Winters-of-a-solo-
diver had been almost a month since I posted anything, mainly with an examination of philosophical anthropology and a series of activities that kept me pretty busy. A strange residue of this withdrawal is that by acquiring some distance from the vortex of entries, comments and counters, you realize that beyond all the possibilities for furthering a civilized way your egomania, you install some logic within a few of us who have to recode some endnotes in our daily lives as posteables . More than once, the fine or Santiago I have said "this sure 're going to turn into a post ", an issue that makes some people more cautious absurdly walk around me. This blog
Could Be Your Life, sublema could be a cost for this blog.
But back to the fact itself, calmly saturated with activities, a few days ago had his head leaning against the window 121 and then to fold Boulevard I missed a playground packed with children. I never liked the playground, I personally preferred the Parque Rodo, who had an outrageous and rhythmic essence, the echoes of the Rock and Samba are heard so far, where cheats play to take the plates during few minutes before adjusting the collar of his pink polo enter W old-wine-Lounge, and roller coasters that gave more fear than the Parque de la costa, but more than for his speed and strength of the force G, the idea of \u200b\u200ba real possibility of derailment. But the point is that I was watching those kids and being a Wednesday that was extremely strange. It took me some few stops lie in the fact that he was in full July holidays: hence that baby-faced imminent vomiting sitting in front of me, hence this mother with three boys and pink balloons to burst, hence the girl crying makes me think Herod was misunderstood. My vacation July
school were always very introspective, with very few familiar habits of vacationing abroad or the Gold Coast, and the karma of having to care for a younger sister, by the fact that neither of my parents made use of his license at that time. Personally, my winters were reduced to purplish-post-fingers to play Super Nintendo, occasional visits from friends and flus. He was always animated movie that your whole class talking, and often went to see accompanied by my grandmother, as the Trocadero cinema today become what I call a Christian Macumba Center. But undoubtedly the that characterized the two weeks were the hours watching television, visuo motor coordination training with Shaolin discipline, the Games Over Passwords and annotated with crayons on the back of boxes of tapes. Beyond that
joules, far from being that little nip fuck before things get serious in college life, most of us become fateful weeks of studying for tests, there was something else that allowed me fall into this season. I leave the bus and I'm seeing in the window of a cyber. People behind me passes, taxis and vagabonds who became known Tristan Narvaja in his living room. I'm set in my reflection, merging computer and stressed students, and in a moment recognize what catches my eye: a single diver. No gloves, no scarf, or jacket. This is no winter, che, or rather, is that what I call winter -of-a-single-diver . It is strange to see me walking down the streets so light clothing, if not more than six years ago I nicknamed Bud, not as a diatribe Galician, but for my cebollística form of shelter. Even my case is not only (in fact I'ma bit chilly especially), some take advantage of the possibility Manyas shine his jersey to claim paternity to the Nacional, and women want to continue to benefit from their fat tits until those things have to overwinter and return to their caves of wool. Those who read here often, you know that there is something that haunts me, and this is the construction of a station on a more experiential and emotional and social chronological. In my case, this winter-of-a-solo-diving is still floating in a degree of differentiation, a transitional space that generates a certain epistemological anxiety. Because yes, there are plenty of elements that indicate that we are in full holiday. Walking through the mall and not look at the floor to take risk ahead to a child is an activity so mad as to go running barefoot at night through the Plaza Villa Biarritz, without waiting find one of your feet smeared with shit, while, even surpassing our distaste for children, puberty is revealed as a major threat, getting used to going out later and later, as stupid as indomitable drinking (little and badly), going on mob and shouting at things by inertia (assholes and minitas to beat that one would go directly to jail), like pocket versions of the hordes of post-apocalyptic Mad Max , or gangs piradas New Yorkers The Warriors . I wish I could say, "Well, I knew to be like them in their time" but not to those years I was playing the Nintendo, and devising impossible realization plans with friends.
