belle moisson, cette semaine... dee dee bridgewater et jacky terrasson reviennent en très grande forme dans deux albums d'une beauté sidérante... elle tente avec brio une recherche de la trace de ses origines malienne en métissant son langage... lui, nous offre un autoportrait saisissant... un retour à la magnifique sonorité qui était la sienne...
histoire de m'oxygéner les neurones... et de me réchauffer entre amis... vive les bauges ! vive la fougère ! joyeux anniversaires, mon banafouf et mireille !
LA scène de judy g... comment atteindre le niveau d'un mythe... cette scène est brève, ahurissante, inoubliable, inimitable et par là même souvent imitée... je vois difficilement comment aller plus loin dans le cinéma... (remarquez à quel point les danseurs ont les jambes pliées pour ne pas faire ressortir la petite taille de la grande dame...)
30 petites secondes ravissantes comme la publicité devrait nous en offrir plus souvent... "anything you can do" de irving berlin interprété par l'immense ethel merman et ray middelton (du cd "annie get your gun")... le tout dansé par patrick wilson et la très jolie clare danes...
ce soir, au café de la danse, encore un immense bonhomme dont les images sont scandaleusement trop rares... il tutoie pourtant les plus hauts sommets sans jamais se compromettre... robert charlebois est un grand précieux...
que de larmes versées... toutes ces heures d'émotion intense en compagnie de cette famille aussi improbable qu'inattendue... il y a un avant et un après "six feet under"... sublime...
il aurait eu la plastique de sinatra, tout le monde le connaîtrait... bref... sans commentaire... il est toujours temps d'écouter le brouillard de velours, l'unique mel tormé... ses disques dégoulinent de swingue... il n'y a vraiment rien à jeter... enjoy !
un disque immense... je m'y retrouve en territoire connu... des sonorités uniques... à tel point que systématiquement je me dis que quelque chose est déréglé dans mon lecteur... et la voix de lou... elle s'insinue en moi comme une drogue dure qui passe par le cerveau et me vrille le coeur... encore aujourd'hui... d'ailleurs... pas aujourd'hui mais hier... j'ai pris ma place pour son concert au palais des congrès du 23 juin... il va rejouer "berlin" dans son intégralité... 111 €... l'abus absolu... à ce niveau, ça ne veut plus rien dire du tout... le rock est mort et ce concert sera le plus bel office funèbre que l'on puisse imaginer... tudieu, quel disque... j'en frémis sans avoir besoin de l'écouter...
sinon, parmi mes derniers arrivages (assez décevants dans l'ensemble), cette merveille inattendue... une nouvelle version du déjà fabuleux "company" de sondheim... à tel point qu'on dirait une toute autre oeuvre... faut avouer que l'idée a de quoi surprendre... la musique est interprétée par... les chanteurs eux-mêmes... j'en avais entendu parler mais j'ignorais que c'était d'un tel niveau... le disque est sublime... dire que cette mise en scène se joue jusqu'en juin à broadway... miss s. pourrait même aller le voir... va falloir que je la travaille au corps pour la convaincre d'y aller... en tout cas, cette version rejoint l'originale (voir plus bas) et la brésilienne (plus classique mais tellement funkie) que je rêve d'avoir autrement qu'en mp3...
le voilà, le lieu maudit... mon calvaire quotidien... mon bel écran plat où je lis toutes les conneries des jamrekiens qui me font parfois piquer des fous rires malvenus... ce cher banafouf étant le champion du monde toutes catégories... lundi, tout devrait être bouclé, fini, point final... en attendant, c'est du stress en infusion... aujourd'hui, mes sciatiques sont revenues de façon brutale et inattendue... fait chier !
j'avais besoin de changer d'air pour me changer les idées... c'est fait... je finirai donc le mois d'avril à l'oxford hotel à london... les beaux jours, les parcs, quelques musées, trois spectacles d'ores et déjà réservés... ça devrait faire du bien au moral de pépito... même si la carte bleue a pâli...
