Δαι μουσικές (daeman's tunes)

daeman

daeman

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You're just a baby - Belle & Sebastian


You’re just a baby, baby girl
So kiss me on the cheek and then go off to sleep
You’re just a baby, baby girl
So kiss me on the cheek before you know what’s sweet
You will be working in the morning
And I won’t be there to see you go off you’re head
 
daeman

daeman

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Πόθοι - Γιάννης Αγγελάκας


Πέρασαν χρόνια κι η καρδιά μου πια δεν κλαίει
Μόνο μεθάει και θυμάται και γελά
Με τους αετούς μου που όλοι γίναν αρουραίοι
Μόλις με είδαν να ορμάω στη φωτιά

Πέρασαν χρόνια και κατάλαβα τι φταίει
Που όλοι δειλιάζουμε μπροστά στην ομορφιά
Ακούω καλύτερα τη γάτα μου να κλαίει
Παρά τους πόθους μου να ουρλιάζουν σαν σκυλιά

Μα τι είν' αυτά που λέει
Του 'βαλε ο διάολος φωτιά
Τα λέει, ξεθυμαίνει
Και ξαναπαίρνει τα βουνά

Πέρασαν χρόνια κι η ψυχή μου πια το ξέρει
Όσοι φτερούγισαν και πήγαν πιο ψηλά
Ήταν ανάξιοι, ρηχοί και τιποτένιοι
Και κάποια μύγα τούς τσιμπούσε τα φτερά

Αχ πόσο γρήγορα αυτή η ζωή διαβαίνει
Όλοι επιστρέφουμε μια μέρα στη σιωπή
Μόνο η βλακεία μας αιώνια παραμένει
Να μας ξοδεύει και μετά να μας υμνεί

Μα τι είν' αυτά που λέει
Του 'βαλε ο διάολος φωτιά
Τα λέει, ξεθυμαίνει
Και ξαναπαίρνει τα βουνά
 
daeman

daeman

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Ο δασονόμος / The forest ranger - Μεσιέ Ντουμανί / Monsieur Doumani


Εξαιρετικό το σκίτσο, αλλά θέλω και τους στίχους, να μαθαίνω και την κυπριακή που πολλά αρέσει μου:

Τζ' ίντα τον θέλεις, ρα πελλή, εσού τον δασονόμο
να μπαίνει μες τον καβενέν με το βουρτζί στον ώμον
Τζ' ίντα τον θέλεις, ρα πελλή, εσού τον δασονόμο
τζ' εν παίρνεις ένα δάσκαλον για ένα δικηόρο

Του δικηόρου, μάνα μου, εν κομμένη η ποινή του
στην πίσσα τζαι στην χόγλαση μετρά την αμοιβή του
Τζαι του δασκάλου, α μανα, εν μαύρο το βλατζί του
απού τον σιηλλομπάσταρτον που 'ν' πά' στην τζεφαλή του

Ο δασονόμος, κόρη μου, ήσυχος εν θα μείνει
εννα γυρίζει τα βουνά τες πυρκαγιές να σβήννει
να γίνεται ολόμουζος γι' ανάμισι σελίνι
Οι δασονόμοι, μάνα μου, που το 35
επιάνναν τα πεντόλιρα τζαι ζούσαν σα λεβέντες
 
daeman

daeman

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The Veil - Peter Gabriel


Peter Gabriel's new video, for his song "The Veil," pays tribute to former CIA employee and whistleblower Edward Snowden. The video features footage from military training exercises, real-life combat images and surveillance tapes, mixed in among scenes from director Oliver Stone's new biopic Snowden. Snowden himself also makes a surprise appearance in Gabriel's video.

"As we become so visible in the digital world and leave an endless trail of data behind us, exactly who has our data and what they do with it becomes increasingly important," Gabriel says in a prepared statement. "Snowden's revelations shocked the world and made it very clear why we need to have some way to look over those who look over us. With increasing terrorist attacks, security is critical, but not without any accountability or oversight."