As expected, films and music, almost none has a lot of winter-not framed this strange semiestación, small obsessions that handles all my infanticidal impulses. Here are my films and records
But back to the fact itself, calmly saturated with activities, a few days ago had his head leaning against the window 121 and then to fold Boulevard I missed a playground packed with children. I never liked the playground, I personally preferred the Parque Rodo, who had an outrageous and rhythmic essence, the echoes of the Rock and Samba are heard so far, where cheats play to take the plates during few minutes before adjusting the collar of his pink polo enter W old-wine-Lounge, and roller coasters that gave more fear than the Parque de la costa, but more than for his speed and strength of the force G, the idea of \u200b\u200ba real possibility of derailment. But the point is that I was watching those kids and being a Wednesday that was extremely strange. It took me some few stops lie in the fact that he was in full July holidays: hence that baby-faced imminent vomiting sitting in front of me, hence this mother with three boys and pink balloons to burst, hence the girl crying makes me think Herod was misunderstood. My vacation July
school were always very introspective, with very few familiar habits of vacationing abroad or the Gold Coast, and the karma of having to care for a younger sister, by the fact that neither of my parents made use of his license at that time. Personally, my winters were reduced to purplish-post-fingers to play Super Nintendo, occasional visits from friends and flus. He was always animated movie that your whole class talking, and often went to see accompanied by my grandmother, as the Trocadero cinema today become what I call a Christian Macumba Center. But undoubtedly the that characterized the two weeks were the hours watching television, visuo motor coordination training with Shaolin discipline, the Games Over Passwords and annotated with crayons on the back of boxes of tapes. Beyond that
joules, far from being that little nip fuck before things get serious in college life, most of us become fateful weeks of studying for tests, there was something else that allowed me fall into this season. I leave the bus and I'm seeing in the window of a cyber. People behind me passes, taxis and vagabonds who became known Tristan Narvaja in his living room. I'm set in my reflection, merging computer and stressed students, and in a moment recognize what catches my eye: a single diver. No gloves, no scarf, or jacket. This is no winter, che, or rather, is that what I call winter -of-a-single-diver . It is strange to see me walking down the streets so light clothing, if not more than six years ago I nicknamed Bud, not as a diatribe Galician, but for my cebollística form of shelter. Even my case is not only (in fact I'ma bit chilly especially), some take advantage of the possibility Manyas shine his jersey to claim paternity to the Nacional, and women want to continue to benefit from their fat tits until those things have to overwinter and return to their caves of wool. Those who read here often, you know that there is something that haunts me, and this is the construction of a station on a more experiential and emotional and social chronological. In my case, this winter-of-a-solo-diving is still floating in a degree of differentiation, a transitional space that generates a certain epistemological anxiety. Because yes, there are plenty of elements that indicate that we are in full holiday. Walking through the mall and not look at the floor to take risk ahead to a child is an activity so mad as to go running barefoot at night through the Plaza Villa Biarritz, without waiting find one of your feet smeared with shit, while, even surpassing our distaste for children, puberty is revealed as a major threat, getting used to going out later and later, as stupid as indomitable drinking (little and badly), going on mob and shouting at things by inertia (assholes and minitas to beat that one would go directly to jail), like pocket versions of the hordes of post-apocalyptic Mad Max , or gangs piradas New Yorkers The Warriors . I wish I could say, "Well, I knew to be like them in their time" but not to those years I was playing the Nintendo, and devising impossible realization plans with friends.
As expected, films and music, almost none has a lot of winter-not framed this strange semiestación, small obsessions that handles all my infanticidal impulses. Here are my films and records
Winter Movies:
Regular Lovers (Philippe Garrel)
round numbers tend to favor the revision of certain events, media analysis, goals, results, players and contraagentes. With forty years of the French May is no exception, and all universities, the media and politicians have been forced to criticize, romanticizing, praise, depose, perspective and all ar in a position on this issue. I think this while I'm out of school, seeing a banner made by the famous motto CEUP "The imagination to power" . I restrain myself a little laughter, that is quite difficult to find me a little less imaginative than the faculty union, with a drive that has more than Bréznhev Guy Debord. For these same reasons, it was unsurprising that the Winter Film Festival included a film to address this issue.
Sunday, 22:00. Duration of film: 179 minutes. In a matter of numbers and dates, the option did not seem very encouraging, but recently Garrel had seen the same Wild Innocence and had seemed more than good. After a series of calls with the firm at the wheel we thin as an arrow through the curtain of rain and night.
Early on the major issues facing France in May, a boy named Francois, and eventually recognize you as the protagonist-states that would like to publish a book of his poems, but feared to contradict its principles. Moments later, a friend asks what you would like to do in the future, and he replied that he'd be a painter (ie, house painter.) When asked why he will not be a painter indeed, the answers that the painter is really the only painter. Authorship, situatedness, Isou, Guy Debord, started well.
