The Dead Weather - Treat me like your mother

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E aqui está o clipe/filme da música

Treat me like your Mother do primeiro disco

da nova banda do Jack White...

Paciência, ele não para.

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bizarros, meu filho, bizarros.

"I love like a woman but cut like a buffalo"

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boy's best friend

"My only friends speak no words to me

But they look at me and they don't forget

That a boy's best friend

Is his mother or whatever has become his pet"

Jack White, "A boy's best friend"

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boy genius

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"Well I'm sorry but I'm not interested in gold mines, oil wells, shipping or real estate. What would I liked to have been? Everything you hate. Cause It can't be love for there is no true love...

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There is a man, a certain man: and for the poor you may be sure that he'll do all he can. Who is this one? Who's favourite son? Just by his action has the traction, magnets on the run. Who likes to smoke, enjoys a joke, and wouldn't get a bit upset if he were really broke. With wealth and fame he's still the same, I'll bet you five you're not alive If you don't know his name..."

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-trechos de "Citizen Kane" do Orson Welles e da música "The Union Forever" baseada no filme escrita por Jack White. Meus dois "boy geniuses" favoritos.

a little hurricano and a seven nation army

Era uma vez, uma época que se reinventa. 

Qualquer coisa que ainda vive e respira 

nos cantos sujos do mundo, 

e que sem dar sinal nem pedir licença, 

retorna pra nos assombrar, 

é... 

É qualquer coisa que ainda não tem nome, 

mesmo existindo há tanto tempo... 

e que sem ser menos

nem pedir mais

ainda grita por alguma revolução, sendo a mesma 

sempre a diferente 

e quando ouvida

(e digerida)

é reformulada e novamente reinventada...

Porque a verdade não dura mais do que 

o tempo de uma canção.

Meu querido Jack White com os doidos da dupla 

The Kills. 

(aqueles que assisti ao vivo no outro dia).

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tempo morto

bom, isso não é nem mais novidade mas do jeito que eu ando lerda, tá valendo... o meu amado (já repetido nesse humilde espaço mais de algumas dezenas de vezes) e idolatrado Jack White apareceu com uma banda nova. se chama The Dead Weather, já tem album pronto pra sair logo e já está colocando todos de ouvidos antenados e peitos abertos. uma das integrantes da banda é a completamente insana mas nem por isso menos competente Alison Mosshart, da dupla The Kills que tomou o mundo com sua música simples e intensa na mesma época que White o fez com sua também dupla musical de personalidade humilde porém apaixonada - e apaixonante - os White Stripes. não tinha como os dois não se juntarem algum dia desses para que muitos ficassem felizes, como a dona Salles aqui...

para conhecer mais clique na foto.


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tertúuuulia....

.
.
.

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Ponderando sobre o tema das tertúlias do mês de março, nada descobri. Percebendo a sensação tão simples e natural que brotava a cada conversa aberta, a cada olhar sem qualquer disfarce ou malícia descobri a raíz do desejo. Entendi que o que há de mais humano é querer, querer tão pura e simplesmente que o objeto do desejo interno se transforme em seu, mesmo que seja sem existir algum filtro racional ou emocional. Querer é desejar, desejar é a última das humanidades.

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*imagem: Jack e Meg White, fotografia de Annie Leibovitz, porque o desejo é um jogo descuidado e perigoso, mas sempre o mais delicioso e necessário de ser levado até o fim...

"If you don't want it, we'll take it;
if you don't want to give it to us, we keep walking by.
Keep going, we're not tired.
Got plenty of places to go, lots of homes we ain't been to yet.
West side, southwest side, middle-east, rich house, dog house, outhouse, old folks house,
House for unwed mothers, halfway homes, catacombs, twilight zones.

Looking for techniques, turntables to gramophones.

So take a last lick of your ice cream cone.
And lock up what you still want to own.

But please be kind.
And don't rewind.

All of your pretty, your pretty little rags and bones."

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how i feel

"all the words are gonna bleed from me and I will think no more."

