La tournée terminée, Tom et Roger pensèrent qu'après le succès de I Shot The Sheriff, ce serait bien de descendre dans les Caraïbes pour continuer sur le thème du reggae. Ils organisèrent un voyage en Jamaïque, où ils jugeaient qu'on pourrait fouiner un peu et puiser dans l'influence roots avant d'enregistrer. Tom croyait fermement au bienfait d'exploiter cette source, et je n'avais rien contre puisque ça voulait dire que Pattie et moi aurions une sorte de lune de miel. Kingston était une ville où il était fantastique de travailler. On entendant de la musique partout où on allait. Tout le monde chantait tout le temps, même les femmes de ménage à l'hotel. Ce rythme me rentrait vraiment dans le sang, mais enregistrer avec les Jamaïcains était une autre paire de manches.Je ne pouvais vraiment pas tenir le rythme de leur consommation de ganja, qui était énorme. Si j'avais essayé de fumer autant ou aussi souvent, je serais tombé dans les pommes ou j'aurais eu des hallucinations. On travaillait aux Dynamic Sound Studios à Kingston. Des gens y entraient et sortaient sans arrêt, tirant sur d'énormes joints en forme de trompette, au point qu'il y avait tant de fumée dans la salle que je ne voyais pas qui était là ou pas. On composait deux chansons avec Peter Tosh qui, affalé sur une chaise, avait l'air inconscient la plupart du temps. Puis, soudain, il se levait et interprétait brillamment son rythme reggae à la pédale wah-wah, le temps d'une piste, puis retombait dans sa transe à la seconde où on s'arrêtait.

Bowman was aware of some changes in his behavior patterns; it would have been absurd to expect anything else in the circumstances. He could no longer tolerate silence; except when he was sleeping, or talking over the circuit to Earth, he kept the ship's sound system running at almost painful loudness. / At first, needing the companionship of the human voice, he had listened to classical plays--especially the works of Shaw, Ibsen, and Shakespeare--or poetry readings from Discovery's enormous library of recorded sounds. The problems they dealt with, however, seemed so remote, or so easily resolved with a little common sense, that after a while he lost patience with them. / So he switched to opera--usually in Italian or German, so that he was not distracted even by the minimal intellectual content that most operas contained. This phase lasted for two weeks before he realized that the sound of all these superbly trained voices was only exacerbating his loneliness. But what finally ended this cycle was Verdi's Requiem Mass, which he had never heard performed on Earth. The "Dies Irae," roaring with ominous appropriateness through the empty ship, left him completely shattered; and when the trumpets of Doomsday echoed from the heavens, he could endure no more. / Thereafter, he played only instrumental music. He started with the romantic composers, but shed them one by one as their emotional outpourings became too oppressive. Sibelius, Tchaikovsky, Berlioz, lasted a few weeks, Beethoven rather longer. He finally found peace, as so many others had done, in the abstract architecture of Bach, occasionally ornamented with Mozart. / And so Discovery drove on toward Saturn, as often as not pulsating with the cool music of the harpsichord, the frozen thoughts of a brain that had been dust for twice a hundred years.

She observed the dumb-show by which her neighbour was expressing her passion for music, but she refrained from copying it. This was not to say that, for once that she had consented to spend a few minutes in Mme. de Saint-Euverte's house, the Princesse des Laumes would not have wished (so that the act of politeness to her hostess which she had performed by coming might, so to speak, 'count double') to shew herself as friendly and obliging as possible. But she had a natural horror of what she called 'exaggerating,' and always made a point of letting people see that she 'simply must not' indulge in any display of emotion that was not in keeping with the tone of the circle in which she moved, although such displays never failed to make an impression upon her, by virtue of that spirit of imitation, akin to timidity, which is developed in the most self-confident persons, by contact with an unfamiliar environment, even though it be inferior to their own. She began to ask herself whether these gesticulations might not, perhaps, be a necessary concomitant of the piece of music that was being played, a piece which, it might be, was in a different category from all the music that she had ever heard before; and whether to abstain from them was not a sign of her own inability to understand the music, and of discourtesy towards the lady of the house; with the result that, in order to express by a compromise both of her contradictory inclinations in turn, at one moment she would merely straighten her shoulder-straps or feel in her golden hair for the little balls of coral or of pink enamel, frosted with tiny diamonds, which formed its simple but effective ornament, studying, with a cold interest, her impassioned neighbour, while at another she would beat time for a few bars with her fan, but, so as not to forfeit her independence, she would beat a different time from the pianist's.