The film focuses on the life of François and his eventual love for the late French May and the following years of revolutionary hangover. Over the same subject, and taken countless times in the cinema, what is most striking is the pace and style that gives Garrel such events and the incredible black and white film (The fine is right in pointing out that each one plane of the film is a perfect shot). A clear example of this is the scene of the student revolts. These are filmed at a real pace, with shots of several minutes, recreating the authentic rhythm of a defense after roadblock, regardless of an assembly that will provide greater spectacle. You could almost say that these scenes are not choreographed as acted as a style reminiscent of the anarchist peasants flow recorded by Theo Angelopoulos in Megalexandro . Even just for a back up historiographical know that the contest is taking place in the Latin Quarter on the Boulevard Saint Michelle, because the stage was virtually indistinguishable, with people, smoke, debris and cars around you are given a whitish slime just emerging from the blackness that is homogeneous stands behind. Muhammad knows
As an Arab without camels, Garrel knows to be French remained confined within the walls, and above all, without resorting to that revolutionary feeling festive or warlike, which has prostituted both films about historical events. Regular Lovers is all that is not dreamers, the self-indulgent romantic vision of France in May and seen through the eyes of Bertolucci. While in the Italian film incest, revolution and the fascination of the film is searched and hypertrophied in every scene, Garrel's film contests between police and protesters are cold waves and constant consumption drug is far from the lively and psychedelic bricolage other authors, and free sex is, but far from a framework that becomes sexy, intense, or seizure. Even in moments where he could show another record of feelings, like a party where everyone is dancing This time tomorrow the kinks, the scene is tinged with a certain unreality, almost as if you were parodying themselves, without taking that momentary happiness too seriously. In any case, the film is one of the most bitter and laconic visions on one of the most frequently cited events, drawn and honored the past century.
The movie ended at about one o'clock, and fine and I met with a boiled Montevideo, with that tone so unreal that acquires Sunday July 18. Talking of the film in the car, we agree that the movie we fascinated with respect to the interests and inclinations of each: the fine, which is in his own club, it is difficult to find a better picture film, I, for hand, I think is a key film, which has the virtue of showing an event under the lights and shadows, as did films like The Battle of Algiers at the time.
However, something tells me CEUP probably prefer not to see a movie so long, opting to continue quoting phrases "The Boredom is counterrevolutionary ", while conducting special sessions of two hours to decide what color to paint a flag.
Supercool (Gregg Mottola)
In the first minutes of Supercool suspect one would come twice: in the topic pansexualist dialogue that characterizes a certain whiff of smell American Pie, and those chatísimas film school. At the same time, its cast and the occasional movie reference, one is tempted to twin with the new progeny of self-referentiality indie films like Juno (a Eze which gave a good stick in his blog). Supercool
addresses the trauma of passage known stages, which became so obsessive in many American films of style. However, it does so from another record, the thinner where others just choose to direct the kid, in your face more where other films have their reservations. After all, the classic theme of putting it-before-the-exit, with two friends who are entrusted with the responsibility of getting alcohol for a party (an apparently simple story, but goes off the rails in such bizarre episodes as funny). Evan, Seth and Fogell (or McLovin!) Are not losers in strict sense, and women who I feel like that deviate from the classical paradigm of unknowns mine who is with quarterbacks and mindless like that. In fact, the movie deviates from the sexual pity and notes that, beyond appearances, the possibilities are always there, especially in that scene so unusual between Evan and he likes mine, which lime all platonic idealization which are usually woven in such situations. All figures are practically scribbled threatening, and it is not strictly the classic epistemological question of how popular or unpopular.
The film is a celebration of youth, where virtually the elderly, such as parents and teachers, do not appear, and where in fact, displayed (as the case of the police) behave like pubescent.
moments of the film led to the bizarre situation so delusional as to find myself, my brother and my mother crying with laughter for a few drawings of penises vein. And only with this, the film worthwhile.
My best friend (Werner Herzog)
before you: the beast. Klaus Kinski acted so badly that when he sees one wonders if his body can endure so much energy, so much hatred and violence. In his fits of anger, as in Woyzek or Aguirre, the Wrath of God , you think that at the end of them is going to run out and look like a toy without batteries, as that final scene of Cobra Verde, with the blond that after trying to move a boat is left in the bank fail. What is most interesting in watching this documentary made by Herzog, is that true Kinski was as or worse than the characters he played. From the very beginning of it is seen performing in one of his famous acts of Jesus tour, performance where openly proclaimed messiah and faced the public. In a type of public tries to grab the microphone and Kinski snatches it so violently that one half. I see that scene, and it scares me from the comfort of my room with underfloor heating, I can not imagine what would have been to be there.
