Mentre tornavo in volo innamorato dall’Australia, ascoltavo questa canzone di Bob Dylan. Mi piace il disegno scomposto che crea, le sensazioni che sbucano fuori da quelle parole rotolanti. She knows that I’m not afraid to look at her – she is good to me – and there’s nothing she doesn’t see, she knows where I’d like to be – But it doesn’t matter. Quanto volevo tornare indietro!
I Want You (Blonde on blonde – 1966)
The guilty undertaker sighs
The lonesome organ grinder cries
The silver saxophones say I should refuse you
The cracked bells and washed-out horns
Blow into my face with scorn
But it’s not that way
I wasn’t born to lose you
I want you, I want you
I want you so bad
Honey, I want you
The drunken politician leaps
Upon the street where mothers weep
And the saviors who are fast asleep, they wait for you
And I wait for them to interrupt
Me drinkin’ from my broken cup
And ask me to
Open up the gate for you
I want you, I want you
I want you so bad
Honey, I want you
How all my fathers, they’ve gone down
True love they’ve been without it
But all their daughters put me down
’Cause I don’t think about it
Well, I return to the Queen of Spades
And talk with my chambermaid
She knows that I’m not afraid to look at her
She is good to me
And there’s nothing she doesn’t see
She knows where I’d like to be
But it doesn’t matter
I want you, I want you
I want you so bad
Honey, I want you
Now your dancing child with his Chinese suit
He spoke to me, I took his flute
No, I wasn’t very cute to him, was I?
But I did it, though, because he lied
Because he took you for a ride
And because time was on his side
And because I . . .
I want you, I want you
I want you so bad
Honey, I want you
Io dedico questa canzone
ad ogni donna pensata come amore
in un attimo di libertà
a quella conosciuta appena
non c’era tempo e valeva la pena
di perderci un secolo in più.
A quella quasi da immaginare
tanto di fretta l’hai vista passare
dal balcone a un segreto più in là
e ti piace ricordarne il sorriso
che non ti ha fatto e che tu le hai deciso
in un vuoto di felicità.
Alla compagna di viaggio
i suoi occhi il più bel paesaggio
fan sembrare più corto il cammino
e magari sei l’unico a capirla
e la fai scendere senza seguirla
senza averle sfiorato la mano.
A quelle che sono già prese
e che vivendo delle ore deluse
con un uomo ormai troppo cambiato
ti hanno lasciato, inutile pazzia,
vedere il fondo della malinconia
di un avvenire disperato.
Immagini care per qualche istante
sarete presto una folla distante
scavalcate da un ricordo più vicino
per poco che la felicità ritorni
è molto raro che ci si ricordi
degli episodi del cammino.
Ma se la vita smette di aiutarti
è più difficile dimenticarti
di quelle felicità intraviste
dei baci che non si è osato dare
delle occasioni lasciate ad aspettare
degli occhi mai più rivisti.
Allora nei momenti di solitudine
quando il rimpianto diventa abitudine,
una maniera di viversi insieme,
si piangono le labbra assenti
di tutte le belle passanti
che non siamo riusciti a trattenere.
Miriam Makeba chiamata anche Mama Africa è stata una cantante sudafricana di Jazz e di world music. È nota per il suo impegno politico contro il regime dell’apartheid quando era ancora un sistema politico nel suo paese. Miriam Makeba ha avuto la notorietà internazionale con Pata Pata, canzone uscita nel 1967. Mama Africa è morta a Castel Volturno (Italia) il 9 novembre 2008.
A Tutti Coloro che amano la Musica Africana. Bembeya Jazz fu un Grande Gruppo Musicale Africana degli anni 70…….Mi commuove sempre la musica mandingue!
Proseguiamo il nostro viaggio nel mondo della musica africana del passato.
Siamo nel 1960, molti paesi africani proclamano loro indipendenze. Erano in realtà 17 nazioni in quel anno. È cosi che il cantante del Congo kinshasa, Joseph Kabaselé chiamato semplicemente Gran Kallé, cantai questo brano musicale, famosissima canzone delle indipendenze dei paesi africani.
