Shayari Bazar

The Dave Matthews Band’s “Crash into Me” played over the montage, not that the lyrics had anything to do with the images the song was played over but it was “haunting”, it was “moody”, it was “summing things up”, it gave the footage an “emotional resonance” that I guess we were incapable of capturing ourselves. At first my feelings were basically so what? But then I suggested other music: “Hurt” by Nine Inch Nails, but I was told that the rights were sky-high and that the song was “too ominous” for this sequence; Nada Surf’s “Popular” had “too many minor chords”, it didn’t fit the “mood of the piece,” it was – again – “too ominous.” When I told them I seriously did not think things could get any more fucking ominous than they already were, I was told, “Things get very much more ominous, Victor,” and then I was left alone.

I had grown up on Folkway's Nonesuch field recordings and the stuff Lomax had done for the Library of Congress, but the production values on the Ocora releases were on a whole other level. Eno and I realized that music from elsewhere didn't need to sound distant, scratchy, or 'primitive.' These recordings were as well produced as any contemporary recordings in any genre. You were made to feel, for example, that this music wasn't a ghostly remnant form some lost culture, soon to be relegated to the almost forgotten past. It was vital, and it was happening right now. To us there was strange beauty there, deep passion, and the compositions often operated by rules and structures that were radically different from what we were used to. As a result, our limited ideas of what constituted music were exploded forever. These recordings opened up myriad ways that music could be made and organized. There were many musical universes out there, and we had been blinkered by confining ourselves to only one.

From the first note I knew it was different from anything I had ever heard.... It began simply, but with an arresting phrase, so simple, but eloquent as a human voice. It spoke, beckoning gently as it unwound, rising and tensing. It spiraled upward, the tension growing with each repeat of the phrasing, and yet somehow it grew more abandoned, wilder with each note. His eyes remained closed as his fingers flew over the strings, spilling forth surely more notes than were possible from a single violin. For one mad moment I actually thought there were more of them, an entire orchestra of violins spilling out of this one instrument. I had never heard anything like it--it was poetry and seduction and light and shadow and every other contradiction I could think of. It seemed impossible to breathe while listening to that music, and yet all I was doing was breathing, quite heavily. The music itself had become as palpable a presence in that room as another person would have been--and its presence was something out of myth.

Questions, I've got some questionsI want to know youBut what if I could ask you only one thingOnly this one time, what would you tell me?Well maybe you could give me a suggestionSo I could know you, what would you tell me?Maybe you could tell me what to ask youBecause then I'd know you, what would you tell mePlease tell me that there's timeTo make this work for all intents and purposesAnd what are your intentions, will you try?Impressions, you've made impressionsThey're going nowhereThey're just going to wait here if you let themPlease don't let themI want to know youAnd if they're going to haunt mePlease collect themPlease just collect themAnd now I'm beggingI'm begging you to ask me just one questionOne simple questionBecause then you'd know meI'll tell you that there's timeTo make this work for all intents and purposesAt least for my ownWhat is a heart worth if it's just left all alone?Leave it long enough and watch it turn into stoneWhy must we always be untrue?

My thoughts of you are a rainbow in splashing ocean waves...appearing...disappearing in sacred depths of skies the grasps of mine reach to the highest... Will you, ah, long for kissing me tonight? so I could feel the sweetest pleasure of your lips on mine... As we embrace in our dream, I'll dance your quiet loving tune deeply within. The softness of your gentle touch so ever fine..the painting fingertips caress my dewy glowing skin...and feel my heated inner flesh pulsate...they make my body sing like strings of violin...again.. The warmth of body yours so close... so real is the feeling of your beating heart against my chest...inhaling you is easy... I crave the safety of your soul arms around me. Joint passions together fully blooming, so wild, so intense..it makes time stand still... So kiss me, want tonight with golden, silver light of stars in darkest royal blue of velvet summer skies... To love you ~ I'm yours... I spread this crystal spring-like bliss under your feet...tread softly for you tread upon my dreams...