ーEscribí algo para ti, ーla corrigió con una sonrisa y comenzó a tocar. Ella escuchó emocionada; comenzó lento, sencillo, su control sobre el arco producía un sonido armónico. La melodía la lleno tan fresca y dulce como el agua, tan esperanzadora y adorable como un amanecer. Miró a sus dedos fascinada por el movimiento tan exquisito que hacia que las notas salieran del violín. El sonido se volvió mas profundo conforme el arco se movía mas rápido, el antebrazo de Jem se desplazaba hacia adelante y atrás, su delgado cuerpo parecía difuminarse con el movimiento de su hombro. Sus dedos se deslizaban cuidadosamente arriba y abajo, el tono de la música profundizó, como nubes de tormenta reuniéndose en un horizonte brillante, un río que se convertía en torrente. Las notas se estrellaban a sus pies aumentando el sonido, el cuerpo entero de Jem parecía moverse en sintonía con los sonidos que emanaban del instrumento, a pesar de que ella sabia que sus pies se encontraban firmes en el suelo. Su corazón encontró la paz con la música, los ojos de Jem estaban cerrados, las comisuras de sus labios mostraban un gesto de dolor. Una parte de ella quería correr a sus pies, rodearlo con sus brazos; la otra otra parte no quería que se detuviera la música, el hermoso sonido de él. Era como si él hubiera tomado su arco utilizándolo como un pincel para pintar, creando un lienzo en el cual su alma se muestra claramente. Cuando las ultimas notas se alzaron más y más alto, llegando a tocar el paraíso, Tessa estuvo consciente de que su rostro estaba húmedo, pero no fue hasta que la ultima nota dejo de sonar y él bajo el violín cuando se dio que estaba llorando.

The travelers emerged into a spacious square. In the middle of this square were several dozen people on a wooden bandstand like in a public park. They were the members of a band, each of them as different from one another as their instruments. Some of them looked round at the approaching column. Then a grey-haired man in a colorful cloak called out and they reached for their instruments. There was a burst of something like cheeky, timid bird-song and the air – air that had been torn apart by the barbed wire and the howl of sirens, that stank of oily fumes and garbage – was filled with music. It was like a warm summer cloud-burst ignited by the sun, flashing as it crashed down to earth.People in camps, people in prisons, people who have escaped from prison, people going to their death, know the extraordinary power of music. No one else can experience music in quite the same way.What music resurrects in the soul of a man about to die is neither hope nor thought, but simply the blind, heart-breaking miracle of life itself. A sob passed down the column. Everything seemed transformed, everything had come together; everything scattered and fragmented -home, peace, the journey, the rumble of wheels, thirst, terror, the city rising out of the mist, the wan red dawn – fused together, not into a memory or a picture but into the blind, fierce ache of life itself. Here, in the glow of the gas ovens, people knew that life was more than happiness – it was also grief. And freedom was both painful and difficult; it was life itself.Music had the power to express the last turmoil of a soul in whose blind depths every experience, every moment of joy and grief, had fused with this misty morning, this glow hanging over their heads. Or perhaps it wasn't like that at all. Perhaps music was just the key to a man's feelings, not what filled him at this terrible moment, but the key that unlocked his innermost core.In the same way, a child's song can appear to make an old man cry. But it isn't the song itself he cries over; the song is simply a key to something in his soul.

Гласът й идваше отдалеч... Когато задуха, топлият средиземноморски вятър носи пясък, разкъсва дробовете и отнася всичко, което среща по пътя си, той плиска товара си право в лицата на хората.И гласът на Едит помете града, развихри се над площадите. Този глас, изплакнат в бистрата, възпя любовта на предградията, на улицата, на случайните срещи, на празненствата...

