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70s

All The Love I Miss Loving

Off the album Beano, Blues Breakers with Eric Clapton, John Mayall, 1966

Bad Detective

Off the album “Too much too soon”, New York Dolls, 1974

Desert Pass

Desert Pass – Helen Frankenthaler, 1976

‘Diciamo semplicemente che il deserto è un impulso. Avevo deciso di punto in bianco di cambiare volo, prendere una macchina e andare per strade poco battute. C’è qualcosa riguardo ai vecchi tempi che viene soddisfatto dalla spontaneità. Più in fretta uno decide, meglio si libera del debito con la memoria. Volevo rivederla, provare qualcosa e dire qualcosa, poche parole, non troppe, e poi tornar via nella lontananza ventosa. Era tutto lontananza. Era una distesa ininterrotta di terra arida e cielo, e un’impalpabile traccia di montagne, basse e accovacciate in fondo, montagne o nuvole, a forma di gatto, di puma – com’è umano vedere una cosa come qualcos’altro.’
da Underworld, Don DeLillo

Prima di quattro anni fa non volevo crederci, ma ho dovuto convincermene, il clima anglosassone rischia seriamente di minacciare gli equilibri del proprio sistema nervoso e immalinconire come niente, forse neanche un pezzo di Rory Gallagher o Nick Drake.
Riflettevo su cosa è rimasto di idealmente democratico fra gli uomini, intendo uguale per tutti, che vale per tutti, e ho considerato finora un paio di risposte, certo opinabili:
-la vita, la morte
-le malattie
-Il lunedì dopo la domenica (il calendario)
-gli agenti atmosferici
nel caso di Inghilterra, Scozia e Irlanda, la pioggia, che pioggia tutti, tutti i giorni, a giorni alterni, quando gli pare e senza distinzioni. Che tu abbia un ombrello o non ce l’abbia. Che tu sia ricco o tu sia povero, sposato o single, del cancro o dell’ariete, gallo, pollastrella o cinghiale, superstizioso, protestante, musulmano, un pusher giamaicano, una drag queen, un portinaio, una massaggiatrice tailandese, un giurato. Soprattutto unisce, la pioggia unisce e accomuna. Dentro casa, le caffetterie, gli hotel, le cabine telefoniche, i pub, i club. Sotto le tettorie, le portinerie, gli archi, le insegne, sotto le coperte. Certi giorni che prende a grandinare d’improvviso e d’improvviso pare gocciare in un formicaio è tutto un corri corri sotto la tettoia più vicina, un ammassarsi, accozzarsi, appallottolarsi di materiale umano fradicio di pioggia e col fiatone. Non parla nessuno, ma tutti sanno a cosa sta pensando ognuno, damned rain.

certi giorni, certa musica
Slippin’ Into Darkness
Off Pulp Fusion: Return to the Tough Side, The Ramsey Lewis Trio

Tea Dance Time PlayList


Evviva. Sono in ferie.
.
Yay in ferie! Non aspettavo altro, lo ammetto. A breve mi raggiungeranno Flo e mamma and everything is gonna be wow! Credo me ne starò lontana dall’ombelico per un po’, dunque approfitto di questo post per ringraziare (di cuore) ognuno di voi che è venuto a trovarmi e verrà a farmi visita ancora
please, ladies and gentlemen, take a break, let’s have a tea
a presto x

The Meters – Handclapping Song
The Temptations – Get Ready
Sly and the Family Stone – I Want to Take You Higher
The Temptations – Runaway Child, Running Wild
Soul Suspects – Handle It
Lafayette Afro Rock Band – Hihache
Vladimir Cosma – Ultra Pop’Op

About phallic glory and Communication Breakdown


In 2001, Greg Kot wrote in Rolling Stone that “The cover of Led Zeppelin… shows the Hindenburg airship, in all its phallic glory, going down in flames. The image did a pretty good job of encapsulating the music inside: sex, catastrophe and things blowing up.”

via Led Zeppelin (album) – Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia.

Dazed and Confused Robert Plant

-però Robert Plant,,,
-che
-Robert Plant,,,
-?
-bhe,Robert Plant,,,
– Robert Plant, Robert Plant,,, Robert Plant è un baro.Ne spara più lui, di stronzate, che non Paul Stanley nei pezzi dei Kiss.Since I have been loving you, Baby I am gonna leave you now. E ho detto tutto.
-che c’entra. Uno può anche essere innamorato, ma in crisi mistica,Black mountain side
-Black Country Woman. Non aggiungo altro.
-ma no, uno può anche avere l’esigenza di starsene lontano, certe volte,per i fatti propri,rambling on. Non è detto dev’esserci necessariamente di mezzo un’altra donna.
Your time is gonna come. Te l’ha appena detto.
-Mi ha appena detto You shook me, I can’t quit you Baby. Sai, Good Times Bad Times
-Ti ha appena detto che è Dazed and Confused
-appunto
-e che va a farsi una passeggiata in montagna
-appunto
-Bisogna averci due cocomeri agli occhi, essere fan dei Beatles, per non accorgersi  c’è di mezzo Black Country Woman.
-è Dazed and Confused,è normale che…sai…bhe..insomma…no?
-Sveglia! How many more times uno può sentirsi stordito e confuso, nello stesso album?
-Ed è soltanto il primo,,,
-Appunto.

