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Augustine and jazz

The first time I heard jazz was in the showers Biguá, when he was just six years.

In those days Biguá showers were new ground, unconsciously without fixed ideas about psychoanalysis or anything resembling it, I felt that as a place filled

intensities, where he lived a primitive type of threat, like a cave that had more of Cthulu than Altamira. That was a wild place, where I seemed an anthropologist survivor of a plane crash or a shipwreck, while all children were developing an Aboriginal tranquility not ceased to amaze. The nudity was something that always bothered me from an early age, and seeing all those naked children, his arms loose, no towels, pissing against the chute by the change of thermal generating the steamy shower in their bodies, chasing, throwing shampoo, with her bare feet on the grooved surface of the ground, about to skid, ready to encarnársele a nail, a point

burns from hot water left open like a geyser spent, I felt something limited between fear and disgust. And there were the old, Jewish children whose penis did not understand, officials check as a janitor at an underground prison that we all have a shower in due time. Something like a benevolent torturer, just did not know to put words. The only thing that I thought were some pictures of Saltoncito , a frog that got him in jail, some toads Drawn in charcoal fat waving your keychain shaped medieval ring with particular malice. Saltoncito What is striking was that, beyond history, the portrait was very partially anthropomorphized animal. It was a toad erect. Nothing more. Erect a toad clothes, but his face was indeed that: a frog, toad two black eyes, a mouth of a toad, toad skin, tongue, ready to go as any toad about to catch a fly. It almost seemed that frogs were dissected and dresses, with that strange feeling of life adorning the death (or death decorating life), that mourning jewelry of photos of child death rituals in Mexico. So I watched the

officials: frogs navy blue dresses, with Mario, an uppercase Raul on the heart. I managed to shower with bath short, usually just putting your head under chorro.Pero terror does not end there, steep, wet and crowded was the staircase leading to the pools. That happened all, kids who are beaten, they were given lashes with a towel, a child who once stopped and opened as a network media attached a piece of skin from the ankle. The children were beaten against the wall as mothers in the diving section of children in American fairs and at the time the teacher appeared and gave the order, they all rushed towards Biguá afuera.Era very strange. In my school was a hyperactive child who liked playing tag-hidden, read, make up stories, he collected Debris and had no problem making friends. In Biguá from entering the locker room, I never felt comfortable. But it was a discomfort that came from a fear of others, but a fear of myself. Cagarlos was about to death, and did not know why. It was in the Biguá where you remove my first and only one tooth piñazo a person (tooth-and-milk, I'm not explaining why this post is going to look to the popular song Sabalero). It was in the Biguá Blood also where I spotted a box to give you a pineapple on the nose of a child two years older than my father said was a bichicome (those six years was the time where my father lectured me that I must stick only and only if hit me first.) It was also in the Biguá in my seventeen years where humbled to beat a guy in the middle of a stupid fight basketball (two years later I learned of his death an accident just designed by Dario Argento, but later found that I had been had been his brother). Already in the surface, more chlorine would have on the environment, the pool was based on the same disgust and fear of showers. It was almost like what happened in the showers was a stream that flowed into the same river. In fact, I never liked to swim in the pool. Even now. It's something that reproaches me a lot of people, but even as life member of that club, I never drew me into this small lake to make a chlorine pools. When he opened his eyes did crawl under the water and thought my shadow on the bottom was a small shark that mimics my every move. I knew this was absurd, but still persisted that notion. In fact, I'd lie if I said no remains of the original fear every time I swim in a pool alone (especially large ones). Indeed, one of the few things I like to do (well, one of the few that was really good) was nailed to dive in and touch the bottom of the pool. Below could be a long time and skills between friends was the first to find keys, stones, or bracelets cast by ourselves. I believe that like came on my own confrontation with terror, to discover that basically there was nothing more than my shadow.

There is also a recurring image that somehow has been repeated in several meetings with my psychologist. The rest of my fellow cube and I heard the comments and instructions from the teacher. After listening, all going running to grab our blue pleats, a matted above the other like many stories of a wedding cake to collapse. I remember there got a table and find a mosquito crushed between two of them. Mosquito image I created a strange sort of arcade is now choked up in my throat. What was, what produced the image of the mosquito? But it was in the catacombs of the steamy shower where I realized for the first time jazz. My father would accompany Biguá solarium. The solarium was a completely different world

, and the idea of \u200b\u200bgoing there with my father, I'd probably find there with my cousins, but now I remember, I was hugely enjoyable. It was while I bathing I saw a deodorant that left his necessaire. It was a white cap, small, with rounded edges. In the front was written Jazz with black lettering. The J was a kind of treble clef. The two mushrooms were suggestive, like two ducks facing left, more dynamic than the lyrics that escape from the mouths of the characters from cartoons while they sleep. The roll-on deodorant odor was something different from what would have smelled before. It smelled fresh as the sea but not the essence putrid dead fish. It smelled something like "The Beach" (for which see Seinfeld, the idea that Calvin Klein perfume steals Kramer). On the back he said were written a lot of things that did not understand. "Pour Homme" stuff. All I could understand all that was a "Made in France", which was like the Made in China dolls everywhere in all I knew, by what was supposed to be done in another country, possibly in France. My father confirmed it, and maybe that experience was also the first time I met France. The country already knew, but it was the first time, like reading a bottle with a message inside, I knew something that mattered in that country. Deodorant because that was like a talisman, which allowed for the first time support a structure that seemed to swallow everything. It was like a capsule, a white lantern lit inside the cave. Many think that everything that I say is a complete ramble-and at some point

possibly be right, but who knows why that piece of plastic was something inexplicably crucial in my life. I did almost ipso facto fan of France, a France

not yet had his Oliveiras and Magas walking through Paris, to Deleuze Lacans Foucalts and teaching at universities and in the street, their Debords planning to kidnap Chaplin to Brels showing how far the limits of what is possible in a performance, steep Montmartre, the mobsters involved in especially in Rififi, allowing Zidane to shame a whole picture of Brazilians, to Godards Sebergs filming, asking them to do things that other day walking gusta.El writing this and rereading the incredible shooting diary written by Werner Herzog Fitzcarraldo (a reading material, I dare say, is better than the film itself), I was surprised to find among my story and a story of an unusual childhood of director isomorphism: "I remember having experienced a shiver boy in Sachrang similar when l found in creek near the waterfall a frayed piece of bright blue plastic reached floating and was trapped between the branches of a bush. I had never seen anything like it before, and I kept it secret for weeks, pretty disliked, I found it slightly elastic, full of surprises. Just weeks later, when I was obsessed with it until the cows come home, I showed it (...) Where did then? Had he been dragged through the Vinto of the mountains? I did not know, but I gave him a name, I do not know which. What I do know is that it sounded very good and very secret, and many times since I broke my head wondering why that name, that word. Would give much to know, but I do not know, nor do I have and the smooth piece of plastic washing, and not having any of those things makes me poorer now than it was a boy ".

That word just in my case, I know: It
Jazz .

lie. The first time I faced when jazz was not my five years, but at three, maybe two, but still could not read or had a very particular idea of \u200b\u200bwhat was the music, much less such a case género.El of the largest, rather, the issue of human beings brought me without much care. All that was, what it meant to love, death, revenge, wealth, poverty, beauty, ugliness, triumph and defeat what I learned in the first instance, through a series of cartoons called Silly Symphonies . Created by Walt Disney in 1929, Silly Symphonies were a product of his time, short cartoons fascinated by the powers that offered the Techincolor and audio, movement and transformations in a magical world where the image is subjected to sound . In fact, the Silly Symphonies short showing you all had a sound, or rather it was all music, not just a dance, or a parade, but a thumping, a nod, an oversight, an idea. Each rib of the body sounded a different note, everyone was pentagramado, and every movement, every action, feeling or event that drew and reproduced on canvas. In a perfect synesthesia, a piglet and the impact fell on the floor with your ass emerged a short sound of tuba. If an angry devil could hear a cello bow being scraped with a hyperactive to the extent of their ropes. And when someone falls in love, the world intruded thousand violins. Let's see if I explain the peculiarity of Silly Symphonies was that these violins were not a mere orchestration of a scene, but the living expression of that world, as if it were a discharge, or one of the noises emitted by a living body. Feeling, and sound effects match in the same slice of abscissae and ordinates. The Silly Symphonies were not only the place where Walt Disney began testing its empire, but also a living laboratory where the cartoonist and his colleagues found a spot where you can translate more freely and whimsical all your ideas. While the premiere of Snow White marked the arrival of the film, and with it a new approach to the anatomy and movements of the cartoon into a mimetic act with reality, in the Silly Symphonies ruled that drive at least aesthetically transgressive not judge their characters and their stories because of its resemblance to the everyday, but by the interplay machine that could perform, your complete immanence of movement and change. Silly Symphonies is the Old Testament (with its violence, vendettas, its monsters, its pitfalls) that came after the New Testament (characters more consistent, guided by principles, a coherent and plausible internal script, a whole God and perfect rules from the beyond with love, not revenge). The best example of this statement of principles does not come strictly from Disney, but Paramount, Betty Boop, a cartoon that before becoming a trendy icon ubiquitous in a lot of wallet of high school students, was a character completely offender, with a sensual place, but most of all, belonging to a psychedelic world avant la lettre. The cars were walking with their wheels, stretched, the characters took their bows arrow legs, and long sneezed snot who became tiny builders. A sleepwalker ontogenesis and constant. Disney, being a man more politically correct than it would have agreed, perhaps at least in artistic terms, never reached such a level-perhaps not even that of the first drawings of the Warner-but its point of greatest proximity (and possibly slimmer than all others) did it through the Silly Symphonies . No wonder the Donald Duck (character far more interesting than Mickey Mouse, the character that was gradually losing its personality, to become the moral eunuch and warmly sympathetic it is today) first appeared there as a vague disease pretending not to care about ducks in The Wise Little Hen .