Có một thi sĩ làm thơ hô hào những nhà sáng tác, những ca sĩ từ bỏ lối sáng tác và ca hát đau thương đứt ruột. Ông ta viết những câu này, tôi còn nhớ:Đừng kể nữa những mảnh tình tan tác, Hãy đứng lên, nhạc sĩ, với tôi đi!Tôi ghét anh ưa giọng hát sầu bi,Và tung mãi những tâm hồn thường trụy lạc.Hãy đứng dậy! Vứt chiếc cầm áo não!Tôi cần nghe những khúc nhạc rất hùng,Thét ngựa lòng phi mãi chẳng chồn chân,Sáng như gươm tuốt, mạnh như luồng bão.Ôi nhạc sĩ! Thật anh người thậm tệ!Quan hoài chi những khúc hát mê ly,Những câu ca không đẹp lại không thiCủa kỹ nữ vọc cuộc đời ê trệ?Hãy cung kính nhượng những người tuổi tác,Những bản đàn nhịp hát thiếu tinh thần.Hãy ra xem sõng vỗ với mây vần,Và sáng chể cho tôi vài điệu khác.Nếu chúng ta cứ hát những bài khóc gió than mây và cứ nghe những bài độc huyền thì có thể ‘vận cái rủi’ vào số mạng của mình, tưới tẩm những hạt giống đau buồn, điều đó không tốt.

Forever”by Logan KeeleyOctober 18, 20xxLying beside me in the failure of flesh,You wait for the words that will let your mind rest,But I’ve already left you—I’m inside this song,I’m chasing the rhythms that split right from wrong,Forming chords on your shoulder, tracing notes on your hips,I can’t hear your thoughts as they fall from your lips, andEvery day I give awayA piece of me all torn and frayed—What I can’t keep, I sell for cheap,Til nothing’s left for you and me—Chorus:How can so much love feel like nothing at all?How can so much nothing leave me dying to crawlTo the foot of your bed,I should be with you—instead,I walk away, stumbling, waiting, always waiting to fall.When you look in my eyes, can you see I’m not there,Just skin over bones and this flesh that I bear,And there’s no room for you, and you know I can neverGet out of myself, get over myself,For even one moment, much less for forever.They all take their shares and they all think they seeThis stranger inside who pretends to be me.They’re a roomful of mirrors in this funhouse of fame,I shrink and I grow, I am wild, I am tame,But when I stand before you, I can pause, I can heal,Because you make me matter—you make me real.Every day they took awayA piece of me all torn and frayed—What I couldn’t keep, I sold for cheap,So now what’s left for you and me?How can so much love feel like nothing at all?How can so much nothing leave me dying to crawlTo the foot of your bed,I should be with you—instead,I walk away, stumbling, waiting, always waiting to fall.So I close my eyes, fill my hands with your hair,It’s your skin and your bones and your flesh that I bear,If I could be part of you, if we could come togetherI could find myself, I could lose myself,Just for one moment, or maybe forever.They always say that nothing lasts foreverWell, can this nothing last foreverNow?When you look in my eyes, and this time I’m there,More than skin over bones and this flesh that we bare,When I’m getting worse, when you make me better,We’ll find ourselves, we’ll lose ourselves,We’ll take this one moment…and make it forever.

I was in the winter of my life- and the men I met along the road were my only summer. At night I fell sleep with vision of myself dancing and laughing and crying with them. Three year down the line of being on an endless world tour and memories of them were the only things that sustained me, and my only real happy times. I was a singer, not very popular one, who once has dreams of becoming a beautiful poet- but upon an unfortunate series of events saw those dreams dashed and divided like million stars in the night sky that I wished on over and over again- sparkling and broken. But I really didn’t mind because I knew that it takes getting everything you ever wanted and then losing it to know what true freedom is.When the people I used to know found out what I had been doing, how I had been living- they asked me why. But there’s no use in talking to people who have a home, they have no idea what its like to seek safety in other people, for home to be wherever you lied you head.I was always an unusual girl, my mother told me that I had a chameleon soul. No moral compass pointing me due north, no fixed personality. Just an inner indecisiviness that was as wide as wavering as the ocean. And if I said that I didn’t plan for it to turn out this way I’d be lying- because I was born to be the other woman. I belonged to no one- who belonged to everyone, who had nothing- who wanted everything with a fire for every experience and an obssesion for freedom that terrified me to the point that I couldn’t even talk about- and pushed me to a nomadic point of madness that both dazzlez and dizzied me.Every night I used to pray that I’d find my people- and finally I did- on the open road. We have nothing to lose, nothing to gain, nothing we desired anymore- except to make our lives into a work of art.LIVE FAST. DIE YOUNG. BE WILD. AND HAVE FUN.I believe in the country America used to be. I belive in the person I want to become, I believe in the freedom of the open road. And my motto is the same as ever- *I believe in the kindness of strangers. And when I’m at war with myself- I Ride. I Just Ride.*Who are you? Are you in touch with all your darkest fantasies?Have you created a life for yourself where you’re free to experience them?I Have.I Am Fucking Crazy. But I Am Free.

