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Lazing On A 60s Sunday Afternoon

The Four Lads – The Girl On Page 44
Perry Como – Like Young
Bo Diddley – Ride On, Josephine
The Chordettes – Lollipop
The Shirelles – Mamma Said
Connie FrancisLipstick On Your Collar
Paul Anka – Oh Carol
Chuck Berry – Ramona Say Yes
Chuck Berry – Johnny B. Goode
Bill Haley – Rock Around The Clock
Buddy Holly – Maybe Baby
Frank Zappa – I’m So Happy I Could Cry

A STATELESS PLAYLIST

Illustration by Cristiana Couceiro

Stateless è una band inglese di Leeds che suona electronic alternative rock e mi è stata presentata da mia sorella qualche tempo fa. La particolarità dei Stateless consiste nelle sonorità, piuttosto ricercate e di grande effetto, distinguibili specialmente per i frequenti contrasti, tonalità scure a suoni morbidi poi alterati.
Ho scelto alcuni dei loro brani che mi piacciono maggiormente e sono stati tratti dagli album The Bloodstream (2005), Stateless (2007) e Matilda (2011). Da ascoltarsi quando si è dell’umore giusto. Sceglierete voi quale.

Stateless – Blue Fire feat Amenta
Stateless – Ariel
Stateless – I shall Not Complain
Stateless – Prism #1
Stateless – Bloodstream
Stateless – Running Out
Stateless – Exit
Stateless – Ballad Of NGB
Stateless – Assassinations

I LET IT BLEED

ascoltare su youtube la versione integrale di Let it Bleed mi fa quasi dimenticare ero riuscita a trovarlo in vinile trascorrendo ore, giorni, a spulciare tra gli scaffali di decine di shop a Camden.
Voglio pensare riuscirò ad averlo in una seconda vita. Di più, in una seconda vita io sarò la batterista dei Rolling Stones. I got the silver.

The Rolling Stones – Let It Bleed (1969)
Track Listing
01 00:00 “Gimme Shelter”
02 04:29 “Love in Vain”
03 08:47 “Country Honk”
04 11:54 “Live with Me”
05 15:26 “Let It Bleed”
06 20:52 “Midnight Rambler”
07 27:44 “You Got the Silver”
08 30:34 “Monkey Man”
09 34:43 “You Can’t Always Get What You Want”

Blues My Naughty Sweetie Gives To Me

Sidney Bechet – Blues My Naughty Sweetie Gives To Me
Django Reinhardt – I’ll See You In My Dreams
Bing CrosbySweet Georgia Brown
Bing Crosby – Some Of These Days
Oscar Peterson & The Stephane Grappelli Quartet – If I Had You
Joe Pass & Ella Fitzgerald – Days of Wine and Roses
Joe Pass & Ella Fitzgerald – Blue and Sentimental
Nancy Wilson – Satin Doll
Billie Holiday – One for my Baby (And One More For The Road)
Dinah Washington – Drinking Again

Kung Fu

Chet and Halema – William Claxton

non resisto, si Chet, Let’s get lost, Let’s get lost una volta per tutte. Andiamo via, lontano, altrove. Ovunque vuoi tu.
Capitano anche a voi di quei momenti in cui ascoltate Since I fell for you della Simone, vi prende una certa malinconia e balza allo sguardo l’esatta visione del vostro futuro, uno squash nella devil’s kitchen di New York, una finestra a bocca spalancata nel buio della notte, un metà novembre di un giorno qualunque, una poltrona foderata di velluto viola, una bottiglia vuota di tamarindo, un gatto allampanato e nero appallottolato nel tappeto a scacchi, il ticchettio della pioggia e il braccio nudo di un fantasma coi bigodini, non Bettie Page in pensione, un fantasma abbruttito dalla solitudine, una sigaretta tra le dita e la foto del primo amore incorniciata e consacrata in un altarino, orchidee fresche, lucine a cuoricini, coniglietti bianchi di peluche, bigliettini rosa in carta riciclata. Lucky buiscuits. Vito, 14 anni, divorziato/defunto. Vito ti saluto e auguro ogni bene, ma perchè non hai mai voluto amarmi? E lo so che Martina aveva le tettine più grandi delle mie, ma io avevo solo 9 anni, come facevo ad avere le tettine a 9 anni, perchè non ti sono mai piaciuti i miei disegnini
Ecco, è in momenti come questo che bisogna avere in casa del buon whiskey, un pugnetto d’erba e la compagnia del disco giusto. Il vostro non è romanticismo, non è neanche nostalgia. O si tratta di isteria, è luna piena, aspettate il ciclo. O dovete darci un taglio, assumere la posizione del panda  e ascoltare Curtis Mayfield, in meditazione

Pleasure is often spoiled by describing it – Stendhal

Christian Northeast

‘The ox becomes furious if a red cloth is shown to him; but the philosopher, who speaks of colour only in a general way, begins to rave’Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (*)

L’800, il secolo delle isterie. Ho iniziato a leggere un saggio di Goethe, Theory of Colours, del 1810, nel quale lo scrittore s’impunta, ci tiene, a smentire una teoria messa a punto da Newton nel 1704 e presentata nell’ Opticks: or a treatise of the reflexions, refractions, inflexions and colours of light’, considerato un caposaldo della letteratura scientifica (che io non ho letto).
Ho un po’ di pudore a dirlo ma sono dell’opinione non si dovrebbero mai scrivere libri quando si è al picco dell’innamoramento, un po’sudati, sovraeccitati, fuori controllo e disposti persino a negare l’evidenza; Newton considera la luce un cono bianco che proiettato attraverso un prisma dà esito a sette fasci di colore puro: rosso, arancione, giallo, verde, blu, indigo, viola (se avete presente la copertina di The dark side of the Moon). Goethe ci pensa sopra, si offende prima, lo snobba (come lo snobba)

‘Along with the rest of the world I was convinced that all the colours are contained in the light; no one had ever told me anything different, and I had never found the least cause to doubt it, because I had no further interest in the subject.’ (**)

e ‘Adesso ti sistemo io’, scrive un saggio dettagliatissimo al pari di Opticks in cui intende dimostrare, punto per punto, l’incantesimo della luce, gamma pressochè infinita di sfumature che attraverso lo spettro dell’anima, consentono allo sguardo di contemplare il mondo in posa estatica, al picco di una sindrome di Stendhal, soggiogati da un sortilegio, un idillio, al culmine della Lisztomania, rapiti da un incanto che è la vita a colori. Bha. E’ chiaro i romantici non vivevano in uno squash di periferia no furniture included a due passi da una zona industriale.
Eppure questa  Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2  scritta da Franz Liszt nel 1847 è talmente incantevole da rapire in un sogno. Pare Liszt abbia creato incredibile ammirazione ed estasi fra i suoi fan, una manata di isterici idealisti in lista dagli analisti nel ‘900.
L’800, il secolo dell’estasi.