The video for "The Veil" was directed by Kurt Mattila. This is the second song Gabriel has released this year. In June he dropped "I'm Amazing," a song he says was inspired by Muhammad Ali.

http://www.npr.org/event/music/493805777/first-watch-peter-gabriel-the-veil
 
daeman

daeman

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Ya Mustapha - Jonathan Richman

Chéri je t'aime, chéri je t'adore
como la salsa de pomodoro

Tu m'as allumé avec une allumette
Et tu m'as fait perdre la tête


Je fais des chansons pour lui par des douzaines
Comme le Parisien fait des chansons sur la Seine
 
daeman

daeman

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El otorrinolaringólogo
(ólogo)
Como antes también el geólogo
(ólogo)
Y como luego el odontólogo
(ólogo)
Tomaron una decisión.

Llamaron a Pepe el radiólogo
Y a su compadre el entomólogo
Y acompañados del cardiólogo
Se fueron a bailar el son:


Otorrino Laringólogo - Los Machucambos
 
daeman

daeman

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"I'm going into a tuning now that I call 'Matala tuning' because I found it, as well as the song I want to play, in Matala, Crete..."


The wind is in from Africa
Last night I couldn't sleep
Oh, you know it sure is hard to leave here, Carey
But it's really not my home
My fingernails are filthy, I got beach tar on my feet
And I miss my clean white linen and my fancy French cologne

Come on down to the Mermaid Café and I will
Buy you a bottle of wine
And we'll laugh and toast to nothing and smash our empty glasses down
Let's have a round for these freaks and these soldiers
A round for these friends of mine
Let's have another round for the bright red devil
Who keeps me in this tourist town

The night is a starry dome
And they're playin' that scratchy rock and roll
Beneath the Matala Moon




Joni Mitchell on the Muse Behind ‘Carey’ By Marc Myers, WSJ, Nov. 11, 2014

The singer wrote her hit ‘Carey’ while camping out in a seaside cave on Crete in early 1970
In an interview at her Los Angeles home, Ms. Mitchell, 71 years old, recalled the song’s evolution. Edited from an interview:

Joni Mitchell:
Everyone said I broke Graham Nash’s heart when our relationship ended in late 1969. But that’s not quite accurate. We both knew it was over, and it wasn’t an ugly ending. Reasons for the break are complicated, but Graham and David Crosby were becoming inseparable, which was increasingly tough on me. In late January of 1970, David asked me to sail with him on his boat, the Mayan. But when I came aboard in Jamaica in early February, no one told me that Graham would be there. It was an awkward thing to do, to put us in that position. When we reached Panama, I left, flying to San Francisco to meet my friend Penelope and start a preplanned trip to Greece.

The truth is after Graham and I separated, I was really depressed. I believed in that relationship and suddenly it was over, so I had a hard time believing in my own word. I also lost most of my Los Angeles friends who had been my constant community. When I left him, they took his side. All of this was very painful.

In Greece, Penelope and I spent the first few days in Athens. I didn’t think I looked like a hippie, but I definitely didn’t look Greek. My fair hair made me stand out. During the day, I’d pile it up on my head. It was a conservative look, like a schoolteacher. Still, my hair seemed to offend people, mostly men, who called out with a big grin on their faces, “Sheepy, sheepy, Matala, Matala.” I asked around about the phrase and was told it meant, “Hippie, hippie, go to Matala in Crete. That’s where your kind are.”

A few days later, Penelope and I were on a ferry to see what Matala was all about. We arrived in Heraklion on Crete’s north coast and stayed in a hotel the first night. The next day, I rented a VW Bug and we drove 45 miles to Matala, a fishing village on the south coast. There weren’t any homes in Matala, just two grocery stores, a bakery where the owner made fresh yogurt and bread, a general store with the only phone in town, two cafes and a few rental huts. Most of the hippies who had traveled there slept in small caves carved into the cliff on one side of the beach.

After we arrived, Penelope and I rented a cinder-block hut in a nearby poppy field and walked down to the beach. As we stood staring out, an explosion went off behind us. I turned around just in time to see this guy with a red beard blowing through the door of a cafe. He was wearing a white turban, white Nehru shirt and white cotton pants. I said to Penelope, “What an entrance—I have to meet this guy.” He wasn’t hurt, but all the hair on his arms and legs had been singed from the blast. He was American and a cook at one of the cafes. Apparently, when he had lit the stove, it blew him out the door. That’s how Cary [Raditz] entered my life—ka-boom.

