Fall in songs
Fruit tree, fruit tree Open your eyes to
Another Year
They'll all know That you were here when you're gone
Nick Drake, Fruit Tree
For some strange reason, the passing of seasons in general I materializes from the bus, as if the glass of its windows had some kind of increase that would allow me to see something in the eye and the height of the sidewalk could not detect. As I wrote in a post last year, the season is not perceived from the solstices, equinoxes, or the whim of the earth revolving around the sun. In fact the stations are extremely particular and subjective phenomenon that has only a little to do with time, foliage or reproductive cycles of certain living beings. Actually what changes in the seasons is one, and then certainly what becomes spring or summer is the person himself. Strangely this seemed like a languid summer as long as, first, by kidnapping the Easter, which is usually a spokeswoman for the fall subservient, second, having spent most of the season off the beach. However, being at the end of March, he feared that at the end field 522 to realizing that dreaded and depressing passage of seasons, with the only advantage of hot weather and heavy and still be able to use flip-flops and shorts (definitely less sexy clothes that you can use a man acortándote legs and making you look like a tourist).
had dusted the I-Pod and I had only hear songs that catch me fall, at least from my intricate evaluation system (I think I listened to Bizarre Love Triangle, and at least the energy and irreverence of the Galician kept me awake young). On the way Band-Aids appeared vendors and chocolate bars, ticket controllers and old women carrying children and threatened to take my seat comfortable advantage as if it were a gift from God (note: at children and pregnant women carrying my place I give without hesitation, but when sitting in the last seat, and there were people who took the trouble for me). Every so often, between the end and beginning of the English group's songs, listened to the bare Cordera fenced from the bus driver's radio, a type canchero of not more than thirty that seemed to enjoy both the Bersuit as my father at a meeting ectoplasmic Beatles' organized at the back of his house. I see his mouth moving like a silent movie and after the guitars of the Galician acknowledge in their lips "return the bag." course, I just want to take off my headphones. However, chick gets a mid-twenties and the driver seems to lower the volume. He talks to people on the bus, average results strange for not having the weeping face of those who usually ask a penny, nor carry the guitar or products, food or anything to sell. Without listening, I think it very well could be a passing over he came to share an opinion with the rest of the attendant, asking nothing in return. However, after that kind of introduction closes his eyes and begins to move his mouth in a way that is similar to singing. I take off my headphones and then listen. He is singing a capella and in English a song that resonates me tremendously. View it as a singer and know that I know that song, I generated a tremendous inconvenience that inspires me to silence a moment, close your eyes and press my nose intersection with the front and ask a few minutes to remember that theme. But she is and sings
Oh, ask me why, and I'll spit in your eye
But We Can not cling to the old dreams anymore
No, not can we cling to Those dreams
Undoubtedly, it's pretty ugly. Has a manly haircut, a cubic body and clothes as a kid that contrasts quite uncomfortably with his feminine voice, as the ugly feeling of a party that screams and threatens to end everything. His voice is quite unique, unlike the male galvanized certain street artists often sing themes of folk song, almost like a hybrid between voice strangely mixed between youth and old Joanna Newsom time and the swaying between breaths of Björk singing, all with much less trade than two. Even several blunders quite uncomfortable, his voice in certain high notes seem staggering like a horse walking on ice, especially in Ask me why and I'll spit in your eye . When it comes to the Does the body rule the mind / Or does the mind rule the body / I do not know , came to the conclusion, on how to end the stanza, that that might not otherwise come to gorge that of Morrisey.
is a song by the Smiths, but I find myself at an impasse in which I can not remember the name or the album that the song is. As I racked my brains doing a scandisk slow mental file, think about the particular situation of meeting listening to someone singing a song from the Smiths on a bus. Only twice had heard someone singing in English, a couple of Peruvians playing Sultans of Swing, another veteran playing The Wall, populated with lonely strangers who tried to imitate the sound of vibrato used by Gilmour (or Waters can not remember .) Nor do I pretend to touch something Faust, Throbbing Gristle or (though I must admit that finding someone who tortures used on covers passengers of the Nocheros with a version of Discipline for over twelve minute journey would be an unforgettable experience), but I find it strange that for the purpose of making money, and especially in the 121 at midday, which are filled with high school students and relatively young people, do not depart from their repertoire and play folk and popular current issues of errr, let 'La Vela Puerca.