The first movie I saw in my life, or at least, that my parents and I remember, was precisely Flowers and trees, film which I had christened Tree bad. The story is about two trees that love, in the midst of spring flowers, are given which offer gladly, making clear that logic or pantheistic spiritualism, "but whose love is interrupted by the jealousy of a dead tree and rotten. The image of the tree really was scared, his head was crowned with spiky branches, its black mouth went dry and a tongue that was a dying species of salamander. The tree woman kidnaps a tree

(strangely, I remember that scene a strange excitement generated), but is defeated by his true love. However, evil is not yet defeated, and the tree decides to turn forest fire. The flames spread and invade the field (they are just that, invaders, Legionnaires anthropomorphized to start attacking from several sides.) The margaritas

act as sprinklers, carry water birds in their nests where helicopters fire, but nothing works. Thus, at one point, the birds are united, up loud and swoops making a hole through the roof. The rain breaks and the fire begins to be killed , called Flame. The same evil tree succumbs to the same flames of hatred. What it is is a wreck. Now it's just a tree in ashes, a dead tree. All human record that could be seen almost disappeared. Almost as it were, becomes the only inanimate object that appears throughout the short.

good tree

woos his love and proposes marriage. The whole forest, reborn from its ashes celebrates the dismissal. That last part I do not care, I just wanted to repeat, again and again, ad infinitum , the part where the tree was consumed by fire. As a warning that frightened and fascinated me.

But the music Flowers and trees is purely classical. Music Land is which appear jazz, not as a soundtrack, but as the theme, even as a character. After almost obsessively returned to see all cartoons of Flowers and trees, I can say that Music Land is the most accomplished short of the Silly Symphonies (even without having received any

statue of the Academy, Unlike other six films in the series). The film is about two kingdoms, the land of classical music and jazz Island, two islands opposite and separated by the sea discord. The inhabitants of these worlds are tools and everything they say is done by their own sounds (one of the great merits of Wilfred jacskon-director the film-is actually turn the sound in a real language, were moments when we forget that they are not saying a word.) The point is that Prince's Island, a jazz alto saxophone, he falls for the princess of the Land of Symphony, a violin, cello guarded by his mother. A sneak arrange a meeting ground of the princess, but the saxophone is discovered by the mother and captured in a jail metronome. In prison, saxophone write a letter / score his father, and sends it by carrier pigeon. When the father hears the news is given to place one of the best scenes ever in

summary cartoons: a battle between the two worlds, saxophones, clarinets and flutes shooting notes from the island of jazz, and the land of the symphony downloading March of the Valkyries , like a Nazi squad throwing his entire arsenal of London missiles. But the saxophone to see his beloved violin, after waving a white flag on his ship sinks, he escapes from prison and tries to go to their aid, ending sinking. The two leaders of the respective realms come to the aid of their children and that, face, eventually discovered and

love. The film ends with a party in a bridge between two worlds, playing Beethoven's Ninth Symphony remakes with some jazz-style arrangements Dixie Land. Music Land says lots more about jazz that many books or documentaries

specialized in the genre. First, says the historical division between jazz and classical music, or to be more specific, black music and white-western music. No two styles, but two paradigms, two ways of being and feeling. Not only the opposition says, but that makes it happen inevitably end up not long after: novel links between the two worlds, something that was taking place, not only in the incorporation of jazz instruments like French horn, or same violin but in the same way of writing and thinking about music. Indeed, from the thirties, the musicians wild, unruly, more guided by the reflex arc of the swing that cerebral planning, they begin to compose and to incorporate elements of classical music.

precisely this marriage (as happens in the short), you can see musicians like Charles Mingus, who had arrangements aimed at increasingly higher levels of abstraction, while retaining the swing. Indeed, who acts as priest in the marriage between the alto and tenor saxophone and cello and violin, is precisely a double bass, the only instrument wide and initially shared by the two géneros.Posiblemente one of the most perfect details of the film is the metronome jail where attempts to confine the saxophone. Jazz has been marked not for being an individual full music (beyond the amount of alternating solos, communication between the musicians to jam way always ends up being critical), but by the role it plays in its immanence, autopoietic capacity and consistently productive, far from its purpose or significance. In classical music, beyond the complexity and risk of the composition, pointing to increasingly higher levels of abstraction, the individual is always encased in jail of five bars the staff. Almost as it were, is the most Christian of all musical genres

with the pen of a teacher who ends up being the hand of God. In jazz, however, the beginnings and ends are ruled by the swing, for the production and exchange of flows between its members. The song can last for minutes, hours, years, and may continue, skipping codas, until the fingers of the musicians pulverize until the lungs secompriman blowers into a raisin. In What smooth and striated, Deleuze and Guattari write: "returning to the simple opposition, as striated intersects is what fixed and variable what order and make different things happen, which organizes the melodic lines horizontal and vertical harmonic planes. It is smooth continuous variation is the continuous development of form, is the fusion of harmony and melody in favor of a rhythmic release of actual values, the pure drawing a diagonal through the vertical and horizontal " .

is something that draws attention to the fact that just has been so limited and layered instruments such as wind instruments (most of them can not combine notes, can only be chained to form harmonies, can not form chords, and these are limited the number of permutations that provides the object, unlike fretless instruments like the violin or the cello, where the absence of frets the expressive range is much greater) where it was found the royal road ("via crucis ?) to escape the invisible hand of order.

But the answer lies not only in music but in their executioners. Alto saxophone eventually escapes from prison, as did many musicians (even though that was his life escape game.) I think the main thing about Music Land is not the fact of the music itself, but the representation that the U.S. and the world had jazz. Today's hard to imagine how the music of jazz's Island is so nice we could be considered scandalous by some, an aberration, a violation of public decency, the end of civilization. Before Elvis became his pelvis in a war machine, before people are scandalized by the bindings of the Beatles, even before Jerry Lee Lewis stepped on a piano on fire, literally, by reformulating the old commandments what could or could not do on stage, there were plenty of black wet playing cabarets, chipping and creating the music of the Apocalypse, a curiously music today be used as the theme song of a light comedy from Woody Allen. Because the island is anything but a jazz realm, is a sleepwalker brothel where you never stop dancing, where women-ukulele offered to be touched by her magnanimity, a Sodom and Gomorrah in PG version (not much we could ask the poor Walt). Since I became interested in jazz, I always had seduced the crude biographies of some of his interpreters, such as the short life of Charlie Parker (naively become addicted to marijuana by Julio Cortazar Tracker apparently -bearded giant was poorly informed about the use and effects of certain drugs), or the journey John junkie Coltrane (addiction supplanted by religion, something like changing one substance to another). However, as I was listening to more jazz, I began to realize how serious it was really the case. A Parker and Coltrane adds a long list of early deaths that would blush to the most morbid fetish grunge. Dead as Wardell Gray (found with a broken neck in the middle of the Nevada desert, murder was never solved); dead as Bessie Smith (who after a car accident while he could not find a hospital that admitted blacks, bled to death in dying the journey); dead as Eric Dolphy (the brilliant flutist and clarinetist Coltrane died by medical malpractice, with the drop in stage and traffickers believe that, as jazzy black-and-it should have been on crack, leaving it untreated, even though she had had a diabetic coma), or as the already dead by toothless then Chet Baker (who had lost a few keys in several fights with dealers), who was thrown from the window of his hotel apartment in a crime not revealed, or dead Albert Ayler, who disappeared for twenty days, being found floating in the East River, leaving at thirty-four years of brilliance the mystery of what had happened to one of the most chaotic and enigmatic trumpets gave the music or Lester Young, still making music, spent his last days looking catatonic corner of his room, and James Reese Europe, who died in 1919 at a stab of a member of the band itself, or Lee Morgan was murdered in full show (for Pantera fans see that they are not alone) by a shot fired at manosde jilted girlfriend.