The next night, Penelope and I went to the Mermaid Café for a drink with Cary.



Several hippies were there along with some soldiers. Someone recommended this clear Turkish liquor called raki. I wasn’t a big drinker, and after three glasses I woke up the next morning alone in Cary’s cave. The stacked leather heels of my city boots had broken off, apparently from climbing a mountain the night before. I had no recollection of the climb. Later, when I returned to my hut, Penelope was gone. I was told she went off with one of the soldiers from the Mermaid the night before. That was the last I saw of her for many years.

With Penelope gone, I was alone—and vulnerable. You have to understand the fragile emotional state I was in. I was still in pain and had no one to talk to. Also, I had a bit of fame by then, and wherever I’d go, hippies would follow. I latched myself on to Cary because he was fierce and kept the crowd off my back. Soon I moved into one of the caves.

Originally, the Minoans had lived in the caves and then the Romans came and improved them by carving sleeping crypts and niches for statuary. But sleeping up there was tough. To soften the surface, beach pebbles were placed on the stone slab and covered with beach grass. I borrowed a scratchy afghan blanket and placed it on top. But there was no real comfort. When the waves were high and crashed on the beach, they shook the stone in the caves.

I enjoyed Cary’s company and his audacity. He had steely cold blue eyes and a menacing grin, and he was a bit of a scoundrel. We were constantly in each other’s company and spent our days talking, taking long walks, going swimming, cooking and doing the laundry. We just lived. One time we were in a park in Heraklion, where we sometimes went for the day. We were sitting on a bench when one of the tourist photographers came up to us and asked if we wanted our picture taken. He had a colorful box camera on a wooden tripod so we said, “Yes.” The pictures developed in minutes.

I also had my dulcimer with me from the States. It was lighter and less bulky than a guitar, and I took it with me everywhere. I used it to write “Carey” over a period of weeks in different locations in and around Matala as a birthday present for Cary. When hippies didn’t follow me on hikes, I’d find solitary places to write. My lyric, “Oh Carey get out your cane” referred to a cane Cary carried with him all the time. He was a bit of a scene-stealer, and the cane was a theatrical prop for him. Sometimes he’d twirl it or balance it on his nose. When I played the song for Cary on his birthday, I don’t recall his reaction. He was always detached and sometimes even disrespectful—either trying to belittle me or make me feel afraid. I think at the time he felt greatly superior to women, which is why I refer to him in the lyrics as “a mean old Daddy.” As for the extra “e” in his name in the song’s title and lyric, that was a misspelling on my part.


In April, theater people in Matala cast hippies for a Greek production of “Hair.” Weeks later, Cary and I traveled to Athens to see them in the musical. The lead actor was Greek and had shorter than Beatle-length hair parted on the side and a Frank Sinatra-style beige raincoat over his shoulder as he sang, “I’m a hairy guy.” We cracked up. It was so funny.

​
Athens was a turning point for me. I had had enough of Matala and, as I wrote in the lyrics to “Carey,” I missed “my clean white linen and fancy French cologne.” My hair was matted from washing it in seawater for months, I had beach tar on my feet and I was flea-bitten—this was very rugged living. I also realized I was still heartbroken about my split with Graham.
Instead of returning to Crete with Cary, I flew to Paris. There, I wrote “California” and referenced Cary in the lyrics as “the red, red rogue who cooked good omelets and stews.” “Carey” and “California” are really part of the same musical novella, so Cary is in two scenes.
[...]

I haven’t spoken to Cary in years. We remained friends, he married and we lost contact. But every so often Matala comes back into my life. A couple of years ago, a friend sent me a newspaper article about Matala. It has been built up a bit, and there’s an annual musical festival held there now. The article said that in Matala I’m more popular than Zeus. I thought that was funny, you know?