Francesca Woodman---Then at one point I did not need to translate the notes...(Providence-Rhode Island,1976

Francesca Woodman was born in 1958, in Denver Colorado, and lived most of her tragically brief life in New York. Having taken her first photograph at 13, she committed suicide in 1981 at the age of 22, but in the few years that account for her career she created an enduring body of photographic work that continues to fascinate and influence today. Woodman appears frequently in her exquisitely odd and unsettling silver gelatin photographs, her body often seeming to blend into her surroundings: caught in a state of metamorphosis she is not quite here, not quite there. In others, she uses a variety of props to create strange and dreamlike tableaux tinted with melancholy. Woodman’s work has been subject to extensive critical study by Western academics and has influenced many important artists of subsequent generations.

Woodman’s work has been exhibited widely since the mid-80s with substantial exhibitions at the Cartier Foundation, Paris in 1998; the Pinakothek der Moderne, Munich, 2008 and Espacio AV centre for contemporary art in Murcia, Spain in 2009. Her work was also on show at the Scottish National Gallery of Modern Art as part of the Artist’s Rooms, drawn from the Anthony d’Offay Bequest. The Woodman estate is represented by Marian Goodman Gallery and Victoria Miro and a substantial exhibition of her work was held at Ingleby Gallery in the Spring of 2009. This year there will be a major retrospective of Woodman’s work at SF MoMA, Sanfransico, which will travel to Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum, New York in 2010.

via Ingleby Gallery | Artists | Francesca Woodman.

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DANNY LYON

Inside Kathy's Apartment, Danny Lyon
Jack, Chicago from The Bikeriders by Danny Lyon,1965
From Dayton to Columbus, Ohio from The Bikeriders by Danny Lyon circa 1965-66
From Lindsey's room, Louisville from The Bikeriders by Danny Lyon,1966
New arrivals from Corpus Christi from Conversations with the Dead by Danny Lyon,circa 1967-68
New York Eddie's, Chicago from The Bikeriders by Danny Lyon,circa 1965-66
Renegade's funeral, Detroit from The Bikeriders by Danny Lyon,circa 1965-66
Route 12, Wisconsin from The Bikeriders by Danny Lyon 1963
Three young men, Uptown, Chicago Pictures from the New World by Danny Lyon,1965
Young man, Hyde Park, Chicago from Toward a Social Landscape by Danny Lyon,1965

White Bicycles

UFO Club ticket, published on the cover of International Times,Feb 1967

The Sixties began in the summer of 1956,ended in October of 1973 and peaked just before dawn on 1 july,1967 during a set by Tomorrow at the UFO Club in London
detto fatto,Joe Boyd lascia White Bicycles pedalare indietro di quarant’anni per le Swinging streets di una London in piena rivoluzione culturale. Semmai vi chiedeste cosa questo abbia potuto significare, Boyd ve lo racconta e dalle quinte di un piccolo club in Tottenham Court Road; LSD, Psychedelia e Rock,mods hippies hipsters e groupies, Folk and Funk and Blues: The Sixties,folks
Pink Floyd,Soft Machine,The Incredible String Band,John Martin,Fairport Convention,Nick Drake fra gli artisti che Joe Boyd lancia in pista in qualità di produttore discografico e dj; centinaia i concerti organizzati in Inghilterra e America; the Purple Gang,Procol Harum, Pretty Things, Jeff Beck,Ten Years Later, Tomorrow, le bands e i solisti presenti alle serate dell’UFO-Tottenham Court Road palcoscenico di uno spettacolo epocale,la musica si sveste finalmente del pudore,osceno e adolescenziale,degli swinging e si scopre a ballare nuda per strada, più che mai irriverente e smaliziata.
Make love,not riots-avrebbero detto allora
Sotto una parte del libro tratta dal primo capitolo