You try, but can not. Conceive the idea of \u200b\u200bmusic as something in itself, self-righteous and free from conditions that produce subjectivity is almost impossible. How certain songs were wallowing and flannel a lot of black (and white flappers secretly tucked in clubs closed to women of her race), measure the water marks left over from what the booty sweat Boriqua some shaking their buttocks on the marquee of a platinum-toothed rapper, makes me think of what can go further in the future, What could be more wild and erotic. The shape of the Excess to eat . Perhaps the answer will be songs and dances increasingly redundant as to the sexual (future rap choruses, or unexpected mutation of gender with other singing a refrain like "I love to fuck yo 'cunt with my dick") or violent themes they cease to be such to be supplanted by low-frequency waves generated Instant headache or aneurysms. Music in the future will Napalm Death something more natural and unnoticed in the intro to a movie of a future Woodie Allen, music will begin to look increasingly to the scientistic ideal Hitchcockian: emotions generated by its makers of forms each more direct, resulting in the use of chemicals and electrodes so as to generate specific effects in mind.
But do not deceive all the search ends and is plotted in the same jazz. If something hurts recognize is that jazz and classical music have always been ten, fifteen years ahead of rock, pop, or other genres contemporaries. You have to know that before The Velvet Underground was Ornette Coleman, before NEU! Stockhausen was that before the Electric Eels and was Peter Brötzmann, that before any progressive band had already circulated a lot of musicians like Stravinsky, etc. etc. etc.
Yes, but before the Boredoms and atonal jazz Rusol was also Luigi, and before that was Busoni, and before Thomas Edison was fucking, that is, worry about dates is reasonable, something more like a statesman oligofrénico ESPN that someone who really tries to come up with something when you think about music (although that something starts and ends in a strictly same.) Even, to remove the rock jazz is quite artificial, given the way they come from a common core of the blues and how they influence and overlap.
However, one thing I can say, something completely personal, and is that jazz is probably the genre where I found the strongest emotions in my life. With Coleman Hawkins ballads in which you have love and sexual pleasures are merged under one name, you have records like Machinegun , the Teutonic freejazzero Peter Brotzman, where, despite the redundancy of the title, one can only hear the dissonant shrapnel wind and percussion instruments like a soldier escaping from a shooting after a barricade. You hear these issues-oriented functional jazz cafes and office (items which are intended to be a whisper, sub-heard, as the songs of Pimpinella in Sinth repeated mantra as some supermarkets) and can sense the sadness of a knife become a paperweight. A saxophone in such situations must feel the same. His condition and behavior of saxophone is partially written in their structure, the brightness of your keys in the nozzle, in the dark and cavernous golden flag. The metal issue cried out violence, or love, or groans, or merely noise, but not that buzz, that song sugar free, to busy entrepreneur, to mother stress, coming from the speakers.
This idea of \u200b\u200bjazz as the best catalyst of my emotions is strange because the songs of jazz does not usually create an effect as indelible as the pop, nor has a range of currently popular again allow something perfect to share with the rest of human beings (and the collective value of music is essential, even when the most closed autobiographies, every aspect is a collective biography, and much of life is "that song they were going when we ....")

The atmosphere of jazz fans is very close, and certainly I'm not going to be so cheeky as to take my plate there. In fact, jazz is not music that you hear so often. My fascination with jazz is like you sit in front of those mines are from time to time, which always seems to be rediscovering the world just at the moment of encounter with her, but forgets that such gradual and decommissioned in the coming days. Possibly why my jazz library is sent to ten or fifteen days of my life (every one of them is separated from the other) in which after a paroxysm down my internet compulsive everything was, as he sacked Argentine supermarket Koreans in 2001.

From my first contact with white object that come from another world I always knew there was something magical about that word. Over time I met her in the usual sense, beyond the purely subjective one. I knew it was a genre of music, but I always put a distance, with a respect similar to that of knowing that one is not ready for a particular experience. The checkered flag was troubled from the tower, nothing more and nothing less than Rayuela. At that time was one of those people who thought they were a cronopio without even knowing the word meant. All I knew was that Cortázar was right for what I said, but mostly by how passionate he said. Especially that chapter 17: "(...) a cloud without borders, a spy from the air and water, an archetypal form, some earlier, below, which reconciles Mexican Norwegian and Russian and English, rejoins the central fire forgotten dark, awkward and wrong and return them to poorly betrayed an origin, we noted that perhaps there were other ways and that the taking was not alone and was not the best, or perhaps there were other ways and that the taking was the best, but perhaps there were other ways of walking sweet and who did not take, or took them halfway, and a man is always more than one man and always less than a man than a man because he holds that it refers and ignores jazz and even anticipate, let a man because of this freedom has made an aesthetic or moral game, a chess board where reserves to be the bishop or a knight, a definition of freedom that is taught in schools, specifically in schools where it has never been taught and never teach the first bar of ragtime and the first sentence of a blues, and so forth. "
From there I began to go down one by one all the jazz musicians that appeared scattered black and compact edition Chair English Literature, with respect for a Jewish re-reading the Torah, or as an industrial gothic guided by Nurse With Wound list. Beyond of what he says, beyond the contestable knowledge about jazz Cortázar, Cortázar beyond himself as a writer, the rendez-vous was scheduled before, because the only way I could reconnect with the jazz was no other place In Paris, the Paris of Berthé Trepat, the Paris cold, rainy, the Paris of the Canadian Oliveira climb up the neck, Made in Paris, which not only identified a manufacturing, but a home, a place to return, re -again, meet or miss.

