almost in a last breath in The eternal . Particularly, I think this last song is the most depressing theme of the story. There is nothing that can match it, since those synths that are mad as snakes, to the minimalist piano and slow but totally perfect, through the monotonous bass line as the pulse of a sinking heart and voice of Curtis, reciting verses annihilating dark ever written. No, when you hear "Played by the gate at the foot of the garden / stretch out my view from the fence to the wall / Could not Explain words, no actions determine / Just watching the trees and the leaves as They Fall" can not continue with their lives, eating the same patties, watching the same sun, talk to the people themselves, as if none of that happened.

Lou Reed-Berlin (1973)
There is something strange with Berlin Lou Reed. If one listens without hitting particular attention to the letter, a disc can actually be sad, but not "The saddest album of all time", proud award more than a specialized ascribed to Lou Reed. Moreover, in concordance with the simple melody Sad Song not seem in itself a sad song, and yet it is a cog in the monstrous animal is this conceptual work of the old Lou. And indeed, the issue of Berlin is not to be taken by a dissection song to song, they all work from a narrative in which the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. The story of Jim and Caroline more than one has put his heart in a meat grinder, the story of a bohemian couple berlinense, where no detail is spared on how the man beats his wife (Caroline Says 2 ), which removed him their children (The kids) and commit suicide (The bed). The methodical vocalist Lou Reed, with the same coldness of the music, or rather the lack of correspondence between the melody and lyrics (especially Caroline Says ) produce a strange effect similar to those childhood images that supposedly candid enclose a horror that floats in front of that facade. This can be seen painfully in The Kids, which is heard in a tone not gay, but not tragic "They're Taking her Children Hawaii / Because They Said She Was not a good mother / Children They're Taking her away / Because of the Things That They Heard Had she done ". To make matters worse, in the end theme, rhythm guitar behind a playful and low, you hear a crying baby and mom ? of children who weep hopelessly. The musical equivalent to the Tsubasa final alternative that through the complaints was completed disposal (where Oliver woke up and realized that all his meteoric career in football had been a dream, and in fact had both legs amputated after being hit by a truck)

Sr.Chinarro-The first vacuum-packed opera (2001)
always wanted to write about Sr.Chinarro, and just talking about this dismal record is my chance. Antonio Luque is one of the most interesting composers of the English language, with a style that sounds like a hybrid of the Smiths, New Order and Red House Painters, along with some of the more strangely suggestive lyrics ever heard in my life. Even grace me enter certain band forums and read people who actually performs the surrealism of the songs from a conventional narrative. For example, how to interpret from the perspective of a true metaphor waiting behind lines like " tapes to pull / of old bows that are / flood that end in the sea / underground guide foot and thumb / If a trip / one after other black in the car / that is wood and lets you see the shore / and tar, and still, the girls ...
No, Luque's poetry is pure sound and pure images, impassive to be transferred to a transmittable language. Everything is interchangeable, the words take on a new dimension after the thick and usually monotone voice of Seville. In an interview conducted by Feedback -zine , Luque, when asked what his status at the time of recording the album, he replied "At that time I was forced to stop seeing a girl wearing a time and then she or, rather, she disappeared was the maturity ... But I do not know, was a time very messy and so the album came out, it is clear, your mental state is reflected in everything we do. My house, for example, was full of lint, and when he composed out everything like that. " Indeed, everything seems to be full of lint, is a dense disk, mostly stifling, dusty and small stumps of things and ideas floating in a thick air. As Ezekiel said in this post curiously items are engraved around a room full of drums and reverb, a battery that is usually on only one channel and chaotic inputs and outputs are a direct attack on the gestalts of songs. Everything is too confusing and intrusive, the sharp and monorrítmicas acoustic, electric guitars loaded with reverb and delay that sounds like a forgotten church organs, and the voice of Antonio Luque, elevated to the dignity of an instrument, a living being indefinable creeps beneath the tangled mesh vomiting truths like little bunnies. But certainly, after the layers, layers and layers of sound, what stands out in this work are the great arrangements of strings, strings that become claustrophobic issues, with a uneasyness similar to that achieved cellos and violins The Drift by Scott Walker. This can be seen in areas such as stealing worms, possibly disturbingly track Set the disk, with a background sound that seems to have been recorded conversations molasses loose a bar, where a moment's come to suggest danger violins as those that invade the shower scene in Psycho . And right after this issue comes missing, one of the most oppressive in recent years. What is great is that this issue can be buried alive in a strange nameless grief, unable even to discern the reason for our feelings. On the album it seems as if Antonio Luque passing off issues are disembodied, and everything is swallowed by a black hole where we have no idea where we are. And so it goes missing, listen to the lethargic "missing a couple of lines / in every step of zebra / missing a couple of lines / on the shirt that I borrow", we feel the violins and do not understand why these palpitations why this solidified saliva in the throat, which are these excretions aqueous out of our eyes.