voici les spectacles :
dame maggie smith dans "the lady from dubuque" d'edward albee au theatre royal haymarket, le 30 avril à 20h00
"avenue q" au noel coward theatre, le 28 avril à 20h00
jessica lange dans "the glass menagerie" de tennessee williams à l'apollo theatre, le 28 avril à 16h00
les auteurs sont charmants, lolo est charmant ++... je pense qu'il faut mettre de côté le différent qui les oppose à téchiné justement à cause des "témoins"... ce livre est le premier sur ma pile de livres à lire... dès que j'ai fini le richard powers (ou que je veux faire une pause), juré, promis... les extraits dont j'ai entendu la lecture ce soir au bluebooks m'ont mis l'eau à la bouche... bise à tous
de très loin, le film le plus émouvant des dernières années... tout y est, les couleurs de godard, la légéreté de rohmer... mais avant tout, la rigueur et le sens de la tragédie de téchiné... une bande de comédiens absolument époustouflante (on se prend à rêver à la carrière que michel blanc aurait pu avoir et on se demande jusqu'où ira julie depardieu...) les larmes coulent tout du long mais le grand sanglot, celui qui remonte de très loin surgit violemment sur les dernières répliques entre bouajila et blanc... comme une estocade sous le soleil de plomb de la salamandre...
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix, angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machin- ery of night, who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz, who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tene- ment roofs illuminated, who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war, who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull, who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burn- ing their money in wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through the wall, who got busted in their pubic beards returning through Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York, who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their torsos night after night with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, al- cohol and cock and endless balls, incomparable blind; streets of shuddering cloud and lightning in the mind leaping toward poles of Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the mo- tionless world of Time between, Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops, storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brook- lyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind, who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine until the noise of wheels and children brought them down shuddering mouth-wracked and battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance in the drear light of Zoo, who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford's floated out and sat through the stale beer after noon in desolate Fugazzi's, listening to the crack of doom on the hydrogen jukebox, who talked continuously seventy hours from park to pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brook- lyn Bridge, lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills off Empire State out of the moon, yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts and memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars, whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days and nights with brilliant eyes, meat for the Synagogue cast on the pavement, who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a trail of ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic City Hall, suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grind- ings and migraines of China under junk-with- drawal in Newark's bleak furnished room, who wandered around and around at midnight in the railroad yard wondering where to go, and went, leaving no broken hearts, who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing through snow toward lonesome farms in grand- father night, who studied Plotinus Poe St. John of the Cross telep- athy and bop kabbalah because the cosmos in- stinctively vibrated at their feet in Kansas, who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking vis- ionary indian angels who were visionary indian angels, who thought they were only mad when Baltimore gleamed in supernatural ecstasy, who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Okla- homa on the impulse of winter midnight street light smalltown rain, who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston seeking jazz or sex or soup, and followed the brilliant Spaniard to converse about America and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship to Africa, who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving behind nothing but the shadow of dungarees and the lava and ash of poetry scattered in fire place Chicago, who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the F.B.I. in beards and shorts with big pacifist eyes sexy in their dark skin passing out incom- prehensible leaflets, who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism, who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets in Union Square weeping and undressing while the sirens of Los Alamos wailed them down, and wailed down Wall, and the Staten Island ferry also wailed, who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked and trembling before the machinery of other skeletons, who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight in policecars for committing no crime but their own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication, who howled on their knees in the subway and were dragged off the roof waving genitals and manu- scripts, who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists, and screamed with joy, who blew and were blown by those human seraphim, the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean love, who balled in the morning in the evenings in rose gardens and the grass of public parks and cemeteries scattering their semen freely to whomever come who may, who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up with a sob behind a partition in a Turkish Bath when the blond & naked angel came to pierce them with a sword, who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate the one eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar the one eyed shrew that winks out of the womb and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but sit on her ass and snip the intellectual golden threads of the craftsman's loom, who copulated ecstatic and insatiate with a bottle of beer a sweetheart a package of cigarettes a can- dle and fell off the bed, and continued along the floor and down the hall and ended fainting on the wall with a vision of ultimate cunt and come eluding the last gyzym of consciousness, who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling in the sunset, and were red eyed in the morning but prepared to sweeten the snatch of the sun rise, flashing buttocks under barns and naked in the