Se mi rilasso collasso

Yeah, all those stars drip down like butter,
And promises are sweet,
We hold out our pans with our hands to catch them
We eat them up, drink them up, up, up, up

Hey, let me in
Hey, let me in

I only wish that I could hear you whisper down,
Mister fisher moved to a less peculiar ground
He gathered up his loved ones and he brought them all around
To say goodbye, nice try

Hey, let me in. Yeah, yeah, yeah
Hey, let me in, let me in

I had a mind to try to stop you. Let me in, let me in
But I've got tar on my feet and I can't see
All the birds look down and laugh at me
Clumsy, crawling out of my skin

Hey, let me in. Yeah, yeah, yeah
Hey, let me in
Hey, let me in. Yeah, yeah, yeah
Hey, let me in

(M. Stipe)


Per chi volesse ascoltarla...

Chi, come me, ama questa canzone, forse conosce il senso di "calore" che emana, che si allontana dal fondo ruvido delle chitarre, si ammorbidisce con l' organo, si sfoga triste e rabbioso nella voce, raggiunge le tue orecchie, ti accarezza,
lasciandoti un magone senza scampo.
Ma anche per questo, grazie ragazzi.

Mi chiamo Franco, mi chiamo Beppe o Pino
Mi chiamo Sandro o Gino...
Mi cambio il nome,
Così quando la morte verrà a prendermi
Non mi troverà....

Ore 21.40
Va in scena il genio.
Concerto improvvisato, da parte mia (nel senso che ho deciso all’ultimo di andarci).
Palcoscenico insolito per me che vengo dall’isola che d’estate diventa la seconda patria del jazz; è quello di Milano, Arena Civica, Milano Jazzin’Festival.
Quello di cui al post precedente!
Il tramonto ambrosiano regala un cielo roso mercurio e giallo-inquinamentoatmosferico abbastanza inquietante, i nuvoloni che si addensano non promettono nulla di buono, e infatti...
La mia provincialità (relativamente al luogo in cui abito...) e la disorganizzazione mi impediscono peraltro di godermi il concerto fino alla fine.
Ma nonostante tutto sono raggiante di aver sentito Stefano Bollani ancora una volta dal vivo.
Brillante e leggero, suona per una buona ora e mezzo il repertorio jazz-samba di BollaniCarioca  con una leggerezza inaudita. Biancovestito, si lascia anche andare poco al solito repertorio di strabiliante cazzeggio con cui puntella di solito ogni brano.
E’ quasi fin troppo serio ma è un grande, riesce ad evitare quella patina radical-intellettualoide da “iosonounjazzistaemiprenodsulserio” che spesso regna nel mondo del jazz. Suona ininterrottamente dei brani che diventano delle suite di dieci e passa minuti, preciso, guizzante, geniale, mette in scena della musica superlativa.
Fa quasi strano conoscere quasi tutti i brani che vengono suonati in un concerto jazz (improvvisazioni a parte, ovviamente). Colpa della mia coinquilina che ha lasciato incustodito in casa il cd Carioca e l’ho ascoltato in loop per 4 giorni di fila.
E la cosa più bella è che i pezzi continuano a suonarti da soli in testa per ore dopo...magari riuscissi anche a eseguirli, sarebbe un’altra cosa...(sì e probabilmente ora non sarei qui a scrivere questo post in effetti).
Chiusa imprevista, acquazzone con goccioloni del diametro di 10 cm, fuga per la vittoria e rientro furtivo.
Ma 90 minuti (almeno) di musica superlativa.
Welcome Mr. Genius!
...e grazie Manu ;-)

P.S. Voi appassIonati lettori vi chiederete come vanno le cose al MJF Club (cfr. sotto)?
Un fiasco colossale. Nessuna traccia di preconcerto, di schermi con immagini lounge (sic!), di djset, di avventori che si affollano per l’ape(-ritivo).
Nessun after-show.
Mario Biondi dov’è finito?
Ma soprattutto, lamento fortemente l’assenza di fighetta con annesso piedino e sigarettina.A nzi, apro qui una petizione e raccolgo le firme.

                                                                                - musica + immagini lounge

                                                                - stefanobollani + mariobiondi

                                                                - braghette + fighette

Perunmondomigliore

 
Sempervoster,
Albasso

Prufrockphoto2008. All rights reserved.
Per reclami rivolgersi a Pinoallabatteria

 

        S`io credesse che mia risposta fosse
        A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
        Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
        Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
        Non torno vivo alcun, s'i'odo il vero,
        Senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.

 Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question...
Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"
Let us go and make our visit.

    In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions
And for a hundred visions and revisions
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

   In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair---
[They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!"]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin---
[They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!"]

Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all;
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all---
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all---
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?...

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

 And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep...tired...or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon
      a platter,
I am no prophet --- and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"

If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say, "That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all."

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor
---
And this, and so much more?
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
"That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all."

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous---
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old...I grow old...
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Til human voices wake us, and we drown

T.S. Eliot

 

So, so you think you can tell
Heaven from Hell,
Blue skys from pain.
Can you tell a green field
From a cold steel rail?
A smile from a veil?
Do you think you can tell?

And did they get you to trade
Your heros for ghosts?
Hot ashes for trees?
Hot air for a cool breeze?
Cold comfort for change?
And did you exchange
A walk on part in the war
For a lead role in a cage?

How I wish, how I wish you were here.
We're just two lost souls
Swimming in a fish bowl,
Year after year,
Running over the same old ground.
What have we found?
The same old fears.
WISH YOU WERE HERE

... e non una parola di più

Sailing heart-ships thru broken harbors
Out on the waves in the night
Still the searcher must ride the dark horse
Racing alone in his fright.
Tell me why, tell me why

Is it hard to make arrangements with yourself,
When your old enough to repay but young enough to sell?

Tell me lies later, come and see me
I’ll be around for a while.
I am lonely but you can free me
All in the way that you smile
Tell me why, tell me why

Is it hard to make arrangements with yourself,
When your old enough to repay but young enough to sell?

Tell me why, tell me why
Tell me why, tell me why

È sorprendente come in certi momenti i testi di poesie o canzoni scritte in situazioni così distanti da noi corrispondano perfettamente al nostro stato d’animo. Non fosse così, in effetti, non sarebbero immortali. Questo è uno di quei momenti. Thank you, Neil.