I probably won’t play a song the same way tomorrow as I play it today. Only a pitchman says the same thing the same way twice, without varying a word. If music is a language, why don’t people use it with the same subtlety, nuance, and facility as they do the spoken language? Probably because they don’t verbalize with the same vocabulary and tone they once did. It has been said that a people’s character is reflected in their music. Our culture is a perfect example. If people here walk around using one-syllable words with no color, no variety, no shading, how can we expect our musical language to be any different? It’s like the emperor’s new clothes – sure they can sit and make wild noises on their synthesizers and call it music – who questions? But ask them to pull up a chair and play ‘Gal in Calico’ or Temptation,’ or even a straight dramatic version of ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ and they can’t do it. They’re too pretentious. They can’t just play songs.

An essential difference between British and American punk bands can be found in their respective views of rock & roll history. The British bands took a deliberately anti-intellectual stance, refuting any awareness of, or influence from, previous exponents of the form. The New York and Cleveland bands saw themselves as self-consciously drawing on and extending an existing tradition in American rock & roll. (...)A second difference between the British and American punk scenes was their relative gestation periods. The British weekly music press was reviewing Sex Pistols shows less than three months after their cacophonous debut. Within a year of the Pistols' first performance they had a record deal, with the 'major' label EMI. Within six months of their first gigs the Damned and the Clash also secured contracts, the latter with CBS. The CBGBs scene went largely ignored by the American music industry until 1976 -- two years after the debuts of Television, the Ramones and Blondie. Even then only Television signed to an established label.

If you look at the essential unrepeatability of music, the fact that it is different every time because it comes in a different moment - you learn many things about the world, about nature, about human beings and human relations. And therefore, it is, in many ways, the best school for life, really. And yet, at the same time, it is a means of escape from the world. And with this duality of music that we come to the paradox. How is it possible that something that can teach you so much about the world, about nature and universe, and for more religious people, about God - that something that is so clearly able to teach you so many things can serve as a means of escape from precisely those things? Whenever we talk about music, we talk about how we are affected by it, not about it itself. In this respect, it is like God. We can't talk about God, or whatever you want to call it, but we can only talk about our reaction to a thing - some people know God exists and others refuse to admit God exists - but we cannot speak about it. We can only speak about our reaction to it.

Sweet Grace amazes meThe way that she can seeBeyond the man I amTo the man that I could beShe's bringing out my bestWhile she covers all the restSome say her love is blindBut I say her love forgetsShe don't like it when I try so hard to impress her‘Cause when I do that, it's a lie that makes her love look the lesserThe truth is I knowI'll never be, I'll never be good enoughI'll never deserve her loveI'll never be, I'll never be good enough for GraceBut she takes me anywayI am the cheatin' kind But she's changing my mindThe way she takes me backThough I fail her every timeShe's got friends who tell her that sheIs much too good for meWell, I've told her that myselfBut she refuses to leaveI'd like to think my strength won her affectionBut the truth is it was my weakness that caught her attentionI'm grateful to knowWhen my tears fall down like rainShe wipes them from my faceShe tells me that I'm lovelyAnd if I am, it's all because of GraceThis love turns my inside outAnd my world upside downGrace is changing me

If shame had a face I think itwould kind of look like mineIf it had a home would it be my eyesWould you believe me if I said I'm tired of thisWell here we go now one more timeI tried to climb your stepsI tried to chase you downI tried to see how low I could get it down to the groundI tried to earn my wayI tried to tame this mindYou better believe that I tried to beat this[CHORUS]So when will this end it goes on and onOver and over and over againKeep spinning around I know that it won't stopTill I step down from this for goodI never thought I'd end up hereNever thought I'd be standing where I amI guess I kinda thought it would be easier than thisI guess I was wrong now one more timeI tried to climb your stepsI tried to chase you downI tried to see how long I could get it down to the groundI tried to earn my wayI tried to tame this mindYou better believe that I tried yo beat this[REPEAT CHORUS]Sick cycle carouselThis is a sick sycle, yeahSick cycle carouselThis is a sick cycle, yeah[REPEAT CHORUS TWICE]Sick cycle carouselSick cycle carouselSick cycle carousel...