But with or without cantopopu ghosts hovering over his head, the girl was singing that theme of the Smiths, even opting to sing as he does Morrissey leaving gaps of silence following I do not know, silence on the original recording is filled by the guitar of Johnny Marr. In those interim uncomfortable silence where one is looking over the next door, she stays with half-closed eyes, smiling and patting almost autistic in his hip, as if his fingers, his nails have small meals invisible hearts maintaining the tempo of the song. At one point tune loudly, lurching in a fleeting moment of shame and continues with the song, like those skaters who fall in the burning ice, to get up and continue your routine with a smile carved trying to indicate that anything occurred. It's actually a very bad interpretation, but the choice of topic and a certain honesty of the mine in those holes that populate his version as well on a dirt road in a resort on the Costa de Oro, left me completely puzzled. She even realizes that I am one of the few that I'm paying attention and every so often I look at the corner of my eye. Everyone else is talking about other issues, looking out the window, or texting, while I remain helpless, groping in the tight pockets of my pants a little money to give change. Ends the track and a few people take a few uncomfortable seconds to applaud. Says that any weight, criticisms or suggestions will be appreciated. At the bottom tight, sticky and uncomfortable in my groin, is a five pesos. For some it may seem, this sum appears to be relatively high for what is usually, or at least give ground, street performers (one time I gave him twenty dollars to a guy on an interpretation of Estefanie (or Stephanie not know), of Zitarrosa, almost made me mourn, but that is another story.)
I want to lie. I want to say I liked what he did, it stays that way, that tune, that it touched everybody, but at that moment the only thing close to a compliment I get is to ask for the name of that issue that I have it on the tip of my frontal cortex. I answered unabashedly happy and grateful "Still ill, of a band called The Smiths." I want to say that clear, I know the Smiths, the only thing was that I had forgotten the name of the topic, I was even thinking about buying the vinyl of that album namesake being sold at five hundred dollars in Tristan Narvaja, but while I think in this, the chick gets off at a stop, and with it my pride following her head down on the streets of Gonzalo Ramírez.
Scott Walker Raining Today
I've thought a long time, and I think it is no coincidence that I have fully embraced the dark world of Scott Walker The same week I saw Inland Empire twice (one at the movies, one in the Alpha Beta). The fine and I had been preparing for this movie since 2007, even considering the possibility of camping at the mall, July 18, Ejido or the place where the brand reach can not get tickets (of course, Most of the Uruguayan public was not as excited as us.)
lyncheano The universe is still there, stormy in those one hundred eighty minutes of filming, unless there are no doors or holes that lead us to worlds where different rules apply (as could be the ear canal that severed ear in Blue Velvet), as no hallways or corridors and we are squarely in the vastness of the darkroom. I will not turn this into a post about the film, as having seen two times I still feel I did not leave un-aged images in my head enough. Yes I can rescue that immediate feeling that came over me after the lights were turned on Film. Some applause came, and my palms hesitant wanted to keep them company, without really being sure what had just witnessed. At some point those who claim that Lynch's films are no longer films themselves to become mere sensations secreting glands. Hitchcock argued that you can build it, would be interested in creating a device that may generate certain feelings in its viewers, without the need for a plot that was subject to these plans (I guess sending an intravenous line into the bloodstream cortisol and other substances that activate the sympathetic nervous system, similar to the experiment that subjected Alex in Clockwork Orange). I think in his dark workshop where he created the baby in Eraserhead Baconian, or pictures stinking rich textures of his latest sculptures, Lynch was able to build such a machine, just keep it in complete secrecy. I just knew that I liked the film days after seeing it. As lost pictures snipped a dream for secondary processing, could only remember images, vomiting of blood on the tile endless stars of Hollywood and Vine, cold and smooth cheeks of a Polish prostitute in the snow, the rabbits doing their chores with those canned laughter discordant background, the image of the violent cracked vinyl barbed progressing in their crazed and thirty-three constant revolutions per minute, as the frantic car driven by Bill Pullman in Lost Highway , and so a lot of other images that remain in my mind like a crazed bat flying low, bumping against the walls of my room.