Movies:
(note, I have a nasty habit of revealing final)

Dancer in the Dark, Lars von Trier (2000)
Lars von Trier is a sadistic son of a bitch. In the world of the misanthropes, the Dane comes second, after Solondz, a poorly taken penalty on 90 minutes. " The film kind movie embodies the true dimension of a God who tends the threads from another part of the world. In his films he is Yahweh in the style Old Testament: harsh, vindictive, voyeur, puppeteer. Has a real penchant for soft targets, little people as insects of a flea circus where no air and where the user changes the world according to its darker pleasures, with the ever-present option to crush the little finger. For example, we have to Dogville, where the poor Nicole Kidman is endlessly raped by an entire people, from the Osco and orange picker drunk, blind to the weak and pathetic. There comes a point where the end of the film, when it gives way to revenge Kidman, and self is made requires that medieval dimensions. A real pleasure fills us as viewers to be slaughtered all those villagers of shit who took advantage of the need of the protagonist, from the same man who at first was his faithful ally, even the younger children bothered her when she was chained. We want blood, and that's when we realize that somewhere distant and cold in Denmark, Lars von Trier is smiling, happy as a devil does tempt.
Of all the female characters in leading roles, the director-could fetish to a condensation between the delayed Breaking the waves and the quasi-blind played by Björk Dancer in the Dark . Just for a formality choose the last movie as depressing material par excellence -indeed, the two idiots mentioned up what has been called the Golden Heart trilogy - having in mind that the Braking waves is also distressing and insanely cruel. I will not do a synopsis of the film, whoever can see her quietly in your video store to rent friend, but I will point out a number of aspects of the film. No be a huge fan of the Icelandic, in a way that captures the innocence in the film, similar to what also makes Emily Watson, strongly emphasizes the tragic and undeserved of their destiny. In a way, Dancer in the Dark is one of a kind, by virtue of being a musical and at the same time the most depressing drama. Selma is a Czech immigrant with a degenerative eye damage, misuse, which also shares with her son, for which silver board for an operation that could reverse the genetic karma. At the same time, the world that does not access his eyes Selma is complemented by touches of her ears, imagining or hallucinating, choreography, where everything is colored by a candor worthy of musicals of the forties. Indeed, music is a real thermostat in the life of the Czech, and any situation, no matter how horrible and sad it is, is processed via a hallucinatory state full of dancers, tap and sound collages. This contrast of dangerously depressing moments interspersed or reinterpreted by dance film made of a velvet reverse spiral toward the more sadistic ingenuity of von Trier. In the Golden Heart trilogy, almost exactly the negative of his new trilogy of Dogville, Manderlay and still unused, is a predilection for making the main character a martyr to a cause that rises ethics over morals. Thus, after an accident involving death of a man who had stolen his savings, the thing is more complex, but I suggest you watch the movie, instead they literally count them, "Selma, according to a promise I had done to the dead, a secret that the conviction not to be material to defend himself at his trial. The result: Selma is found guilty, may even be accused of communist affiliation. Despite being sentenced to death, refused to appeal for not revealing the secret of who initially put in place where it is. Lars von Trier is not sufficiently satisfied with the potential depression of the film, which leads him to choose the final fully graphical the cold process of the gallows. The final scene consists of a choreography in which it is a song featuring Björk steps on its way to the gallows, comfort that lasts for a while until the abrupt ending, clumsy and pathetic, that starts to that woman last imaginary function, screaming, kicking and even passing out momentarily, until the screams were silent for the lever, crack and the sound of the rope taut, invading a new silence in the room could observe the serene pendulum suspended corpse's feet soil. Fulfilling
karma of many of the puppets of Lars von Trier, Björk decided to cut their threads, aborting its short film career from this film.

Lovers of the Arctic Circle, Julio Medem (1998)

I spoke of it in this post.

Dekalog, Krzysztof Kieslowski-I (1989)
remember seeing this chapter in a film library copy was so worn that seemed to have been dipped in caustic soda. It was one of the harshest days of August, and was protected with an old newspaper partial Gale had us like dogs in order of year most students of psychology. There was so much time consumed by the study that any activity outside reading material was timed, to the point where the bathroom was considered a mini break. Forced to walk the dog in front of a heavy rain which had not prepared me, I decided to rent two chapters of the Decalogue Polish. He had seen the trilogy of the three colors, and embarked on full kieslowskimanía, was sure that would be good movies. The issue is that after I came home soaked, I read until two in the morning, I dried and prepared to sleep, activity also was considered a luxury at that time. I put the movie to accompany the dream-I can hardly sleep in the dark and quiet. I threw to sleep with a jogging. Still shaking a bit, I took the two blankets up to his cheek. Thinking I was going to sleep right away, I ended up watching the sixty minutes that lasted the film, making this one of the most depressing nights memory.

