El blues de la presó de Folsom – De Johnny Cash a The Charlatans (1969)

Era música d’un altre temps. Parlava de personatges sortits d’un moment particular. Rebels, reincidents que no s’acostumaven a les regles que els imposava la societat de la guerra freda. Amb un peu al camp i l’altre a ciutat, la confusió els trencava el capteniment, eren cowboys o senyor de vestit i corbata? Els calia habituar-se? Podien conviure aquells dos hemisferis? Se’ls forçava a admetre regles quan venien de combatre cos a cos amb l’enemic. Se’ls engarjolava perquè aprenguessin aquella lliçó que no els servia per res. Cash era un d’ells o s’hi sentia. I si el troben un pèl massa accelerat era per la seva addicció a les amfetamines. Un d’ells en cos i ànima visitant-los a la presó per allò de sentir-se com un peix a l’aigua

I hear the train a comin’
It’s rolling round the bend
And I ain’t seen the sunshine since I don’t know when,
I’m stuck in Folsom prison, and time keeps draggin’ on
But that train keeps a rollin’ on down to San Antone..
When I was just a baby my mama told me. Son,
Always be a good boy, don’t ever play with guns.
But I shot a man in Reno just to watch him die
When I hear that whistle blowing, I hang my head and cry..

I bet there’s rich folks eating in a fancy dining car
They’re probably drinkin’ coffee and smoking big cigars.
Well I know I had it coming, I know I can’t be free
But those people keep a movin’
And that’s what tortures me…

Well if they freed me from this prison,
If that railroad train was mine
I bet I’d move it on a little farther down the line
Far from Folsom prison, that’s where I want to stay
And I’d let that lonesome whistle blow my blues away….

Aquí la versió dels altres Charlatans, uns dels 60’s, que no van fer gaire més, tret d’aquest primer disc, excel·lent mostra de folk-rock, per cert.

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Bob Dylan – 75 anys donant la tabarra

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Nashville Skyline

Una cançó

Una versió


Jimi Hendrix – All along The Watchtower 1970 por c-costerg

Una lletra

Idiot Wind

Someone’s got it in for me, they’re planting stories in the press
Whoever it is I wish they’d cut it out but when they will I can only guess
They say I shot a man named Gray and took his wife to Italy
She inherited a million bucks and when she died it came to me
I can’t help it if I’m lucky

People see me all the time and they just can’t remember how to act
Their minds are filled with big ideas, images and distorted facts
Even you, yesterday you had to ask me where it was at
I couldn’t believe after all these years, you didn’t know me better than that
Sweet lady

Idiot wind, blowing every time you move your mouth
Blowing down the backroads headin’ south
Idiot wind, blowing every time you move your teeth
You’re an idiot, babe
It’s a wonder that you still know how to breathe

I ran into the fortune-teller, who said beware of lightning that might strike
I haven’t known peace and quiet for so long I can’t remember what it’s like
There’s a lone soldier on the cross, smoke pourin’ out of a boxcar door
You didn’t know it, you didn’t think it could be done, in the final end he won the wars
After losin’ every battle

I woke up on the roadside, daydreamin’ ’bout the way things sometimes are
Visions of your chestnut mare shoot through my head and are makin’ me see stars
You hurt the ones that I love best and cover up the truth with lies
One day you’ll be in the ditch, flies buzzin’ around your eyes
Blood on your saddle

Idiot wind, blowing through the flowers on your tomb
Blowing through the curtains in your room
Idiot wind, blowing every time you move your teeth
You’re an idiot, babe
It’s a wonder that you still know how to breathe

It was gravity which pulled us down and destiny which broke us apart
You tamed the lion in my cage but it just wasn’t enough to change my heart
Now everything’s a little upside down, as a matter of fact the wheels have stopped
What’s good is bad, what’s bad is good, you’ll find out when you reach the top
You’re on the bottom

I noticed at the ceremony, your corrupt ways had finally made you blind
I can’t remember your face anymore, your mouth has changed, your eyes
don’t look into mine
The priest wore black on the seventh day and sat stone-faced while the
building burned
I waited for you on the running boards, near the cypress trees, while the
springtime turned
Slowly into Autumn

Idiot wind, blowing like a circle around my skull
From the Grand Coulee Dam to the Capitol
Idiot wind, blowing every time you move your teeth
You’re an idiot, babe
It’s a wonder that you still know how to breathe