Jazz can be understood as the Faustian drama, parricide, cannibal man's face shape. It's a whole tenelovela people trying to confront their feelings with the form, form with their feelings, sentiments against the feelings, the shape and form. The great jazz musicians, jazz musicians have that fee-double game between Sisyphus and Icarus. The purpose of the work is never defined, is a mere optical illusion, and once you reach the top you realize it's just another peak of an endless chain of mountains. Huge rock tied to the arms, jaws, and is dragging it uphill. Or if it comes, if you fly into the sun, you burn the wings before he can touch it. Among all these myths, no story works best as the John Coltrane.
I'm not going to make appointments together biographical, more or less everyone who has some idea of \u200b\u200bjazz, you know we're talking about one of the greatest popes. I'm not talking about love supreme A or My Favourite Things (one of my five favorite songs of all time). I'm not going to talk about heroin, or that pantheism, that blind faith that bathed all his work.
The only thing I will talk about is Naima, a song originally published in Giant Steps (his first major work, which would come many more). Naima
possibly one of the most beautiful ballads of Coltrane. In its composition (1960), Trane was still far (in artistic maturity, not years), they would be hiking freejazzeras of which would become one of the most important ambassadors of the genre (as of 1965, the year that Ascension part the waters of the music of his time). Naima is a beautiful song that was re-invented a lot of times by many artists. Say this about the Jazz is certainly something redundant, because the authorship is jazz all in the execution, rather than its composition. There is a common language, a palimpsest where each musician writes about what has been written, take, loan, is appropriate and leave, joining a string of interpretations and reinterpretations that never ends closed. If everything is plagiarism, everything is perpetually new. It is this logic that Naima will never be the same Naima, even if he is played by the musician himself (hence the frugality of live jazz albums: one is always faced with a new repertoire).
One of the striking features of this phenomenon is to compare the two albums recorded at the Village Vanguard by Coltrane. The first Live at the Village Vanguard Trane in 1961. By then, the tenor had changed the Impulse label, a company that allowed a lot of freedoms that he enjoyed no Atlantic. These are the years of the introduction of Eric Dolphy (great clarinetist and flutist, one of those musicians consumed early by their own fire) and the Africa / Brass (marking the beginning of Trane interest to African and Indian culture.) Still, as I was saying above, I still would not reach freejazzeros delusions of those who would be participating. However, the years pass and 1966 (a year before his death), the type is fully embarked on these crazy trips, in that tamed tornado that is free. Already have changed their staff. The only thing left of their formation is Jerry Garrison. All others are chartered. Elvin Jones and Rashied Ali and McCoy Tyner, one of the guys with more swing of history, by Alice Coltrane (wife of the head). Dolphy was already dead and includes the tenor saxophonist Pharaoh Sanders, the kid star, one of the most promising young jazz at that time.
that year Coltrane was presented again at the Village Vanguard, resulting in the gathering that perhaps even more famous than the previous L ive at the Village Vanguard Again!. contained in that record only three songs, or rather two: Naima (fifteen minutes) and My Favourite Things (twenty minutes), (the issue that remains between these two parts is a bass solo by Garrison who serves as intro to the title closes the disc).
When you hear the two issues can not help comparing the two versions of Naima, Naima two . Naima The two are not the same song, not even two versions of the same song. They are as reciprocal, as equal and yet different as two sisters. A friend told me a while ago that one day he met the sister of a former girlfriend who own. He could not explain well what happened, but surprised him with a near stupor of fear, the similarities were not physically, but in terms of gestures, words, joints, eye changes, small movements that shared both sisters. The fear went beyond similarity, even beyond the ability-and desire-while possibility of the former sister-fuck. No, was on the other side. After talking for a long time, the guy told me that what scared him was the similarity that existed between them, fear to confusion. After some thought, I asked if the fear was not actually find the fact that they were not really the same person.
Indeed, the similarities, rather than unite, they end up pointing to a pattern, but with the lace, seams where it begins and ends something else. That's why Naima 61 'Naima and 66' are in themselves, two people, two different sisters, with the same parents, but with a different phenotype, different upbringing, different future, different promises.
But fundamentally intriguing of the two Naima is not in them, but his father. Indeed, between his two daughters as a family drama shakespieriano-cae a secret, a reproach, a curse, an unfathomable sadness. That sadness that just turns the discussion to the realm of form and content. Naima 61 ' retains the sweet and slow cadence of Giant Steps. It is a beautiful but timid sister, with the silence of a weaver, misty-eyed, nail enamel meals. The Naima 66 'still have that, but everything beautiful emerges only at times in a storm of forces, is the condensation of a centrifugal between orgasmic search of a whole beyond the parts. Wayward sister Naima 66'es that it only gives meaning to their lives to show and make her blush her sister, revealing the ways he could have taken that would take, but for some reason ended up leaving, or forget, or simply not seeing . Naima 66 'is the younger sister to reach the limit mark, remove it and explain it, who gets a tattoo of the discovery messages, as experienced in his own body. Because the ballad Naima 66 'is passed the love of sex, love sex, rhythms Syncope is the heart of a prisoner on stage, hit Rashied Ali parkinsonian cymbals and a snare, Pharaoh Sanders appears as a pure intensity, unstratified, playing his saxophone like a mule sacrificed.
But in that song, even if it is unrecognizable, one can see traces of lipstick, makeup a little run in the first issue, and as said Joachim Berendt, in versions such as these "is noted that Coltrane would have likes and preferred to continue playing them as I had initially picked up, if only I could express in this way as it was near the heart. If John Coltrane had seen the possibility to reach with conventional media the degree of heat ecstatic that he had in mind would have continued until the end of his days as tonal. " Hearer
sermonales solemn lines and vibrant musician Naima understands that mourns the key. Knew how much he lost her. And gladly have returned to it if in those ten years would not have encountered again and again with the limits of conventional tonality. Naima
can be read in many more ways. It is, in its way, the memory of a former wife (Juanita Naima Grubbs, mine which was inspired by Coltrane-as the title indicates, at the time of writing the subject) recoded and demolished by himself in brotherhood of new partner, Alice Coltrane, who plays the piano at the concert (showing the real and the mythical in the way that a couple is always built on the foundations of all the people who went before, as he says Leonard Cohen, in "Hey that's not a way to say goodbye ": yes, Many Loved Before us, I Know That We Are Not new, in city and in forest They Smile Like me and you. But at the same time is another far more interesting drama, which is fear of the teacher for his pupil, the terror, while Trane fascination for being overtaken by younger Pharaoh Sanders. Coltrane had hired the kid star to achieve these moments so ecstatic that he had trouble coming. What sees Live at the Village Vanguard Again! exactly a Pharaoh Sanders achieved easily reach degrees of intensity and violence that Coltrane came to graze only at the time. What is presence on the disc is almost a western, a duel between two musicians who liked to be respected, even loved each other, but in a town too small for the two-substrate at least unconscious.
On the one hand you have the skill, expertise of Trane, on the other agility, strength and intensity of Pharaoh Sanders. Structure is, the same race that opens and resolved in the great, final apoteótico good day for fishing (Alvaro Brechner, 2009). In this duel was Coltrane weakening, able to overcome his pupil in each contest, but spending all their cartridges even faster. Just be awarded to his early death at that, a man who, facing concert to concert against the limits of himself, begins to shudder, to be consumed in their own game. As evidence of manhood Rebel Without a Cause (where the contestants advancing at full speed to the edge of a precipice, looking for who was more macho, a verdict which is determined by who held back last), who came closer to background end limits falling into the void, or rather, sunburn. Naima 66 ' the south wind is crazy, the supernova to become second black dwarf, ending Salome ordering the beheading of his own creator.
By 1966 Coltrane died of liver problems at age forty. Some say that in his coffin, his chest and ribs encased by skin was vibrating as a sounding territory lost in some unrecognizable.

From December 12th (when I celebrated my birthday), without getting anything more timely to do, Montevideo has become a test of the city, a drill. The cars are atravesando18 July I see the person with briefcases, I see some idiots running tie the air with smiles of passing an exam, but something tells me that all this is a decoration, a staging. Eze the other day I had refreshed the memory of a particular Tolkien, in which, according to the schedule devised by the writer, between one year and there are ten, fifteen days uncounted, and where simply the whole world is busy celebrating. That is, are days that, in a strict sense, no . Inevitably I start to think that in his view of the parties-as well as some gay subtext between Frodo and Sam that Tolkien was responsible for putting veils timid all the time- there are many things that impeccable English gentleman fan of trees and parks trying to drive with caution. That is, any community you want to delete the map ten days in the gun is a kind of carnival, possibly bizarre attempts to conceal some aspects, or at least slightly shameful about what happened there. In short, speaking evil and suddenly worth partuzas von Stroheim (or Mono Mario, for those who do not sympathize with a lascivious German director).
However, in this Dec. 14 he was walking down Canelones, I just realized that between Christmas (even before) and New Year, Montevideo is more or less well. One goes out and it seems that no actually live in the buildings. Montevideo is virtually owned by one, something that belongs and what you can do as he will use or disuse.
Still, with this feeling quite powerful, was angry. The day for some reason had not gone well, I had two hours of candy for a few formalities to fart, and I just realized that I had made the entries ortho few shows to those who planned to attend. At the same time, some physical problems that come to mind when intensifies the heat had started to fuck me again, and all I could think was that I had screwed up the tickets. A few days later I would realize that was burned in another case only at that time I had not yet noticed.
Polly was going to and I realized that the temper of the day was unfair to her and me. The I-Pod was well, but the issues did not help. Play Boris in the street rather give Canelones want to kill everyone in a fit of type Amok. As an attempt to save battery power, turn off the light soil of the I-pod. By ten o'clock the night of that time, no one could see nothing but a little screen, a mirror in which was reflected only my frown. If you break a mirror, this will tell a thousand truths, one for every shattered. Instead of doing that, I spent the tip of the thumb over the smooth surface and guided by a circular motion worthy of a drunken sailor on the helm, I chose a random topic. Upon hearing the bass already recognized the theme: Love is everywhere , Pharaoh Sanders. That seemed a nod from the beyond.
Many people will have some rejection of Pharaoh Sanders. The reasons are varied, and some of them are valid, but much of the criticism flowing against a die in terms of imagery that the music-and many more, had at the time. This exaggerated mysticism, orientalism that Wal Mart, full of energy halos, eagles and ENRAH's set on fire. Just see the album cover Karma (disk even though it contains one of the best early history) to see what I mean. However, beyond this notion of the mystical something packaged generates a bit of suspicion, the lightness of the discourse of African Americans doing a theosophical zapped Jesus leaping from Jah, Jah Buddha, Mohammed, Buddha, is not so much what he says, but in the conviction of what he says the real pen truths of every musician. And in the songs of Pharaoh Sanders, this spirituality, intense and hymn-form that communicates not only allows one to understand, but is poisoned by it-in a good sense of himself. I