lake, who went out whoring through Colorado in myriad stolen night-cars, N.C., secret hero of these poems, cocksman and Adonis of Denver-joy to the memory of his innumerable lays of girls in empty lots & diner backyards, moviehouses' rickety rows, on mountaintops in caves or with gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside lonely pet- ticoat upliftings & especially secret gas-station solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys too, who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in dreams, woke on a sudden Manhattan, and picked themselves up out of basements hung over with heartless Tokay and horrors of Third Avenue iron dreams & stumbled to unemploy- ment offices, who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on the snowbank docks waiting for a door in the East River to open to a room full of steamheat and opium, who created great suicidal dramas on the apartment cliff-banks of the Hudson under the wartime blue floodlight of the moon & their heads shall be crowned with laurel in oblivion, who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested the crab at the muddy bottom of the rivers of Bowery, who wept at the romance of the streets with their pushcarts full of onions and bad music, who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the bridge, and rose up to build harpsichords in their lofts, who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned with flame under the tubercular sky surrounded by orange crates of theology, who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty incantations which in the yellow morning were stanzas of gibberish, who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht & tortillas dreaming of the pure vegetable kingdom, who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for an egg, who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot for Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks fell on their heads every day for the next decade, who cut their wrists three times successively unsuccess- fully, gave up and were forced to open antique stores where they thought they were growing old and cried, who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits on Madison Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse & the tanked-up clatter of the iron regiments of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of the fairies of advertising & the mustard gas of sinis- ter intelligent editors, or were run down by the drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality, who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually hap- pened and walked away unknown and forgotten into the ghostly daze of Chinatown soup alley ways & firetrucks, not even one free beer, who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of the subway window, jumped in the filthy Pas- saic, leaped on negroes, cried all over the street, danced on broken wineglasses barefoot smashed phonograph records of nostalgic European 1930s German jazz finished the whiskey and threw up groaning into the bloody toilet, moans in their ears and the blast of colossal steam whistles, who barreled down the highways of the past journeying to each other's hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude watch or Birmingham jazz incarnation, who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out if I had a vision or you had a vision or he had a vision to find out Eternity, who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who came back to Denver & waited in vain, who watched over Denver & brooded & loned in Denver and finally went away to find out the Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes, who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying for each other's salvation and light and breasts, until the soul illuminated its hair for a second, who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for impossible criminals with golden heads and the charm of reality in their hearts who sang sweet blues to Alcatraz, who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit, or Rocky Mount to tender Buddha or Tangiers to boys or Southern Pacific to the black locomotive or Harvard to Narcissus to Woodlawn to the daisychain or grave, who demanded sanity trials accusing the radio of hyp notism & were left with their insanity & their hands & a hung jury, who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturers on Dadaism and subsequently presented themselves on the granite steps of the madhouse with shaven heads and harlequin speech of suicide, demanding in- stantaneous lobotomy, and who were given instead the concrete void of insulin Metrazol electricity hydrotherapy psycho- therapy occupational therapy pingpong & amnesia, who in humorless protest overturned only one symbolic pingpong table, resting briefly in catatonia, returning years later truly bald except for a wig of blood, and tears and fingers, to the visible mad man doom of the wards of the madtowns of the East, Pilgrim State's Rockland's and Greystone's foetid halls, bickering with the echoes of the soul, rock- ing and rolling in the midnight solitude-bench dolmen-realms of love, dream of life a night- mare, bodies turned to stone as heavy as the moon, with mother finally ******, and the last fantastic book flung out of the tenement window, and the last door closed at 4. A.M. and the last telephone slammed at the wall in reply and the last fur- nished room emptied down to the last piece of mental furniture, a yellow paper rose twisted on a wire hanger in the closet, and even that imaginary, nothing but a hopeful little bit of hallucination ah, Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe, and now you're really in the total animal soup of time and who therefore ran through the icy streets obsessed with a sudden flash of the alchemy of the use of the ellipse the catalog the meter & the vibrat- ing plane, who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space through images juxtaposed, and trapped the archangel of the soul between 2 visual images and joined the elemental verbs and set the noun and dash of consciousness together jumping with sensation of Pater Omnipotens Aeterna Deus to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human prose and stand before you speechless and intel- ligent and shaking with shame, rejected yet con- fessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm of thought in his naked and endless head, the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown, yet putting down here what might be left to say in time come after death, and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in the goldhorn shadow of the band and blew the suffering of America's naked mind for love into an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone cry that shivered the cities down to the last radio with the absolute heart of the poem of life butchered out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand years.
