::3.2.04::
HANG ON
THOUGH WE TRY
IT'S GONE
Ouvi dizer, ou melhor, andei lendo por aí, que vamos ter Placebo no Brasil esse ano. Uma banda que eu conheci via irmã mais nova (essa juventude...) e que passei a gostar (ou cuirtir, para as paulistas, hahaha) depois que comecei a prestar atenção nas letras. Para mim, elas são praticamente tudo na música que gosto de escutar hoje. Amanhã, quem sabe...Alguma melodia ideal vai me tocar, assim como foi da primeira vez que ouvi John Coltrane. (Momento outro post). As letras dos caras são interessantes, o rockinho é bem legal e tem um toque "muderno", que eu estranhamente também gosto, apesar de ser contra as "mudernidades"...Contra não é bem a palavra, mas é que eu acho tudo muito chato, esses ritmos que tem o nome inventado (e re-inventado) de mês em mês. O vulgo tuncht-tuncht. Hoje, que faz um calor senegalês nesse Rio lindo, andei querendo ouvir mais Placebo, com a exata necessidade do nome: fingir que está passando...
A de hoje já foi postada, com enormes outras intenções, e hoje vai de novo só porque eu gosto muito.
The Bitter End
Placebo
Since we're feeling so anesthetised
In our comfort zone
Reminds me of the second time
That i followed you home
We're running out of allibies
From the second of May
Reminds me of the summer time
On this winter's day
See you at the bitter end
See you at the bitter end
Every step we take that's synchronized
Every broken bone
Reminds me of the second time
That I followed you home
You shower me with lullabies
As you're walking away
Reminds me that it's killing time
On this fateful day
See you at the bitter end
See you at the bitter end
See you at the bitter end
See you at the bitter end
From the time we intercepted
Feels more like suicide...
:: Marcia Furriel 7:40 p.m.
[+] ::
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"...[R]eturning to the Red Drum for sets, to hear Bird, whom I saw distinctly digging Mardou several times also myself directly into my eye looking to search if I was really the great writer I thought myself to be as if he knew my thoughts and ambitions or remembered me from other night clubs and other coasts, other Chicagos--not a challenging look but the king and founder of the bop generation at least the sound of it in digging his audience digging his eyes, the secret eyes him-watching, as he just pursed his lips and let great lungs and immortal fingers work, his eyes separate and interested and humane, the kindest jazz musician there could be while being and therefore naturally the greatest--watching Mardou and me in the infancy of our love and probably wondering why, or knowing it wouldn't last, or seeing who it was would be hurt, as now, obviously, but not quite yet, it was Mardou whose eyes were shining in my direction, though I could not have known and now do not definitely know--except the one fact, on the way home, the session over the beer in the Mask drunk we went home on the Third Street bus sadly through night and throb knock neons and when I suddenly leaned over her to shout something further (in her secret self as later confessed) her heart leapt to smell the "sweetness of my breath" (quote) and suddenly she almost loved me--"
DO LIVRO
The Subterraneans
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