The Sixties began in the summer of 1956,ended in October of 1973 and peaked just before dawn on 1 july,1967 during a set by Tomorrow at the UFO Club in London.
John Hopkins and I had launched the weekly UFO events at an Irish dance hall in Tottenham Court Road just before Christmas in 1966,and they had quickly become the hub of psychedelic London. BY April,our resident attraction,Pink Floyd,had outgrown us,so I was always on the lookout for new groups. I saw Tomorrow at Blaises one night and thought they were pretty good.When they made their UFO debut on 19 May it was love at first sight between them and our audience. Steve Howe,later to make his name and fortune with Yes, played guitar, while Twink, a key figure in the genesis of punk,was the drummer. I don’t know what became of Junior, the bass player, but his mad-eyed, don’t-give-a-fuck presence in a string vest was a key element in their appeal. Lead singer Keith West had a solo hit that summer with ‘Excerpt From A Teenage Opera,Part 1’(Groger Jack,Groger Jack,please come back…’) and did his best to maintain a pop-star presence while around him the group was morphing into something quite different. ‘My White Bicycle’,a tribute to the free transport provided by Amsterdam’s revolutionary provos, was their new theme song, while Howe’s solos got longer and Twink’s drumming even wilder.
A month or two earlier,I would never have gone to Blaises and Tomorrow would barely have heard of UFO.Everything was accelerating that spring. New drugs,clothes,music and clubs. The psychedelic underground and the pop scene were starting to overlap. UFO crowds were bigger each week, and it was getting hard to maintain the original atmosphere. It was also difficult to ignore the increased attention from the police: the longer the queues, the more customers were getting frisked and busted.
Hoppy ran UFO’s light tower,records between shows,putting on Kurosawa samurai films at 3 a.m. and troubleshooting around the club while I stayed near the entrance and trousered the money. When plainclothes policemen asked to have a look around, I would state our policy: no search warrant, no entry. (There was nothing to prevent them from merging with the crowds and paying their way in,of course UFO’s ads often touted a ‘spot the fuzz’ competitions). As for Mr Gannon, our landlord at the Blarney Club, he felt the case of whiskey delivered to Goodge Street police station every Christmas should take care of them well enough.
A few weeks before Tomorrow’s return visit on 30 June, a uniformed bobby turned up, asking to be allowed in the collect clothes left behind by a man being held in custody. This made sense: half and hour earlier, a naked guy had bolted past me up the stairs and disappeared into the night. Hoppy and I agreed that an exception could be made, so I told the audience we were going to let the fuzz in to look for the clothes and turn on the overhead lights (murmurs and booing). As the crowd spread out in a wide circle, some garments could be seen scattered around the floor. The young bobby seemed to blush as he glanced at the crowd, a vivid cross-section of ‘London Freak’ circa May 1967: long hair on the boys,flowered dresses on the girls,Arabian or Indian shirts,a few kaftans,jeans,even a few white shirts and khaki slacks. Many were tripping; most were laughing or grinning.
The laughter grew as it became clear that the bobby’s hastily gathered armful contained more than was required to make his prisoner decent: two or three pairs of underpants (gender undetermined), a couple of shirts, a bra,several socks,etc. As he made his way to the door, the working class constable regarded us with amazement, not hatred. We, in turn,regretted that he could not grasp why we took drugs and danced in the lights,lived for the moment and regarded our fellow man with benign tolerance, even love. That was the theory, anyway. Tested, it would come undone in the ensuing years, even as the bobby’s mates donned kaftans, rolled joins and joined the crows at festivals.
The first man I knew to take hallucinogens was Eric Von Schmidts.Mailorder packages of peyote buds from Moore’s Orchid Farm in Texas arrived periodically at the Von Schmidt apartment near Harvard Square. He would cook them up in a pot and invite friends over to drink the soup. They would stack some LPs on the record player-Ali Akbar Khan, Lord Buckley,Chopin, the Swan Silverstones, Lightning Hopkins-then drink the potion and try not to be sick. If you couldn’t keep it down you weren’t, in Eric’s view,calm enough (‘centred’had not yet been used in this context) to deserve the high. It was an experience meant for an intellectual and spiritual elite, not the masses (although he certainly would have never put it in that way).
The market is too efficient, of course,to limit transcendence to people who can stomach peyote. Down the street from Eric’s flat in 1962 was the laboratory of Professor Timothy Leary, who advertised in the Harvard Crimson for volunteers to take LSD at a dollar an hour and was determined to become the Johnny Appleseed of hallucinogens. By 1967, pure, powerful LSD tabs were still available while adulterated, amphetamine-laced concoctions were starting to be widely distributed. Few bothered about how elevated the experience might be.
In June that year, a New of the world reporter tipped off Scotland Yard about a ‘drugs-and-sex’ at Keith Richards’place and was rewarded with a ringside seat at the raid. It has become the stuff of legend: Mars bars threesome, Marianne Faithfull naked under a fur rug,etc..a symbol of out-of-control decadence. The media stopped winking and grinning about “Swinging London” and started wallowing in horror stories about teenagers being led astray. Sgt Pepper was the world’s soundtrack that month and powerful Establishment figures were horrified by the implications of influential pop stars’ open fondness for drugs.
Taken From White Bicycles,by Joe Boyd,2006
Joe Boyd – Record Producer/Writer.

Love is Alan Shacklock’s guitar in this stunning cult tune by Babe Ruth
taken from their fist album First Base,1972

Black Coffee

Notte stata di stelle cadenti,dentro la mia stanza (appena due di quelle che ho attaccate al soffitto,venute giù nel letto,a castello-il mio).How romantic.
Domenica di sole sorprendentemente a picco,sorprendentemente caldo,su Londra; domenica di barbecues in giardino,di bambini a giocare nei parchi,di cotolette umane sdraiate al sole,di turisti in processione per le vie del centro,di pic nic nel prato, di chitarre in allegretto.
Domenica è thumbs up,me ne piace il mood e l’atmosfera molleggiante.E’ uno di quei giorni,domenica, che vorresti fosse sempre domenica,andante,senza aspettative,senza fretta,a cinquanta all’ora lungo quelle stradine di campagna fiancheggiate dall’ombra degli alberi,a finestrino aperto,che si va a godersi la frescura della pineta,la lena delle cicale di sottofondo il traffico della natura a scorrimento lento.
Domenica di Humble Pie e Black Coffee a colazione-here
Black coffee is my name
Black coffee is not a thing
Black coffee,freshly ground and fully packed
Black coffee,that’s what Steve Marriott said

Sostantivo femminile.Singolare.