coming to Black River and listen to those vocals repeating over and over again the same. "Love is everywhere, is everywhere Love, Love is in us all" Pharaoh does something strange that is that even in areas completely abrasive and difficult to digest aurally (noting that in Love in us all-disc containing Love is everywhere-is also To John , an entirely free and on the verge of collapse), always leads to another dimension where everything, even chaotic enough, pet a sense, a kind of wisdom and peace in which one bathing. Pain is not pain, is passion that leads to another state. This in many of his works, from "The operator has a master plan "to most of the themes of" Village of the Pharoahs. " I think the classic lennoniana talk, freedom, love and peace in the abstract and always seems somewhat rambling, even irresponsible asshole (ie "What peace?, What freedom?, What love?). However, Love is everywhere that does not seem so outlandish. Thinking that I am already at the door of the building.
Polly left me the keys. It is a rare keychain, as if a version between African and Ray Bradbury on a string (of course, not based on any religious figure, that is just a keychain). I open the door and I still hear the soprano sax by Sanders a relaxed just taking the bass line, gently gliding over the beautiful piano arrangements of Joe Bonner.
Polly knocked on the door and I opened. This with the glasses on and his clothes-of-have-been-all-the-day-school. Polly smiles and says something, but the music the cover. I do not want to remove the headphones yet, but I see it and for the first time that day, I smile. I think in other circumstances those voices repeating Love is everywhere I would be ridiculous. However, it might not bother me because I believe him to Pharaoh. Or perhaps, unknowingly, I'm starting to believe just that.

consulted

Discography:

Albert Ayler- Spiritual Unity

Charles Mingus- The black saint and the sinner lady

Coleman Hawkins- Body and soul

John Coltrane- Live at the village vanguard (1961)

John Coltrane- Live at the village vanguard again! (1966)

McCoy Tyner- Enlightment

Peter Brötzmann- Machinegun

Pharoah Sanders- Karma

Pharoah Sanders- Love in us all

Big Breasted Women And Bmi

Or Samhain as it is called mortal ismples ... Five plays

Sons and daughters of the moon and the sun, equally without distinction ...

One day the famous halloween party where every last witch disguised as cuckoos, demons or some occurrence sexy / demon (read sexy slash demonic) ... back ... a day of Halloween I wanted to explain in this place of peace (largely neglected by the authors) the origin of this celebration ...

Halloween or Halloween (pure sexism, or we would not witches) comes from Samhain, a pagan festival called (you know the Catholics call their mania myth pagan or anything that is not his religion ), this pagan festival represented to the Celts and the ancient religion which is called a Sabbat is a solar festival, or a solstice. This special solstice (winter) represents two things, a simpe and easy is the Celtic new year and another that explains why the year begins at this time is that Samhain is on whether the death of the sun god and as specific dead solstice day return to the living world to spend with their loved ones ..

explain a bit further ... The sun god dies after 31 October because astral from that date until 22 December are the darkest days for the planet, the nights last longer and the days go faster ... (But do the test), in ancient religion, the Celts believed that it symbolized the sun god died and that the dead took the opportunity to return to earth for a day to be with their loved ones and have fun remembering when they were still here ... the other days are days of reflection and rebirth as the 22 December (the shortest day and longest night) the sun god at the end of the day is reborn in the deity of Yule. For the Celts this meant days of reflection and change, days to think about ourselves and how to be better for mankind ...

Over time the tradition was changed and transformed into the Halloween, that regardless of what we create ... is another party on the same day ... I propose are Wiccans or not dress up and parties or an important day and magical as it is for me, I suggest you really start to think about each one and try to be more human, to be reborn at Yule (like me) or by Christian Christmas or whatever, the point is not religion or belief that I am, but be more human ...
I leave you with this thought and I sincerely hope you enjoy Samhain, Halloween and the day of the shield. Harlequin

Angel Blade English Dub Online

Goodbye, mate

With the permission of the manager ...

Even if it costs a thousand demons and some water in his eyes to depress each key, needed to put it somewhere.

needed to say that in every place I visit I imagine sniffing, poking its nose and putting it all drool and hair Warm, bright little eyes looking in your brown and you smell funny and agile something interesting to eat or what we pass the time. When I see someone dressed impeccably painted beside you and when you came, wet and full of mud puddles, where you would be willing to shake.

needed to say that at every door I open, I remember at home scratching to get in, or fly off into the grass, to hear curtains or latch, and look back on your jumps to order food, walking or just to play. And, when I go to the car, I remember how much love he had, consciously eyeing the fast outside, with his nose so close to the counter and the floor stones.

had to write, though the trees try to hide it, I hear the echo of my steps lonely through the woods, which have been separated forever yours. That, after eleven and a half years, I can not help being lame, blind and deaf on the hill, and the way he did when walking, but with you on the side, always looking for something that never found.

That now you just look at you and do not see you, do not find ... Call and whistle, and do not come.

And I loved you like a brother, and if there was one person in the world in which trust, that was you. I remember the smell of your hair brown and black, a faithful dog and suffered, and I find it difficult to walk without my trusty sidekick.

That cost me see your collar empty ...

does not fool anyone if I say I've never felt so lonely ...

Rest in peace, friend.

Goodbye, Beltza.


Beltza (Noáin, 27/03/1998 - Orísoain, 10/10/2009)

Are You Really Ill With Hiv

This blog isn’t dead (it just smells funny)
This post was delayed more than necessary. It is, above all, a compilation, a myriad of conclusions, delusions and emotional places I've visited in recent months, so do not expect a particular topic, factual accuracy or strict chronological order.

Mr. Lanari
few weeks ago, talking to Polly in the kitchen of my house I needed to tell about Mr. Lanari. For some reason he had been thinking about those days. His image was a reminder that I rearranged notes appeared as subjects that probably would forget everything in a year or two, while I was up the collar of his jacket, knowing that we were now on me, my clothes and winter, or when I was kneeling on Tristan Narvaja atándome the unclean cords that had been dragged through the washing of the turtle. That night with Polly had to talk about a lot of things, but there nervous in the kitchen, I just went out that memory, the story of Mr. Lanari, or rather, the memory that was built by Mr. Lanari, the gentleman I met when he was seven. He was in his second year of school and the San Juan circulated a mandatory reading material and exercises titled "The Four Seasons." Naturally, the cover was a picture of four lockers, with a bright sun in the upper left corner, holding sad leaves of a tree on the right, followed by a twilight landscape, overgrown with rain in the bottom, continued through a meadow full of flowers. Mr. Lanari was one of the many stories contained in the book , and of the academic material, except the above cover is the only thing I retain in my memory. As he recounted the story of Polly, I began to realize that there were many, many reasons for that remain in my head. I started to tell that story, the story of a man made of wool, a day after enganchársele a thread in your dog's teeth, begins to conduct its activities without knowing fraying, as is walking around the city, with the spool of wool pulling and legs start to disappear, then waist, then the neck and arms. In the projection room of my memories, the man arrived at his grandmother's house and as soon knocks on the door, passing through the doorway, the man disappears completely. Forever. While not remember anything particularly traumatic at the time to read it, now I think demolishing sad story, especially apparent unconsciousness that Mr. Lanari. But something darker in the matter. In my memory Mr. Lanari went to work, bought meringues, went to get money to the bank, is took a bus. In those trips I imagined talking to people, friends or shift workers, and none of them was aware that talking to a guy with half his torso missing. So, now that he thought, had not a certain complicity between the city and all its inhabitants, so that Mr. Lanari disintegrated without even realizing it? Or was that Mr. Lanari always knew, and simply doing his final destiny as a noble citizen, a slow and methodical kamikaze by the last mandate of a higher order that his will? Or, rather than a cog in a megasistema Finally, I was not saying at one point "hey grandma, here I have it, walk into your door, I did everything that was expected of me, I worked, I bought these meringues, now look at what I have, I have become? The possibilities were endless and do not take me long to think about that seemingly innocent children's story as a story about the disheartening phagocytosis of the subjectivity of the middle class man in the big cities, an allegory about the erasure of individual identity in the mass culture of Peronism, or a treatise on the slow mental disintegration in a fractured society of relational networks. He had even thought of slow suicide cases where all, even the same sufferer contemplate the slow disintegration nothing we can do about it. I thought anorexics feel how your heart is a dry fruit punch and beat just under the skin. I thought drug addicts, waiting for that blunder that never comes, the gram rather than tearing down the barrier ends, like the skin of Mr. Lanari. I even thought of people as anyone, killing little by little in jobs they dislike, in women who do not love, in houses that they will never pay. I thought about this and I told Polly. I told him that if he be a psychologist, could invent a clinical syndrome "Lanari".
As I said in that conversation happened a few weeks (now reissued this for The blog, a few months). Polly had promised to catch that story sometime. Internet is a faithful servant and understand that I need to do any digging in moth-eaten books of the past to the material. Now, just before sending the link, read the story of Ema Wolf and I realize something: Mr. Lanari is never completely disappear. Yes, I was that dog, the lint entangled in its teeth, the bakery and Grandmother, but when Lanari comes home, she finished sewing it again. I do not know whether to feel happy for the poor man, or fraud against a much more friendly, but less conclusive. But now I think the need to have wiped out Mr. Lanari, that dark brotherhood that my whims made at the memory. And I think this need to killing him and raising his death on a pantheon of theories, metaphors and deceit, as a dead hero become random, as that body may Paraguayan just decided to move it to Plaza Independencia, talk, rather than the Mr. Lanari, or late capitalism, or of Peronism, the mental state I've been going through all these years.