Kieslowski knows colors and textures to choose, and in this film abound muted tones, like the opaque snow that pervades throughout Poland, including green monitor the father, as the walls, as the gray color block of buildings where people live not only characters in this chapter, but most of the series. Colors are very sad, Soviet and eighties, prompting a withdrawal autistic about yourself. And do not forget the music. The credits music, both at home employment and at the end, next to the image blur plus a copy of the tape, is as depressing as fifteen Mufasa killed by antelopes in the eyes of a child. And when it aesthetically enough to make us cry out for such a little Prozac, the issue bajoneante not far behind. Since the beginning of the film puts us squarely with the death, being a child Pawel-recognized as the son of Krzysztof (not the director, but the name of a character) - with a stray dog \u200b\u200bfrozen in Snow-dog image is shockingly sad, especially for someone abuse animals affects you more than people. Distraught, he goes to Krzystof and this explains the issues of death in a rather cold and methodical, revelándosenos soon as this speech is a reflection of the scientific education of the father. The child is perfect in his role, and soon the relationship of the two is shown with a beautiful complementarity, the two engaged in the same projects and making science a third party who joins (we never talk about Pawel's mother, although itself from an aunt who is concerned about their spiritual formation.) The thing is that your computer measure everything, and one day Krzystof gives his son a pair of skates, to skate-which is usually worth redundancy, in a frozen lake. One night the boy asks his father if he can go skating and, after a graphic set on ice thickness, gives his permission. The fact is that the child does not appear and her father begins to worry. Nobody knows anything, but deep down, Krzystof clings to the fact that the ice is thick enough so that has not passed no disgrace. As we feared, the ice cracked and this finding just finished when the parent approaches the frozen lake and is a crowd of people and firefighters. Awfulness of the scene is still there the guy seems pretty sure that according to the results of your computer, it is impossible that such misfortune has passed, making the fall even more precipitously. Indeed, your child is one of the victims of the ice cracking. Faced with this sudden death, the story leads to the type outraged going to church, to try to get the answers that the green eye on your computer if it was not, or you can give. Ending the film with the credits and music über depressant principle are confirmed, with the excruciating sacrifice for that child how well we fell, the logic of parallelism between the chapters and the second of the Ten Commandments: "Do not manufacture any idol (...) For me, the Lord your God am a jealous God, and punishment for the sins of the fathers on their children. " In this case, it is clear that the idol is none other than the computer. And there is no lullaby, no lesson to learn, once again the fist of God falls upon us, and we can not do anything but watch the TV bereaved as Krzystof eye gets staked on your computer.