Sehr oft werde ich nach meinem Lieblingskomponisten gefragt - eine typische Frage von Laien an Musiker, eine, die wir Musiker uns gegenseitig wohl eher selten stellen. Vielleicht weil wir sie vordergründig als banal empfinden. Vielleicht auch, weil eine direkte Antwort darauf, ehrlich gesagt, unmöglich ist. Musik ist zu meinem Leben geworden. Nichts von dem, was ich tue, hat nicht irgendwas mit Musik zu tun. Ich habe Werke berühmter und weniger bekannter Komponisten einstudiert und dirigiert, aus ganz unterschiedlichen Epochen. Ich habe versucht, sie zu verstehen. Unzählige Stunden habe ich darüber nachgedacht, wie die Orchester, die ich dirigiere, die Werke spielen könnten, um dem Publikum die darin liegenden Aussagen nahe zubringen. Ich habe mich bemüht, bis zum Kern der Kompositionen vorzudringen und so mancher Rätselhaftigkeit auf die Spur zu kommen. Ich tue es heute noch. So sind mir meist die Komponisten, mit deren Werken ich mich gerade intensiv beschäftige, am präsentesten und vielleicht in dem Moment auch am nächsten. Aber sind sie mir dann auch die liebsten ?Ich weiß es nicht. Meine Entdeckungsreise durch die Welt der klassischen Musik, die vor sechzig Jahren an der Westküste Kaliforniens in einem Fischerdorf begann, ist längst nicht zu Ende. Im Gegenteil : Meine künstlerische Neugier treibt mich täglich weiter in diese faszinierte Welt hinein, deren Umfang immer größer wird, je tiefer ich in sie vordringe. Die Welt der Musik gleicht unserem expandierenden Universum. Je mehr ich mich mit Musik befasse, desto weniger meine ich über sie zu wissen. Wie also sollte ich diese offenbar gar nicht so banale Frage nach meinem Lieblingskomponisten beantworten ?Vielleicht, indem ich sie anders formuliere : "In deiner freien Zeit, in Stunden, die nicht verplant sind und ganz dir gehören - welche Musik würdest du dann für dich spielen ?" Die Antwort darauf ist viel einfacher. Es ist die Musik von Johann Sebastian Bach. Das sage ich ohne den Hauch eines Zweifels. Von frühester Kindheit an hat mich Bach verfolgt und ich ihn. Bis heute. Seine Musik lässt mich nicht los. Ihre Tiefe ist unendlich. Sie vereint alles, was klassische Musik ausmacht. Und bis heute bin ich auf der Suche nach dem Warum.

Jess Pepper's review of the Avalon Strings:'In a land so very civilized and modern as ours, it is unpopular to suggest that the mystical isle of Avalon ever truly existed. But I believe I have found proof of it right here in Manhattan.To understand my reasoning, you must recall first that enchanting tale of a mist-enshrouded isle where medieval women--descended from the gods--spawned heroic men. Most notable among these was the young King Arthur. In their most secret confessions, these mystic heroes acknowledged Avalon, and particularly the music of its maidens, as the source of their power.Many a school boy has wept reading of Young King Arthur standing silent on the shore as the magical isle disappears from view, shrouded in mist.The boy longs as Arthur did to leap the bank and pilot his canoe to the distant, singing atoll. To rejoin nymphs who guard in the depths of their water caves the meaning of life. To feel again the power that burns within. But knowledge fades and memory dims, and schoolboys grow up. As the legend goes, the way became unknown to mortal man. Only woman could navigate the treacherous blanket of white that dipped and swirled at the surface of the water.And with its fading went also the music of the fabled isle.Harps and strings that heralded the dawn and incited robed maidens to dance evaporated into the mists of time, and silence ruled.But I tell you, Kind Reader, that the music of Avalon lives. The spirit that enchanted knights in chain mail long eons ago is reborn in our fair city, in our own small band of fair maids who tap that legendary spirit to make music as the Avalon Strings.Theirs is no common gift. Theirs is no ordinary sound. It is driven by a fire from within, borne on fingers bloodied by repetition. Minds tormented by a thirst for perfection.And most startling of all is the voice that rises above, the stunning virtuoso whose example leads her small company to higher planes.Could any other collection of musicians achieve the heights of this illustrious few? I think not.I believe, Friends of the City, that when we witnes their performance, as we may almost nightly at the Warwick Hotel, we witness history's gift to this moment in time. And for a few brief moments in the presence of these maids, we witness the fiery spirit that endured and escaped the obliterating mists of Avalon.