(*)(**) taken from Theory of Colours, by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, 1810

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.

Elefanti, a colazione

Va bene, ho capito, lo so. Sono al verde. Da quando m’è preso gusto a parlare con le carte non fanno che uscire denari a rovescio.
Ahi, que dolor
In compenso l’Imperatore, una figura compassata, paterna e all’occorrenza patrigna. Dev’essere Annibale. The Emperor, The Cat.
L’altro mattino l’ho incontrato in giardino. Miaow, mi fa. How miaow are you, Annibalotto?
Poteste ammirare l’imperturbabilità zen di questo gatto, que charme, que strafottenza, que furfanteria. Da non crederci. Lo smuove niente. Niente ma la colazione, il pane raffermo del giorno prima? Ehe The Emperor si nutre solo di prelibatezze da gourmet, altro que, vecchia birba.
Spiacente Annibalotto, caschi male, non c’è trippa per i gatti. Piove, governo ladro.
Certo lavoro non mi manca per niente e da disoccupati si sta che è una meraviglia, ho persino ripreso a dormire quasi regolarmente, m’è venuto un certo appetito.
Sveglia alle 3.30, caffè a letto, Art Blakey a colazione, quell’uzza del primo mattino, che non sa se imbronciasse (è così che dite voi romani?) o fare l’occhiolino, Annibale nel giardino.
C’è sempre di mezzo Annibale nel giardino, nell’uzza del primo mattino. Miaow.
Che dici, Annibalotto?
Elefanti, a colazione. In marcia, dice Annibale.

‘If I had to be called something it should have been a folk singer’

Nina Simone photographed by Robinson Jack, via theworldofphotographers

Di Nina Simone si dice essere stata una musicista molto severa, puntuale, bad tempered, e di poche moine. Qualche tempo fa mi capitò leggere la sua autobiografia, ‘I put a spell on you’, che prende il titolo da uno dei suoi meravigliosi brani. Nel libro la Simone racconta della propria carriera, iniziata da piccolissima, al pianoforte della Chiesa locale, e conclusasi negli anni ’90 con un successo che l’ha resa famosa in tutto il mondo. Giusto nelle ultime pagine del libro la Simone fa riferimento a un episodio accaduto proprio qui a Londra, che segna la rottura con l’agente Sannucci e la cancellazione di una settimana di concerti al Ronnie Scott’s, un jazz club in Soho, dove la Simone era solita esibirsi intorno agli anni ’80. A causa della lite l’agente rientra in America da solo, la Simone si trattiene ancora in Europa, tra Liberia e Francia, Svizzera e Olanda, intanto esibendosi in concerti.
Il libro è del 1991, ed è nel Gennaio del’91 che la Simone partecipa in America a una parata per celebrare il compleanno di Martin Luther King; appena negli anni ’60 il brano Mississippi Goddam, contenuto nell’album ‘Nina Simone In Concert’, ricorda l’omicidio di Medgar Evers e il borbardamento nei pressi di una chiesa in Alabama  che costa la morte a quattro bambini neri; il brano viene recepito come una chiara denuncia al razzismo e segna un inizio nella lotta ai diritti civili portata avanti dalla Simone, che diversamente da Martin Luther King, però, invita i fratelli a ribellarsi alle armi, con le armi; anche per questo la Simone viene più volte allontanata dalla scena pubblica, sebbene nel libro viene solo fatto riferimento a un trasferimento nelle Barbados utilizzato come escamotage per non pagare le tasse e non finanziare lo stato americano, che negli anni ’60 va in guerra nel Vietnam.
Nel libro ci sono molti ricordi legati all’infanzia e alla Grande Depressione, alle ristrettezze economiche in cui versava la famiglia (otto figli), al duro apprendistato a cui prima che l’insegnante di piano sè stessa ha sottoposto attraverso rigide e ferree sedute di studio e totale dedizione alla musica;  il primo amore, la scelta di abbandonare casa per trasferirisi da sola in città, dove approfondisce gli studi di pianoforte, inizia a suonare nei locali, fa carriera come musicista e vive l’età adulta, tra palcoscenici, viaggi, casinò, champagne, antidepressivi, due matrimoni, una figlia, un divorzio, un amante ammazzato, e un’etichetta, quella della musicista jazz, che non sopporta, le rode il fegato, a tutt’oggi sono sicura farebbe impazzire, e di proprio pugno, in prima persona, nella propria autobiografia, tiene a chiarire. Un poco stizzita

‘After Town Hall critics started to talk about what sort of music I was playing and tried to find a neat slot to file it away in. It was difficult for them because I was playing popular songs in a classical style with a classical piano technique influenced by cocktail jazz. On top of that I included spirituals and children’s songs in my performances, and those sort of songs were automatically identified with the folk movement. So saying what sort of music I played gave the critics problems because there was something from everything in there, but it also meant I was appreciated across the board – by jazz, folk, pop and blues fans as well as admirers of classical music.
They finally ended up describing me as a ‘jazz-and-something-else-singer’. To me ‘jazz’ meant a way of thinking, a way of being, and the black man in America was jazz in everything he did – in the way he walked, talked, thought and acted. Jazz music was just another aspect of the whole thing, so in that sense because I was black I was a jazz singer, but in every other way I most definitely wasn’t.
Because of ‘Porgy’ people often compared me to Billie Holiday, which I hated. That was just one song out of my repertoire, and anybody who saw me perform could see we were entirely different, What made me mad was that it meant people couldn’t get past the fact we were both black: if I had happened to be white nobody would have made the connection. And I didn’t like to be put in a box with other jazz singers because my musicianship was totally different, and in its own way superior. Calling me a jazz singer was a way of ignoring my musical background because I didn’t fit into white ideas of what a black performer should be. It was a racist thing; ‘If she’s black she must be a jazz singer’. It diminished me, exactly like Langston Hughes was diminished when people called him a ‘great black poet’. Langston was a great poet period, and it was up to him and him alone to say what part the colour of his skin had to do with that.
If I had to be called something it should have been a folk singer, because there was more folk and blues than jazz in my playing.

