Mostrando postagens com marcador música. Mostrar todas as postagens
Mostrando postagens com marcador música. Mostrar todas as postagens
segunda-feira, 7 de fevereiro de 2011
Used to be
you are coming home
are you still alone
are you not the same as you used to be
as the sun grows high
and you serve your time
does each day just feel like another lie
now you know
is it just for show
just a foolish game that you hide behind
dont forget the nights
when it all felt right
are you not the same as you used to be
used to be
in a endless night
would you feel the fright
of the age that wasn't
could never be
so we hold it close
when we feel the most
like a love that we could not leave behind
we turn the wheel
to which way we feel
till our thoughts lift
i can not find you there
don't forget the nights when it all felt right
are you not the same as you used to be
used to be
even if i try so hard
would we still be coming to an end
even if we spoke the same words
would we still return as friends
even if its simple from the start
we will give the pieces of the heart
and when there is nothing left to pretend
we will know its coming to an end
even if we try so hard
we will give pieces of our heart
its always good to see you again
even if its coming to an end
terça-feira, 16 de outubro de 2007
20 Minute Loop
The Name
Often people ask us what “20 Minute Loop” means, and because it alludes to something a bit obscure, it might behoove us to provide a little explanation. On private jets, the length of time on a digital cockpit voice recorder (CVR) that elapses before the recording begins to overlap and erase itself—an audio snake eating its tail—is twenty minutes. On commercial aircraft, the length of time on the CVR is thirty minutes. This way, there will always be roughly half an hour of cockpit conversation recorded in the unfortunate event of a crash. What we say before we die is very important to those who survive us. Famous last words are always famous, and everyone hopes that the dying will say something pithy and conciliatory, something that might suggest (we shiver with horror as we use this wretched word) closure. In the case of the CVR, investigators hope a revelation will emerge, a key to the crash; they carry the indestructible box—the “black box” that is more often orange—away from the twisted metal and carnage like a sacred reliquary. Too often, however, the pilots’ voices betray nothing but their terminal proficiency mixed with a touch of animal fear and a heavy dose of frustration for not being able to control the flying beast. Often they are eerily calm, transmitting their imminent doom to air traffic controllers who helplessly watch a green blip descend on a black screen.
This digital loop, this endless recording that awaits a disaster, is part of our mortal expectancy. Michel Montaigne wrote: “we prepare ourselves against the preparations of death.” He probably wasn’t thinking of a jumbo jet when he wrote in the Renaissance, but we can enjoy larger meanings, we hope, without feeling too ambitious. We are not scared of dying; we’re scared of its anticipation.
When we performed with I Am the World Trade Center and Smokey Hormel in 2002, a young man from the first band asked us (before he had heard our music) if we used a lot of tape loops and samples, as our band name implies. The simple answer is: No. But our sets usually run about half an hour, if not shorter, and this, of course, is the same length of time found on the CVR, and we do play the same songs, with some variation, from show to show and set to set, so maybe we do perform a kind of endless loop or sample of music that the audience rarely notices. Pop music, after all, is nothing if not repetition awaiting a disaster. Repetition is pleasurable and deep, just like the three-year-old who wants to read the same Maurice Sendak book over and over and over again, ritualizing the page-turning, the anticipation of wild things lurking in the paper leaves, mouthing the words along with the parent who feels anxious having to read this damned book one more time, only to cherish and preserve the battered copy once the child has grown older and moves on to richer repetitions that don’t include the parent.
So, like everything else, 20 Minute Loop refers to the lovely repetition of life that can never quite escape its expectancy of death. Aren’t you glad you asked?
Música. Mais informações em www.20minuteloop.com
O nome
Frequentemente as pessoas nos perguntam o que '20 Minute Loop' (Giro/Loop de vinte minutos) significa e, porque isso alude a algo um tanto obscuro, é necessário dar alguma explicação. Em jatinhos o tempo de gravação do gravador de voz digital (CVR) que passa até ele se sobrepor e apagar a si mesmo — como uma cobra a comer o próprio rabo — é de vinte minutos. Num avião comercial de linha o tempo de gravação do CVR é de trinta minutos. Assim, sempre haverá cerca de meia hora de conversa gravada na cabine de comando no caso de algum desastre. O que dizemos antes de morrer é muito importante para as pessoas que nos sobrevivem. As famosas últimas palavras são sempre famosas, e todos têm esperança de que aqueles que estão prestes a morrer digam algo de simples e terno, algo que possa sugerir (e nós trememos de horror ao usar essa palavra infame) o fim. No caso do CVR, peritos terão a esperança de que alguma pista surja, a chave para o acidente; eles levam a caixa indestrutível — a 'caixa preta' que é comumente laranja — para longe daquela mortandade e metais retorcidos como uma espécie de relicário sagrado. Muitas vezes, entretanto, as vozes dos pilotos traem nada mais que a competência de quem morrerá misturada a um toque de medo animal e uma pesada dose de frustração por não ser capaz de controlar a besta voadora. Com frequência suas vozes são estranhamente calmas, transmitindo seu iminente fim aos controladores de tráfego que assistem impotentes um ponto verde a descer numa tela negra.