Jazz presumes that it would be nice if the four of us--simpatico dudes that we are--while playing this complicated song together, might somehow be free and autonomous as well. Tragically, this never quite works out. At best, we can only be free one or two at a time--while the other dudes hold onto the wire. Which is not to say that no one has tried to dispense with wires. Many have, and sometimes it works--but it doesn't feel like jazz when it does. The music simply drifts away into the stratosphere of formal dialectic, beyond our social concerns.Rock-and-roll, on the other hand, presumes that the four of us--as damaged and anti-social as we are--might possibly get it to-fucking-gether, man, and play this simple song. And play it right, okay? Just this once, in tune and on the beat. But we can't. The song's too simple, and we're too complicated and too excited. We try like hell, but the guitars distort, the intonation bends, and the beat just moves, imperceptibly, against our formal expectations, whetehr we want it to or not. Just because we're breathing, man. Thus, in the process of trying to play this very simple song together, we create this hurricane of noise, this infinitely complicated, fractal filigree of delicate distinctions.And you can thank the wanking eighties, if you wish, and digital sequencers, too, for proving to everyone that technologically "perfect" rock--like "free" jazz--sucks rockets. Because order sucks. I mean, look at the Stones. Keith Richards is always on top of the beat, and Bill Wyman, until he quit, was always behind it, because Richards is leading the band and Charlie Watts is listening to him and Wyman is listening to Watts. So the beat is sliding on those tiny neural lapses, not so you can tell, of course, but so you can feel it in your stomach. And the intonation is wavering, too, with the pulse in the finger on the amplified string. This is the delicacy of rock-and-roll, the bodily rhetoric of tiny increments, necessary imperfections, and contingent community. And it has its virtues, because jazz only works if we're trying to be free and are, in fact, together. Rock-and-roll works because we're all a bunch of flakes. That's something you can depend on, and a good thing too, because in the twentieth century, that's all there is: jazz and rock-and-roll. The rest is term papers and advertising.

...I have sometimes thought that the mere hearing of those songs would do more to impress some minds with the horrible character of slavery, than the reading of whole volumes of philosophy on the subject could do.I did not, when a slave, understand the deep meaning of those rude and apparently incoherent songs. I was myself within the circle; so that I neither saw nor heard as those without might see and hear. They told a tale of woe which was then altogether beyond my feeble comprehension; they were tones loud, long, and deep; they breathed the prayer and complaint of souls boiling over with bitterest anguish. Every tone was a testimony against slavery, and a prayer to God for deliverance from chains. The hearing of those wild notes always depressed my spirit, and filled me with ineffable sadness. I have frequently found myself in tears while hearing them. The mere recurrence to those songs, even now, afflicts me; and while I am writing these lines, an expression of feeling has already found its way down my cheek. To those songs I trace my first glimmering conception of the dehumanizing character of slavery. I can never get rid of that conception. Those songs still follow me, to deepen my hatred of slavery, and quicken my sympathies for my brethren in bonds. If any one wishes to be impressed with the soul-killing effects of slavery, let him go to Colonel Lloyd's plantation, and, on allowance-day, place himself in the deep pine woods, and there let him, in silence, analyze the sounds that shall pass through the chambers of his soul, - and if he is not thus impressed, it will only be because "there is no flesh in his obdurate heart."I have often been utterly astonished, since I came to the north, to find persons who could speak of the singing, among slaves, as evidence of their contentment and happiness. It is impossible to conceive of a greater mistake. Slaves sing most when they are most unhappy. The songs of the slave represent the sorrows of his heart; and he is relieved by them, only as an aching heart is relieved by its tears. At least, such is my experience. I have often sung to drown my sorrow, but seldom to express my happiness. Crying for joy, and singing for joy, were alike uncommon to me while in the jaws of slavery. The singing of a man cast away upon a desolate island might be as appropriately considered as evidence of contentment and happiness, as the singing of a slave; the songs of the one and of the other are prompted by the same emotion.