[Taken from I put a spell on you, the autobiography of Nina Simone, with Stephen Cleary, 1991]

Conoscendo la voce della Simone ho immaginato quella fra me e il libro una chiaccherata fra estranei che viaggiano nello stesso treno vuoto, scomparto fumatori, l’una seduta di fianco all’altra. Il tono di lei è severo, delle volte gentile, delle volte amichevole, quasi mai affettuoso; la Simone guarda fuori dal finestrino, lo sguardo fermo. Ogni tanto si interrompe, si schiarisce la voce, riprende a parlare. Delle volte polemizza, ci tiene a chiarire. Avverto è impacciata, preferirebbe starsene altrove.
Basterebbe interromperla un istante e chiederle di cantare per sapere cosa è davvero successo in tutti quegli anni di lunga carriera e fede incondizionata alla Musa. Sarebbe allora che la voce della Simone tradirebbe il mito e svelerebbe la donna, sola e vulnerabile, sincera finalmente e solo attraverso la musica.

Questo scritto da John Zorn e magistralmente interpretato dal sestetto Bar Kokhba (che prende il nome da una delle tre maggiori rivolte degli ebrei della Giudea contro l’Impero Romano) , Lucifer, Book of Angels Volume 10, è parte di un conceptual project intitolato Masada ed è un album sofisticato e semplice a un tempo, che alla tradizione sefardita e ashkenazi mescola i toni caldi del mediterraneo, la solennità del deserto alla sensualità delle dune leccate dall’ombra, l’eco d’un peregrinare nel limbo
proprio un bell’album

04 Gediel, off Lucifer, Book of Angels Volume 10, composed by John Zorn and played by Bar Kokhba, NY, 2008

Lost in Thought PlayList

Eric Dolphy – Warm Canto
John Zorn – The Rain Horse
Bar Kokhba Sextet – Zechriel
Bar Kokhba Sextet – Sother
Di Meola, De lucia, Mc laughlin – Orient blue
Art Blakey & The Jazz Messengers – Oh By The Way
Art Blakey & The Jazz Messengers – In Case You Missed It
Curtis Fuller Sextet – Judyful
Ahmad Jamal – Boatride

Off Organism, by Jimi Tenor, 1999

La Notte scivola lenta su tacchi di vernice nera
un uomo ne spia l’ombra da dietro le tende
Miagola il gatto alla Luna

a kill-me-softly and mewing tune off ‘Jazz in Paris’ by Oscar Peterson & The Stephane Grappelli Quartet, 2000

è pur vero che se non piovesse tanto spesso, giornate di sole pieno come questa di oggi, non profumerebbero di fritto e giunchiglie

Off Hong Kong Garden by Siouxsie and the Banshees at their debut in 1978

whiskey, Please

Off Baby Breeze, Chet Baker, 1964
‘After a five year European sojourn (including time in an Italian jail) cool jazz trumpeter Chet Baker returned to the States in good form to record this unusual date for the Limelight label in 1964. For starters, he was playing flugelhorn, an instrument he’d recently acquired to replace a stolen trumpet in France. Secondly, the date was produced by Bobby Scott, the English composer of “A Taste Of Honey,” included here as a bonus track. Baker sings the folk-like melody with conviction, accompanied only by Scott himself on piano. In fact, Baker’s plaintive vocals on this tune and others like Mel Torme‘s “Born To be Blue” and Ray Noble‘s “The Touch Of Your Lips” represent his best singing on record in a decade.

The session is smartly divided between these minimally accompanied vocals–the understated guitarist Kenny Burrell makes a welcome appearance on some–and straight-ahead instrumentals with full combo including the fine altoist Frank Strozier. The rich-toned flugelhorn suits Baker’s characteristic lyricism and he negotiates pianist Hal Galper‘s originals with aplomb.

A reissue of the mid-’60s Verve album that featured Chet on flugelhorn in place of his recently stolen trumpet! Bob James and Kenny Burrell are on hand, as are five bonus tracks, two unissued. Includes Born to Be Blue; I Wish You Love; You’re Mine, You , and more.

via Chet Baker – Baby Breeze  Album.

Muliebre, aggettivo qualificativo

La solitudine di una donna si misura per millimetri e calcola in proporzione alla lunghezza di peli nelle gambe, nelle braccia, nel pube, moltiplicato il numero di giorni che decorrono dall’ultima depilazione
+
-il numero di volte,compensative, in cui indulge ai peccati di gola
-il monocromatismo nello scegliere cosa indossare al mattino in abbinamento all’umore
-l’innumerevole quantità di libri (non letti), DVDs, CDs, riviste, manuali, accatastata sul comodino
-un certo appetito sessuale (fattore determinante)
=
Accidia, o anche SV, Sospensione Vegetativa. Nei casi peggiori, DF, Decadenza del Femminino (da cui femminino,secondo il dizionario:ciò che vi è di spiritualmente nobile e puro nel fascino muliebre sull’animo degli uomini [Segnare muliebre nella lista nera delle parole imbarazzanti da non dire assolutamente mai a un date]).
Nei casi senza speranza, Oblomovismo.
Se però alle serate fuori,inizia a preferirsi Oscar Peterson, allora non si tratta di solitudine ma di un bisogno estremo di grazia e armonia.
E’chiaro Oscar Peterson sta suonando per voi, perchè voi vi liberiate dalle fatiche del giorno e abbandoniate ai piaceri della musica.Oscar Peterson sa come suonare i tasti giusti e allora sarà come scoprire di avere un corpo, un corpo che vibra e gioisce di piacere. Questo io chiamo farsi del bene, e Girl Talk di Oscar Peterson un gesto estremo di grazia e armonia.
Off Exclusively For My Friends, 1992