II
What sphinx of cement and aluminum bashed open their skulls and ate up their brains and imagi- nation? Moloch! Solitude! Filth! Ugliness! Ashcans and unob tainable dollars! Children screaming under the stairways! Boys sobbing in armies! Old men weeping in the parks! Moloch! Moloch! Nightmare of Moloch! Moloch the loveless! Mental Moloch! Moloch the heavy judger of men! Moloch the incomprehensible prison! Moloch the crossbone soulless jailhouse and Congress of sorrows! Moloch whose buildings are judgment! Moloch the vast stone of war! Moloch the stun- ned governments! Moloch whose mind is pure machinery! Moloch whose blood is running money! Moloch whose fingers are ten armies! Moloch whose breast is a canni- bal dynamo! Moloch whose ear is a smoking tomb! Moloch whose eyes are a thousand blind windows! Moloch whose skyscrapers stand in the long streets like endless Jehovahs! Moloch whose fac- tories dream and croak in the fog! Moloch whose smokestacks and antennae crown the cities! Moloch whose love is endless oil and stone! Moloch whose soul is electricity and banks! Moloch whose poverty is the specter of genius! Moloch whose fate is a cloud of sexless hydrogen! Moloch whose name is the Mind! Moloch in whom I sit lonely! Moloch in whom I dream Angels! Crazy in Moloch! Cocksucker in Moloch! Lacklove and manless in Moloch! Moloch who entered my soul early! Moloch in whom I am a consciousness without a body! Moloch who frightened me out of my natural ecstasy! Moloch whom I abandon! Wake up in Moloch! Light streaming out of the sky! Moloch! Moloch! Robot apartments! invisible suburbs! skeleton treasuries! blind capitals! demonic industries! spectral nations! invincible mad houses! granite cocks! monstrous bombs! They broke their backs lifting Moloch to Heaven! Pave- ments, trees, radios, tons! lifting the city to Heaven which exists and is everywhere about us! Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstasies! gone down the American river! Dreams! adorations! illuminations! religions! the whole boatload of sensitive bullshit! Breakthroughs! over the river! flips and crucifixions! gone down the flood! Highs! Epiphanies! De- spairs! Ten years' animal screams and suicides! Minds! New loves! Mad generation! down on the rocks of Time! Real holy laughter in the river! They saw it all! the wild eyes! the holy yells! They bade farewell! They jumped off the roof! to solitude! waving! carrying flowers! Down to the river! into the street!