Dice Svesda non è felice. Io le chiedo perchè non è felice, lei mi risponde perchè Laura non è felice.Andiamo bene.Le faccio allora-‘E che sarà mai sta felicità! Starete pretendendo troppo voi due? Domenica che siamo libere vi porto a fare un giro fuori; si va prima a fare colazione in quella caffetteria francese,ad Islington-che vi piace tanto,e già che siamo nei dintorni,a vedere un’esposizione alla Estorick.Si,mi piace-deciso.Passami le cartine'(l’idea è quella di sdrammatizzare perchè si tolga di faccia quell’espressione piovana da mareggiata d’inverno che tu sei seduta sugli scogli tanto terrorizzata dalla furia delle onde quanto eccitata dall’euforia del mare.Qualcuno deve pur farlo,deve pur sdrammatizzare.O qui se n’esce o ci si tuffa). Lei allora mi risponde tacendo,allunga lo sguardo perpendicolare una linea invisibile di sottile perplessità,dunque cala il sipario delle palpebre appena un bis d’occhiate furtive,si morde il labbro un istante,inala un respiro profondo,tossisce roca(non è convinta dell’offerta.So le farebbe piacere,anzi so l’idea le piace e mi direbbe volentieri di si ma teme cambiare idea appena prima di uscire di casa, dunque tace per non confermarsi inaffidabile come da trent’anni a questa parte,convinta io non sappia già potrebbe darmi buca-la fessa).Conoscendola,a questo punto, avrebbe voglia di ciancicare un’altra delle sue solite filippiche di resoconto la giornata di oggi,ma proprio perchè la conosco so già mi dirà nulla di quello che le passa per la mente-così sorride storto,si guarda le mani,gratta il gomito,raccoglie i capelli di fianco la spalla,ride,fissa il muro,e come parlasse al fantasma di Charlie Chaplin appeso alla parete,cambia argomento e avanza un-‘fammi ascoltare qualcosa di buono stasera,che ho voglia di godermela’.E io l’accontento.
Shuggie c’accontenta tutte,noi donne.

From the 1971 soul and blues third album ‘Freedom Flight’

The EraserHead


Questo di David Lynch sembra rappresentare perfettamente la cover cinematografica a un incubo horror di Kafka; a mio parere Eraserhead è da intendersi un ‘film del film nel film’e con questo intendo sono tante le interpretazioni e le contaminazioni da esso suggerite nella realizzazione di altri films (lo stesso Hitchcock ne proporrà la visione agli attori del cast Shining per sensibilizzarli all’atmosfera che suscita e il regista intendeva comunicare. In Trainspotting Danny Boyle,il regista,ne prenderà in prestito alcune delle inquadrature di richiamo all’opera).Il film,del 1977,è da inscriversi nel genere surrealista ed è stato il primo lungometraggio di Lynch, realizzato in 5 anni-per mancanza di fondi.Pare Lynch si fosse ispirato al pittore Francis Bacon,di cui è evidente l’influenza.

Francis Bacon-Figure with meat,1954

Come per The Holy Mountain di Judorowsky,ache in questo caso non è facile descrivere la trama di EraserHead,in bianco e nero,della durata di 83 minuti; Henry Spencer,protagonista principale del film,interpretato magistralmente da Jack Nance,è un printer(dunque qualcuno che di mestiere copia) on vacancy(mental inactivity or lack of thought or intelligence/the state of being vacant)e vive in un sobborgo industriale confinato alla periferia di un non precisato luogo;l’appartamento in cui vive è volutamente spoglio alle pareti,d’arredamento minimal, e si compone di poche cose,fra cui un albererello rinsecchito al comodino,un termosifone con ai piedi grumi di erba fresca.Forse il termosifone indica il temperamento del personaggio? La vita emozionale di Henry? A dire questo me lo suggerisce una scena nella quale Henry,che puntualmente lo guarda malinconicamente, vede filtrare una luce densissima di rimando a una scena nella quale una graziosa donnina in abito da sera nero e guance rigonfie di silicone,canta In Heaven,brano musicale che verrà poi reinterpretato da decine di bands come i Bahuhaus,i Pixies,i Desolation Yes.

Non ho voglia di raccontarvi la trama del film,e perchè è possibile leggerne lo script da questo sito (http://www.eeraserhead.com/) e in decine di altri blogs con recensioni molto più attente,critiche e illuminanti della mia-eventualmente,e perchè, a mio parere,questo film non ha una trama,o meglio,questo film è come uno di quei quadri o fotografie che si compongono di percezioni e si riassumono di forme e colori,in questo caso bianco e nero,dei quali non è possibile spiegare esattamente le sensazioni.
Il film è la trasposizione di un incubo,varrebbe la pena parlare di tutti gli elementi che lo rendono tale e per questo,un capolavoro,ma anche allora significherebbe ridurre a niente il richiamo evocativo di cui si permea;in tanti hanno provato a darvi un’interpretazione,interpretazioni puntualmente deviate dallo stesso Lynch(il regista parla di questo film come di un percorso spirituale cui svolta,nel finale, è stata data dalla lettura di un versetto della Bibbia.Versetto che Lynch si riserverà il diritto di non citare mai).Credo perchè un incubo e perchè tale,susscettabile all’interpretazione individuale di ciascuno che in esso vedrà riflesse le proprie paure. Personalmente,ad esempio,posso dire di aver individuato una scena chiave del film; in questa la testa di Henry si stacca dal corpo per rotolare fuori la finestra; un bambino,di là in strada,la raccoglie e la porta in un laboratorio nel quale vengono prodotte matite.L’uomo addetto alla funzionalità dell’intero macchinario di produzione,estrae,dalla testa di Henry,un torsolo di materiale che poi inserirà nella macchina;a conclusione del processo di lavorazione ne verrà fuori una matita,uguale alle altre,di cui l’uomo verificherà la funzionalità; tant’è,la matita ‘funziona’e la gommina cancellabile in testa a questa,pure. L’interpretazione? A mio avviso,della capacità,in riferimento alla mente umana,quanto di creare,tanto di distruggere,l’allineamento e il conformismo del pensiero,la funzionalità delle idee. Esagerato? Probabile.Molto spesso siamo, o meglio sono, portata a dare significato a qualsiasi cosa,persino laddove un significato,forse,non c’è.Non posso dirlo con certezza.Di certo so di riconoscermi nello smarrimento di Henry e di aver amato questo film.