Taking It Easy Play List


Tosca – Ocean beat
Kinobe – Slip Into Something More Comfortable
De Phazz – Cafe Coca
Audio Lotion – Something Black
Index – Noon Hour Blues
Mop Mop – Jazzdancer
Metropolitan Jazz Affair – Don’t try this at home
The Apples – Shakin’
Dimitri from Paris – Talking all that Jazz (questo è per lei, Koba)

The Man With The Movie Camera

The movie, Dziga Vertov, by David Abelevich Kaufman, 1929
The tune, The Man With The Movie Camera, by Cinematic Orchestra, off Man with a Movie Camera (album), 2003

The Bi-Play List


Sapete la Musica è una di quelle a cui non dovete dire nulla che ha già rollato una manciata buona d’erba e creato l’atmosfera. La musica è un amore sempre leale, di quelli sinceri e schietti. Bara mai e sa sempre cosa vi ci vuole
Siete in fase Petra Von Kant e sul punto di sbroccare? Desert Sessions, Volume 1. A voi la scelta dello strumento da suonare
Siete dell’umore ‘ti ricordi quella volta che mi hai bucato l’orecchio con la sigaretta mentre mi baciavi’? Speak Love, Ella Fitzgerald and Joe Pass
Vi sentite che ‘quasi quasi glie la do, ma anche no’? He was a big freak, Betty Davis
Vi sentite dell’umore di Miles quando ha saputo che Betty lo ha tradito con Jimi? Bank Robbery, John Lee Hooker & Miles Davis
Siete bipolari? Vi beccate questa

AC/DC – Baby Please Don’t Go
George Gershwin – Rhapsody in Blue
The Slits – Ping Pong Affair
Miles Davis & John Coltrane – Kind of blue
Betty Davis – Anti Love Song

certi giorni, certa musica
un pensiero di pace alle donne del Sudan,
alle donne che lottano
alle donne che amano
un pensiero di pace a tutte noi, donne
Off Crystal, Ahmad Jamal, 1987

a leap of faith, in other words

The old pond A frog jumps in The sound of water. Matsuo Bashō

Like Louis Armstrong, Dizzy Gillespie, and their groups, Dave Brubeck and his first great quartet were among the first jazz musicians after World War II to travel diplomatically in the service of peace throughout the world. Armstrong released Ambassador Satch in 1955, and Brubeck released The Real Ambassadors, with Armstrong, Carmen McRae, and others, seven years later—helping, maybe, to thaw the Cold War.
From “Tokyo Traffic” to “Koto Song,” the album captures the range of lifestyles and rhythms of modern Japan, both urban and rural. The pastoral seems to appear more, with Paul Desmond’s sweet alto taking on flutelike inflections and coaxing some of Brubeck’s most delicate lyricism, though he does not neglect the piano’s more percussive possibilities. In the latter, Brubeck is kicked along by the masterful Joe Morello on percussion, the shining star of this date. Using virtually all components of the drum set—particularly the tom-tom, floor tom-tom, Chinese and Turkish cymbals, woodblock, and temple blocks—Morello evokes the spectrum of Japanese musical traditions alluded to by Brubeck in his compositions. Check Joe out on “Tokyo Traffic,” especially.
via Dave Brubeck Quartet | Jazz Impressions of Japan.

In a Space Rock Mood PlayList


Comets On Fire – Jaybird
The Mutants – Outerspace Odyssey
Hawkwind – Silver Machine
UFO – Silver Bird
Wolfmother – Cosmonaut
The Carpet Knights – Cosmical Mind
Andromeda – On Venus
Lamp of the Universe – Dream Sequence
The Cosmic Dead – Inner Circle