But if something more interesting than Kinski, is the binomial Herzog-Kinski, a pair in their unions and separations generated more energy than the two uranium nuclei. You have read, studied, and even known relationships framed in a dynamic love and hate, but in the binary H / K language falls short, or at least have to rethink the idea of \u200b\u200bhate and love from their bases. Because let's be clear, we are talking about two people who came to plotting to kill the other, where even the threat to abandon the shoot Kinski Fitzcarraldo, Herzog forced him to finish with a shotgun on the other side of the camera. In such situations, one would think, "Well, here is over", but then there were new meetings, new movies where conflicts always appear at the edge of the physical, like two moths fluttering around a lamp, knowing you need is two inches shorter, two inches shorter, to die of a shock. And this is explained by the fact that the two were really indispensable to each other, and this is the very fact that the most memorable films of Herzog and Kinski as director and actor, are working together.
The film had its history, or rather, the other side of the coin, Kinski's autobiography in a book that concerns itself with Herzog, or more vehemently in their daily lives. Just as an example, here a small excerpt: "List and describe in detail all the humiliations and ordeals that made us go into the jungle, Herzog total cretinism, his shamelessness, his audacity, his brutality, his stupidity, his megalomania and lack of talent, as well as the consequences of all this, it would truly revolting, and would be an unforgivable waste of time and energy. It's the same pile of rotting garbage ten years ago, but even more stupid, brainless, paralytic and criminal. " And this is just a small sample. "
Throughout the documentary we see how almost everyone who knew Kinski refer to him as a human filth, like an infectious disease carried by the wind. However, what disturbs the film is how Herzog can live with all that love encloses the deep devotion she felt toward him. After dealing with Kinski in his chiaroscuro to Caravaggio, the film ends with one of the most beautiful scenes I've seen, almost apax within what we have recorded here Kinski in the video camera:
Regular Lovers (Philippe Garrel)
round numbers tend to favor the revision of certain events, media analysis, goals, results, players and contraagentes. With forty years of the French May is no exception, and all universities, the media and politicians have been forced to criticize, romanticizing, praise, depose, perspective and all ar in a position on this issue. I think this while I'm out of school, seeing a banner made by the famous motto CEUP "The imagination to power" . I restrain myself a little laughter, that is quite difficult to find me a little less imaginative than the faculty union, with a drive that has more than Bréznhev Guy Debord. For these same reasons, it was unsurprising that the Winter Film Festival included a film to address this issue.
Sunday, 22:00. Duration of film: 179 minutes. In a matter of numbers and dates, the option did not seem very encouraging, but recently Garrel had seen the same Wild Innocence and had seemed more than good. After a series of calls with the firm at the wheel we thin as an arrow through the curtain of rain and night.
Early on the major issues facing France in May, a boy named Francois, and eventually recognize you as the protagonist-states that would like to publish a book of his poems, but feared to contradict its principles. Moments later, a friend asks what you would like to do in the future, and he replied that he'd be a painter (ie, house painter.) When asked why he will not be a painter indeed, the answers that the painter is really the only painter. Authorship, situatedness, Isou, Guy Debord, started well.
The film focuses on the life of François and his eventual love for the late French May and the following years of revolutionary hangover. Over the same subject, and taken countless times in the cinema, what is most striking is the pace and style that gives Garrel such events and the incredible black and white film (The fine is right in pointing out that each one plane of the film is a perfect shot). A clear example of this is the scene of the student revolts. These are filmed at a real pace, with shots of several minutes, recreating the authentic rhythm of a defense after roadblock, regardless of an assembly that will provide greater spectacle. You could almost say that these scenes are not choreographed as acted as a style reminiscent of the anarchist peasants flow recorded by Theo Angelopoulos in Megalexandro . Even just for a back up historiographical know that the contest is taking place in the Latin Quarter on the Boulevard Saint Michelle, because the stage was virtually indistinguishable, with people, smoke, debris and cars around you are given a whitish slime just emerging from the blackness that is homogeneous stands behind. Muhammad knows
As an Arab without camels, Garrel knows to be French remained confined within the walls, and above all, without resorting to that revolutionary feeling festive or warlike, which has prostituted both films about historical events. Regular Lovers is all that is not dreamers, the self-indulgent romantic vision of France in May and seen through the eyes of Bertolucci. While in the Italian film incest, revolution and the fascination of the film is searched and hypertrophied in every scene, Garrel's film contests between police and protesters are cold waves and constant consumption drug is far from the lively and psychedelic bricolage other authors, and free sex is, but far from a framework that becomes sexy, intense, or seizure. Even in moments where he could show another record of feelings, like a party where everyone is dancing This time tomorrow the kinks, the scene is tinged with a certain unreality, almost as if you were parodying themselves, without taking that momentary happiness too seriously. In any case, the film is one of the most bitter and laconic visions on one of the most frequently cited events, drawn and honored the past century.