“The idea tells you everything. Lots of times I get ideas, I fall in love with them. Those ones you fall in love with are really special ideas. And, in some ways, I always say, when something’s abstract, the abstractions are hard to put into words unless you’re a poet. These ideas you somehow know. And cinema is a language that can say abstractions. I love stories, but I love stories that hold abstractions–that can hold abstractions. And cinema can say these difficult-to-say-in-words things. A lot of times, I don’t know the meaning of the idea, and it drives me crazy. I think we should know the meaning of the idea. I think about them, and I tell this story about my first feature Eraserhead. I did not know what these things meant to me–really meant. And on that particular film, I started reading the Bible. And I’m reading the Bible, going along, and suddenly–there was a sentence. And I said, forget it! That’s it. That’s this thing. And so, I should know the meaning for me, but when things get abstract, it does me no good to say what it is. All viewers on the surface are all different. And we see something, and that’s another place where intuition kicks in: an inner-knowingness. And so, you see a thing, you think about it, and you feel it, and you go and you sort of know something inside. And you can rely on that. Another thing I say is, if you go–after a film, withholding abstractions–to a coffee place–having coffee with your friends, someone will say something, and immediately you’ll say “No, no, no, no, that’s not what that was about.” You know? “This is what it was about.” And so many things come out, it’s surprising. So you do know. For yourself. And what you know is valid.”
David Lynch

It’s Full Moon

Like Children – Jan Hammer/Jerry Goodman | Jazzbo Notes.

Oh Well,Thanks Monkeys

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Trent’anni meritano un regalo speciale.Quello in assoluto abbracciare mia sorella (che non vedo da quasi un anno.Ma per questo dovrò essere paziente e aspettare ancora un pochino).
E poi quest’album, trovato ieri,in memoria di un tempo che non ho mai vissuto.Ci sono decine di altre bands e albums a cui sono molto più affezionata e forse i Rolling Stones(come i Beatles,che digerisco poco perchè fenomeno commerciale al pari dei RS) sono fra gli ultimi in classifica,ma quest’album è uno di quelli che,da ragazzina,desideravo avere,così..
Buon Compleanno a Me,Laura e Svesda

Artist: The Rolling Stones
Title: Let It Bleed
Date: 1969
Label: London Records NPS-4
Cover and Liner Design: Robert Brownjohn
Photo: Don McAllester
Sleeve and Poster Design: Victor Kahn

Line Up:
Mick Jagger: vocals
Keith Richards: guitar, vocals
Mick Taylor: guitar
Charlie Watts: drums
Bill Wyman: bass, autoharp
Nicky Hopkins, Leon Russell, Ian Stewart: piano
Ry Cooder: mandolin
Jimmy Miller: percussion
Brian Jones: percussion, autoharp
Al Kooper: piano, French horn, organ

Track Listing

Side 1

Gimmie Shelter
Love in Vain
Country Honk
Live With Me
Let It Bleed

Side 2

Midnight Rambler
You Got the Silver
Monkey Man
You Can’t Always Get What You Want

A trenta di retromarcia.