Some Of Those Days

La Musique des Pucese by Robert Doisneau

-Madeleine, if you please, play something on the phonograph. The one I like, you know: Some of these days.
Madeleine turns the crank on the phonograph. I only hope she has not made a mistake; that she hasn’t put on Cavalleria Rusticana, as she did the other day. But no, this is it, I recognize the melody from the very first bars. It is an old rag-time with a vocal refrain. I heard American soldiers whistle it in 1917 in the streets of LaRochelle. It must date from before the War. But the recording is much more recent. Still, it is the oldest record in the collection, a Pathe record for sapphire needle.
The vocal chorus will be along shortly: I like that part especially and the abrupt manner in which it throws itself forward, like a cliff against the sea. For the moment, the jazz is playing; there is no melody, only notes, a myriad of tiny jolts. They know no rest, an inflexible order gives birth to them and destroys them without even giving them time to recuperate and exist for themselves. They race, they press forward, they strike me a sharp blow in passing and are obliterated. I would like to hold them back, but I know if I succeeded in stopping one it would remain between my fingers only as a raffish languishing sound. I must accept their death; I must even will it. I know few impressions stronger or more harsh.
I grow warm, I begin to feel happy. There is nothing extraordinary in this, it is a small happiness of Nausea: it spreads at the bottom of the viscous puddle, at the bottom of our time—the time of purple suspenders and broken chair seats; it is made of wide, soft instants, spreading at the edge, like an oil stain. No sooner than born, it is already old, it seems as though I have known it for twenty years.
There is another happiness: outside there is this band of steel, the narrow duration of the music which traverses our time through and through, rejecting it, tearing at it with its dry little points; there is another time.
“Monsieur Randu plays hearts..and you play an ace.
The voice dies away and disappears. Nothing bites on the ribbon of steel, neither the opening door, nor the breath of cold air flowing over my knees, nor the arrival of the veterinary surgeon and his little girl: the music transpierces these vague figures and passes through them. Barely seated, the girl has been seized by it: she holds herself stiffly, her eyes wide open; she listens, rubbing the table with her fist.
A few seconds more and the Negress will sing. It seems inevitable, so strong is the necessity of this music: nothing can interrupt it, nothing which comes from this time in which the world has fallen; it will stop of itself, as if by order. If I love this beautiful voice it is especially because of that: it is neither for its fulness nor its sadness, rather because it is the event for which so many notes have been preparing, from so far away, dying that it might be born. And yet I am troubled; it would take so little to make the record stop: a broken spring, the whim of Cousin Adolphe. How strange it is, how moving, that this hardness should be so fragile. Nothing can interrupt it yet all can break it.
The last chord has died away. In the brief silence which follows I feel strongly that there it is, that something has happened.
Some of these days You’ll miss me honey
What has just happened is that the Nausea has disappeared. When the voice was heard in the silence, I felt my body harden and the Nausea vanish. Suddenly: it was almost unbearable to become so hard, so brilliant. At the same time the music was drawn out, dilated, swelled like a waterspout. It filled the room with its metallic transparency, crushing our miserable time against the walls. I am in the music. Globes of fire turn in the mirrors; encircled by rings of smoke, veiling and unveiling the hard smile of light. My glass of beer has shrunk, it seems heaped up on the table, it looks dense and indispensable. I want to pick it up and feel the weight of it, I stretch out my hand..God! That is what has changed, my gestures. This movement of my arm has developed like a majestic theme, it has glided along the song of the Negress; I seemed to be dancing.
Adolphe’s face is there, set against the chocolate-coloured wall; he seems quite close. Just at the moment when my hand closed, I saw his face; it witnessed to the necessity of a conclusion. I press my fingers against the glass, I look at Adolphe: I am happy.
-Wow
A voice rises from the tumult. My neighbour is speaking, the old man burns. His cheeks make a violet stain on the brown leather of the bench. He slaps a card down on the table. Diamonds.
But the dog-faced young man smiles. The flushed opponent, bent over the table, watches him like a cat ready to spring.
“Et voila!”
The hand of the young man rises from the shadow, glides an instant, white, indolent, then suddenly drops like a hawk and presses a card against the cloth. The great red-faced man leaps up:”Hell! He’s trumped.”
The outline of the king of hearts appears between his curled fingers, then it is turned on its face and the game goes on. Mighty king, come from so far, prepared by so many combinations, by so many vanished gestures. He disappears in turn so that other combinations can be born, other gestures,attacks, counterattacks, turns of luck, a crowd of small adventures.
I am touched, I feel my body at rest like a precision machine. I have had real adventures. I can recapture no detail but I perceive the rigorous succession of circumstances. I have crossed seas, left cities behind me, followed the course of rivers or plunged into forests, always making my way towards other cities. I have had women, I have fought with men; and never was I able to turn back,any more than a record can be reversed. And all that led me—where? At this very instant, on this bench, in this translucent bubble all humming with music.
And when you leave me
Yes, I who loved so much to sit on the banks of the Tiber at Rome, or in the evening, in Barcelona, ascend and descend the Ramblas a hundred times, I, who near Angkor, on the island of Baray Prah-Kan, saw a banyan tree knot its roots about a Naga chapel, I am here, living in the same second as these card players, I listen to a Negress sing while outside roves the feeble night.
The record stops.
Night has entered, sweetish, hesitant. No one sees it, but it is there, veiling the lamps; I breathe something opaque in the air: it is night. It is cold. One of the players pushes a disordered pack of cards towards another man who picks them up. One card has stayed behind. Don’t they see it? It’s the nine of hearts. Someone takes it at last, gives it to the dog-faced young man.
“Ah. The nine of hearts.”
Enough, I’m going to leave. The purple-faced man bends over a sheet of paper and sucks his pencil. Madeleine watches him with clear, empty eyes. The young man turns and turns the nine of hearts between his fingers. God! . . .
I get up with difficulty; I see an inhuman face glide in the mirror above the veterinary’s head. In a little while I’ll go to the cinema.
Jean – Paul Sartre, Nausea, 1938.

Coffee and Cigarettes Break PlayList

Coffee and Cigarettes – A movie directed by Jim Jarmusch, 2003

Joe Strummer & The Mescaleros – Midnight Jam
Nerves Junior – As Bright as Your Night Light
The Broken Vinyl Club – Spin Around
Iggy Pop – Lust For Life
John’s Children – I Got The Buzz
Matt Berry – So low