The movie ended at about one o'clock, and fine and I met with a boiled Montevideo, with that tone so unreal that acquires Sunday July 18. Talking of the film in the car, we agree that the movie we fascinated with respect to the interests and inclinations of each: the fine, which is in his own club, it is difficult to find a better picture film, I, for hand, I think is a key film, which has the virtue of showing an event under the lights and shadows, as did films like The Battle of Algiers at the time.
However, something tells me CEUP probably prefer not to see a movie so long, opting to continue quoting phrases "The Boredom is counterrevolutionary ", while conducting special sessions of two hours to decide what color to paint a flag.
Supercool (Gregg Mottola)
In the first minutes of Supercool suspect one would come twice: in the topic pansexualist dialogue that characterizes a certain whiff of smell American Pie, and those chatísimas film school. At the same time, its cast and the occasional movie reference, one is tempted to twin with the new progeny of self-referentiality indie films like Juno (a Eze which gave a good stick in his blog). Supercool
addresses the trauma of passage known stages, which became so obsessive in many American films of style. However, it does so from another record, the thinner where others just choose to direct the kid, in your face more where other films have their reservations. After all, the classic theme of putting it-before-the-exit, with two friends who are entrusted with the responsibility of getting alcohol for a party (an apparently simple story, but goes off the rails in such bizarre episodes as funny). Evan, Seth and Fogell (or McLovin!) Are not losers in strict sense, and women who I feel like that deviate from the classical paradigm of unknowns mine who is with quarterbacks and mindless like that. In fact, the movie deviates from the sexual pity and notes that, beyond appearances, the possibilities are always there, especially in that scene so unusual between Evan and he likes mine, which lime all platonic idealization which are usually woven in such situations. All figures are practically scribbled threatening, and it is not strictly the classic epistemological question of how popular or unpopular.
The film is a celebration of youth, where virtually the elderly, such as parents and teachers, do not appear, and where in fact, displayed (as the case of the police) behave like pubescent.
moments of the film led to the bizarre situation so delusional as to find myself, my brother and my mother crying with laughter for a few drawings of penises vein. And only with this, the film worthwhile.
My best friend (Werner Herzog)
before you: the beast. Klaus Kinski acted so badly that when he sees one wonders if his body can endure so much energy, so much hatred and violence. In his fits of anger, as in Woyzek or Aguirre, the Wrath of God , you think that at the end of them is going to run out and look like a toy without batteries, as that final scene of Cobra Verde, with the blond that after trying to move a boat is left in the bank fail. What is most interesting in watching this documentary made by Herzog, is that true Kinski was as or worse than the characters he played. From the very beginning of it is seen performing in one of his famous acts of Jesus tour, performance where openly proclaimed messiah and faced the public. In a type of public tries to grab the microphone and Kinski snatches it so violently that one half. I see that scene, and it scares me from the comfort of my room with underfloor heating, I can not imagine what would have been to be there.
But if something more interesting than Kinski, is the binomial Herzog-Kinski, a pair in their unions and separations generated more energy than the two uranium nuclei. You have read, studied, and even known relationships framed in a dynamic love and hate, but in the binary H / K language falls short, or at least have to rethink the idea of \u200b\u200bhate and love from their bases. Because let's be clear, we are talking about two people who came to plotting to kill the other, where even the threat to abandon the shoot Kinski Fitzcarraldo, Herzog forced him to finish with a shotgun on the other side of the camera. In such situations, one would think, "Well, here is over", but then there were new meetings, new movies where conflicts always appear at the edge of the physical, like two moths fluttering around a lamp, knowing you need is two inches shorter, two inches shorter, to die of a shock. And this is explained by the fact that the two were really indispensable to each other, and this is the very fact that the most memorable films of Herzog and Kinski as director and actor, are working together.
The film had its history, or rather, the other side of the coin, Kinski's autobiography in a book that concerns itself with Herzog, or more vehemently in their daily lives. Just as an example, here a small excerpt: "List and describe in detail all the humiliations and ordeals that made us go into the jungle, Herzog total cretinism, his shamelessness, his audacity, his brutality, his stupidity, his megalomania and lack of talent, as well as the consequences of all this, it would truly revolting, and would be an unforgivable waste of time and energy. It's the same pile of rotting garbage ten years ago, but even more stupid, brainless, paralytic and criminal. " And this is just a small sample. "
Throughout the documentary we see how almost everyone who knew Kinski refer to him as a human filth, like an infectious disease carried by the wind. However, what disturbs the film is how Herzog can live with all that love encloses the deep devotion she felt toward him. After dealing with Kinski in his chiaroscuro to Caravaggio, the film ends with one of the most beautiful scenes I've seen, almost apax within what we have recorded here Kinski in the video camera:
Herzog said in words: "Sometimes I think that Klaus himself becomes a butterfly. And everything between us is gone. And all is well. Though my mind to resist, something tells me that within me that I would so remind ".