Esse loop digital, essa gravação interminável que espera um desastre é parte de nossa expectativa finita. Michel Montaigne escreveu: 'preparamo-nos contra os preparativos da morte'. Ele provavelmente não estava a pensar num jumbo quando ele escreveu na Renascença, mas podemos estender os significados, esperamos, sem nos sentirmos tão ambiciosos. Não temos medo da morte; temos medo de sua antecipação.
Quando tocamos com I am the World Trade Center e Smokey Hormel em 2002, um jovem rapaz da primeira banda nos perguntou (antes que ele tivesse ouvido nossa música) se nós usávamos um monte de loops de fitas e amostras, como o nome da banda implica. A resposta é simples: não. Mas nossas apresentações usualmente duram cerca de meia hora, senão menos, e isso, é claro, é a mesma duração do CVR e tocamos as mesmas músicas, com alguma variação, de show para show e de set para set, então talvez nós executemos algum tipo de loop sem fim ou amostra de música que o público raramente nota. A música pop, finalmente, não é nada senão a repetição de um desastre esperado. A repetição é agradável e profunda, tal como uma criança de três anos que quer ler o mesmo livro de Maurice Sendak uma e outra e outra vez, ritualizando a virada de cada página, a antecipação das coisas selvagens à espreita nas folhas de papel, murmurando as palavras junto com um dos pais que se sente agoniado por ter de ler este maldito livro mais uma vez, apenas para valorizar e preservar aquela surrada versão da criança quando ela tiver crescido e se mover para repetições mais ricas que não incluem os pais.
Então, como tudo na vida, 20 Minute Loop se refere à amável repetição da vida a qual jamais escapará da expectativa de sua morte. Você não está feliz por ter perguntado?
Often people ask us what “20 Minute Loop” means, and because it alludes to something a bit obscure, it might behoove us to provide a little explanation. On private jets, the length of time on a digital cockpit voice recorder (CVR) that elapses before the recording begins to overlap and erase itself—an audio snake eating its tail—is twenty minutes. On commercial aircraft, the length of time on the CVR is thirty minutes. This way, there will always be roughly half an hour of cockpit conversation recorded in the unfortunate event of a crash. What we say before we die is very important to those who survive us. Famous last words are always famous, and everyone hopes that the dying will say something pithy and conciliatory, something that might suggest (we shiver with horror as we use this wretched word) closure. In the case of the CVR, investigators hope a revelation will emerge, a key to the crash; they carry the indestructible box—the “black box” that is more often orange—away from the twisted metal and carnage like a sacred reliquary. Too often, however, the pilots’ voices betray nothing but their terminal proficiency mixed with a touch of animal fear and a heavy dose of frustration for not being able to control the flying beast. Often they are eerily calm, transmitting their imminent doom to air traffic controllers who helplessly watch a green blip descend on a black screen.
This digital loop, this endless recording that awaits a disaster, is part of our mortal expectancy. Michel Montaigne wrote: “we prepare ourselves against the preparations of death.” He probably wasn’t thinking of a jumbo jet when he wrote in the Renaissance, but we can enjoy larger meanings, we hope, without feeling too ambitious. We are not scared of dying; we’re scared of its anticipation.
When we performed with I Am the World Trade Center and Smokey Hormel in 2002, a young man from the first band asked us (before he had heard our music) if we used a lot of tape loops and samples, as our band name implies. The simple answer is: No. But our sets usually run about half an hour, if not shorter, and this, of course, is the same length of time found on the CVR, and we do play the same songs, with some variation, from show to show and set to set, so maybe we do perform a kind of endless loop or sample of music that the audience rarely notices. Pop music, after all, is nothing if not repetition awaiting a disaster. Repetition is pleasurable and deep, just like the three-year-old who wants to read the same Maurice Sendak book over and over and over again, ritualizing the page-turning, the anticipation of wild things lurking in the paper leaves, mouthing the words along with the parent who feels anxious having to read this damned book one more time, only to cherish and preserve the battered copy once the child has grown older and moves on to richer repetitions that don’t include the parent.
So, like everything else, 20 Minute Loop refers to the lovely repetition of life that can never quite escape its expectancy of death. Aren’t you glad you asked?