The Hippie Caves of Matala that housed Joni Mitchell



Anyway, here it is again: https://vimeo.com/13148100
 
daeman

daeman

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Road Ladies [Chunga's Revenge, 1970] - Frank Zappa



Ο ανεπρόκοπος (Road Ladies) [Ζωντανοί στο Κύτταρο, 1971] - Εξαδάκτυλος


Χωρίς κανένα λόγο
δεν μπορώ να κοιμηθώ
Χωρίς κανένα λόγο
να κλείσω μάτι όλη τη νύχτα δεν μπορώ

Όσο κι αν προσπαθήσω, Θεέ μου, κι ό,τι και να κάνω
την άκρη, την άκρη αδύνατο να βρω

Πηγαίνω βόλτα στο Παγκράτι
κάθε Σάββατο και Κυριακή
Πηγαίνω βόλτα στο Παγκράτι
είτε έχει ήλιο, είτε και βροχή

Κάθομαι κάτω, πίνω καφέ φαρμάκι
Όποιος κοιτάει περίεργα του λέω "ευχαριστώ πολύ"
Ξέρω και μια μελαχρινή, πολύ την κάνω κέφι, ναι
μα τ' όνομά της δε θα σας το πω
Που όλο μου γκρινιάζει, γρουσούζη με φωνάζει
τεμπέλη κι ανεπρόκοπο

Κι αν αργήσει το τρένο
εγώ θα κάτσω να το περιμένω εδώ
Κι αν ακόμη αλλάξει πορεία
δεν θέλω να το ξέρω, μου είναι αδιάφορο

Χωρίς κανένα λόγο
δεν μπορώ να κοιμηθώ
Χωρίς κανένα λόγο
να κλείσω μάτι δεν μπορώ

Κι αν θέλεις με πιστεύεις
δεν βρίσκω άκρη όσο και να προσπαθώ
 
daeman

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Ζωντανοί Στο Κύτταρο - Η "Ποπ" Στην Αθήνα (1971)


1. Αποσμητικά – Δέσποινα Γλέζου / 2. Τα Επίκαιρα – Δέσποινα Γλέζου / 3. Απογοήτευση – Δάμων & Φιντίας
4. Το Ξεχασμένο Πηγάδι – Εξαδάκτυλος / 5. Μαύρη Θάλασσα (Σαββόπουλου, απόσπασμα) – Στέλλα Γαδέδη & Μπουρμπούλια
6. Ηλεκτρικός Σωκράτης – Socrates Drank The Conium / 7. Ο Γερο-Μαθιός – Δάμων & Φιντίας / 8. Ο Ανεπρόκοπος – Εξαδάκτυλος
 
daeman

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The Butterfly Collector - The Jam


And I don't care about morals
'Cause the world's insane and we're all to blame anyway
And I don't feel any sorrow
Towards the kings and queens of the butterfly collectors
 
daeman

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Pretty Kondilies - Xylouris White


Καλλιά 'ναι μια καλή φιλιά εις τη ζωή ετούτη
παρά να ζεις σαν άρχοντας με θησαυρούς και πλούτη

Μα αν δε σε δω, δε χαίρομαι, καλή καρδιά δεν κάνω
μούδε κι απ' τ' αχειλάκι μου μιαν εμιλιά δε βγάνω

Πέμπω σου χαιρετίσματα με το πουλί, τ' αηδόνι
και με τον πετροκοτσυφό που δεν το φανερώνει
 
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daeman

daeman

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You may run on for a long time
Run on for a long time
Run on for a long time
Let me tell you now that we'll cut you down
Let me tell you now that we'll cut you down


Go tell that long tongue liar
Go and tell that midnight rider
Tell the rambler
The gambler
The back biter
Sooner or later we'll cut you down
Sooner or later we'll cut you down


 
daeman

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I'm so bored with the USA - The Clash


Yankee soldier
He wants to shoot some skag
He met it in Cambodia
But now he can't afford a bag

Yankee dollar talk
To the dictators of the world
In fact it's giving orders
An' they can't afford to miss a word

I'm so bored with the U.S.A.
I'm so bored with the U.S.A.
But what can I do?

Yankee detectives
Are always on the TV
'Cause killers in America
Work seven days a week

Never mind the stars and stripes
Let's print the Watergate Tapes
I'll salute the New Wave
And I hope nobody escapes

I'm so bored with the U.S.A.
I'm so bored with the U.S.A.
But what can I do?

Move up, Starsky
For the C.I.A.
Suck on, Kojak
For the USA
 
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