turn, listen to The Drift is an intense experience that just stays behind the listener traumatic Frankie Teardrop. There are times when the cellos are so omnipresent invasive it makes you feel like taking off the headphones and buried in a forest as a murderer burying the body of a person accidentally killed. Just as with Lynch, it is difficult to reduce the disk to a subject, and much more complicated according to dissect songs. In The Drift no songs, but acts. In this sense, Melero could have no reason : Scott Walker creates movies for the blind. You feel extremely helpless, to recognize the sources of the sounds you hear, like a child covering his face with the blanket, knowing that their parents are just passing the runner and his fate is now rid of the noise heard footsteps of his room. Who sings these Gregorian chants? Where do those shots? Is the scream of a mule being sacrificed? Does Donald Duck singing from the dead? "In reference to the subject The Escape . Guitar never sounded so poisonous, the violin never sounded so like a swarm of Africanized bees. And all this behind a voice that we do not know if Virgil or Minos of our descent into hell. One aspect
great documentary 30th Century Man, is that it shows the recording process so far Scott Walker had remained in an underground vault. This wet and dull percussion of Cosacks Are is the sound of a man hitting a piece of meat, Walker and his company designed their own instruments, like a giant hollow body that serves to make those percussive effects that both intrigue me.
This refers to The Drift , and to some extent the Tilt .
When I said that Walker had previously formed a band melodic, the kind against which some were able puberfans turning cars, always assumed it was a funny past, sure Scott would try to keep it quiet. I did not think me down no record of this time until several people recommended it.
No, I never would have expected the fine and work great crooner with The Walker Brothers and solo. Nite Flights is laburo is too far ahead to all the time, as it were, with certain works of Can, a prophecy encrypted pop space invade the music many years later (" i have to say it's humilliating to hear this. It is ... it is incredible, I Could not Go Any Further. You know, I keep hearing this That sounds like new bands bloody Roxy Music and Talking Heads ... They Could not Go Any Further Than This "this does not say the Arctic Monkeys guitarist, but a bare named Brian Eno).
But back to Scott solo, her albums Scott 1, 2, 3 and 4 are of the finest jewels he has given the pop history. The song format applies only to their past records, but one thing remains crept into the depths. If you draw a rather arbitrary line to define the dark and disturbing resources in the discography of Scott Walker, one could see that the relationship between this sound and over the years is almost a straight forty-five degrees. For its part, the path filmography Lynch is different, like a winding road, which has a soft, pulsating universe, waiting under the boards as the heart of the murdered at the Allan Poe classic. The combination of immeasurable goodness films like The Straight Story with descending into the hell of Fire, walk with me (film despite being undervalued in his films and have some bugs, consider one of the representations incredible and awe of foreclosure of the father's name), is mirrored in the same scenes and imagery, the familiar moments lynch, where everything is kept in a weak balance, perpetuating an untenable tension between apparent and that world peace that grows, moves and dig tunnels, like beetles under the grass in the introductory scene Blue Velvet . With Scott Walker
same thing happens, and in a moment of 30th century man is given a detail that is the paradigm of this tension between the two worlds. A studio musician reveals one of the resources particularis Walker, showing how a chord combines refined and dissonant, making it live as if they were the same thing.
Scott 3 begins with It's raining today, a song that could be taken as another one of those very melodic ballads inspired by French chanson, only that something is wrong with that song, something that prevents us from fully believing in what the voice says Scott. At the second hearing we acknowledge, there are violins that slightly placid atmosphere of the song so full of smoke, fog and cold. The violins are held in an endless note, it seems like they were little eyes looking at us from the depths of a forest, waiting for something we do not know what it is. This contrast between the sweet baritone voice of Walker and that which flutters in the headphones is the essence of Lynch, a strange way of doing everyday things, such as Michel says Chion, "gives full value to simple images, but mounted in an unusual way." The choice of a cutoff is sufficient to change the image of a terrifying trivial. Even something that is perceived in the same Inland Empire: the scene Laura Dern with prostitutes in Hollywood and Vine, it intersects a Beck song with a violin and wind storm that just make us uncomfortable, such as Raining Today.