About the Art Of The Novel


Invito Milan Kundera a uno shisha hour in una coffeehouse in Nowhere Street. L’appuntamento è alle diciotto, ma io mi presento in anticipo di mezz’ora; al mio arrivo, Kundera siede già al tavolo che ho riservato per noi, fuori in un Vasto Giardino, come piace a lui . Sorseggia maroccam mint tea, gioca a scacchi contro Il Turco. Un vecchio grammofono polveroso suona un pezzo di Lady Gogo.
Perchè so Kundera un appassionato di jazz, mi presento all’appuntamento con in mano un vecchio vinile dei Soft Machine. Seven, del 1974. Mi dico sorpresa di essere arrivata in ritardo, pur essendo in anticipo. Kundera sorride, si compiace della mia apprensione, e invita a sedere di fianco al Turco.
Chiedo a Kundera se al momento sta leggendo niente di interessante, e questi mi risponde ‘Smatrex M-788NK, Il manuale delle istruzioni’ (per chi non lo sapesse ancora, lo Smatrex M-788NK è un androide di ultima generazione, CGV di precisione, FVB 77 a raggi UV, KMb1 ad alta risoluzione, NGU2 termoregolabile, connessione YVeta a FGH78 e 678 uscite BX, che oltre a funzionare da apparecchio telefonico, stira, cucina, lava, e si ricarica nel microonde in appena un nano-secondo)
La provocazione è sottile e allude al catastrofismo teoretico mosso da Husserls e posto a dibattito da Kundera nel primo capitolo del saggio ‘The Art Of The Novel’ , del 1988.
In una celebre lettura del 1935, Edmund Husserl parla di una crisi dell’umanità europea che ha influenzato negativamente le arti. Secondo il padre della fenomenologia, questa crisi è iniziata nell’Età Moderna, con Galileo e Descartes, e l’acquisizione, da parte dell’uomo, di un primato sulla natura
“Once elevated by Descartes to ‘master and proprietor of nature’, man has now become a mere thing to the forces (of technology, of politics, of history) that bypass him, surpass him, possess him. To those forces, man’s concrete being, his ‘world of life’ (die Lebenswelt), has neither value nor interest: it is eclipsed, forgotten from the start.”
“The rise of the sciences propelled man into the tunnels of specialized disciplines. The more he advanced in knowledge, the less clearly could he see either the world as a whole or his own self, and he plunged further into what Husserl’s pupil Heidegger called, in a beautiful and almost magical phrase, ‘the forgetting of being’.
“Indeed, all the great existential themes Heidegger analyzes in Being and Time- considering them to have been neglected by all earlier European philosophy– had been unveiled, displayed, illuminated by four centuries of the novel (four centuries of European reincarnation of the novel). In its own way, throught its own logic, the novel discovered the various dimension of existence one by one: with Cervantes and his contemporaries, it inquires into the nature of adventure; with Richardson, it begins to examine “what happens inside”, to unmask the secret life of the feelings; with Balzac, it discovers man’s rootedness in history; with Flaubert, it explores the terra previously incognita of the everyday; with Tolstoy, it focuses on decisions. It probes time: the elusive past with Proust, the elusive present with Joyce. With Thomas Mann, it examines the role of the myths from the remote past that control our present actions. Et cetera, et cetera.’
Secondo Kundera, anticipatore dell’Età Moderna non è solo Descartes, ma anche Cervantes
‘Perhaps it is Cervantes whom the two phenomenologists neglected to take into consideration in their judgment of the Modern Era. By that I mean: if it is true that philosophy and science have forgotten about man’s being, it emerges all the more plainly that with Cervantes a great European art took shape that is nothing other than the investigation of this forgotten being.’
[3.]’As God slowly departed from the seat whence he had directed the universe and its order of value, distinguished good from evil, and endowed each thing with meaning, Don Quixote set forth from his house into a world he could no longer recognize. In the absence of the Supreme Judge, the world suddenly appeared in its fearsome ambiguity; the single divine Truth decomposed into myriad relative truths parceled out by men. Thus was born the world of the Modern Era, and with it the novel, the image and model of that world.
To take, with Descartes, the thinking self as the basis of everything, and thus to face the universe alone, is to adopt an attitude that Hegel was right to call heroic. To take, with Cervantes, the world as ambiguity, to be obliged to face not a single absolute truth but a welter of contradictory truths (truths embodied in imaginary selves called characters), to have as one’s only certainty the wisdom of uncertainty, requires no less courage.
What does Cervantes’ great novel mean? Much has been written on the question. Some see in it a rationalist critique of Don Quixote’ s hazy idealism. Others see it as a celebration of that same idealism. Both interpretations are mistaken because they both seek at the novel’s core not an inquiry but a moral position.
Man desires a world where good and evil can be clearly distinguished, for he has an innate and irrepressible desire to judge before he understands. Religions and ideologies are founded on this desire. They can cope with the novel only by translating its language of relativity and ambiguity into their own apodictic and dogmatic discourse. They require that someone be right: either Anna Karenina is the victim of a narrow- minded tyrant, or Karenin is the victim of an immoral woman; either K. is an innocent man crushed by an unjust Court, or the Court represents divine justice and K. is guilty.
This ‘either- or’ encapsulates an inability to tolerate the essential relativity of things human, an inability to look squarely at the absence of the Supreme Judge. This inability makes the novel’s wisdom ( the wisdom of uncertainty) hard to accept and understand.
[4.]’Don Quixote set off into a world that opened wide before him. He could go out freely and come home as he pleased. The early European novels are journeys through an apparently unlimited world. The opening of Jacques le Fataliste comes upon the two heroes in mid- journey; we don’t know where they’ve come from or where they’re going. They exist in a time without beginning or end, in a space without frontiers, in the midst of a Europe whose future will never end.
Half a century after Diderot, in Balzac, the distant horizon has disappeared like a landscape behind those modern structures, the social institutions: the police, the law, the world of money and crime, the army, the State. In Balzac’s world, time no longer idles happily by as it does for Cervantes and Diderot. It has set forth on the train called History. The train is easy to board, hard to leave. But it isn’t at all fearsome yet, it even has its appeal; it promises adventure to every passenger, and with it fame and fortune.
Later still, for Emma Bovary, the horizon shrinks to the point of seeming a barrier. Adventure lies beyond it, and the longing becomes intolerable. Within the monotony of the quotidian, dreams and daydreams take on importance. The lost infinity of the outside world is replaced by the infinity of the soul. The great illusion of the irreplaceable uniqueness of the individual- one of the Europe’s finest illusion- blossoms forth.
But the dream of the soul’s infinity loses its magic when History (or what remains of it: the suprahuman force of an omnipotent society) takes hold of man. History no longer promises him fame and fortune; it barely promises him a land- surveyor’s job. In the face of the Court or the Castle, what can K.do? Not much. Can’t he at least dream as Emma Bovary used to do? No, the situation’s trap is too terrible, and like a vacuum cleaner it sucks up all his thoughts and feelings: all he can think of is his trial, his surveying job. The infinity of the soul- if it ever existed- has become a nearly useless appendage.’
Non c’è grandezza nelle miserie della vita, nè possibilità di fuga dal mondo. La realtà manca di poesia, gli uomini di coraggio. Don Chisciotte è stato arrestato alla frontiera, K. processato in televisione, Winston Smith ingaggiato alla conduzione di un nuovo reality show. ‘How to make money’ figura ancora al primo posto nella classifica dei libri più letti in formato digitale.
Chiedo a Kundera che ruolo avrebbe la letteratura in tutto questo, quale sarebbe la ragione d’essere di un romanzo
‘The sole raison d’etre of a novel is to discover what only the novel can discover. A novel that does not discover a hitherto unknown segment of existence is immoral. Knowledge is the novel’s only morality.’
Kundera si prende sul serio.
Delle volte mi chiedo come sarà la letteratura del futuro ( non intendo la sci-fiction). Il linguaggio di ciascuno di noi si evolve ogni giorno arricchito di parole nuove, un vocabolario criptato a noi fino a prima di adesso del tutto sconosciuto e in alcuni casi ancora incomprensibile. La realtà muta di forma e sostanza, e noi con essa, in un processo di metamorfosi sociale e culturale, perpetua e incoercibile. Ci si incontra e innamora su internet, si comunica by email, si viene assunti su Skype, licenziati su Facebook, mollati su Twitter. Chiedo a Kundera come immagina la letteratura del futuro, quali i conflitti, le tensioni ideali rispetto al contesto storico, i dialoghi, l’atmosfera, i luoghi. Ma Kundera non mi ascolta neanche più, ha appena scoperto di avere Hungry Bird nel telefonino.
Quanto al Turco, sparito. Con la gynoid seduta al tavolo di fianco al nostro.