whiskers
God was sitting with one of my patients, finding out who was Sulma Lobato. While I watch the program trying to contain my desire to destroy the TV to kick or go to Buquebús to bomb the American channel, let my eyes wander through some corners of the nursing home that the Gold Coast when you go into a nursing home seems to be put on a wetsuit and dive into the sea Tues Everything moves at a different pace and when you least expect it, you find yourself talking leisurely, sitting down with extreme caution for something that never will happen. Several of the old (which is practically all you need) have proved very interesting characters or tragicomic, but I stop at a particular lady. I sat with my patient in a small room between the beds improvised TV of some of the old. From here you can see part of living room and kitchens. Is the background I see a lady, name unknown. Since I've gone there, the lady has maintained a tight silence that acquires another dimension with a very neat appearance, even beautiful for age. I think in his youth must have been a very nice woman. I realize that reminds me Vilariño Idea. I'm thinking about all this, with an eye on her, lying with his face hard and challenging on the bed and the other in the old transvestite who sings a theme that he apparently wrote. Come the warnings and is something surrounding me with joy, taking advantage tell my patient some social aspects that suggest the same (if we like bardear FUCAC fonopréstamos notice.) By the way, when you finish the round and becomes the martyrdom porteño hear a voice from the bed of the lady. It is there that I find her lying with a smile that had never been drawn in the face. There is a strange move that I can not decipher it. After a few minutes watching, I realize that you are stroking the air. It is an imaginary cat, which is attached to his waist, to which she seems to be talking with particular affection. I think that on cold days like these, having a heated cat bed is always very useful, yet it is imaginary. But it is there that an attentive ear and hear what he says the old. He is speaking God. Cost me a little, but ended up realizing that God is the cat. The image seems to me beautifully disconcerting. There is no doubt that the hallucination of the woman is extremely megalomaniac. It is noteworthy that the megalomaniacal delusions mystical characters tend to pivot between feeling to be at the complete mercy of God, a mere piece of flesh pierced by the rays (as chosen by him or like hell you are attempting to destroy) and be God . However, the lady gives a twist to this megalomania that I find fascinating: no need to deny the existence of God, to suffer their designs or occupy his throne makes him a kitten. That's what I call having control. At eight o'clock I have take me to go to the PSC. The image of an interdepartmental waiting a dirt road, at eight o'clock at night in a quiet coastal town, with the collar of his jacket up, watching the steam emanating from my mouth as I try to hold on to some loose theme that I have recorded on the phone, give a different consistency to all my thoughts, which seem to be the last or first of something else.
I think of the lady's possible dementia or psychosis in the same process by years, but then I start thinking if it's true, if God does not actually exist, being nothing more than an imaginary cat old resident of a nursing home on the Gold Coast

Three Songs: Heroes / I've got so much to Give / Dancing with myself
1) Heroes, just for one day

David Bowie - Heroes
by hushhush112

Since most of the children of MTV (more than many of us fulfill the destiny of Oedipus to time and form), Heroes met through the soundtrack of Godzilla that topic curiously inconsistent with the plot of the film by the Wallflowers. I knew it was a cover of David Bowie, but by then between all my melomanía was a funnel that emptied into the jug Radiohead and latent homophobia typical age, Sir chameleon was a matter quite foreign, of which little I was interested to investigate, even in the knowledge that other cover, The Man Who sold the World "played by Cobain and CIA circles that I drove was practically an institution. In fact, Godzilla had unearthed another hitazo, Kashmir, Led Zeppelin, but Puff Daddy was in charge of making a restoration of that issue in a way that would, within a logical architecture and design, in tune with the neon lights Chartres Cathedral. Beyond
the melody that you hit one, the issue had not called me too much attention. The reasons can be seen with the naked eye, a very nice guy (because we will accept it, must be of the most beautiful rock to remember) making promises to his beloved on a world created to suit both their own private world where they can live like kings, while the real world is falling apart (in the video, Jacob Dylan sings his fanciful promises while New York is destroyed by Godzilla.) The myth of love as a place, a closed world in which for a moment the environment is blurred is a leit motif repeated since time immemorial, from the Greeks (with the gods kidnapping the lethal taking them to Olympus, or Hades) to the romantic (the promise of death as the other side of the bridge where the lovers are reunited under other rules.) And if it is a copper cable that runs under the skin throughout the artwork of the past two centuries, possibly because the plays almost invariably love that feeling. That moment of invulnerability, the bottomless identity to form a unitary construct with the other, those little moments of madness that the pantheistic idea that all evil in the world can be solved to the extent of how much one wishes that someone is almost Miniature Christianity (after all, faith is love Or so they say). So when Jacob Dylan and she promises that he will be heroes, just for a day, not saying anything that has not been said before.
In the last two years I have intermittently to dig small pearls scattered over the genius of David Bowie. David Bowie is one of those examples where the content becomes a moment of form. And vice versa. Nothing to do not refer to Bowie himself, the world of science fiction, full of glitter, sensuality ambiguous. It is, so to speak, a metamúsico . But Max Capote & Dani Umpi are too, then the quality issue does not lie in that fact alone. Bowie, is first and foremost, a great performer. Has a quality of a record jump desafectivizado, alien, almost robotic at times histrionic intensity, drag, human, all too human.
And then yes, it is strange that only now I came across a song Heroes size.
The song appears in the self-titled album, which, along with Low and Lodger part of the "Berlin trilogy" by Bowie and Eno, in a studio located just a few blocks from the famous wall . Placed in front of the complex and intricate laboratory product is Low, Heroes is a party but a party Bowie as host, which, as we all know, has the credentials to be a very different from what we might expect.
tells the story of the completion of the subject, that it was intended as an instrumental piece, a clear tribute to the kids of NEU! (Whose discography contains the song "Hero"), against whom Bowie and Eno are drooling to the ankles, as anyone who knew what was happening in European music. In fact, seemingly beyond the classic kraft (with the chorus well marked bone marrow of the song), just call attention to the wall of sound , seriality of the subject, in the best style Motorik who had coined the weaknesses of Dusseldorf. But back to Eno, note that when making the item, rather than the letter was inserted after the word which gave its name to the song was just something that sounded every time I listened. And it can not be more right, beyond a letter completely romanticist, is a triumphant feeling throughout the song, Fripp's guitars are like rays passing through the subject, in that repetitive bass line is as the reel keeps the kite at arm's length from the earth. And then I think what has Bowie Heroes, which I feel when I listen to on a hinge, about to blow up everything I was, am and wanted to be, while the version of the Wallflowers I had not created anything in particular, beyond the two subjects to be more or less isomorphic. And listen to the two, I see the two videos from youtube, with two windows open in parallel and then I realize that precisely the central point, the center of gravity of the matter is Bowie, Bowie has always been. Dylan's version jr. is heroic, but the whole feeling and imagery are figurative. When he says and I, I will be king, and you, You Will Be queen, he is promising something in encrypted form, as a lover who writes to his loved a corny "I'll give you the moon" knowing that you can not really fall for this gift to the doorstep. And yet, when you see that other video, with Bowie sporting a silver mesh, can notice that the English really think it will be king, and such is their belief, such is the emotion with which he sings that, he ends up believing . That feeling, that of a non-metaphorical language, that of believing the story is something that was lost and found likely to return to pop. It is this notion, the way almost hysterically screaming We Could be heroes, with pure feeling, yet with the body completely rigid, as if to receive the impact of a wave without moving peek, which radicalized that romantic feeling. Jacob is a nice guy who knows the right words at the right time, even though the world is crumbling around him. Bowie's crazy, it seems to be yelling from the porch of the house, promising this to his lover, with the spacecraft parked at the corner.

