Exodus – Jesu/ Sun Kil Moon (2016)

Cal tenir el dia per escoltar-ho. De vegades, costa d’empassar la poesia i les maneres impostades de Mark Kozelek. Aquesta veu que arrossega com per passadissos encoixinats En aquest disc, junta esforços amb Justin Broadrick dels tremendistes anglesos Godflesh. Country, d’una banda, i experimentació industrial, de l’altra, en aquesta mena de giragonses que practiquen els amants del risc. Una altra cosa és que agradi, o plagui, o coli. A partir d’aquí, “Exodus”, una cançó de pares que perden fills, de nois que maten companys d’escola i de persones que veuen morir la gent que estima. El disc presenta col·laboracions de Will Oldham i de membres de Modest Mouse i Sonic Youth, pels qui els plagui l’anecdotari.



(Important: escoltar i seguir la lletra)

Showed up to Heathrow today
For the 2000th time
Got in my taxi and I learned Nick Cave’s son died
The news hit me like a bus into a hill
Cause once at the K-west hotel, I met him and his son, they were standing across the hall
I mentioned to him how we both played Hultsfred in 1997
I don’t believe in God, but sometimes I hope there’s Heaven
The bad news hurt to hear, and it hurts to repeat, it’s just sad news and I’m sorry to even speak it
I was on my way home from Perth this past March
Virgin airlines, row 23, and I watched ‘20,000 Days on Earth’ and it inspired me
I’m very much me
And Nick Cave is very much ‘He’
But we’re the same in that we’re both songwriters and we don’t stop moving- we’re like waves in the sea
I remember seeing ‘Mike Tyson: Undisputed Truth’
He spoke about the passing of his daughter Exodus, and how he joined “The Bereaved Parents Group.”
He knew when he arrived at her bed
That he was not alone
Because the parents of the other children embraced him
And they cried in the hospital
And I remembered when Danielle Steel
Lost her son at only 19 years old to an overdose on heroin
And on his bedroom window
Still remains the sticker he put there of The Misfits
Every time I walk past her home on Washington St. I look up and I glance at it
For all bereaved parents- I send you my love
Parents survive their children
Its a pain very few know of
My cousin Carissa’s
My friends Chris’s, Brett’s, and Dennis’s
And my ex-girlfriend Katy’s mom and dad
All became apart of the family of bereaved parents
And when my father was young
He lost his older brother Lenny
His mom and dad joined the bereaved parents group
My dad looks down on the ground and gets quiet whenever I mention his name
When my little second cousin Carissa died
My mother called me, it had been so long since I’d heard that certain cry
Not since the day she divorced my father
But they’re friendly now so with that story I’d rather not bother. But I flew out there and we gathered in the living room
We all shared stories of a person of whom different amounts of depth we knew
The coffee table was filled with prescription drugs
Carissa’s puppy laid at my feet and I gave Carissa’s mom a hug
And she sat motionless as if there was no air
She was in a world of her own in that chair
She was the one who gave birth to Carissa and raised her- All we could do for her was be there
It’s been two years and I know that for her some days are better, but the loss of a child has to be the hardest thing to bare
The loss of a child is something no parent is prepared
The loss of a child is simply unfair
For all bereaved parents- I send you my love
And parents outlive their children is the cruelest cut
For all bereaved parents- I know that I don’t know, but the pain has to be the worst nightmare of (?)
For all bereaved parents- I send you my love
For all bereaved parents- I send you my love
For all bereaved parents- I send you my love
For all bereaved parents- I send you my love
For all bereaved parents- I send you my love
For all bereaved parents- I send you my love
For all bereaved parents- I send you my love
For all bereaved parents- I sent you my love
For all bereaved parents- I send you my love
For all bereaved parents- I send you my love