Stephen had been put to sleep in his usual room, far from children and noise, away in that corner of the house which looked down to the orchard and the bowling-green, and in spite of his long absence it was so familiar to him that when he woke at about three he made his way to the window almost as quickly as if dawn had already broken, opened it and walked out onto the balcony. The moon had set: there was barely a star to be seen. The still air was delightfully fresh with falling dew, and a late nightingale, in an indifferent voice, was uttering a routine jug-jug far down in Jack's plantations; closer at hand and more agreeable by far, nightjars churred in the orchard, two of them, or perhaps three, the sound rising and falling, intertwining so that the source could not be made out for sure. There were few birds that he preferred to nightjars, but it was not they that had brought him out of bed: he stood leaning on the balcony rail and presently Jack Aubrey, in a summer-house by the bowling-green, began again, playing very gently in the darkness, improvising wholly for himself, dreaming away on his violin with a mastery that Stephen had never heard equalled, though they had played together for years and years.Like many other sailors Jack Aubrey had long dreamed of lying in his warm bed all night long; yet although he could now do so with a clear conscience he often rose at unChristian hours, particularly if he were moved by strong emotion, and crept from his bedroom in a watch-coat, to walk about the house or into the stables or to pace the bowling-green. Sometimes he took his fiddle with him. He was in fact a better player than Stephen, and now that he was using his precious Guarnieri rather than a robust sea-going fiddle the difference was still more evident: but the Guarnieri did not account for the whole of it, nor anything like. Jack certainly concealed his excellence when they were playing together, keeping to Stephen's mediocre level: this had become perfectly clear when Stephen's hands were at last recovered from the thumb-screws and other implements applied by French counter-intelligence officers in Minorca; but on reflexion Stephen thought it had been the case much earlier, since quite apart from his delicacy at that period, Jack hated showing away.Now, in the warm night, there was no one to be comforted, kept in countenance, no one could scorn him for virtuosity, and he could let himself go entirely; and as the grave and subtle music wound on and on, Stephen once more contemplated on the apparent contradiction between the big, cheerful, florid sea-officer whom most people liked on sight but who would have never been described as subtle or capable of subtlety by any one of them (except perhaps his surviving opponents in battle) and the intricate, reflective music he was now creating. So utterly unlike his limited vocabulary in words, at times verging upon the inarticulate.'My hands have now regained the moderate ability they possessed before I was captured,' observed Maturin, 'but his have gone on to a point I never thought he could reach: his hands and his mind. I am amazed. In his own way he is the secret man of the world.

شو هالإيام اللي وصلنالا قال إنو غني عم يعطي فقير كنو المصاري قشطت لحالا عا هيدا نتفه و هيدا كتير الحلوه دي الحلوه دي الحلوه دي بتعجن في الفجرية بيقولولك من عرق جبينو طلع مصاري هالإنسان طيب كيف هيدا و كيف ملايينو و ما مره شايفينو عرقان مش صحيح مش صحيح مش صحيح الهوا غلاب الغني من تلقاء نفسو حابب يوزع ورق المال .. عال مانو بخيل ابداً على عكسو اتذكركن يا ولاد الحلال ليل يا لال ليل يا لال حول كل واحد منا عندو ستيلو ما بيمنع إنو يصير تنسيق جيبلي لامضيلك بقلم ستيلو كل الشعوب بكرا حتفيق يا سلام يا سلام يا سلام سلم كل المصاري اللي مضبوبي اللي لا بتنعد و لا بتنقاس اصلا من جياب الناس مسحوبي و لازم ترجع عاجياب الناس هي دي هي دي هي دي الأصلية