Grave of the Fireflies, Isao Takahata (1988)
Grave of the Fireflies is the saddest thing that can exist in the world. I do not think anyone has managed to destroy the viewer in any other artistic medium as it does in this film Isao Takahata. The devastating potential of this film who focus is equivalent to a sudden death of an acquaintance of flesh and blood which never came to establish a lasting friendship, but which always remained good deal. Because Takahata leaves us naked, stripping andaribeles several of us attended to sink into depression any harmful product. This action succeeded brilliantly perverse is carried out by a series of subtractions that leave us with a spoon on the battlefield of our sadness. The first thing is to remove uncertainty about the future. The film starts from the end, and we know that the character ends up dead against the spine of a train station. Is completely shattered, with the bones attached to the skin, dirty, pissed, God knows what else. Thus, knowing the end, the film is nothing to try to build the bridge between present and happy that devastating finish, a bridge that does not want to build, but what we inevitably move, terrified at our approach to the other side. Any image that inspires a conciliatory or welfare will be just a white patch in the chiaroscuro of that tragic existence. And now I say tragic, tragic also lost. The way they are in charge of the underground never comes to us to think that that body is or was human. It is a body, such as a broken bottle container, a condom tied in the wet corner a public restroom, as many anonymous homeless who die on the streets in the mornings in winter, obscured by their dogs. Those who once were homeless end up being named test bodies for medical students. The dissected, we analyzed the lungs, heart, you see the yellow face, penis flaccid and wrinkled. Some students will put their glasses, laugh at them, keep a fuck body hidden in the wallet of a friend. And so are friends with the dead, they put a funny name, "Ulysses", "Ansina" and so the tramp, as it is emptied and inspected, begins to have the family she never had. Something is the death of this anonymous vagabond that appears at the beginning of the film. As much as we tell their story, that body will remain anonymous. Is lost because there is the tragic pathos , there is a winding road that leads to catharsis, resolution, moral book in clean, all the death and violence is unable to restore something lost, is death for its own sake, without rationale. And finally, there is no romantic death. The romantic death found in the natural order in which everything was rearranged. The lovers meet again, anything was possible in a world further than ours. Laws or conditions that had prevented materialize to be knocked down an impossible love completely and set to the sweet romantic death as the land of infinite possibilities. But Grave of the Fireflies not, though the character continues to have her sister's can not be reunited with her, gives the feeling that everything is being lost forever.
There is a specific scene that completely destroys you, is perhaps the saddest scene in movie history, perhaps even more than the desperate eyes of Meryl Streep in "Sophie's Choice." Reviewing: Second World War, Seita, the guy who found him dead at the beginning of the film is the brother of Setsuko, having to take her in after bombing Americans in Japan ends with the death of his mother. By the way, struck by the crudeness of the body of the woman, almost mummified by bands, on the verge of breakdown and full of maggots. After that, after an interim of living in someone else's house, Seita decides to leave with his sister to live in an abandoned mine, where they try to survive on what little they have. But the post-war food are very scarce and drive slowly around the devastating fate that surrounds them. All this leads to the scene where the girl is aware of the death of fireflies. These had served as a truce constellations and flashlight not only the darkness of the den where they sleep, but as a truce to everything that surrounds terribly painful. Thus, the child sees Seita buries them, and at that time confirmed the occult knowledge of the death of his mother that the girl had always maintained, a fact that Seita stoically tried to hide almost all of the film. That "always knew" is a real kick in the balls, and if that seemed too much to see and try to resist the time Seita returns to the cave to discover that the girl had died after feeding on rocks wanted to escape their desperate hunger. I remember seeing
Grave of the fireflies in a claustrophobic stay in Guadalajara, where not only missed my girlfriend and friends, but my country, and his life in it, facing the horror vacui a quiet suburb in which no birds was quiet and the neighbors raised their own feuds behind walls Spartan proportions and garages. I remember seeing the movie and have to pause every so often to untangle the throat. I remember watching the end credits and have the imperative to call my girlfriend, only to realize, looking at my watch when Montevideo, that there were four in the morning. It was there I walked down the stairs and sat taking a can of Coca-Cola, in the dark immensity of the kitchen, imagining Mary away, sleeping in a world outside that night without fetters, that world without graves of fireflies.

Saturday

Reynaldo Gianecchini And Thais Arunjo 2011

long

(Big Black / Flaming Lips?, Electric Boys, Bohren under club of gore, Jim Collins, Swell Maps, Glaxo Babies, Sumo and some other ramblings)

Theirs is to win
If it kills
Them They're just Humans
wives and Children With
Flaming Lips-Race for the prize

I think I fucked your girlfriend eleven

Maybe twice, I do not remember

Then I fucked all your

friend's girlfriends

Now They hate you

Big Black, Bad Penny

Able to be studied psychology, whenever I get up (unless you're coming somewhere later), I have the habit of staying disciplined minutes trying to remember what I dreamed, to write on my computer. The result of that there are thirty-odd facet of descriptions of dreams that I keep as a black box of something that happened to me and probably forgot in the afternoon. Not long ago I came to the conclusion that if one does not remember the content of their dreams, no way to compare them with the real world, and therefore, not be this opposition, you really would be living in two worlds simultaneously. The reconstruction of Dreams has some of the constructions of nations in the fact that one tends to fill the gaps with myths and artificiality as befits the story, this, of course, unconsciously fact in the act of remembering-and more if you usually write, succumbing to the trend of decorating dreams with some things that may change.
dream There are several formats that are very suggestive, but one of my favorites are the dreams related to music. A few years ago I had a dream similar to that tells phibrizoq in this post , only instead of referring to Chan Marshall, I was in Tres Cruces with Fiona Apple and we took a TOC to his home in La Floresta (sic) where we used to see Requiem for an Empire, played by Harvey Keitel. This Saturday when I woke up in Mary's home, asleep with his arm (obvious and expected result of sleep two people in a single bed), I found myself busy indeed, but not like those awakenings post traumatic nightmares, but rather as if it had been running, or something. After spending a few minutes sitting on the edge of the bed, sleep comes to memory. BJ was talking to Alexander (one of the coordinators of bowling and vertebrae singer, who has a physical format Pirate King) and type reproached me that people who had brought my band was very rare, and that was frightening about European tourists who were eating there, yes, supposedly the bowling was also a restaurant. Indeed, the audience was a collection of gothic they were on the verge of bondage, and when I saw made me a slight bow with your head makeup. There is a blank space can not remember what happened, but after a slight change of story, I'm singing and playing guitar in a band whose members simply do not remember or know. In the dream I realize that I play very well, "something that is very far from happening in the real world, like a learned skill in another life. Finish a song, and tell the audience makeup, we do a cover. The song starts, and now recognize as Race for the prize, a song that exudes a pristine goodness in a Flaming Lips album of the park-like amusement in miniature, which takes as a dove, but without shame, a world that would not be very different from the one alternative that is presented in the video for the Chemical Brothers, The Golden Path (just with the participation of FL). It is an issue that more than one provider may not seem suitable for diabetics, but for me it's the embodiment of those beautiful utopia you thought as a child. The welfare state was tremendous, even to remember the time from the edge of the bed, my stomach classic jumble in the morning is supplanted by a feeling of quiet serenity. But this would be a dream, but outside that, after a bridge instrumental all of a sudden the band and I stepped to play Bad Penny, Big Black. Should be the first time in the history of virtual or written material referred to Flaming Lips and Big Black on one line. That is, try to find a strange case, but really those two bands together is a true oxymoron. Perhaps what connects them are the same opposition. The only thing in common is that they are two albums that I've been hearing a lot lately: the The Soft Bulletin and Songs about fucking.