Since I was a pop idol Scott Walker had for years loved the back of his house, hidden piss aviaries, throwing pieces of meat and covering the wiring with a thick canvas unable to let pass any sunshine. They were there, doing anything else only grow, until he released Scott to make our nights a little darker.
Tom Waits-Hang on St.Cristopher
generally discuss terms like swing the cadence and flow leaves us in a vacant lot that ends up becoming a competition for who has more long, eventually became an abstraction that looks like a discussion between a Jew and a Muslim, arguing about who wins, if Yahweh or Allah in a kickboxing bout. Regarding
swing, that is a piece of land that are all vying to nails and teeth, especially in the rock, mostly jazz and blues. The swing is a floating plus an unquantifiable element visceral and yet is used as yardstick for talent, quality and manliness (?), As may be the libido with respect to energy of the psyche (although there were crazy as Jung who thought they could remove it with equipment closer to alchemy than science). Finally, the swing is an entity that is only transcended by his own mystery, and all use the term as if it were governed by a fine and complicated systems of weights and measures. I I can not explain it is the swing, but when someone has it or he does not . Beyond the genius of certain musicians, like Lester Young appeared to have virtually created a new glossolalia populous of these terms, the dangers of handling such abstractions is always under his patent leather hide their tendency to become religion, and everything leads to a lot of use cases of those that ends up as a shibboleth of a private club, full of codes and absurdly rigid.
latter is one of the walls blockbuster films of the defenders of the blues. The swing in the blues takes the form of an antibody that rejects everything that is not played in the rhythm of 4 / 4. Anything different is rejected, since a single metalhead neoclassical roots on up to any guitar that is not connected to a rugged valve system. The term comes from either the effects of gender struggle that ends up as a fan of trying to convince a National Peñarol for a change of frame. Personally irritated by many of these seas of seaweed that any attempt to run aground decent conversation, several times I tried to identify the root inherent swing. My personal version of the term, may take more elements of dance, or at least the movement itself, considering the swing as a way of playing that remains in flux, which seems to be some breach of a thing which transcends no fissures, doubts, without delay. The image perfect my swing version is that of a wave. Like that album cover Ride is impossible to determine when to begin and end a wave, one can only be satisfied with taking the metro and mark with X where one thing starts and another ends. The flow is constant and eternal where, personally, I think the swing is disputed or not swing. However, with this notion believe that the swing is impossible not only to be reduced to a genre, but the music itself. In keeping with this definition, a person with more swing I saw in my life is Maradona, and I seriously doubt its plasticity at the time to grab a guitar and make a pentatonic scale. One sees them play Maradona and for a moment does not seem so mad you have churches to worship Him, especially if the observer shares my view that any religion is a kind of pornography of guilt and trust. A Maradona a Pole it down with a kick, but at the same time it falls, the whole body is built to ride and race again, as if his body upright had transmuted into another without knowing the ground. Maradona pulled a space center prior to his legs and I've seen scoring goals from a free kick where the ball does friends or antagonizes the severity according to their own plans. That very idea of \u200b\u200ba constant flow, inability to fall and the control of things outside his own body become Maradona, in my opinion, one of the most perfect embodiments of swing.
My list would continue with a striking number of non-musicians, including Muhammad Ali in his prime, George Best and put that goal in the MLS huge , Marlon Brando in Last Tango in Paris , plans to sequence Tarkovsky Stalker, certain passages in Kerouac's narrative, the way we danced a classmate in one of my first parties of fifteen, leaving my friends and I with my mouth open, feeling an indescribable anguish the rest of the night.
and into the realm of music, so it may be the enigmatic how to play Jimmy Page (with a style blunders by its dirt and has a fractured nature, but incredibly it is used for a new unit with all that, especially in her solo Since I Been Living You ) Duane Allman's guitar, the motorik NEU! (Klaus Dinger, your heart stopped, but it sure does go remixed in heaven), one of the most amazing performances of all time from Jacques Brel in this video , sensuality, thrilling and uncomfortable Alan Vega this song, the heavenly voice of Jeff Buckley, saxophone wet and sensual eroticism closer to the hard soft porn Hawkigs Coleman, and so many more that you give any names of the classic records of the sultans of swing .