Ressenya del disc de la revista Pitchfork

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Divendres 4 i Sonic Youth

Fred, taquicàrdia, pluja i Sonic Youth.
Tothom hauria de veure Sonic Youth en directe un cop a la vida. Imagino que molta gent no sap ni qui són ni l’interessa si s’assabenten que són uns músics de Nova York amants del punk i la distorsió. Jo els he vist cinc vegades i puc repartir les altres quatre vegades amb aquells que no els han pogut veure pels motius que siguin i es moren de ganes. Però ja no és possible des que la baixista Kim Gordon i el guitarra Thurston Moore van partir peres com a parella i el grup es va separar. En concert eren la tempesta perfecta si parlem de soroll i electricitat, un milfulles de grunys i melodies que eren bandera dels seus fans. Recordo el bolo del Primavera 2003 sota l’aiguat a la plaça del Poble Espanyol. Van tocar després dels mítics Television que m’havien fet plorar de l’emoció. Després de la filigrana de Tom Verlaine, Sonic Youth ho havia de fer miques tot. L’energia, el feedback com mètode, la sincronia presonera del temps, cada cançó era una peixera, una mirada de llum platejada en la pluja. La ruïna falsa del poble espanyol disparava ombres sobre nosaltres i la ciutat es convertia en un abocador de pluja elèctrica i colors de nit. Les llambordes del terra escopien brills i nosaltres cremàvem com encens per a joves blancs dispersos. En un mar de caps molls, Sonic Youth era el soroll de les ferides quan cauteritzen, el crit que fa el silenci quan l’aïllen. Un moment d’incandescència fosca.
Avui era un dia perfecte per l’abús de guitarres i els missatges indolents. Per a la postal d’una ciutat que quan es mulla s’estova i s’esquerda. Pel poder dels colors que traspua la instantània. I pel batec del cor que continua picant al pit sense saber per què. Potser és per la tardor que ja s’acosta.

[Kim]
Kool Thing sittin’ with a kiddie
Now you know you’re sure lookin’ pretty
Like a lover not a dancer
Superboy take a chance here
I don’t wanna, I don’t think so
I don’t wanna, I don’t think so

Kool Thing let me play it with your radio
Move me, turn me on, baby-o
I’ll be your slave
Give you a shave
I don’t wanna, I don’t think so
I don’t wanna, I don’t think so
[Chuck D]
Yeah, tell’em about it,
Hit’em where it hurts
Hey, Kool Thing, come here, sit down
There’s something I go to ask you.
I just wanna know, what are you gonna do for me?
I mean, are you gonna liberate us girls
From male white corporate oppression?
Tell it like it is!
Huh?
Yeah!
Don’t be shy
Word up!
Fear of a female planet?
Fear of a female planet?
Fear, baby!
I just want to know that we can still be friends
Come on, come on, come on, come on let everybody know
Kool thing, kool thing

When you’re a star, I know you’ll fix everything
Now you know you’re sure lookin’ pretty
Rock the beat just a little faster
Now I know you are the master
I don’t wanna, I don’t think so
I don’t wanna, I don’t think so

Kool thing walkin’ like a panther
Come on and give me an ans
wer
Kool thing walkin’ like a panther
What’d he say?
I don’t wanna, I don’t think so
I don’t wanna, I don’t think so

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Evol – Sonic Youth (1986)

Suena como nieve, pasos en la nieve, chirriando cuando se hunden, como el pesado rastro de alguien al abrirse camino hacia una puerta. Suena a asfalto de ciudad, grisáceo y extenuado de tanto como le han pasado por encima, camiones, coches, buses, trailers inacabables, carros de la compra tirados por homeless, pandillas, ambulancias, policias a caballo, rodillos, gruas. Coches funerarios. Suena a caridad, a compasión, a cola de indigentes a la puerta de una parroquia, mientras reciben su ración semanal de café, cigarrillos y comida. A ropa usada, apolillada, envuelta en naftalina. Empaquetada y colgada de viejas perchas. A cuchillas abandonadas y a cubos de basuras vacíos. A caras raras, de largas arrugas deformadoras, de ojeras pardas y barba de una semana. A cortes de pelos y trasquilones, a peinados desordenados en caras demasiado jóvenes huídas de casa hace una eternidad. A la poesía de unos cuerpos desnudos en una casa abandonada, plagada de trastos y de amor y de sopas instantáneas. De calor de brasero, de madera carcomida, de pilas de libros muriendo de viejos por el olvido de alguien olvidado. A un tiempo pasado, lejos de algo llamado familia. A gris blanco cerebro. Una fantasía de café y tabaco en una esquina. La de uno de nosotros cualquiera.

“Expressway to your skull”

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