2) I've got so much to Give , Barry White for president

"It's great to be with you tonight in Santiago de Chile. In America we have heard a lot from Chile. Many journalists asked if I had heard Chile before. Let me tell you, everyone in America has heard of Chile. The more work as a team, as a unity, what the world will hear about you. There is nothing that the people of Chile can not be overcome with unity, strength and love. "
With you, Barry White. Today
beyond appear in an episode of Ally McBeal embedded in a wasteland of FOX programming, or serve as a theme song for Trespass (reason enough for my mind unfortunately ended suturing 're the first, the last, my everything with the image of Jorge Rial), Barry's music does not sound much around here. When appears, it usually does pelícla framed scenes where the romance is self-conscious, at the edge of irony. Something like "let's pretend we're lovers." As with Let's stay together , Al Greene, or Let's get it on , Marvin Gaye (except the honest use is given in High Fidelity ) lyrics White usually appear in the film as sobreevidencia of some aspect of a cheesy less romantic, retro insight of the movie, something to point to some element slightly ridiculous, but still within loving empathy. However, what was not always so. In the United States has circulated the idea that black lion and hairstyles ubiquitous handkerchief border between funk and medieval (if not, look at the video) was, in a way, one of the variables that had an impact on a population explosion the late seventies. Something like the platonic father of an entire generation. Of course, that is a mythical construction, but all the myths have roots that intertwine with reality. In any case, you have to ask now is not why most do not hear Barry White, but why it has stopped listening and was heard in the seventies. If you see videos
as this early presentation Loves Theme , where we see Barry conducting a symphony, swinging the baton with an immense joy, while the set of violins, guitars and wind played his score in a really loose, but the disciplined time, one can perceive a different way to produce and feel the pop, something unthinkable, untranslatable in times of mash ups and protools, archaeological remains of an empire lost or buried. As a movement that has many more genes in common with punk than people think (the allegation to the party, some sensuality and hedonism, ignoring the existence of bands like Parliament and definitely were political- a set of values \u200b\u200bis also present in the other gender, only painted on the canvas in tones less luminous) disk is usually a style, a world which is lightly esteemed in our present, limited to praise drunk that they throw 24 August (evening of nostalgia, not for visiting Uruguayan Benito last post), or some clerical oldies radio, which makes those issues much more than that: mere switch of some sensitivity kidnapped and sold as cigarettes to the listener. However, when you listen to whole albums of Barry White (not a Greatest Hits, but the album as a conceptual and fully meaningful work), he realizes that there emotional gold in that forty minutes, there is more than just erotic prosthesis. Trivial as it sounds just a maker of romantic songs in front of Aristotle and St. Augustine can be said that Barry found something that had always escaped as majuga in the hands of philosophers, religious, and scientific writers, in their music is a divine proportion alchemist, able to unify the pleasures of the flesh and love, sublimated into pure spirituality. The homo sentimentalis , fascinated with its mirror image, can interpret either role, but not both at once, and over time this mutual alienation, that gap, was widening, as if they were blowing up the two sides of a canyon. As evidence of this, just how little spiritual often intense sex representation in film, and how often boring and not very horny people to be representations of "making love" (as paradigmatic image could include Tara amorous defloration Reed in American Pie, possibly one of the most bland sex scenes of the story.) But with Barry White-except perhaps only Serge Gainsbourg, "is different, and one will turn some calls where the world becomes a machine that pumps blood to the crazy at heart, brain and further south.
But all This video came to herein above. It's 1979 and Barry White was invited to perform at a Chilean television. It does not seem necessary to indicate the times we live chile, lost to one of the bloodiest dictatorships in Latin America, with the DINA functioning as a fucking machine oiled and Pinochet with his full powers as President of the Military Junta. That is, Barry White falls to a Chilean program, in the midst of full civil rights violation, but he's an entertainer, and is made exactly for this: to entertain. The message above is attached as vague, almost incomprehensible what does it mean to work together? "Working as a unit with whom? What Who is speaking? "The people? Does the military? These speeches are so politically vague coordinates are completely invisible. That's the first thing you think is:
a) Barry White has no fucking idea where he is, what is and what is happening in Chile (though everyone in America know what to Chile )
b) Barry White wants to show solidarity with the Chilean people, but is so afraid of what lies behind the coortinado the event, choosing to communicate through a system of symbols shared by none of those present
c) Barry White is in vivo, and the entire speech is quite a joke cynical.
I see again the video and immediately start listening I've got so much to Give . Barry's debut album is glorious. After being a composer and director of the Love Unlimited Orchestra huge, Barry (who still had not hit with bombs Never, Never Gonna Give You Up or Can not get enough of your love -now that I think, how long titles often choose black), produces a perfect record, so perfect that it could be considered conceptual. It is in that hears me realize how prejudiced we are certain musicians that we access through their Greatest Hits. In the compilation that I had bought my fifteen years (I spent hours listening to my mother in those beautiful fraternities spontaneous every once in a while parents are achieved when one is young) appeared some issues that are scattered throughout the discography, but are cut, simplified. That is, remove introductions, shorten bridges, erased some tracks in the voice of Barry to the issue is more rounded. Comparing the two versions one comes the same outrage felt by Italian chefs when someone cut your spaghetti ( assessino, assesino !!!), realize how much is lost in that setting at all costs for the radio format. Hypersexualized music of Barry White is like foreplay all good sex: it should be. The recitations of all, have a value that is renewed in the middle and end of the song. Pornographic language is like a scene without cumshot in suburban tango is that chan chan that orders and gives the final stitch, the point of a sentence that makes sense of a sentence. And then when I hear Barry crying "Oh Darling, can not you see That I / I got so much to Give tou you my dear / It's gonna take a Lifetime / It's gonna take years" , and I realize : everything he says in the Chilean show makes sense. In Barry White, as the promises of Bowie, love is not figurative. Is a substance something so palpable and real that could be discovered in physics, such as a liquid libido seeking Wilhelm Reich in his patients. It is completely absurd digressions begin to ask about what the political position of White, precisely because he is not a member of love, love dry, including humans, in any way possible. One can blame them, but as you know, you do not believe in what he sees, but sees what he believes, and in the occipital lobe black, the chrome and spatiality are not divided into black and white, left or right but more or less love. It may seem naive, even dangerously childish, but what White says no is a vagueness, a given world is presented as a possibility.
A world that at times neurotic beings as I get to see behind a banner, but standing on two chairs placed one above the other, about to break its neck against the bidet.