The Holy Mountain


Credo molte delle cose che sembrano capitare accidentalmente,in realtà,coincidono a un preciso ordine segreto; tentare di spiegare cosa questo voglia dire significa attribuire alle parole un potere magico che non hanno,cioè quello di esplicare Percezioni attraverso Segni universalmente riconoscibili da tutti. Un esempio per tutti la parola Anima. Un segno,riconoscibile nella “forma”,inesplicabile nella “sostanza”.Capire,sul piano personale, quel preciso ordine segreto a cui mi riferisco,non è difficile; non è difficile capire quel preciso ordine segreto se,dal punto di vista personale, alla ragione s’antepone l’istinto come tramite di Percezione fra l’Essere e il Sentire.
L’altro giorno ho trovato in videoteca The Holy Mountain,un film del 1973,del regista cileno Alejandro Jodorowsky(figlio di immigrati ebreo-ucraini) scrittore, drammaturgo,sceneggiatore,autore de El Topo,film del 1970,d’avvio all’ambizioso progetto visionario del regista inquadrabile nella controcultura cinematografica d’avanguardia.Il film,considerato un cult della cinematografia,è stato prodotto da Allen Klain,manager dei Beatles(con il quale Jodorowsky litigherà,in seguito,per via di un progetto avanzato da Klain [un film erotico] a cui il regista non vorrà lavorare.I due faranno pace soltanto trent’anni dopo una lunga lotta giudiziaria avanzata da Klain a causa della quale Jodorowsky verrà tenuto in disparte dagli ambienti cinematografici), ed è un capolavoro assolutamente visionario,surreale e provocatorio.Più che tutto allucinatorio e “illuminatorio”(come per volere dello stesso regista).
Non è facile parlarne, talmente denso in simboli,simbolismi e iconografia; il film fa riferimento a diverse e differenti dottrine teologiche e sufiste,con richiami al cattolicesimo,all’alchimia,alla kabbalah,all’I Ching,al buddismo,al Chakra,alla lettura dei tarocchi,all’interpretazione simbolica dei pianeti sul piano delle personalità.Ma non solo; in questo film Jodorowsky affronta le tematiche legate alle lotte studentesce,alla cultura Atzeca,(il film viene girato quasi interamente in Messico,cosa che costerà a Jodorowsky serie minacce di morte da parte del governo),alla Rivoluzione Peruviana,al nazismo,al capitalismo,al culto del denaro,all’omosessualità,alla guerra,alla libertà sessuale,alla Beat Generation,alle teorie di Timothy Leary circa l’utilizzo dell’LSD funzionale all’ascesi spirituale(tema centrale del film; tant’è Jodorowsky chiederà a tutti gli attori chiamati in causa[in buona parte non professionisti] di fare uso di LSD e funghi allucinogeni durante le riprese); lo stesso Jodorowsky interpreterà un ruolo centrale nel fim,quello dell’alchimista,cui compito sarà quello di iniziare 6 dei personaggi chiave,a rituali di vita e morte,tramite l’aiuto di shamani e capi spirituali. Ognuno di questi 6 personaggi è di richiamo ai pianeti del sistema solare: Venere (in questo caso un uomo,cultore del bello e dell’estetica,produttore cosmetico),Marte(interpretato da una donna,una giovane lesbica,produttrice di fucili, a cui sarà dato il compito di fare la guerra col rock’n roll),Giove(milionario,proprietario di una vastissima collezione d’arte),Saturno(una donna,produttrice di armi giocattolo),Uranio(un giovane funzionario nazista),Nettuno(un giovane capo della polizia),Plutone(un architetto,emblema della perversione e della pedofilia).
Tantissime le scene mistiche,d’incredibile acume e spessore artistico,molte di queste assolutamente surreali,come quella in cui si vedono ballare,nella Danza dell’Amore,soldati e civili; o ancora un’altra in cui Venere s’accoppia a un bellissimo trans in un’esplosione finale di sperma a forma di cuoricini bianchi.
The Holy Mountain fa giusto riferimento al percorso spirituale dei personaggi,impegnati nella scalata di un monte sacro (l’Iztaccilhvatl) verso l’apice supremo,l’illuminazione,l’immortalità (da qui il richiamo all’alchimia) ;l’intero film,come avrà da dire lo stesso Jodorowsky procede per uccisioni (vernice colorata al posto del rosso del sangue,colombe e uccellini dalle membra squartate)  e distruzioni; la distruzione delle false credenze,la distruzione delle illusioni (il denaro,il successo,l’approvazione altrui,l’ambizione sociale) perchè è attraverso la distruzione delle illusioni che si può giungere a una più vera e autentica comprensione della realtà e dei bisogni primari,più intimamente riconducibili alle priorità umane. Tanti i riferimenti al ruolo dell’artista e dell’arte,del cinema (cui obiettivo sarà quello di destare la coscienza sopita degli spettatori educati a una falsa e artificiale trasposizione cinematografica del reale).
D’effetto persino il finale,di cui non voglio anticipare nulla perchè,a suo modo,sorprendente.Meravigliosa la geometria degli ambienti,la peasaggistica di sfondo,la fotografia.
Una chicca: pare Jodorowsky avesse inizialmente scelto George Harrison per la parte del protagonista(The Fool,carta numero 0 dei tarocchi,alter ego del regista),ma questi si sia rifiutato d’accettarla per via di una scena in cui,nel pieno di un rito di purificazione,lo scarafaggio avrebbe dovuto mostrare l’ano.
Epocale,alterato,mistico,futurista.Allucinante-è il caso di dirlo

On Photography

Life itself is not the reality. We are the ones who put life into stones and pebbles.
Frederick Sommer
Il potente fascino che esercita la fotografia è intrinseco alla morbosità di ciascuno suscettibile all’estetica del bello,romantico e decadente.Quanto più una fotografia dettagliata nelle intenzioni del fotografo,tanto più questa susciterà in noi il sospetto di un’emozione antica, legata a una remota convinzione del Sublime. Un meravigliso saggio che sto leggendo,On Photography,del 1977,della scrittrice newyorkese Susan Sontag,positive feminist,attivista politica,morta nel 2004, è altamente godibile,a mio parere,non solo per l’analisi che la Sontag fa della fotografia dal punto di vista analitico ed estetico,morale e filosofico,ma anche,se non soprattutto,per l’eleganza della prosa sottilmente provocatoria,le incredibili intuizioni frasali d’irriverenza fulminea e la ricercatezza e insieme limpidezza del vocabolario, volutamente accurato e puntiglioso.
Questo il sito in suo onore dove trovare articoli e biografia della scrittrice
http://www.susansontag.com/index.shtml
Sotto una parte del testo tratto dal capitolo primo- In Plato’s Cave

Recently, photography has become almost as widely practiced an amusement as sex and dancing – which means that, like every mass art form, photography is not practiced by most people as an art. it is mainly a social rite, a defense against anxiety, and a tool of power.

Memorializing the achievement of individuals considered as members of families (as well as of other groups), is the earliest popular use of photography. For at least a century, the wedding photograph has been as much a part of the ceremony as the prescribed verbal formulas. Cameras go with family life. According to a sociological study done in France, most households have a camera, but a household with children is twice as likely to have at least one camera as a household in which there are no children. Not to take pictures of one’s children, particularly when they are small, is a sign on parental indifference, just as not turning up for one’s graduation picture is a gesture of adolescent rebellion.

Through photographs, each family constructs as portrait-chronicle of itself – a portable kit of images that bears witness to its connectedness. It hardly matters what activities are photographed so long as photographs get taken and are cherished. Photography becomes a rite of family life just when, in the industrializing counties of Europe and America, the very institution of the family starts undergoing radical surgery. At that claustrophobic unit, the nuclear family, was being carved out of a much larger family aggregate, photography came along to memorialize, to restate symbolically, the imperiled continuity and vanishing extendedness of family life. Those ghostly traces, photographs, supply the token presence of the dispersed relatives. A family’s photograph album is generally about the extended family – and, often, is all the remains of it.

