Τα καλύτερα μουσικά γιουτιουμπάκια

[nickel]

Άκουσα, ξανάκουσα, και ματαξανάκουσα όσα δεν είχα ακούσει από τον καιρό του As Tears Go By (ο μπουμερόσαυρος). Περιέργως μου άρεσε πιο πολύ ένα βίντεο κακής ποιότητας εικόνας: η συναυλία του 1990 για το Blazing Away.

 

[m_a_a_]

Να βάλω κάτι που θυμήθηκα τώρα… Μπορεί να σας τα πω αλλού πώς και γιατί, αλλά τέλος πάντων κάτι ξέθαψα σήμερα κει που σερφάριζα, και μου 'ρθε φλασιά ο στίχος του Μόρισον που λέει Indians scattered on dawn's highway bleeding… του οποίου συνέχεια, μάλιστα, τυχαίνει να είναι το μάλλον αγαπημένο μου απ' όλη του τη στιχογραφία: Ghosts crowd the young child's fragile eggshell mind…

Το An American Prayer είναι post-mortum μελοποιήσεις. Ο Μόρισον υπάρχει υπό μορφή ηχογραφημένων απαγγελιών. Μουσικά, δεν (θα μπορούσε να) έχει λόγο. Το αποτέλεσμα είναι πιο απομακρυσμένο από τα μπλουζ, και κάπου κει μπορείς να πεις ότι χάνει, νομετελειακά, σε… αρχέγονη μέθεξη ξερωγώ… σλλά αν το πεις αυτό, θα σου πω κι εγώ ότι τζάμπα κάθεσαι και συγκρίνεις. Αφουγκράσου απλά αυτό που ακούς γι' αυτό που είναι: μια ανθολογία post-mortum μελοποιήσεων, με κανονικό μπασίστα κιόλας, παρακαλώ, και με τον Μόρισον πρόδρομο (με λίγη φαντασία)… των audio books!

Στιχουργικά, στα καλύτερά του:

Awake​

Shake dreams from your hair​

My pretty child, my sweet one​

Choose the day and choose the sign of your day​

The day's divinity​

First thing you see.​

​

A vast radiant beach in a cool jeweled moon​

Couples naked race down by its quiet side​

And we laugh like soft, mad children​

Smug in the wooly cotton brains of infancy.​

The music and voices are all around us.​

Choose, they croon, the Ancient Ones​

The time has come again.​

Choose now, they croon,​

Beneath the moon​

Beside an ancient lake.​

Enter again the sweet forest,​

Enter the hot dream,​

Come with us​

Everything is broken up and dances.​

​

Indians scattered on dawn's highway bleeding
Ghosts crowd the young child's fragile eggshell mind.​

​

We have assembled inside this ancient and insane theater​

To propagate our lust for life​

And flee the swarming wisdom of the streets​

​

The barns have stormed​

The windows kept​

And only one of all the rest​

To dance and save us​

From the divine mockery of words,​

Music inflames temperament​

​

Ooh, great creator of being​

Grant us one more hour​

To perform our art​

And perfect our lives​

​

We need great golden copulations​

​

When the true kings murderers are allowed to roam free​

A thousand magicians arise in the land​

Where are the feast we are promised?​

​

---

One more thing​

​

Thank you, oh lord​

For the white blind light​

Thank you, oh lord​

For the white blind light​

​

A city rises from the sea​

I had a splitting headache​

From which the future's made​

 

[daeman]

Να βάλω κάτι που θυμήθηκα τώρα… Μπορεί να σας τα πω αλλού πώς και γιατί, αλλά τέλος πάντων κάτι ξέθαψα σήμερα κει που σερφάριζα, και μου 'ρθε φλασιά ο στίχος του Μόρισον που λέει Indians scattered on dawn's highway bleeding…

​

Indians scattered on dawn's highway bleeding
Ghosts crowd the young child's fragile eggshell mind.​

She came in town and then she drove away
Sunlight in her hair

Indians scattered on dawn's highway bleedin'
Ghosts crowd the young child's fragile eggshell mind

Blood in the streets in the town of New Haven
Blood stains the roofs and the palm trees of Venice
Blood in my love in the terrible summer
Bloody red sun of Fantastic L.A.

After the guitar solo, the song enters a spoken word verse with the lines "Indians scattered on dawn's highway bleeding", which describes a highway accident that occurred when he was young.[2][7] Morrison purportedly witnessed dead Native Americans while his family was crossing a desert by road in Albuquerque, New Mexico.[8] He said, "That was the first time I tasted fear. I musta' been about four."[3]

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Peace_Frog

 

[m_a_a_]

Με τσάκωσες!

Άσε που (αφού τα λέμε όλα), μέρος του Peace Frog έχει… συρραφθεί (!) και στο επόμενο κατά σειρά κομμάτι του American Prayer:

Indians scattered on dawn's highway, bleeding​

Ghosts crowd the young child's fragile egg-shell mind​

​

Blood in the streets​

In the town of New Haven​

Blood stains the roofs​

And the palm trees of Venice​

Blood in my love​

In the terrible summer​

Bloody red sun of fantastic L.A.​

​

Blood screams her brain, chop off her fingers​

Blood will be born in the birth of a nation​

Blood is the rose of mysterious union​

Blood on the rise, it's following me​

​

Indian, Indian​

What did you die for?​

Indian says nothing at all​

​

Gently they stir​

Gently rise​

The dead are newborn awakening​

With ravaged limbs​

And wet souls​

Gently they sigh​

In rapt funeral amazement​

​

Who called these dead to dance?​

Was it the young woman learning to play the "Ghost Song" in her baby grand?​

Was it the wilderness children?​

Was it the Ghost-God himself, stuttering, cheering, chatting blindly?​

​

I called you up to anoint the earth​

I called you to announce sadness falling like burned skin​

I called you to wish you well​

To glory in self like a new monster​

And now I call on you to pray​

Όσο για την εμπειρία αυτή καθαυτή, θα μας τα πει καλύτερα ο ίδιος ο Τζιμ, λέω εγώ:

 

[m_a_a_]

Ωραία κουβέντα, προχτεσινή:

(Λες και το 'ξεραν ότι τους θυμηθήκαμε!)