disc Albini and Co. is the most perverse may have heard. Evil in the true sense of the word ie from actual psychoanalytic terms, that record may have written only one type of perverse structure. Albini says it all, and says it without mercy, as that part spoken Bad Penny I recite in sleep while all goths are scaring tourists waving white as milk: I think I fucked your girlfriend eleven / Maybe twice, I do not remember / Then I fucked all your / friend 's girlfriends / Now They hate you . It's a fucking verse within a song and a hard fucking even more screwed. This topic always seemed to me (whether that is earlier, but I heard later) version of radical and suppurating is Liar by Henry Rollins. Those songs that ooze poison and proclaim the same singer as the biggest scum that may exist on earth. With that win both items, but an even more fucked in the case of Albini, is what strikes deeper than that to be spoken in first person, as by decantation, leaving out any trace of guilt. Is evil in the flesh, not distilled, the drug never before imagined that kills in the first peak to the vein. Everything in the Big Black album sounds sick ulcerated tissue from love Thanatos My precious thing, the powerful malicious dimension of the female sex Pavement Saw. But the dream
follows, then, after finishing this grim medley, the song becomes the theme of the Flaming Lips and ends of the harmonious way it had begun. The way the issue of Big Black loose in a song appears as a tumor in a healthy body, yet still makes it look darker, like the scars on the bodies of the characters in Crash. But people clap and now there is not a European among the public.