Herzog, for its large number of films shot in places as beautiful as wild as the jungle of Peru, appears to have continued with this passion romantic searching for one lost forever link between man and nature. In his films, the same risks that enveloped the fantasies of his protagonists are embodied in the same shooting Crazy (like the insane task of actually raise the boat upstream Fitzcarraldo). I think Herzog Kinski was for that portion of nature to dominate, a civilizing force of a wild force, primal and formless, like a wild bull used to push a plow, but in a single gore can end your life. But then I see this scene, and I realize as I believe that Herzog also gives you behind-the collective harmony of murder, is also the butterfly, that hold it or tame it dies.
Discs:
The Replacements-Let It Be The Replacements always a band I had been sympathetic nerve that eternal both ended up betraying them (unlike other indie bands more disciplined or more radical in their self-destruction that ended up scraping the sky), as the source of eternal youth and a fondness for drink that would be a Robert Pollard and Ian Mackey.
Beyond that, I had never paid much attention, and while I heard the Tim (the one with the great generational anthem Bastards of Young ), this album was coming binary moth-eaten on the shelves of my computer. He had stuck two heard, especially when I went to bed, and I do not really leave much. It was a Friday it was studying me to Habermas, when I happened to hear in a lucid state, without expecting not much. No such records proved epiphanic, that when you kick all the bases where you were stopped, but after several successive listeners began to realize that was a fundamental drive, the kind that would have to appear not only in the pitchfork or media indie-friendly like that, but in any Rolling Stone, in interviews on MTV farts in the mouth of Noel Field freckled or any central or peripherally program talk about music. I found the reason for my initial little deference to the fact that the album hits a new qualitative shift to the middle, with some original songs that are half to forget. What starts from the fifth issue (Androgynous ) is a perfect title sequence, for which Westerberg have every right to spit in the eye to God for not having become revolutionary hits.
First of all, Westerberg has become one of my favorite vocalists of all time, a guy who obviously technical and registration is not close to Jeff and Tim Buckley, but has a cough not premeditated, with a small inflections -even out of tune, which serve the same song as the voice of an actor in a pivotal scene in any movie, making it one of the most expressive singers I've heard. Even a great injustice is to be dispensed the Replacements and Pixies choose to quote or Beat Happening when talking about Nirvana. Because Nirvana took, and much of this band, not just teenage angst overflowing songs-which leads to Nirvana amplified and more ominous-land, but also the same voice. Listen a little, and you'll see that there's a lot of Westerberg's voice on the verge of bawling noise and pop Karco.
But back to the disk itself, the Let It Be -disc sets and aluminum closures from the same Fuck the album of the fab tour is very young, the edge of emo, which at one point had been mentioned about the same Smiths. However, while the letters Morrisey have that share of self-flagellation and teenage angst rooted in a sublime and almost romantic poetry, the Replacements discuss these topics in a more direct, as if it were a personal drama to tell you your best friend on a visit to your home. Take it take to youth programs in the broad spectrum, not a crude defeatism that characterizes the MTV gourds makeup today. Arguably, what the Replacements left to them as well, is to take the youth dramas, but frame them in a field where the claim and occupation of new land is possible, ie where not all battles are lost.
This character has a lot of metal the seventies-eighties, and not surprisingly on the same disk that contained a cover of Kiss. The version of Black Diamond is a Temon and is so good that I could not recognize the authorship of the makeup, beyond that actually had heard as a kid in a live album that was my cousin. What the Replacements with this release is tremendous: while version of Kiss is a mix between power ballad and song full of heroism, the Replacements the recoded in their own way, taking the mannerisms and showmanship of the band predecessor and leading them with their own bridles. Manage to create a completely different subject, without changing almost absolutely nothing-only opening windows and letting the air go addicted to the smoking guitar solos Freehley Ace.
All youth issues are touched, from sexuality hyper confusing and unstable - Androgynous - even love incorrespondido - Answeing machine - through the nonconformity-redundant to say "of Unsatysfied , hedonism festive Gary's got a boner -Enough Said, and Sixteen Blue (please, this letter: Brag about Things You Do not Understand / A girl and a woman, a boy and a man / Everything is sexually vague [an awkward phase ?] / Now you're wondering to yourself / If You Might Be Gay Your age is the hardest age / Everything drags and drags / One day, baby, maybe help you-through / Sixteen blue / blue Sixteen ).