However, I never saw greater expression of that quintessential swing call in this live performance of Tom Waits.
this concert images from Big Time, a DVD that I bought over a month ago in Tristan Narvaja. The song is called Hold on St.Cristopher , and inconceivably conspicuous by its absence in the official record of that presentation. Everything in that video is perfect. Waits interpretative capacity reaches a point where each blink, angle beam of light from the lantern hanging on the stand, the balance of your body parallel to the hypnotic bass line and perpendicular to the intervention of the wind, how it grabs the lectern, the utilization cronometrización of the speaker, hoarse voice, moving his hands and fingers, until the same time indicating the hands of each of the clocks that invade your forearm, all seems to work in a harmony that did not see any other person, making a form of unity that makes me the most insignificant man on earth. I never expressed my feelings bodily music (except those pathetic interim air guitar playing us so ashamed when we realize), but seeing Tom Waits take with both swing that song, you can not do something else to dance.
I think the closest feeling you can feel homosexuality a heterosexual is to admire someone so much that I wish I could, at least one day, making their movements, their body features, your speech, look, smoking, taking , eating, dressing and living, in short, be it , almost as if you wanted to become a succubus and dwell in the host body of the person you admire so much (and, after all, that would just be another form of penetration). Caundo
turned twenty, Mary appeared with a hat. The theme of to wear or not to wear a hat appellant had been fairly and every time I saw someone using it close to my age it was pointed out as a Uruguayan found in Estonia. Of course, if up to me, that procastinación has been extended by many months, but the initiative of Maria made me face the reality of my desires. The hat is gray, cloth, compact, is particularly well if one puts it slightly tilted, partially covering her eyes. I had bought in The baker , those downtown stores that are like remains of a Uruguay that was. At first I could hardly take a little fear that Uruguay was not prepared for a young man wearing a hat, a little like How to wind a watch: Mary not only gave me a hat, but the fear of losing it, to just give me chape and absconding with, not to be accepted by the rest, for the wind to boot me in the head, the need to compare it with other hats, care and measure the time when I took him out. Over time, forget the fact that sometimes wore it confirmed that I was getting used to his company and many times I looked in the mirror, as one looks at a new tattoo on his body healed. Now I realize that what I was trying specularly do was compare my reflection with the mental image I had of Tom Waits. For a moment I stood somewhat gangly, head down, I expected more with that voice thin and aged in alcohol and snuff. Over time the mutation would have continued and would probably be a person at least aesthetically different from writing this, had it not been for something that happened to me a touch of Buenos Muchachos. La Barraca, better known by the somewhat dubious handling of its owner, was not the place to house a band like Good Guys. In particular, the Buenos have reached a hiatus difficult as they are not small enough for their performances in nightclubs are at least Ergonomically leisure, and as big to fill stadiums. The touch of which I speak in La Barraca had been a particularly wild, or at least I felt Mary and I, we saw a bottle fly, unable to escape as other nightclubs to pogo sticks and some alcoholic pelotudeces . After the show, we join the stream of people rushed into the street. It was in that crowd which, through a tap, someone threw his hat from behind. When I turn and I bent down to look for the hat, there is a hairy, shirtless and certainly taller than me (and I'm not pony), who takes no more Viking tell me what he could " The hats day use. " Just beside my answer an avalanche left us all out of bowling, out of sight. My way back to the Prado was very bitter, thinking over and over things that would or should have said, reviewing his weaknesses, as this ridiculous suspension of Ricotta Redonditos wearing like a teardrop tattoo on the cheek a prisoner. But there was something that changed everything in this " The hats are used day," something similar to what I felt when I realized that a girl I liked in school I never returned the call, similar to the sensation of feeling you'd never be able to do well the nut to feel like autumn comes unstoppable, as the years this hat that I've hardly used it since
Fernando Cabrera-The time is after
always wanted to listen to Fernando Cabrera, but due to lack of download links and boludez mine had never been able to access any album of his. All he had heard so far had been The house next door , one of the most devastating I've ever heard in my life. After seeing this film really is unclassifiable The airship (actually, I never knew what he wanted to Pablo Dotta with that film), when the credits come trembling voice appears Cabrera.