I wanted to do

a topic to speak of yesterday

today is not

because today, my world broke

Electric Boys

zero-tolerance

a Saturday wake up at nine o'clock loses much of Saturday. Who is accustomed to waking up at about one, at so early to walk around the streets of Montevideo you feel that the day will hacérsele too long. When Pocitos way as early or as late-that is, at times where most sleep-I love to walk silently, trying to get my steps become increasingly deaf, like the ninja he saw on television as a kid . Nearly flat on tiptoe, I like to walk in the middle of the street, more and more silent. It is a feeling of wellbeing that could be defined as the pleasure of disappearing, becoming invisible to be a ghost in the city and cease to exist. That's when in the same corner of Solano Antunes Tomás Diago and I meet a former professor of mine who I admired a lot, and whose daughter went out and ended up behaving very badly over three years. I greet him with a slight nod, but the man greets me by my name and very cool question I have walked all this time. Middle uncomfortable, talk to him on the right above, on my last book and some other things in my family, wondering if the guy knows about the outcome of my relationship with her daughter, if known and forgave me, or if known and everything is a good deal as macabre as the medley of Bad Penny in Race for the price. Type I say goodbye on good terms, saying that one of these buy my book. Shook his hand, while low in the wadi, I asked, already half a block away, you scream where I can buy.
was going to my house, but then it occurs to me to turn around and hit me one pass through the fair (I know that if I get home, probably the only thing to do is see how the sun is ascending from the east to the zenith while looking for useless information on Wikipedia). The Villa Biarritz is fair, let ' a shit, a place where there is a continuity of stalls selling the same T-shirts and trousers for women, the same imitation Mormaii clothing for men, they kill and squared Torres García for tourists. The only thing salvageable from the show are two positions that are also in the show Tristan Narvaja, infinitely superior offer that I was going. A walk through the exhibition aims only two seats: Mezzanina and Helter Skelter Records , aka the post of Ernesto, the great archaeologist of vinyl that I find tremendously with bands garageras unknown, one Lydia Lunch almost impulse bought a sick fetishist, a Boys next door, and kick out the jams, no backing out, not yet sold and, for those interested, is about 800 pesos (as thirty-six U.S. dollars .) Not much luck lately in local Ernesto, I have certain dyes mystics to come from the United States a cousin with an incredible material that you prefer not anticipármelo. When you sell on Tristan Narvaja funny that always goes the same people, all with a somewhat nerdy and a little junky, a bearded Vellocets touch and is a fan of Rockabilly, a Madrid who looks exactly like David Lynch, only without the gray, and among a few others, I do listen to it on my IPod Ernesto new things that I've downloaded. But today he has nothing, and then I'll see what's in mezzanine, a place that does not usually have things very unusual, but every so often full of surprises (there once I got two discs Can). I speak a little peeling, reviewed the records, and the same material as always: Aerosmith, Pink Floyd, Yes, Iron Maiden, Nirvana, Soundgarden. I run into the American , Offspring and revised it for a moment. Rayon is the small pen in the bottom: Yes, it's my disc, the disc I decided to exchange it for another when he was seventeen. Just now I come to realize that five years ago that the guy has it and it made me an odd feeling. God knows that today there are few things that interest me unless Offspring, but my fetish with certain objects normally results in a very intimate relationship with them, and what it feels like meeting an old friend after five years and see what is in either, knowing that if one would have supported it might have caught a better way. Five years having passed through the fingers of thousands of people still there, along with many other albums despised by their former owners, in such hits as an orphanage that is plastic and paper. Looking
more albums, just behind one of Green Day, I epiphanic encounter with What Would the community think of Cat Power, and when I scream "Stop!", all potential buyers look at me, next to bare not understand my reaction. Disbursement and decide pay immediately the album, surprised at my luck, not just for the sake of finding the disk, but also have enough money on it. Continuing on my run, I find the underground Boys' Toy elective, and I decide to buy, just because I like it a little absurd price (200 pesos, less than ten dollars), and partly because of the historical value of the material. Unlike most people, I like the Toy Underground. True, no flight Psychosound , but it's a bum disc, so bum as was the band itself, as bum as the theme thirteen, where inexplicably repeats the entire disc. Ezekiel later me dispel the doubts, explaining the reason for this redundancy. Apparently, the discs take twenty minutes, and the label seemed too little Koala. The band said they would see what they did, and he was returned to the company a new copy of no less than forty-five minutes. Koala types naturally not listen to the album, and glad to see 45:09 number on your player, decided to launch it. One if you put the disc reaches the issue twelve, and thirteen starts all over again, all the way through on one track. This detail I think it speaks volumes about what guys were elective, one of the wildest bands and beaten (almost literally) of the strange underworld in which Uruguay became the rock of the nineties. But the pleasures offered by the disc does not stop there, going to my house and after listening to Cat Power, I put the disc, I start to lay down the book-sooo fulero, of course, but perhaps that was the idea and behind the clear plastic CD holder, I find loose, the following paper:

Apparently

free admission came with the disc. An entry that no one took advantage. I try to venture in that December 4, possibly in 1998, a day before my birthday, which was a cumplebaile that would be radically opposed to those boring nights of distortion on the grounds of good German Thomas, arguably one of the types universally loved and respected by those who've heard in my life. I think what would have been my life if I had used that post, and really care less if this is a false trail left by the former owner of the material or the same owners of the post, put it slowly into the bookshelf, I see from my bed and I feel being in front of a huge archaeological remains of value.