These songs would have saved me a lot of bitterness, to have listened to my fifteen.
Robyn Hitchcock Jewels for Sophia should not be the first time will not be the last, I say it, but something strange happens to me with Robyn Hitchcock: I have no record of his, and certainly in my history I have emotional musicians or musically that I consider best, or that left a deeper mark, and still is the person I most admire in the world, a strangely profound admiration that goes beyond production art. Now that I think the list of people I admire most has less to do with my tastes, or if any, are the most representative of me. Here's a little graphic to explain this point:
But back to Hitchcock, is, along with Tom Waits one of those guys who always dreamed of having. While Waits goes more to the format of guy whoring happens to you whiskey in a quince, Robyn is one of those guys past creative enough to make his madness something quaint, not a fucking load. I can not imagine going home to give me guitar lessons, talking about dwarves, Nixon and insects. My admiration it was instant, and goes back to my nineteen years in one of the most scorching summers to remember. My cousin Luke and I were enjoying the newly acquired cable for my grandparents before we had to settle for those late night movies Eighty of passing on channel seven, that banks holding us austerísimas commercials every fifteen minutes on groceries and convenience stores-route, possibly looking some soft porn movie we thought we could give Brazil's Globo TV, the frequent habit of hypersexualized to Brazilians, "when we stopped in a strange concert held in what appeared to be a done deal, with a stained glass window could see people walking the streets were shut in their thoughts. Nobody, except a few, he noticed what was happening inside, a show with a strange gentleman Inges between songs that talked about irradiated meat for astronauts, megacadáveres, the thin line between torture of cosmetics, minotaurs and plastic tape. As if knowing that this concert would mark our lives, I decided to record at the very moment we fell into that channel. Did not stop laughing, but could not give any comment. The songs are not left behind in its eccentricity, and when one had believed that the psychedelic songs on the verge of disintegration Hitchcock that such a ondazo you down with a ballad so beautiful that it was like a thick comforter and scented which one could not, or want-out.
The next day we woke up at eleven, but did not go to the beach.
Our room looked like a bus full bunks, plying the streets of Guayaquil at noon, but never think of sand, sea, or bikinis. That afternoon we saw three times in a row the video, remaining burrowing like moles in our knowing, by the sound of venteveos, the sun was setting over the neighbor's chimney. But no matter.
Eventually
I ended up buying this concert called Storefront Hitchcock , Johnatan directed by Demme, who had been behind as great as Crazy Stop making sense. For a long time I thought that probably Hitchcock's magic was in his monologues and live, imagining listening to an album of his would lose much of the mystique that had surrounded. Were a few years that I refused to listen to Hitchcock's study, but one day I finally get off Often I dream of trains . They were then Spooked, the recent Ole! Tarantula Eye and . I was surprised to find none of the discs down to a very high level, not only from the standpoint of lyricists, but compositional. Also, for older than it seems-well, not so-Robyn change of style with a skill as chameleonic as their eccentric shirts.
I recently got Jewels for Sophia and I could not stop listening. I think they're three days and that's all I've heard in my computer. So far the album is probably more even for all that I've been listening. Hitchcock On this album gives a twist to his influences of Syd Barrett, Robert Wyatt and Zimmerman-even the issue closed and title track is the issue verbose to Subterranean Homesick Blues, "and is one of the most energized and powerful of all his records.
One of the great merits of Robyn is able to incorporate elements of pop culture, but placing them with a natural charm in a way that does not look like a kid namedropping that more than an artist he is as artificial as the fake English accent Madonna , which is rife in the camp Montevideo created by ten or fifteen advertisers wanting to have some fun. Just to cite one example in a hidden song at the end: "i have a warm bath / i have a bottle of wine / i put myself to bed / and i feel just fine / but Do not talk to me about Gene Hackman ( ...) he is in Every film / Sometimes wearing a towel / and if it's not him / you get Andy Mac Dowell / s Do not talk to me about Gene Hackman .
