::28.11.05::
MÚSICA PARA OS MEUS OUVIDOS
Nas discussões sobre quem seria o novo "quem" e quantas novidades ruins na música eu vou ter que escutar até achar que eu (chata) goste, me deparei, numa rádio de internet do ITunes, com a Madeleine Peyroux. Primeiro você tem a certeza absoluta que a mulher encarnou Bille Holiday, depois desconfia, mas aí vc tem certeza que a mulher está chupando o repertório de Billie, mas não! É novo, é dela mesmo. E é um tipo assim, jazz + folk, uma coisa americana de ser, mas que agradou em cheio. FOI POR ISSO que larguei de mão o "Claro que é rock" (dei os ingressos) e fui assistir sozinha, eu e Jesus, o show de Madeleine na sala Cecilia Meirelles. Muito papo com cambista, negociações na porta e lá fui eu, sentar-me no balcão, pra começar com a minha preferida (de até agora, poucas conhecidas), "dance me to the end of love". Veja você se isso não é letra que Billie cante? (Tudo bem,e ssa é de Leonard Cohen). Rimou.
"Dance Me To The End Of Love"
Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin
Dance me through the panic 'til I'm gathered safely in
Lift me like an olive branch and be my homeward dove
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love
Oh let me see your beauty when the witnesses are gone
Let me feel you moving like they do in Babylon
Show me slowly what I only know the limits of
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the wedding now, dance me on and on
Dance me very tenderly and dance me very long
We're both of us beneath our love, we're both of us above
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the children who are asking to be born
Dance me through the curtains that our kisses have outworn
Raise a tent of shelter now, though every thread is torn
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin
Dance me through the panic till I'm gathered safely in
Touch me with your naked hand or touch me with your glove
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love
:: Marcia Furriel 11:13 a.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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