Now you can not eat and play

in my garden

i have to close the gate

for Might hurt you fear me

or Worse, I'd hurt myself

Jim Collins-Scorpio in Mars

After two listened to the album from Miss Chan Marshall and one of Barcia and co, I know I have to get to school. I will not be the first nor the last to complain to study in the summer. When I was in high school to study music felt very connected to lack of performance, slowly falling to the influence of the song and inevitably playing a standby battery with my pen. However, over time the need to fill the void with music became more dominant, and so fu me getting used to study at first more or less smooth bands, up to boring reading material to speak for Genetic Psychology Back piercing ears. I can even eat or sleep well with any type of music, which for most people unthinkable.
Yet these days the study I have found a rough work, just because I'm trying to read some Lacan seminars (which is quite dense even some teachers), and a bit since the summer pass Montevideo and not in Atlantis, I feel a little out of room. For this reason, my focus is much more frail than usual, so I have to limit the range of music I listen to while studying.
After trying several, I realize that the only thing that I can play with more or less well is not sung with music, especially jazz (everything looks better and more sophisticated if accompanied by a serene shade of jazz).
To not burn a few discs of the genre that I have in my house, I decided to get out some ambient music. I under some of Brian Eno, and one of Authecture , which recommended in elbailemoderno. Supposedly, the environment can not be measured with the same yardstick with which to measure the rest of the music is a listening that is more like that of psychoanalysis floating attention than a history that intentanta find the truth behind a verse or a sentence. At that point, the issue of ambient genre seems tailor-made for the study. Despite my good mood and my desire to give a chance to gender, I soon realized that the ambient embolism me deeply and perhaps more counterproductive resulting plunger ends for studying a disk of Bad Brains.
But a week later, on a day with very little creativity, I look between the disc one I gave Gustavo Antunes and had not given ball. I found it strange that despite its macabre name, Bohren und der Club of Gore , Gustavo told me it was "tranqui music, but very good." After a few months to have filed what I hear. It feels somewhat like a cello invade my room and I get to hear a sax slow but powerful moves like lava. One hopes the outbreak, but never comes. Jazz is a dark, dense and deep enough to dive and swim in a sea of \u200b\u200btar. It's daylight, but I feel as if suddenly the moon eclipsed the sun, and was in deep gloom, supplanting the heat for a cool breeze and sea-scented smoke snuff and whiskey. At first I think that music is a cinematic landscape for any film noir has been made. Of this there is no doubt: the sax creeping, silences, brushes drums, piano calm, intuitive, my room seems to lose color and become black and white, and almost feels imminent arrival of a femme fatale with a feather boa on the neck on my doorstep. But then I discover something more. The band's name is not used in vain: it feels like the music of film noir, but it is even darker, with a different texture. It is here that David Lynch nobre jumps on stage, and I realize that it is inconceivable that any of those songs was included in Twin Peaks, when he appeared on stage as the beautiful Audrey Horne (a sort of femme fatale and virginal teen ), Lost Highway, in the dark and aseptic Bill Pullman apartment, or even the U.S. megaclip is Industrial Symphony n.1. Especially in the latter material, the similarities between the German band and the music of Angelo Badalamenti is more than noticeable. As I listened to the album I feel that my movements are slow, full of suspicion, as if the whole room was full of string and bowls with which to stumble, as Oliveira's room in chapter 56 of Rayuela. I turn to wikipedia and try to get information from the band, and is something that is surprising, but that is understandable in the product sound the same: the band has a history intertwined with the Doom Metal. Indeed, there is something in the dark atmospheres and harmonies, as well as the slow pace, which can not create anything but that, even the term doomjazz seems extremely attractive to define the style of the band. The album ends and the moon again to hide behind the horizon, the sun burning my legs.

Strangely, the very next day I drive under a random- Mutant Sounds fetish page you downloaded weekly brunomilan multiple disks and I, and I find such a Jim Collins, which NOBODY knows nothing, not even the same type responsible for the page, which is like the oracle of Delphi in regard to unknown discs (the disc you can download it here ). It's an album in 2000, and the cover promises something rather dark and quiet. The music justifies the cover, is a darkest folk that seems to have been recorded at the bottom of a well located in the garden of a tapeada home of one of those ghost towns that border the U.S. interstate. It's so dark and gloomy as that elusive thing that touch your leg in a stream, listening to the voice of the kind, monotone, in a sort of psych folk where some guitars with fuzz and wah wahs come and go like the song of some birds that cross the sky, far, far away, because one can only be viewed from the bottom of the pit, that hole in the sky that filter a few drops of light. I imagine a night walk through a forest untouched Biarritz spa, listening to the voice and guitar of Jim Collins in my headphones as a message from beyond. I promise to do someday, but that experience, I do not know if you live to tell it.

Silver moon is always writing

Like the waves write on the sea

Silver moon is always laughing

When Should she really cry

Silver moon is like a window

Like Adoor Into the sky!

Silver High-Mula

is night, and the computer I had to take a break. Three days and a half without turning it off, I imagine sweaty and tiresome, as the horses that pull carts in the summer. Choose an album to fall asleep is an event. Moreover, the fact go to bed is an event. In recent years I lie down to sleep, I usually fall asleep. Thus, I woke up in every way possible, sitting in a swivel chair, on the laptop, with the word with a fifteen-page ñññññññññññññññññññ, or half of the body in a chair, and the other on the bed, opening eyes and my meeting with the frightening image of Santolalla, in a Rolling Stone cover of a limp I used as a pillow.
The choice of the disk is connected to a post last Dagnasty , who introduced me to a post punk band called Glaxo Babies. Recently coming off a good run Post Punk, listening to several albums Bristol scene, including the dazzling notif And The Pop Group, This Heat on the other hand, with that great record is Deceit, ahead of all and recorded, nothing more and nothing less than a former refrigerator, and one of Swell Maps, a great band, which is unique in its crudeness interpretive turn in the same action for sonic experimentation and soundscapes. So, you listen to Sonic Youth and beyond the issue of alternate tunings, you know that Moore and Ranaldo are good guitarists. In the case of the Swell Maps Nikki Sudden and co, their music and interludes create a kind of proto-post-punk in the prevailing spirit of impudence and guerrilla Amateur first punk scene, but making sound collages that many bands would just a few years after taking the post of kraut and other genres. As the detuning of Sonic Youth is a resource, Swell Maps is a way of life.
But back to the Glaxo Babies (the band name comes from a gruesome mutations suffered by some British babies after their mothers consumed a drug called Glaxo during pregnancy), being a band already very good, one of the most interesting, as Dagnasty says, is the parallel with a band better known and close to a time not later: High. In his fotolog, gives the example of the song Flesh versus Five gorgeous, but I find a resemblance especially better not talk about certain things , especially the bass line at the beginning of the song and the entry of a saxophone is actually a replica to that of the British. Courtesy, I leave the two topics to compare themselves.