No time no time no no no
watch before or after or maybe there is far
nor old nor ever in this forgotten disability
The entire letter can read it in this post the old Ezequiel one-man blog. I remember seeing the film, a chilly night of July at two o'clock. When the song ended, I put the dvd again and again I hear that song. I did several times, coming to hear this case five times. Even got to not return the movie in the corresponding date to only hear that theme a few times. In those days I did not know the extent of internet and could not supposed to get off the track or the lyrics, so copy the song into a notebook, rewinding and making quick break to follow the way of singing to Cabrera.
Now that I listen to the song and lyrics, understand that there could be no more perfect song for the movie. That horror vacui the letter,
Here there is no tango
Tongo or deception there are no lasting damage
last one hundred years
good time but there is no handle
toy I'm crying
accustomed
corresponds
with images of the Montevideo completely empty, with some post-dictatorship murmurs seen in every corner of the film. There is a scene even when the sheet whose name escapes me get on the Rock and Samba a park rolled completely deserted, and the type is set to go on their own, without drivers or other people involved. It would seem that everyone is in a timeless world, like last survivors of a world sovereign and empty, like an urban version of anarchic desert campaign world.
Here in this house live thousand
nailed a sign the time we as witches
clock
none seem to age Returning
me, it was only a day after I could Hit me with five discs Cabrera: With time in the face, Autoblues, The time is later, Viveza, Bardo
assumed that I would like it, but I was not prepared for such an overflow of genius. The songs are great, and certainly With time face, even as a collection (and I was always opposed to collections) I find an album that leaves me clinging to the ear headphones like a leech feeding on everything my lifeblood. Overflowing
neighborhoods is an issue that can shake my misanthropy harvested and hosted in silos for years, allowing a unit trust of the people than any leftist presidential campaign, after hearing With the wind in your face asked my father where is my bike, this weekend I'm going to walk the streets of Prado, and the Center Velvedere, oiling and dusting canteen chains; I wanted to be like you must be one of the most beautiful songs that you can make a friend or an older brother, if someone sing it sure would make a fool of tears and snot; Viveza is one of the most intriguing impressionistic songs I've heard in recent years, the expressive voice on issues like Cabrera Report confirms Valeria as a true actor of the songs, showing the shortsightedness of people who consider it a bad singer, and then comes Time is after. (Listen to the song here )
is night, trying to finish this post, am thinking about a discussion I had with Mary. Review all this, things that slip at the time and left puddles all over the room. Think of the many variations of what I would have liked to say at the time, and then from my stereo that song appears as if it were a message addressed directly to
me
Llupa Street is parted in the middle
Belvedere,
waves from the train whistles down
with sadness,
those endless rows leaving Central
the pavement is covered but there it is.
Spring in that neighborhood is called solitude
called cries of tenderness
asking to enter and the trouble is no longer raining
tighten my tears in your pocket changed your Sacone
.
One day we will meet in another carnival
we will be lucky if we learn that no
corner that no
berth that can dissolve the
hiding what we were
time is after
As for shelter from these parallels that leave me as the legs of a boxer against the ropes holding, I am thinking about the interesting time management, the idea of \u200b\u200ba song that generates melancholy rooted in the future and the present time, the ability to paint scenes Cabrera, but then came the whistle of the song Paso Molino, and a wind from the Prado, dry leaves and standing water invaded sources by vines, comes on tiptoe to my room. Yes, I entered, is in my room, my notes rose slightly. I would like to push it, tell him to go elsewhere, But It Keeps Saying coming closer I can feel it in my bones.
to try to turn off the stereo, delete the song, delete it as I write, but nothing serves autumn came, and has gone to sleep on the floor.
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