Texts entirely taken from ‘The Art of the Novel’, Milan Kundera, 1988
Paris Review – The Art of Fiction No. 81, Milan Kundera.

Block, off Seven, Soft Machine, 1974

When stormy seas surround,
You can choose to turn away,
Or test yourself and step out into the waves

music loves me
02 Orient Blue, off Passion, Grace and Fire by Al Di Meola, Paco De Lucia, John McLaughlin (1983)

One for Us, One for the Road, One for the Moon

ai Pirati e ai Marinai
alle Zingare e ai Poeti
alle Sirene e alle Ballerine
alla Notte e al Mare
Al Circo e alla Strada
Cheers alla nostra, e alla Luna
A quest’anno, che ci porterà fortuna
Have a dancing one
much Love

Off Filmworks XII, 2002, by John Zorn

certi giorni, certa musica
Off Dedalo, Gianluigi Trovesi, 2002

Off Seven Day Weekend, by New York Dolls.The tracks were recorded at Planet Studios in 1973 although the collection was not released until 1992 (wk)

Hyperuranian #3 The Funnel Wall


Sounds like here in Dresden the rain is lots of fun
think about one of this drain and gutter system attached to each single house of the whole vast world, what a crazy gig
It’s called The Funnel Wall and can be seen and heard in Kunsthofpassage, a Dresden’s student district in Deutschland
[image credit: boredpanda]

The Importance Of Music To Girls

Questo di Lavinia Greenlaw (poetessa, novellista, giornalista inglese, di Londra) è una compilation di racconti a tinte pop, in forma di diario, con a tema centrale la musica e i ricordi d’adolescenza e d’infanzia, ad essa legati; la prima volta che la scrittrice si innamora, le scorribande con gli amici, le cacce all’ultimo Lp punk, la volta in cui balla un waltz piedi-sui-piedi del padre, tema del primo racconto d’apertura al libro.
Lavinia Greenlaw racconta dell’importanza della musica nella sua vita
‘If I had not kissed anyone, or danced with anyone, or had a reason to cry, the music made me feel as if I had gone through all that anyway’

  My papa’s waltz

The hand that held my wrist
Was battered on one knuckle;
At every step you missed
My right ear scraped a buckle.
Theodore Roethke, ‘My Papa’s Waltz’

I remember the dancing of my earliest years in silence, as about the body alone. My father must have hummed a tune as I stood on his shoes and he waltzed me, but what I remember are the giant steps I was suddenly making. The world rose up under one foot and pushed my body to one side as that foot set off in a high violent arc. I didn’t know if I was going to be able to follow but at the last moment the world gathered up the rest of me. And so it went on: the world pulled and shoved while I lurched and stretched.
This was not a gentle game, which was why we four children loved it. We liked to be thrown about- by a rollercoaster, slide or swing, in a rough sea, on a trampoline, or by grownups who in moving us at their force and speed, gave us a taste of the dimensions of adult life. We had a young uncle who played less carefully than my father. He would take me by the hands and spin me round like a teacloth full of wet lettuce until I thought my arms would be wrenched from their sockets. As the pain bunched in my shoulders and my brain shrank, I was amazed that such movement was possible. I wasn’t scared. I knew that I could break and had an idea of what it felt like to break, but I also knew I wasn’t going to.
The waltz was more interesting than other such games because its force had to be met. It depended upon the tension between trying not to move and letting yourself be moved. I trod down hard on my father’s shoes, braced my arms and dug my nails into his shirt-cuffs like someone finding a hold on a cliff. This is the starting point of dance: something- the music, the steps, your partner- holds you but you also have to hold it and to achieve the necessary tension, hold yourself against it.
A lot of my childhood was about being held back or slowed down. It took hours to leave the house as to get us all ready, and keep us ready, was like trying to keep four plates spinning. Someone lost a glove or refused their coat, was cross or hungry or needed a clean nanny. We spent a lot of time waiting -to be delivered or collected, for the school day to end or the night to be over. We moved in caravan formation and at the speed of camels, taking two days to drive the 250 miles from London to the west coast of Wales, pottering along in a pair of Morris Travellers.
Once released, we were fizzy and impatient. If something was high we climbed it and jumped off; if it was steep we hurtled down it on cycles, sledges or trays. We ran or rolled down any hill we came to regardless of nettles, glass, dog shit or stones. If the landscape filled up with rain, leaves, fog or snow, we continued to move through it as fast as we could, not fearing what might now be concealed.
Every now and then the world gathered itself in refusal. I slammed into it and got hurt. At four, I went down a slide sucking on a bamboo garden cane which hit the ground before I did. The top two inches jammed into the roof of my mouth and I stood over a basin and watched it fill up with blood, feeling nothing, interested only in my sister offering me a teddy bear she would not normally part with. When I woke up after the operation to remove the piece of cane, I was curious only about the coal fire opposite my bed and the taste of hospital ice-cream.
For a long time, this accident was just something that had happened to my mouth. Other people had to make the connections for me.
‘That cane was lodged very close to your brain,’my mother later said. ‘We could tell you were more or less alright but the surgeons didn’t know if they could remove it without doing any damage.’
My brother added, ‘It’s why people shoot themselves that way.’
‘And it could have affected your speech,’ continued my mother,’ by changing the shape of the roof of your mouth.’
Being pushed out of shape made me realise that I had a shape to return to, like my toy cat who sat on a drum and whose parts were kept in tension by elastic. If I pressed the underneath of the drum, the cat fell to its knees or slumped to one side. I let go and the cat sprang to one side as if jiving. I was fascinated by the instant way it changed shape and then snapped back, and by the ambiguity of its bright little face- so eager to please and yet so imperturbable.
My body had felt like that of the toy cat, an arrangement of parts. I would watch my hand touch the bar of an electric fire or my foot trad on a nail, and discover that they belonged to me. I now knew that my mouth shaped my voice and that my brain was right there, just above it. I saw this most clearly thirty years later on a X-ray which showed that instead of arching back to cradle my skull, the vertebrate at the top of my spine thrust my head forward. In that accident, my head had been thrown back so abruptly that it had been compensating ever since, leaving me with the feeling of being precipitate, of tipping into rather than entering the next moment, thought or sentence.
So the body adds up and the world reminds you of the body’s limits, although it can be surprisingly kind. At eight I jumped through a window and can still remember how the glass billowed and held me before it exploded. I was mid-air, I had escaped the person I was running away from, and I was being held. Nothing has seemed as peaceful since. I stepped out of that ring of shattered glass like a corpse from a chalk silhouette and walked away with a cut on each knee.
These collisions with the world taught me its substance and laws as well as my own. I had danced before I knew what my body was, and did not understand what moved me. It was not music yet.
Taken from The Importance of Music to Girls, by Lavinia Greenlaw, 2007
The web site of poet and novelist Lavinia Greenlaw.