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My own private Beatles III

I'm not sure if there's a point to this story, but I'm going to tell it again. So many other people try to tell the tale, not one of them knows the end... It was a junk-house in South Carolina, held a boy the age of ten along with his older brother Billy and a mother and her boyfriend who was a triple loser with some blue tattoos that were given to him when he was young, and a drunk temper that was easy to lose and thank god he didn't own a gun! Well, Billy woke up in the back of his truck, took a minute to open his eyes... he took a peep into the back of the house and found himself a big surprise. He didn't see his brother but there was his mother with her red-headed head in her hands. While the boyfriend had his gloves wrapped around an old priest trying to choke the man...

Ah Ah Ahhh...

Billy looked up from the window to the truck threw up, and had to struggle to stand. He saw that red-necked bastard with a hammer turn the priest into a shell of a man. The priest was putting up the fight of his life, but he was old and he was bound to lose... the boyfriend hit as hard as he could and knocked the priest right down to his shoes... Well, now Billy knew but never actually met the preacher lying there in the room. He heard himself say, "That must be my daddy" then he knew what he was gonna do, Billy got up enough courage, took it up and grabbed the first blunt thing he could find. It was a cold, glass bottle of milk that got delivered every morning at nine...

Ah Ah Ahhh...

Billy broke in and saw the blood on the floor, and he turned around and put the lock on the door. He looked dead into the boyfriend's eye, his mother was a ghost, too upset to cry, then he took a step toward the man on the ground, from his mouth trickled out a little audible sound. He heard the boyfriend shout, "Get out!" And Billy said, "Not till I know what this is all about", "Well, this preacher here was attacking your mama", but Billy knew just who was starting the drama. So Billy took dead aim at his face and smashed the bottle on the man who left his dad in disgrace, and the white milk dripped down with the blood, and the boyfriend fell down dead for good Right next to the preacher who was gasping for air, and Billy shouted, "Daddy, why'd you have to come back here?" His mama reached behind the sugar and honey, and pulled out an envelope filled with money, "Your daddy gave us this," she collapsed in tears, "He's been paying all the bills for years"! "Mama, let's put this body underneath the trees and put Daddy in the truck and head to Tennessee", just then, his little brother came in holding the milk man's hat and a bottle of gin singing,

La la la la, la la la la, yeah
La la la la, la la la la, yeah
La la la la, la la la la, yeah
La la la, la la la... La la la la, la la la la, yeah
La la la la, la la la la, yeah
La la la la, la la la la, yeah
La la la, la la la...
La la la la, la la la la, yeah
La la la la, la la la la, yeah
La la la la, la la la la, yeah
La la la la, la la la la, yeah

Well now you heard another side to the story but you wanna know how it ends? If you must know the truth about the tale, go and ask the milkman.

pra constar que...

you think not telling is the same as not lying, don't you?
then I guess not feeling is the same as not crying to you...


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My own private Beatles II

You don't understand me, but if the feeling was right you might comprehend me. And why do you feel the need to tease me? Why don't you turn it around, it might be easier to please me. And there's always another point of view, a better way to do the things we do. And how can you know me and I know you? If nothing is true... Why do you think that you are doing? But who is the fool, the fool or the fool that you are fooling. And maybe I just don't see the reason but in the corner of my heart your ignorance is treason... You think you know how I feel, it's not that big of a deal, there's no such thing it's not real. You don't understand me, but if the feeling was right you might comprehend me. And I don't claim to understand you, but I've been looking around and I haven't found, anybody like you...

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My own private Beatles

So if I were to just lay in silence
And see if you would take control,
These stones below me then may become violent
And they will wrestle me, pester me, mess with me
Just tryin' to free your soul...




Speak to me and don't speak softly
Talk to me and let me know
Grab hold of my shoulder and tell me

Grab hold and do not let go.



---

Brendan and Jack said that:

"I can't see the road, if I'm looking at the sign..."

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por falar em Jack White...

ele escreveu esse poeminha pra cidade abandonada dele, que o fez ser quem é, e eu o publico aqui:

'Courageous Dream's Concern,' by Jack White

I have driven slow,
three miles an hour or so,
through Highland Park, Heidelberg, and the
Cass Corridor.
I've hopped on the Michigan,
and transferred to the Woodward,
and heard the good word blaring from an
a.m. radio.
I love the worn-through tracks of trolley
trains breaking through their
concrete vaults,
As I ride the Fort Street or the Baker,
just making my way home.