Música. Mais informações em www.20minuteloop.com
O nome
Frequentemente as pessoas nos perguntam o que '20 Minute Loop' (Giro/Loop de vinte minutos) significa e, porque isso alude a algo um tanto obscuro, é necessário dar alguma explicação. Em jatinhos o tempo de gravação do gravador de voz digital (CVR) que passa até ele se sobrepor e apagar a si mesmo — como uma cobra a comer o próprio rabo — é de vinte minutos. Num avião comercial de linha o tempo de gravação do CVR é de trinta minutos. Assim, sempre haverá cerca de meia hora de conversa gravada na cabine de comando no caso de algum desastre. O que dizemos antes de morrer é muito importante para as pessoas que nos sobrevivem. As famosas últimas palavras são sempre famosas, e todos têm esperança de que aqueles que estão prestes a morrer digam algo de simples e terno, algo que possa sugerir (e nós trememos de horror ao usar essa palavra infame) o fim. No caso do CVR, peritos terão a esperança de que alguma pista surja, a chave para o acidente; eles levam a caixa indestrutível — a 'caixa preta' que é comumente laranja — para longe daquela mortandade e metais retorcidos como uma espécie de relicário sagrado. Muitas vezes, entretanto, as vozes dos pilotos traem nada mais que a competência de quem morrerá misturada a um toque de medo animal e uma pesada dose de frustração por não ser capaz de controlar a besta voadora. Com frequência suas vozes são estranhamente calmas, transmitindo seu iminente fim aos controladores de tráfego que assistem impotentes um ponto verde a descer numa tela negra.
Esse loop digital, essa gravação interminável que espera um desastre é parte de nossa expectativa finita. Michel Montaigne escreveu: 'preparamo-nos contra os preparativos da morte'. Ele provavelmente não estava a pensar num jumbo quando ele escreveu na Renascença, mas podemos estender os significados, esperamos, sem nos sentirmos tão ambiciosos. Não temos medo da morte; temos medo de sua antecipação.
Quando tocamos com I am the World Trade Center e Smokey Hormel em 2002, um jovem rapaz da primeira banda nos perguntou (antes que ele tivesse ouvido nossa música) se nós usávamos um monte de loops de fitas e amostras, como o nome da banda implica. A resposta é simples: não. Mas nossas apresentações usualmente duram cerca de meia hora, senão menos, e isso, é claro, é a mesma duração do CVR e tocamos as mesmas músicas, com alguma variação, de show para show e de set para set, então talvez nós executemos algum tipo de loop sem fim ou amostra de música que o público raramente nota. A música pop, finalmente, não é nada senão a repetição de um desastre esperado. A repetição é agradável e profunda, tal como uma criança de três anos que quer ler o mesmo livro de Maurice Sendak uma e outra e outra vez, ritualizando a virada de cada página, a antecipação das coisas selvagens à espreita nas folhas de papel, murmurando as palavras junto com um dos pais que se sente agoniado por ter de ler este maldito livro mais uma vez, apenas para valorizar e preservar aquela surrada versão da criança quando ela tiver crescido e se mover para repetições mais ricas que não incluem os pais.
Então, como tudo na vida, 20 Minute Loop se refere à amável repetição da vida a qual jamais escapará da expectativa de sua morte. Você não está feliz por ter perguntado?
segunda-feira, 16 de julho de 2007
Till the end of time
E insisto nesse impertinente modo agir. Agora mais outra.
Till the end of time, também Devotchka.
They’re just words, they ain’t worth nothing
Cloud your head and push your buttons
And watch how they just disappear
When we’re far away from here
And everybody knows where this is heading
Forgive me for forgetting
Our hearts irrevocably combined
Star-crossed souls slow dancing
Retreating and advancing
Across the sky until the end of time
Oh who put all those cares inside your head
You can’t live your life on your deathbed
And it’s been such a lovely day
Let’s not let it end this way
And everybody knows where this is heading
Forgive me for forgetting
Our hearts irrevocably combined
Star-crossed souls slow dancing
Retreating and advancing
Across the sky until the end of time
Like sisters and brothers we lean on each other
Like sweethearts carved on a headstone
Oh why even bother, it’ll be here tomorrow
It’s not worth it sleeping alone
And look at you and me still here together
There is no one knows you better
And we’ve come such a long long way
Let’s put it off for one more day
And everybody knows where this is heading
Forgive me for forgetting
Our hearts irrevocably combined
Star-crossed souls slow dancing
Retreating and advancing
Across the sky until the end of time
Till the end of time, também Devotchka.