III
Carl Solomon! I'm with you in Rockland where you're madder than I am I'm with you in Rockland where you must feel very strange I'm with you in Rockland where you imitate the shade of my mother I'm with you in Rockland where you've murdered your twelve secretaries I'm with you in Rockland where you laugh at this invisible humor I'm with you in Rockland where we are great writers on the same dreadful typewriter I'm with you in Rockland where your condition has become serious and is reported on the radio I'm with you in Rockland where the faculties of the skull no longer admit the worms of the senses I'm with you in Rockland where you drink the tea of the breasts of the spinsters of Utica I'm with you in Rockland where you pun on the bodies of your nurses the harpies of the Bronx I'm with you in Rockland where you scream in a straightjacket that you're losing the game of the actual pingpong of the abyss I'm with you in Rockland where you bang on the catatonic piano the soul is innocent and immortal it should never die ungodly in an armed madhouse I'm with you in Rockland where fifty more shocks will never return your soul to its body again from its pilgrimage to a cross in the void I'm with you in Rockland where you accuse your doctors of insanity and plot the Hebrew socialist revolution against the fascist national Golgotha I'm with you in Rockland where you will split the heavens of Long Island and resurrect your living human Jesus from the superhuman tomb I'm with you in Rockland where there are twenty-five-thousand mad com- rades all together singing the final stanzas of the Internationale I'm with you in Rockland where we hug and kiss the United States under our bedsheets the United States that coughs all night and won't let us sleep I'm with you in Rockland where we wake up electrified out of the coma by our own souls' airplanes roaring over the roof they've come to drop angelic bombs the hospital illuminates itself imaginary walls col- lapse O skinny legions run outside O starry spangled shock of mercy the eternal war is here O victory forget your underwear we're free I'm with you in Rockland in my dreams you walk dripping from a sea- journey on the highway across America in tears to the door of my cottage in the Western night
Vai, minha tristeza E diz a ela que sem ela não pode ser Diz lhe numa prece que ela regresse Porque eu não posso mais sofrer Chega de saudade, a realidade É que sem ela não há paz, não há beleza É só tristeza, e a melancolia Que não sai de mim, não sai de mim, não sai Mas se ela voltar, se ela voltar Que coisa linda, que coisa louca Pois há menos peixinhos a nadar no mar Do que os beijinhos que eu darei na sua boca Dentro dos meus braços os abraços Hão de ser milhões de abraços apertado assim Colado assim, calado assim Abraços e beijinhos e carinhos sem ter fim Que é pra acabar com esse negócio De viver longe de mim Não quero mais esse negócio De você viver assim Vamos deixar desse negócio De você viver sem mim
sol (marc favreau) dont je ne saurai assez regretter la perte... quelle tristesse...
l'immense (et hénaurme) mort shuman... dieux, comme j'ai adoré ses chansonnettes... je viens d'ailleurs d'apprendre que la dame qui m'avait offert son album, "amerika", une dame qui avait dansé avec gabin dans sa jeunesse, s'est éteinte en janvier... une toute petite bonne femme sans qui pigalle n'aurait pas été pigalle pendant ma jeunesse...
"i'm singing in the rain, just singing in the rain... what a glorious feeling, i'm happy again... i walk down the lane with a happy refrain..." stanley donen et sa femme, yvette mimieux...
connu... des sonorités uniques... à tel point que systématiquement je me dis que quelque chose est déréglé dans mon lecteur... et la voix de lou... elle s'insinue en moi comme une drogue dure qui passe par le cerveau et me vrille le coeur... encore aujourd'hui... d'ailleurs... pas aujourd'hui mais hier... j'ai pris ma place pour son concert au palais des congrès du 23 juin... il va rejouer "berlin" dans son intégralité... 111 €... l'abus absolu... à ce niveau, ça ne veut plus
cette merveille inattendue... une nouvelle version du déjà fabuleux "company" de sondheim... à tel point qu'on dirait une toute autre oeuvre... faut avouer que l'idée a de quoi surprendre... la musique est interprétée par... les chanteurs eux-mêmes... j'en avais entendu parler mais j'ignorais que c'était d'un tel niveau... le disque est sublime... dire que cette mise en scène se joue jusqu'en juin à broadway... miss s. pourrait même aller le voir... va falloir que je la travaille au corps pour la convaincre d'y aller...
les auteurs sont charmants, lolo est charmant ++...