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If you are interested download full, best sound quality, the disc of Glaxo Babies, here I leave download link, via tastes like rock and roll .
not be the first time that High puts hand in another material, from the same album name Divided by happiness, even a few letters, of which I remember this post Benito in fuckyoutiger. This led me to hear a review of the material of Sumo, and very different mood that I had moved butcher at first unusually generated a new appreciation for the band. High was one of those bands that prefer the myth to the real story. Once a friend, referring to Illustrious Corpses, told me that the band had to locate all copies of their discography and burn them to live their myth. Illustrious Corpse heard nothing, so I refrain from comment, but rescued the comment, because it is very similar to what he thought of Sumo. Luca Prodan is a passionate man with a history of life much more exciting that I imagine (looks very good the Babylonian Espina Rodrigo documentary), but at some point, I always chalked that he, along with Los Redonditos Ricotta, contains the germ of many of the things I hate the Argentine and Uruguayan rock these days. The shirts rock is very hard to imagine without the Indian Luca Solari, and this is reason enough to put the odd objection to the mythical image of the two peeled, no matter how we do shit with laughter at some supplement the Pity TN news. But unlike anything that usually refers to the Supreme, I bow with the band for the music, something that did not pay attention long.

I bought the Sumo: Obras Cumbres a summer in Punta del Este, a summer suffered enough because it would be one of the first to pass away from the woman who at that time was becoming my girlfriend. All topics Mula especially Silver and not finish reminds me of my melancholy little bar in a trap (the only one among all clubs in a big budget) requeches fact remained on the edge of the stream of Barra. The bar owner was a seasoned veteran who had much of the eighties, and became more of all issues Tosh, Marley and reggae tracks Prodan and co. I remember laying on a hammock, with a kaipiroska, feeling miserable while listening beautifully You'd better get up brother, up brother, / Up brother yeah! / Do you go too far! , as he watched on the other side of the creek were armed hecatombs binational in a bath of broken bottles, dirt and blood stained shirts poles (I admit that perhaps I exaggerate). But back to Sumo itself can be considered more than a great Prodan in terms of gender Marcopolo introduced to Argentina. The close relationship that existed between punk and reggae (a fact that most of the official history of rock often overlooked), as well as the prominence of low post-punk movement, usually things is usually awarded to Luca main introducer. In fact, it could be a High as the first reggae band, and perhaps post punk from Argentina. But beyond that, "after all, is nothing nothing more than labels, "Sumo has a plus compared to many bands of the era that make it beyond a mere generation. Topics such as Silver Mula are light years ahead of anything that has made the river reggae silver, containing psychedelic perhaps the true representatives are Spinetta, Manal, and others that were already making the best lyrics the area, but within the genre bring out a face as most of the bands farting ska reggae or forgot, or were simply unable to come to light, preferring to messages of peace or love or verses and dazzling "Beware of the cane going 'pre' . " Even Morning in the supply beyond its lyrical simplicity, has some images and soundscapes that inexplicably become pervasive throughout post holiday morning walk through any city that still has not woken up, when they are out to porters with their hoses descoronar day. And also, the guitar solo disgustingly distorted Better not talk about certain things have an essence treacherous, so screwed, that enchase as few solos I've heard in rock history River Plate (perhaps only after any of the topics Days blues). And the list goes on, with no song both as good as it needs to be The blonde was calibrated up Shut up Mark that based on fuzz, and reverb flangers thundering in my opinion is more gothic things I've heard in these latitudes. Over there you say that all this has already been invented, but if we so complicated we have to rock in this hemisphere.
But the real change of mind before falling asleep was when I entered "not anything else," therefore no one theme to emerge in the post-mortem collection is Fever. This is a very austere sound accusing obviously a b-side of what could be an issue, but the same aesthetic focuses stripped the beauty of the subject and I could imagine Game of pricks, or any issue of GBV in a super production process. The guitar, a battery that seems to have been recorded in a submarine, the confessional voice, slow and Luca, I do not know if it's night sleep, the open bed, or the night that sneaks through the window and made to sleep on the floor, but that issue seems to BUILT all the pieces on a Saturday, very, very long. And sleep listening do not know When It's time to change / It comes the change right now / I can feel it vibrating-through the ground / Baby, here by me, baby, baby / Climb out off the sea / You 're a wet fish / fish come Wet / Wet fish go / Wet fish come / And wet fish go, thinking that once would have touched that subject to some unknown person on a night like this. Boomp3.com