As photographs give people an imaginary possession of a past that is unreal, they also help people to take possession of space in which they are insecure. Thus, photography develops in tandem with one of the most characteristic of modern activities: tourism. For the first time in history, large numbers of people regularly travel out of their habitual environments for short periods of time. It seems positively unnatural to travel for pleasure without taking a camera along. Photographs will offer indisputable evidence that the trip was made, that the program was carried out, that fun was had. Photographs document sequences of consumption carried on outside the view of family, friends, neighbors. But dependence on the camera, as the device that makes real what one is experiencing, doesn’t fade when people travel more. Taking photographs fills the same need for the cosmopolitans accumulating photograph-trophies of their boat trip up the Albert Nile or their fourteen days in China as it does for lower-middle-class vacationers taking snapshots of Eiffel Tower or Niagara Falls.

A way of certifying experience, taking photographs is also a way of refusing it – by limiting experience to a search for the photogenic, by converting experience in an image, a souvenir. Travel becomes a strategy for accumulating photographs. The very activity of taking pictures is soothing, and assuages general feelings of disorientation that are likely to be exacerbated by travel. Most tourists feel compelled to put the camera between themselves and whatever is remarkable that they encounter. Unsure of other responses, they take a picture. This gives shape to experience: stop, take a photograph, and move on. The method especially appeals to people handicapped by a ruthless work ethic – Germans, Japanese, and Americans. Using a camera appeases the anxiety which the work-driven feel about not working when they are on vacation and supposed to be having fun. They have something to do that is like a friendly imitation of work: they can take pictures.

People robbed of their past seem to make the most fervent picture takers, at home and abroad. Everyone who lives in an industrialized society is obliged gradually to give up the past, but in certain countries, such as the United States and Japan, the break with the past has been particularly traumatic. In the early 1970s, the fable of the brash American tourist of the 1950s and 1960s, rich with dollars and Babbittry, was replaced by the mystery of the group-minded Japanese tourist, newly released from his island prison by the miracle of overvalued yen, who is generally armed with two cameras, one on each hip.

Photography has become one of the principal devices for experiencing something, for giving an appearance of participation. One full-page ad shows a small group of people standing pressed together, peering out of the photograph, all but one looking stunned, excited, upset. The one who wears a different expression holds a camera to his eye; he seems self-possessed, is almost smiling. While the others are passive, clearly alarmed spectators, having a camera has transformed one person into something active, a voyeur: only he has mastered the situation. What do these people see? We don’t know. And it doesn’t matter. It is an Event: something worth seeing – and therefore worth photographing. The ad copy, whit letters across the dark lower third of the photograph like news coming over a teletype machine, consists of just six words: “. . . Prague . . . Woodstock . . . Vietnam . . . Sapporo . . . Londonderry . . . LEICA.” Crushed hopes, youth antics, colonial wars, and winter sports are alike – are equalized by the camera. Taking photographs has set up a chronic voyeuristic relation to the world which levels the meaning of all events.

A photograph is not just the result of an encounter between an event and a photographer; picture-taking is an event in itself, and one with ever more peremptory rights – to interfere with, to invade, or to ignore whatever is going on. Our very sense of situation is now articulated by the camera’s interventions. The omnipresence of cameras persuasively suggests that time consists of interesting events, events worth photographing. This, in turn, makes it easy to feel that any event, once underway, and whatever its moral character, should be allowed to complete itself – so that something else can be brought into the world, the photograph. After the event has ended, the picture will still exist, conferring on the event a kind of immortality (and importance) it would never otherwise have enjoyed. While real people are out there killing themselves or other real people, the photographer stays behind his or her camera, creating a tiny element of another world: the images-world that bids to outlast us all.