They’re just words, they ain’t worth nothing
Cloud your head and push your buttons
And watch how they just disappear
When we’re far away from here
And everybody knows where this is heading
Forgive me for forgetting
Our hearts irrevocably combined
Star-crossed souls slow dancing
Retreating and advancing
Across the sky until the end of time
Oh who put all those cares inside your head
You can’t live your life on your deathbed
And it’s been such a lovely day
Let’s not let it end this way
And everybody knows where this is heading
Forgive me for forgetting
Our hearts irrevocably combined
Star-crossed souls slow dancing
Retreating and advancing
Across the sky until the end of time
Like sisters and brothers we lean on each other
Like sweethearts carved on a headstone
Oh why even bother, it’ll be here tomorrow
It’s not worth it sleeping alone
And look at you and me still here together
There is no one knows you better
And we’ve come such a long long way
Let’s put it off for one more day
And everybody knows where this is heading
Forgive me for forgetting
Our hearts irrevocably combined
Star-crossed souls slow dancing
Retreating and advancing
Across the sky until the end of time
How it ends
Não gosto muito de reproduzir conteúdo alheio. Entretanto, como não produzo nada que preste, assim procedo.
How it ends. Devotchka.
Hold your grandmother's Bible to your breast.
Gonna put it to the test.
You want it to be blessed.
And in your heart,
You know it to be true,
You know what you gotta do.
They all depend on you.
And you already know.
Yeah, you already know how this will end.
There is no escape,
From the slave-catchers' songs.
For all of the loved ones gone.
Forever's not so long.
And in your soul,
They poked a million holes.
But you never lettem show.
C'mon it's time to go.
And
You
Already know.
Yeah, you already know
How this will end.
Now you've seen his face.
And you know that there's a place,
In the sun,
For all that you've done,
For you and your children.
No longer shall you need.
You always wanted to believe,
Just ask and you'll receive,
Beyond your wildest dreams.
And
You
Already know.
Yeah, you already know
How this will end.
You already know (You already know)
You already know (you already know)
You already love will end.
How it ends. Devotchka.
Hold your grandmother's Bible to your breast.
Gonna put it to the test.
You want it to be blessed.
And in your heart,
You know it to be true,
You know what you gotta do.
They all depend on you.
And you already know.
Yeah, you already know how this will end.
There is no escape,
From the slave-catchers' songs.
For all of the loved ones gone.
Forever's not so long.
And in your soul,
They poked a million holes.
But you never lettem show.
C'mon it's time to go.
And
You
Already know.
Yeah, you already know
How this will end.
Now you've seen his face.
And you know that there's a place,
In the sun,
For all that you've done,
For you and your children.
No longer shall you need.
You always wanted to believe,
Just ask and you'll receive,
Beyond your wildest dreams.
And
You
Already know.
Yeah, you already know
How this will end.
You already know (You already know)
You already know (you already know)
You already love will end.
quinta-feira, 12 de julho de 2007
terça-feira, 3 de outubro de 2006
segunda-feira, 23 de janeiro de 2006
Everything Beautiful Is Far Away
He just finished
Eating dinner
And stepped outside the cave to smoke
A cigarette he'd made
From rolled up photo paper
They were pictures of things back on earth
He looked out
On the grayish white expanse
Of uninhabited terrain
He now called home
He'd seen plenty
Mirages and imaginary visitors
Up until then
So he wasn't sure what to think when
He saw swans
And they were wading on the shores
Of a pale white lake
He had never seen there before
And it was quite beautiful
And it was far away
Cause everything beautiful is far away
He knew he was as good as gone
But gone was somewheres
He really didn't mind going to
Since the shuttle had crashed
Many years had passed
And the pictures of his loved ones
That he drew on the walls of the cave
Had finally faded
He put out his smoke
And proceeded towards the lake
Repeating to himself
Everything beautiful is far away.
Grandaddy - Under the western freeway, 2001
Eating dinner
And stepped outside the cave to smoke
A cigarette he'd made
From rolled up photo paper
They were pictures of things back on earth
He looked out
On the grayish white expanse
Of uninhabited terrain
He now called home
He'd seen plenty
Mirages and imaginary visitors
Up until then
So he wasn't sure what to think when
He saw swans
And they were wading on the shores
Of a pale white lake
He had never seen there before
And it was quite beautiful
And it was far away
Cause everything beautiful is far away
He knew he was as good as gone
But gone was somewheres
He really didn't mind going to
Since the shuttle had crashed
Many years had passed
And the pictures of his loved ones
That he drew on the walls of the cave
Had finally faded
He put out his smoke
And proceeded towards the lake
Repeating to himself
Everything beautiful is far away.
Grandaddy - Under the western freeway, 2001
Assinar:
Postagens (Atom)