Wenn jemand sagt, das sei Krach, was ich höre, ist mir das egal, Hauptsache, es funktioniert, Hauptsache, es hat die Kraft eines Vulkanausbruchs, Hauptsache, es gibt mir das Gefühl, unbesiegbar und unsterblich zu sein, jung, schön und stark.Henry Miller hat einmal gesagt, Musik sei der Dosenöffner der Seele, ich bin mir sicher, er würde da meine Lieblingsbands nicht ausschließen, wenn er noch leben würde.Es gibt ein paar Songs, die begleiten mich seit Jahren, und ich betrachte sie als meine Freunde, ich werde nie überdrüssig, diese Handvoll Songs zu hören, (...). Ich habe jeden einzelnen Ton im Kopf, das ist etwas, das mir niemand nehmen kann, dieser Song ist mir heilig, er ist ein Teil von mir, und wenn ich mich mies fühle, ziehe ich Songs wirklichen Freunden vor, weil sie sich nicht verändern, es scheint mir dann, als ob sie das einzige wären, auf das ich mich verlassen kann. Musik. Musik und Bücher. Aber das passiert mir zum Glück nicht allzuoft, dass ich jegliches Vertrauen in die Menschheit verliere.

When I was thirteen I spent a lot of time pretending to like dance music because everyone at my school seemed to love it. If only I'd known it was OK to have different tastes to others and that one day my mind would be blown open by an older man who would introduce me to The Smiths, The Cure, Buzzcocks, Talking Heads and almost every other band I adore to this day. I also wish I'd been reassured that one day, yes, a boy would actually fancy me in spite and potentially, deliberately, FOR my zero boob/skinny legs combo. But mainly I wish I'd listened to my mother when she said learning to play the piano might come in handy in the future and would actually be something I would thank her for forcing me to do. Every Wednesday we would drive to Mrs Batten's house listening to The ArchersI, with me in the passenger seat trying desperately to think up excuses for why I hadn't practiced that week. Though it seemed very unlikely at the time, I am thankful for those piano lessons every time I manage to impress a boy by hammering out some Chopin when drunk (swot up, kids!).

While the Eternal Feminine in Faust II still appears in personalized form as the Madonna, she works her effects in The Magic Flute as an invisible spiritual power, as music. But this music is the expression of divine love itself, which unites law and freedom, above and below, in the wisdom of the heart and of love. As harmony, it grants humankind divine peace and rules the world as the highest divinity.From the earliest times, magic and music have stood under the rule of the Archetypal Feminine, which in myth and fairy tale is also the mistress of transformation, intoxication, and enchanting sound. Thus it is quite understandable that it is precisely this feminine principle that bestows the magical instruments. The Orpheus motif of the magical taming of the animal energies through music belongs to her, for as mistress of the animals the Great Goddess rules the world of wild as well as tame creatures. She can transform things and people into animal form, tame the animal, and enchant it because, like music, she is able to make the tame wild and the wild tame with the power of her magic.

As early as 1930 Schoenberg wrote: "Radio is an enemy, a ruthless enemy marching irresistibly forward, and any resistance is hopeless"; it "force-feeds us music . . . regardless of whether we want to hear it, or whether we can grasp it," with the result that music becomes just noise, a noise among other noises. Radio was the tiny stream it all began with. Then came other technical means for reproducing, proliferating, amplifying sound, and the stream became an enormous river. If in the past people would listen to music out of love for music, nowadays it roars everywhere and all the time, "regardless whether we want to hear it," it roars from loudspeakers, in cars, in restaurants, in elevators, in the streets, in waiting rooms, in gyms, in the earpieces of Walkmans, music rewritten, reorchestrated, abridged, and stretched out, fragments of rock, of jazz, of opera, a flood of everything jumbled together so that we don't know who composed it (music become noise is anonymous), so that we can't tell beginning from end (music become noise has no form): sewage-water music in which music is dying.

Рассказывают, что какой-то математик, прослушавши музыкальную симфонию, спросил: «что она доказывает?» Разумеется, ничего не доказывает, кроме того, что у математика не было вкуса к музыке.