3) Dancing with myself , epilogue written a May night

by

is four in the morning and Bluzz is that burns. It is precisely the moment the disc jokey gay, almost as often decree the funniest moments of any party. minutes ago sounded Boys Do not Cry, and for a moment, feeling the title echoed by all people, well above the desperate voice of Robert Smith, I felt that moment, that brief tribulation, such as momentary distancing one believes to be in the right place at the right time. Not long after people danced with Hand in glove (the Smiths) and I wondered if it was not, or much like the bowling chimerically planning and redesigning with friends from high school. And now Erasure sounds a theme that I never liked it, but it choreo like a crazy old-uppers in Ibiza.
This is new, eh.
For a guy so little commitment with everything that links to drive (play football never did from a position too exquisite and I was not good guitarist, not a great artist, and now I look and as I write this I realize that the only thing that has been exercised in two weeks are the four fingers I use to write this I write-), dance was always half of something, not an end in itself. During a long campaign shopkeeper of my adolescence for a moment I got to dance cumbia in a relatively acceptable. Then came my girlfriend of four years, and to consummate itself had no means over me to stop.
A week of breaking with Mary, went to a party with some friends I usually find myself in a more intermittent than the three we want. It was still made a nervous wreck and I had decided to limit myself to stay there, take something pretty quiet, avoiding any break cap to let me cry like hell. But the twins are a light and make me feel extremely comfortable from the moment you floor the lighthouse (the jack in question where he was celebrating his birthday). Here I see people dancing, I see how things changed. As a soldier returning from the war surprised and indignant about all the things that changed in the country they had to leave, I was completely overwhelmed with the importance that has acquired reggaeton. The point is that in terms of means and ends, reggaeton is a golden tool for those who know and be prepared to dance as it should, but crap for someone who is not willing to take the risk of franeleo and some jerky movements that often characterized by the rhythm of cumbia. That is, if the reggaeton was carried to its logical conclusion, would never dream paradise for anyone who believes the ball in terms of the possibility of franeleo you can have with a woman. But Uruguay has a logistical problem and applicability. Almost nobody is willing to take the risk and what you end up getting is a much more distant dance that you allowed the good old cumbia (especially in its version of the Black River north, making it 2-1 with your leg between mine shrimp). So it was a very difficult environment for someone like the writer.
But it was quite unexpectedly, in a way that took me by the neck, one day I saw reflected in the window Bluzz, just dancing with myself Dancing only . I danced with narrowed eyes, watching me every so often myself, hitting jumps, singing as loud Oh-oh-oh-oh !, Hands held high. It was possibly the first time the dance was a fact worth itself as wanting to Barry White as the dream of David Bowie, and jerk in Billy Idol. Dancing with myself
is the closest dimension that I have of the festive. It is a perfect subject, is a song that just as certain themes of Leonard Cohen could only have been written by a veteran, could only have made someone close to eighteen. Today, everything from Billy Idol often seems retro, but nonetheless, that issue no. Still in Bluzz
I do step and a glass of Jameson in hand to ask the Tuco put Rebel Yell, another famous Tracks Billy Idol. Tuco, with those lenses in front of the wig mod (or as may be called that) nods and tells me to be happy, which puts it in minutes. I do not know if I'm happy if I like a brother to this guy I never talked in my life or if I'm just fart. Or all at once. As soon as I return to the dance floor that once I spoke evil of that kind, with that bad characteristic to judge musicians by their music (now I remember, and in this blog di Astroboy few sticks.) But can this accusation is also the fart. Or both. And now it sounds. As much as I know I put the Tuco, and he did it because I asked her, when I hear the intro to Rebel Yell body , it feels like a sign, something that comes from a past or a more here, as here that I can not see (like Goethe's death, as Kundera says in Immortality). And I start to dance. Jump, move my feet, I feel that dance well, especially because I dance as badly as the rest of the people around me. And I dance with my eyes closed, chanting the "more more more!" raising his fist at the sky. And while all this happens, I think if you are doing it for pleasure, the pleasure in itself represents to me to be dancing this or that slight distance, the faint irony of masked within the sensitivity that is not one, as when issues ago when I was dancing A Little Respect . Zizek in an article on Hitchcock says
"Consider what is probably today the most notorious case of nostalgic charm in the cinema: the black American of the 1940 Which is exactly what's so fascinating? It is clear that we can not identify with him, the most dramatic scenes of Casablanca, Murder, My Sweet, treacherous and deadly, now cause laughter among the spectators. But, however, far from representing a threat to his power of fascination, this kind of distance is the very condition of that effect. That is what fascinates us is precisely a certain look, the look of the "other" hypothetical viewer, mythic, of the 1940, supposedly was still able to immediately identify the universe of black cinema (...) We love the eye of the beholder "naive" myth, which was "still able to take it seriously. " In other words, the viewer who "believe in it" for us instead of us. That razoón, our relationship with the black cinema is always divided, torn between fascination and ironic distance: ironic distance on his diegetic reality, fascination with the look ".
I'm thinking that most people who are dancing is dancing just in front of the hypothetical listener these issues, ie, the listener was able to take the show seriously, Billy Idol. You see the video, you see the hair, studded wristbands, makeup burning of the keyboardist, guitarist particularly hyperactive and can not help thinking that for someone, a fan, a teenager who hid the sun from the window with a poster of that platinum clad in leather, a child who was rehearsing that labial face to Presley, someone like me, now, feeling being in the right place at the right time, at some point in his life that was full of meaning something . And the discovery of the night fucking is precisely Rebel Yell is something full of meaning for me. On the way Idol sings, in the form of shake your fist at the sky, in the way the guitarist opens her legs in full leap, there is a truth that stands on its own. And I wonder if I'm just me, or if I'm just a drunk in Plato's cave, believing it is true, real truth and not the play of light and shadow, what I see and hear. And I think this and I ask for another Jameson, and people dance and sweat, and I thinking about Zizek as two mines are set to hit next to me, thinking of Zizek as people come to the baths of six, thinking of Zizek and realizing that I'll post about all this then reveals once again amazed at the pain in his arm twisted to admit that I like the round, I like Bluzz, of which I almost absolutely necessary to terminate at these sites, when months ago, on this blog the walking cursing, and then I realize it's okay not to resist a file, and everything you do, everything we do we are dancing here is correct, we're right by the simple fact of being young, we're going to win, win I can not say if a war, a party or a waiver, and now approach mine and before this she says I know who I am, and says without the antepenultimate KANOPA false that fits everyone, and the chick from scratch she begins to recite the first three pages of Well fascinate me away from that, there comes a sudden sense of fear that makes me out of there, looking for Ezekiel to tell you something that probably both try to remember in the Messenger the next day without giving in cloves, knowing that the animals Citadel Canelones and eat all the crumbs with which one marks his way back, and think of a story and a final precious probably remember me as it arrives at my house, and I think all this I have to write it down, that this bigotry to collect all want to make me a slut black box and not a person, but then I'm making a mental scandisk and I get to remind people around, a kind Babylonian photo album, best album of the Tussie Panini figurines, Jelen, Eze, Marques, Victor, Felipe Reyes, Chichi, tengui, tengui, falti, and my chrome lost out there, like a figurine added, with cascola in Instead of self-adhesive, I imagine opening it in ten years, and I realize to be feeling a nostalgia for a present that is not even over, silently reproaching me for that, begging not to become one of those people who find any excuse to talk about how great they were when they went to Juntacadáveres and were still young, lost Onettis like trying to walk to their respective Cecilias by Eduardo Acevedo and the Rambla, and try to sort all that and remember Martin Battles finding a few blocks cerceanada The round head of a tortoise, and I remember a Frankenstein-raver-schizo-gay-kitsch-lumpen-telling colorinche six in the morning in a strange house, your favorite goddess Cali, and I remember one night to Darius, in full carnival holiday, witnessing the virtual absence of people and the gloom that had been Citadel following the theft of a power lines, and that feeling of being celebrating a birthday on the ruins of an apocalypse which were no more than fifty people, and I remember a hot night interrupted by a sudden gale, with the whole world planks for getting in, all crowding round as Senegalese refugees in the engine room of a ship Serbian, looking wet, angry, drunk and / or happy how the rain fell, looking out the stupidity of people escaping from something your body is made up by 90 percent, empty beer bottles filled with distilled water, as in sounding a theme of Bonnie Prince Billy, whose name I always forget, and then know the night is over and I go to my home leave of Ezekiel and Mariana, who can not find because I'm drunk, or who can not find because they are drunk, or that we are not because we are drunk, and then I give up and embark on the road, staggered by Canelones, recalling that the walker for whistling in the dark no longer alone, and now feeling Brilliant Disguise Bruce Springsteen blaring in my head and in the plexus, as if that song to me was singing to me as if The Boss, with his guitar in hand, materialize in his own person, as "Tell me what I see / when I look in your eyes / That is you baby / or just a brilliant disguise " a Greek chorus that was summarizing part of my life and giving me encouragement from beyond, in the same drama that was crafted from me, the realization that I just went through the door of your building, thinking about standards, stages, self-demanding, in terror of finding something too soon you're not wanted, that I will stop writing this post for the phone call.

There Were

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After a while without knowing their identity, many clues and evidence that has left our secret character have come to give him away.

In this picture you can see Gloxio hidden under a helmet ... Orísoain's Blog could not hide so well and we ended up by Pillar.

Her writing, her blog entry times, the origin of visitors, the occasional telling detail ... y. .. here is the alleged Gloxio. A renowned poet with a high level of chatter and and ease of the verse.

a common sight here let him, throwing back a few verses to use in his poems and his majestic prose. All this topped with an elegant dress, why not also ...

ACTUALLY, THE TITO CAR!

Dining In Innvocation

Less than a month of U.S. ...

is now less than a month to make way for U.S. ! As you know, on June 20 approaches and the nerves begin to emerge , especially because this month we have, we still have many things to do (take that, I have been a couplet). First, tests of the Union, a nice time, relaxing, intimate and fun in which we enjoy and enjoy all sorts of hassles, stress, nerves and anxiety attacks, lol. In addition, on 5 June, we meet in the U.S. Embassy in Madrid , so full-on tests, "we have to beat us a trip of several hours to the capital. This comes in handy for broken again, off-center and continue with the much coveted and sought after exams in June. Hhhhmmmmm! How nice!

IF YOU WANT TO KNOW MORE ...

http://www. SUMMER U S A . Blogspot.com


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