…una poesia/canzone senza limite…al fondo…dentro…impressionante…devastante…arte stupenda…vita maledetta…
“The Return To Innocence Lost” (feat. Ursula Rucker)
Muffled sound of fist on flesh
Blows to chest
No breath
Air gasps
You ain’t nothing but white trash, bitch!
With each hit, each kick, each…broken rib
Crack, Crack!
Bones are crying
Mommy’s crying and bleeding
And pleading
And then…
Daddy wants to fuck
Dick hard, swelled with power rush
And as if all that wasn’t enough
Mommy’s seven months heavy with birth
As…Daddy grunts and cursed drunk nothings in her bloodied ear
[singing softly]
First…lullaby
First…Son…will…ever…hear
And never forget
Mommy almost bled to death when she have him…finally
She’d already lost…three
Uterus-bruised, shredded, and weak
From being daily beat
And Friday nights were the worse and…
Daddy never came with flowers
Instead he spent hours at some corner spot
With some bar pop named Cookie
Putting his thing down
Soiling Mommy’s sheets with…
Sweet…talk shit,
Cookie’s cheap lipstick,
Hair grease, sperm, and jezebel juice
To hell with the good news that…
He was a father for the first time
His thirst for wine and women
Clouded his vision…
No warm welcome for mother and son
Just…
The rank smell of ass-crack, funk, and cum
But Mommy’s prayerful strength-her best defense
She…burned the dirty linens
Made a fresh bed
Laid sleeping First Son down
And never made a sound
As she purged her scourge
With birth-blood and quiet tears
Watching as her fears and love and sacrifice
Lie there in his soft skin and new life
Breathing, dreaming, fresh from God’s eye
Mommy’s little survivor
Like…her
Mommy called crazy and scorned
‘Cuz she two more born
One boy soon after
The girl much later and…
Although they were both sung the same lullabies of hate
Her…First Son, the first one
Whose…womb-world was profaned
Came of age playing street games
With Stewie, Rezzie, and Little Brother
‘Till his heart start to wither
In pain and shame
Blamed Mom for the wrong she let Daddy do to her
And him…
Let…sins of the Father cause his Innocence to wander
Found out amongst thieves
Chose to squander his dreams
Stopped believing in himself
Become prodigal with his life
Make impossible shit right with…
Gang-ties, crime, lies
Erase wise, woeful words of Mother
Replaced them with absurdities of others
Who had also lost their way
Played a different kind of street game now
First Son plunged deep
Speak street-family vows
Espouse no causes but his own
See, he couldn’t protect Mommy’s neck from Daddy’s grasp
Or…protect Mommy’s ass from Daddy’s wrath
Couldn’t shield her ears from…
Daddy’s foul-mouthed, liquor-breath jeers
His only defense-served be confidence
Brown bottles housed his swift descent
Phones called cops on block frequent for his shenanigans
Now…Daddy and him twins in addiction
Driven to false-hearted heavens and friends
By liquefied demons
Had become what he despised from Conception ‘til End
Destined for a demise
Survived nine lives of staying high
Conning, jewelry-pawning, arrests, theft
Womanizing…only for money, never for sex
Bullet in chest, baseball bat to the head
Left for dead
So, eyes wide and glassy
Speech…slowed and slurred
Lips twitched with caked-up codeine candy
And mouth corners one December 24th
Mr. Hide and False Friend
Took final ride to suburban supplier
Shots were fired by the gray man
With shaky hand
But not shaky enough to miss…
Hit…Lost Boy in back
So-called Friend runs for door
Leaves First Son blood-born
Lying alone in blood on cold floor
Death was the cause of…
Returning to Innocence Lost…
Baby ‘Sis awake for dawn on Christmas morn
To Mommy’s sobs and shakes
Daddy’s silhouettes of regret
All past, omitted, and absolved by lost
As they clung to each other
Knowing…
Un Hotel Newyorkese si fa pubblicità
e finanzia una performance artistica SPETTACOLARE:
tecnologie all’avanguardia al servizio di menti artistico creative geniali,
66 ballerini,
150 camere di albergo,
gli ingegneri della luce dei mitici Daft Punk,
ed ecco che il 18 agosto 2010 a NYC va in scena uno show veramente veramente STRAORDINARIO