People, we are all approaching in perfect peace and harmony to the hitchcockdad, suddenly everything becomes Hitchcock, all on either side will be Hitchcock. It is true ladies and gentlemen, the time has come, it's time to talk to that little Hitchcock's inside us.
boomp3.com boomp3.com
Peter Restuccia-palindrome Write on a disk that formed a part, at least in its inception, producing pseudo officiating and writing some issues-is a very complex work, rather than the obvious lack of objectivity that can only record the movement from a static point (and I kept envagonado a part of the process). The story of this album is a little history of my life with music, or at least my condition frustrated musician. I can not stop thinking about the album as a construction that began nine years ago when I started to attend the trials of a trio that had not yet name. The places where that happening were very varied, and I got to know almost everyone from the studio of Louis Restuccia while still remaining in the cord, to the austere and microscopic Antoine rehearsal room, a lattice garage facing the street, run by a vintenero than anywhere else I might easily earned. Nirvaneras seasons (the standard line of development of the teenagers of my generation), with Peter on drums, Oliver singing a phonetic English Manteca behind the microphone and just learning to play bass. Then it was the first touch in a celebration of London in the Falklands, the sixth string is always touching Oliver broke the Rape Me , some exaggerated, fireworks, a blonde who had been looking for a friend, cheeseburgers, the triumphant return in a car full of instruments. They were later other voices, the band name chosen spontaneously in a break of fifteen minutes, a celebration of the Holy Family passed through water which had missed a mega quince, the hearth of San Juan as if it were a Woodstock, a Wednesday night in disco band The station with a call late Pol Pot, Advanced tickets sold bizmarkiana rigorously, the first songs recorded on a cassette that I still have, as imperfect as English convinced Oliver, Peter's professionalism, fears of Manteca, any hints on Mateo Plaza, and then the Living, Roxx, PO Bar, BJ, Pacha Mama, and I always there, seeing that not as much as a fourth member, or as a manager, but as a documentary I felt I was part of the story.
time later, and then dissolved Crosstea Peter undertook other projects which have followed with varying enthusiasm. But yes, this album tops the story of my envy toward mastery of Peter on that spot where I always saw it as an alien, that land of which I have limited myself to theorize and map, but never explore it for myself.
More than two years into the project, this cd-r with songs recorded in one take media recorder for windows was taking its own course, puliéndose, decorating, or just changing. There are some issues that I had kept fi low beauty of the first specimen, there are discarded items that I think should have been included, and some which I think are other disk.
palindrome is not a romantic album, but is fully crossed by love. Songs like better for me, in the air and Synapse are those that anyone would feel like love, beauty simple as sincere as they shatter even the strongest and neurotic wall. For an axolotl which is so dark it became half-blind, at times the brightness of this disk may be too blinding, but perhaps therein lies the difference between Peter and me, the difference between a person who dives in love, and another who just wants to do this song.
(Play tracks in the space pedro)
Epilogue:
The test is at seven in the evening. Burning eyes, under my sweat shirt-known study acid-sweat sweat other than sports, sexual sweat or feverish sweat, sleep abated, but hoping to climb like a cat fishing for food scraps in allowance, and centrifugal soliloquies, the voices of Nietzsche, Gadamer, Habermas and Foucault, bouncing off the walls of my head like a fly giving a mirror.
When I arrived I dove in classic hysteria, opening step in the mass of people, breathing the humid mist beyond the words of several people descend like a vine. When he arrived, a guy with a wide channel between two blades say they will call me by name, and you go through B. I dig the machete and start cutting the weeds. In two minutes I'm at the door. I tell the teacher my name. He stares at the list. She looks at me. Look at the list again and tell me "Acevedo with so with c?". We respond without shock me at this no-brainer. I said "Look, is not in the record, if you want to see now after." After a few simple questions, I just found out that the current sign I did not automatically got the exam, having had to register via internet. I say "oh well, I was wrong" and the man looks at me strangely, like a boxer with the guard up waiting for a counterattack that never came. Two weeks studying the fart. I leave the school and walk by July 18 that is already beginning to settle people who come out at night. It's hot, I take the diver and I tied him to the waist. I see my shadow in the image of a Scotsman walk in 18 with his kilt, and I realize that deep down he knew it. However, I do not care. It takes me a few seconds to realize that not only do not care, but I am happy not to have given. Call my parents, Mary and some friends. All treat me with greater or lesser scaup severity. When I go to 14 short and I start to think about how happy I am begged for a chance to a system that I'm fully down, an animal that feels free to change the cage, my guilty conscience, that instinct for freedom suppressed , imprisoned inside of me and can only be downloaded on himself.
From the window you see people walking these days by the summer heat private. They look happy, or at least amusing. Especially
assholes.
I see my little face on the convex mirror of the bus and fold Boulevard Spain tell me yes, Nietzsche feel ashamed of myself. "
I see my little face on the convex mirror of the bus and fold Boulevard Spain tell me yes, Nietzsche feel ashamed of myself. "
Snob 