Photographing is essentially an act of non-intervention. Part of the horror of such memorable coups of contemporary photojournalism as the pictures of a Vietramese bonze reaching for the gasoline can, of a Begnali guerrilla in the act of bayoneting a trussed-up collaborator, comes from the awareness of how plausible it has become, in situations where the photographer has the choice between a photograph and a life, to choose the photograph. The person who intervenes cannot record; the person who is recording cannot intervene. Dziga Vertov’s great film, Man with a Movie Camera (1929), gives the ideal image of the photographer as someone in perpetual movement, someone moving through a panorama of disparate events with such agility and speed that any intervention is out of question. Hitchcock’s Rear Window (1954) gives the complementary image: the photographer played by James Stewart has an intensified relation to one event, through his camera, precisely because he has a broken leg. And is confined to a wheelchair; being temporarily immobilized prevents him from acting on what he sees, and makes it even more important to take pictures. Even if incompatible with intervention in a physical sense, using a camera is still a form of participation. Although the camera in an observation station, the act of photographing is more that passive observing. Like sexual voyeurism, it is a way of at least tacitly, often explicitly, encouraging whatever is going on to keep on happening. To take a picture is to have n interest in things as they are, in the status quo remaining unchanged (at least for as long as it takes to get a “good” picture), to be in complicity with whatever makes a subject interesting, worth photographing – including, when that is the interest, another person’s pain or misfortune.
[…]
The industrialization of photography permitted its rapid absorption into rational-that is, bureaucratic-ways of running society.No longer toy images, photographs became part of the general furniture of the environment – touchstones and confirmations of that reductive approach to reality which is considered realistic. Photographs were enrolled in the service of important institution of control,notably the family and the police, as symbolic objects and as pieces of information.Thus, in the bureaucratic cataloguing of the world,many important documents are not valid unless they have,affixed to them,a photograph-token of the citizen’s face.
The “realistic” view of the world compatible with bureaucracy redefines knowledge- as techniques and information. Photographs are valued because they give information. They tell one what there is; they make an inventory. To spies, meteorologists, coroners, archeologists, and other information professionals,their value is inestimable. But in the situation in which most people use photographs,the value as information is of the same order as fiction. The information that photographs can give starts to seem very important at that moment in cultural history when everyone is thought to have a right to something called news. Photographs were seen as a way of giving information to people who do not take easily to reading. The Daily News still calls itself “New York’s Picture Newspaper”, its bid for populist identity. At the opposite end of the scale, Le Monde, a newspaper designed for skilled, well-informed readers, runs no photography at all. The presumption is that, for such readers, a photograph could only illustrate the analysis contained in n article.
A new sense of the notion of information has been constructed around the photographic image. The photograph is a thin slice of space as well as time. In a world ruled by photographic images, all borders (“framing”) seem arbitrary. Anything can be separated, can be made discontinuous, from anything else all that is necessary is to frame the subject differently ( Conversely,anything can be made adjacent to anything else. Photography reinforces a nominalist view of social reality as consisting of small units of an apparently infinite number- as the number of photographs that could be taken of anything is unlimited. Through photographs, the world becomes a series of unrelated, freestanding particles; and history, past and present, a set of anecdotes and faits divers. The camera makes reality atomic, manageable, and opaque. It is a view of the world which denies interconnectedness, continuity, but which confers on each moment the character of a mystery. Any photograph has multiple meanings, indeed, to see something in the form of a photograph is to encounter a potential object of fascination. The ultimate wisdom of the photograph image is to say: “There is surface. Now think- or rather feel, intuit- what is beyond it, what the reality must be like if it looks this way.” Photographs, which cannot themselves explain anything, are inexhaustible invitations to deduction, speculation, and fantasy.
Photography implies that we know about the world if we accept it as camera records it. But this is the opposite of understanding, which starts from not accepting the world as it looks. All possibility of understanding is rooted in the ability to say no. Strictly speaking, one never understands anything from a photograph. Of course, photographs fill in blanks in our mental pictures of the present and the past: for example, Jacob Riis’s images of New York squalor in the 1880s are sharply instructive to those unaware that urban poverty in late-nineteenth- century America was really that Dickensian. Nevertheless, the camera’s rendering of reality must always hide more than it discloses. As Brecht points out, a photograph of the Krupp works reveals virtually nothing about that organization. In contrast to the amorous relation, which is based on how it functions. And functioning takes place in time, and must be explained in time. Only that which narrates can make us understand.
The limit of photographic knowledge of the world is that, while it can goad conscience, it can, finally, never be ethical or political knowledge. The knowledge gained through still photographs will always be some kind of sentimentalism, whenever cynical or humanist. It will be a knowledge at bargains prices- a semblance of knowledge, a semblance of wisdom; as the act of taking pictures is a semblance of appropriation, a semblance of rape. The very muteness of what is, hypothetically, comprehensive in photographs is what constitute their attraction and provocativeness. The omnipresence of photographs has an incalculable effect on our ethical sensibility. By furnishing this already crowded world whit a duplicate one of images, photography makes us feel that the world is more available than it really is.
Needing to ha reality confirmed and experience enhanced by photographs is an aesthetic consumerism to which everyone is now addicted. Industrial societies turn their citizens into image-junkies; it is the most irresistible form of mental pollution. Poignant longings for beauty, for an end to probing below the surface, for a redemption and celebration of the body of the world- all these elements of erotic feeling are affirmed in the pleasure we take in photographs. But other, less liberating feelings are expressed as well. It would not be wrong to speak of people having a compulsion to photograph: to turn experience itself into a way of seeing. Ultimately, having an experience becomes identical with taking a photograph of it, and participating in a public event comes more and more equivalent to looking at it in photographed form. That most logical of nineteenth-century aesthetes, Mallarmè, said that everything in the world exists in order to end in a book. Today everything exists to end in a photograph.
Taken from “On Photography”by Susan Sontag,1977

Jacob Riis
Jacob Riis
Jacob Riis
Jacob Riis

Jacob August Riis (May 3, 1849 – May 26, 1914),Danish American social reformer, “muckraking” journalist and social documentary photographer (New York based photographer)

(Ballyshannon,County Donegal,Ireland 2 March 1948–London,UK,14 June 1995)

Rory Gallagher | The Official Website.

you so drumming pink Twink


Twink (musician) – Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia.

Following the Rabbit PlayList [Warning:Digging Deep Large Holes Here]

  1. Pink FloydInterstellar Overdrive
  2. King Crimson- Indiscipline
  3. Fusion Orchestra – Sonata In Z
  4. Hawkwind – Mirror Of Illusion
  5. Magma – Kobaïa
  6. Etna-Sentimental Lewdness(for me especially)
  7. Jukka Tolonen – Ramblin
  8. PSI – Horizonte
  9. Soft Machine – Moon in June (for me especially )
  10. Sweet Smoke-Darkness to Light (Amen)

Deal Bonus: Frank Zappa – Fifty-Fifty

Barbecuing on a Lovely Sunny Sunday PlayList

  1. Johnny Cymbal – “Mr Bass Man”
  2. The Beach Boys – How She Boogalooed It
  3.  Small Faces -Sunday Afternoon
  4. The Animals -You pretty thing
  5. The KinksAll Day and All of the Night
  6. The Staggers – Wild Teens
  7. The Sonics – Psycho
  8. The WhoMy Generation
  9. The Pretty Things – Come See Me
  10. The Satelliters – Lost In Time

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