Hermeto Pascoal: The whole world in his hands | Music | The Guardian

“Lots of artists of my age are stopping – I feel like I am just starting,” he says, in his distinctive north-eastern accent. “In my head, there is always more stuff. Wouldn’t it just be really tedious if a bunch of old guys from my generation all died or fell asleep on the stage? Our primary concern is innovation.”

via Hermeto Pascoal: The whole world in his hands | Music | The Guardian.

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

not covered for ideas plagiarism #3


qualche tempo fa pubblicai un post circa le più belle copertine d’album, e una galleria di vinili a cui, in qualche maniera, sono affezionata; un paio di links a blogs di collezionisti, in aggiunta.
Ieri ho trovato l’immagine di un album, di Joe Simon, che è all’origine di questo post:
The most awkward album covers ever seen on the internet
(Cugini di Campagna in testa 😀 )

Questo slideshow richiede JavaScript.

More to come!

London Jazz Festival 2011

E’ iniziato ieri il London Jazz Festival, nove giorni di concerti ed eventi dedicati al jazz e ai più grandi musicisti contemporanei; fra questi Matthew Halsall, trobettista inglese, di Manchester, che andrò a vedere in concerto lunedì notte, al Barfly.
Questi i links per seguire l’evento
Jazz, World and Contemporary Music • London Jazz Festival.
London Jazz Festival 2008.
questo il link del jazzwise, a british and cool jazz zine
Jazzwise Magazine.
Di Matthew Halsall,’Music For A Dancing Mind’, off l’album ‘On The Go’, di quest’anno.
Se c’è una cosa che più di tutte mi piace, del jazz, è l’umore- lunare. E il temperamento, impulsivo.
A tratti furioso, a tratti malinconico. Irrequieto.
Slancio di nervi e passione. Scatto d’ira, e gioia, e follia.
Come in questo pezzo.

Certain nights the Night
A few notes of wine
and a vinyl player
,whispering a tune only for you.
And you.

From the album Virtuoso, 1972
Stunning the album ‘Speak Love’ by Joe Pass and Ella Fitzgerald, 1983

Sittin’ in the mornin’ sun

un giorno la pacchia finisce.
coloro che amate ripartono
voi, state
Se non foste testarde,
(ma lo siete)
ridicolmente orgogliose
talmente cocciute, e ostili
Allora, ammettereste avere nostalgia
.di Casa

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

off Animalize, 1984
ci fosse una mattina, di quelle che la sveglia suona alle 3.30 e il titititì dell’allarme segna il timer a una maratona a ostacoli,velocità, resistenza
tutto un lavati, vestiti, truccati, affrettati run! jump! catch! grab! carry on! keep on going!
fino a sera, all’arrivo, alla strenua. A lingua in fuori, sguardo spento, memoria dati-esaurita.
dico, ci fosse una sola mattina, una, che ti svegli con la messainpiega dei Kiss
,a facilitarti le cose

In a Tuesday Mood PlayList


Ron Holloway & Gil Scott-Heron – Is That Jazz
Gil Scott Heron – Inner city blues
Shuggie Otis– Island Letter
Quincy JonesBody Heat
Tony Allen – Calling
Terry Callier – Ordinary Joe
Marlena ShawCalifornia Soul
Curtis MayfieldSuperfly
Maxayn- Check Out Your Mind
Betty Davis- Your Mama Wants Ya Back
Betty Davis – They say I am different
Funkadelic – Can You Get To That

Life can sound particularly good certain times

Love is being told such a soulful and kind tale
by Michael Kiwanuka, off The Isle of Wight Sessions,2011

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

Fourth track from Green’s “Talkin’ About” album, Blue Note Records 1964

l’ultima volta che l’ho incontrato tirava inverno,camminavo la notte vestita d’un sorriso di niente,un’orchidea tra i capelli; piovigginava, me lo ricordo, e dovetti percorrere il doppio degli anni per ritrovarlo perduto, sul ciglio della strada e abbandonato,un amore bello e malato,vagabondo e gitano,sacro e blesfemo,come quello
non conosci dell’Amore finchè non ti sorride negli occhi e ingenuo racconta la più dolce delle bugie,la più deliziosa e spietata delle verità

-it’s time to find a way

taken from the album ‘The hard Way’,James Hunter
[good wednesday resolutions]

Love is Alfredo’s drums and Dav Catching’s bass in this killer tune
*taken from the musical collective series ‘Desert Session’,VOL 1-Instrumental Driving Music for Felons,1997

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