I sneak through an iron gate, and fish
rock bass out of the strait,
watching the mail boat with
its tugboat gait,
hauling words I'll never know.
The water letter carrier,
bringing prose to lonely sailors,
treading the big lakes with their trailers,
floats in blue green chopping waters,
above long-lost sunken failures,
awaiting exhumation iron whalers,
holding gold we'll never know.

I've slid on Belle Isle,
and rowed inside of it for miles.
Seeing white deer running alongside
While I glide, in a canoe.
I've walked down Caniff holding a glass
Atlas root beer bottle in my hands
And I've entered closets of coney islands
early in the morning too.
I've taken malt from Stroh's and Sanders,
felt the black powder of abandoned
embers,
And smelled the sawdust from wood cut
to rehabilitate the fallen edifice.
I've walked to the rhythm of mariachis,
down junctions and back alleys,
Breathing fresh-baked fumes of culture
nurtured of the Latin and the
Middle East.
I've fallen down on public ice,
and skated in my own delight,
and slid again on metal crutches
into trafficked avenues.

Three motors moved us forward,
Leaving smaller engines to wither,
the aluminum, and torpedo,
Monuments to unclaimed dreaming.
Foundry's piston tempest captured,
Forward pushing workers raptured,
Frescoed families strife fractured,
Encased by factory's glass ceiling.

Detroit, you hold what one's been seeking,
Holding off the coward-armies weakling,
Always rising from the ashes
not returning to the earth.

I so love your heart that burns
That in your people's body yearns
To perpetuate,
and permeate,
the lonely dream that does encapsulate,
Your spirit, that God insulates,
With courageous dream's concern.

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meu amor por Jack White...

...tem seus motivos, e não são poucos. Primeiro porque essa foto dele que está repetida à la Warhol aí em cima, é de quando ele foi preso por brigar num bar, pelo que todos dizem ele estava defendendo a honra de alguma mulher - sei lá qual - e foi levado e condenado a fazer aulas de "anger management", ha! Que piada. Óquei, não é por isso que eu o amo. Ele é White porque levou o sobrenome da primeira esposa dele: Meg. Sim, a "baterista" (coitada, gente!) do White Stripes. É o que você ouviu. Ele levou o sobrenome dela e ela não teve que usar o dele, essa é a maior prova de auto-entrega que uma mulher (principalmente nos EUA) pode ter de um homem EVER! Aqui nas barbas do tio Sam, a mulher aniquila o seu sobrenome para levar o do marido, e por isso ele merece mais um ponto na minha cartilha. Ele ainda deu o sobrenome de White para sua filha com OUTRA mulher. Fantástico. Outra coisa: ele vem de Detroit! E diz a lenda que Detroit é capital do assassinato e da corrupção nos EUA, infelizmente a lenda nesse caso se faz verdadeira, o que mais do que rapidamente me faz entender bem de onde ele veio, já que eu mesma vim da capital do crime e da corrupção canarinho: Sampa Gotham City. Ele não só toca bem, aliás, não, ele não "toca uma guitarrinha bem", ele tem o seu próprio estilo que, convenhamos, hoje em dia é dificílimo encontrar. Criatividade em uma era de digital art e de mais de seis trilhões de pessoas é coisa única, o que o dá mais credibilidade ainda, porque ele não para de fazer música, e música boa! Ah, tem mais, ele foi aceito em um seminário em Wisconsin - sim, para ser padre! - e no último minuto decidiu simplesmente ir para escola publica, e tudo isso porque ele tinha acabado de ganhar um amplificador novo para a sua guitarra e achava que não iriam aceitar aquele treco nas imediações da escola de padres! Em um show em Manaus, ele decidiu ir pro meio do povão que esperava lá fora para entrar - já que não tinha espaço - e tocar pra eles com um violãozinho acústico! Além de ter casado com sua segunda esposa la mesmo, com a primeira esposa Meg como dama de honra! Diz se ele não é uma figura, e uma das boas? E hoje deu vontade de falar sobre ele, não me pergunte porque.

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