I can’t feel you anymore, I can’t even touch the books you’ve read
Every time I crawl past your door, I been wishin’ I was somebody else instead
Down the highway, down the tracks, down the road to ecstasy
I followed you beneath the stars, hounded by your memory
And all your ragin’ glory

I been double-crossed now for the very last time and now I’m finally free
I kissed goodbye the howling beast on the borderline which separated you from me
You’ll never know the hurt I suffered nor the pain I rise above
And I’ll never know the same about you, your holiness or your kind of love
And it makes me feel so sorry

Idiot wind, blowing through the buttons of our coats
Blowing through the letters that we wrote
Idiot wind, blowing through the dust upon our shelves
We’re idiots, babe
It’s a wonder we can even feed ourselves

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Redemption Song – De Bob Marley & Johnny Cash & Joe Strummer (1979 – 2002)

Emancipeu-vos de l’esclavitud mental, ningú més que nosaltres pot alliberar les nostres ments, cantava Marley poc abans de morir. Repeteixen Cash i Strummer, dues personalitats com la nit i el dia, barrejades en aquest clam reivindicatiu.

Old pirates, yes, they rob I,
Sold I to the merchant ships,
Minutes after they took I
From the bottomless pit.

But my hand was made strong
By the hand of the Almighty.
We forward in this generation
Triumphantly.

Won’t you help to sing
These songs of freedom?
‘Cause all I ever have,
Redemption songs,
Redemption songs.

Emancipate yourself from mental slavery,
None but ourselves can free our minds.
Have no fear for atomic energy,
‘Cause none of them can stop the time.
How long shall they kill our prophets,
While we stand aside and look?
Some say it’s just a part of it,
We’ve got to fulfill the book.

Won’t you help to sing
These songs of freedom?
‘Cause all I ever have,
Redemption songs,
Redemption songs,
Redemption songs.

Emancipate yourself from mental slavery,
None but ourselves can free our mind.
Have no fear for atomic energy,
‘Cause none of them can stop the time.
How long shall they kill our prophets,
While we stand aside and look?
Some say it’s just a part of it,
We’ve got to fulfill the book.

Won’t you help to sing,
These songs of freedom?
‘Cause all I ever had,
Redemption songs.
All I ever had,
Redemption songs
These songs of freedom
Songs of freedom

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Johnny Cash With His Hot and Blue Guitar! – Johnny Cash (1957)

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Esto comenzaba. Todos en la linea de salida listos para correr. ¿Hacía dónde? Nadie lo sabía. La sociedad yanqui en construcción empezaba a exigir un espectáculo más, que acompañara al cine, a la televisión en blanco y negro y a la radio. De consumo rápido y beneficio fácil, para todos los colores y edades. Algo con canciones cortas, que no se eternizara como las largas disertaciones de jazz, que no se podían radiar. Y alegres. Se aceptaban de amor inocente y también las de leyenda, los jóvenes necesitaban sueños diferentes. Trabajar, dinero, amor, familia. También, un poco de libertad y carretera, velocidad y aventura. Con algo más que luces de luna, paseos y pajaritas. El swing y el dixie se aceleraron y la gente de color volvió a la palestra con su capacidad para el ritmo y la alegría. El rock tomó forma. Pero faltaba algo, un estilo exclusivo para blancos, una onda antropológica para todos aquellos que aún se creían pioneros en el fin del mundo, esos que vivían lejos de la ciudad y arrugaban el entrecejo cuando oían esa manera fina de hablar. El negocio necesitaba referentes para esa porción de mercado, que siguiera al niño bonito de Presley. Y ahí salió Johnny Cash como exponente de un sonido que debía llamarse country, por el asunto de la raíz, pero que él, contaminado por el rock del momento, electrificó para que la cosa fluyera a velocidad de crucero. A partir de ahí, su carita sonrosada y bien afeitada, sus maneras relamidas para que el invento cuajara por esas partes de oreja dura y biblia del territorio. La historia de siempre. Para que luego al tipo le diera por cantar de cárceles y perdedores. Ponerse duro y reivindicativo. Y de aquí a la fama. Leyenda, incluida, por supuesto. Qué no serían estos tipos sin el mito.

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