original i versió – Tom Waits vs Tom Jones

Tom Waits – Bad As Me

You’re the head on the spear
You’re the nail on the cross
You’re the fly in my beer
You’re the key that got lost
You’re the letter from Jesus on the bathroom wall
You’re mother superior in only a bra
You’re the same kind of bad as me

I’m the hat on the bed
I’m the coffee instead
The fish or cut bait
I’m the detective up late
I’m the blood on the floor
The thunder and the roar
The boat that won’t sink
I just won’t sleep a wink
You’re the same kind of bad as me

No good you say
Well that’s good enough for me

You’re the wreath that caught fire
You’re the preach to the choir
You bite down on the sheet
But your teeth have been wired
You skid in the rain
You’re trying to shift
You’re grinding the gears
You’re trying to shift
And you’re the same kind of bad as me

They told me you were no good
I know you’ll take care of all my needs
You’re the same kind of bad as me

I’m the mattress in the back
I’m the old gunnysack
I’m the one with the gun
Most likely to run
I’m the car in the weeds
If you cut me I’ll bleed
You’re the same kind of bad as me
You’re the same kind of bad as me

Original i
Versió

Tom Jones – Bad As Me

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Déu és en viatge de negocis – Tom Waits

I’d sell your heart to the junkman baby
For a buck, for a buck
If you’re looking for someone
To pull you out of that ditch
You’re out of luck, you’re out of luck

The ship is sinking
The ship is sinking
The ship is sinking
There’s leak, there’s leak,
In the boiler room
The poor, the lame, the blind
Who are the ones that we kept in charge?
Killers, thieves, and lawyers

God’s away, God’s away,
God’s away on Business. Business.
God’s away, God’s away,
God’s away on Business. Business.

Digging up the dead with
A shovel and a pick
It’s a job, it’s a job
Bloody moon rising with
A plague and a flood
Jain the mob, jain the mob
It’s all over, it’s all over, it’s all over
There’s a lick, there’s a lick,
In the boiler room
The poor, the lame, the blind
Who are the ones that we kept in charge?
Killers, thieves, and lawyers
God’s away, God’s away, God’s away
On Business. Business.
God’s away, God’s away,
On Business. Business.

[Instrumental Break]

Goddamn ther’s always such
A big temptation
To be good, To be good
Tere’s always free cheddar in
A mousetrap, baby
It’s a deal, it’s a deal
God’s away, God’s away, God’s away
On Business. Business.
God’s away, God’s away, God’s away
On Business. Business.
I narrow my eyes like a coin slot baby,
Let her ring, let her ring
God’s away, God’s away,
God’s away on Business.
Business…

Llavors, és allò que tots ens preguntem, les coses realment van malament, o són imaginacions meves
Algú ens ha abandonat, o som nosaltres mateixos…
etc

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Vinyoli & Waits

 

JOAN VINYOLI
(Barcelona, 3 de julio de 1914- 30 de noviembre de 1984)

LA MESURA D’UN HOME

Ben sospesat, els dies
de joventut valen molt
per no donar-los un alt preu.
Si foren rics de foc i d’acció i disponibles
a tot
-una nit estelada
no la desdenyis, no val menys que els erms
transitats per la mort.
Si fores
fracàs, anhel i solitud i reserva
de la guspira que encén boscos
i no sols
projecte avar de guanys
d’hipòcrita domini,
sobretot si fores
pur en el pur, diré que vas donar
la mesura d’un home.
Joan Vinyoli – Vent d’Aram (1976)

&

TOM WAITS

(Pomona, California, 7 de diciembre de 1949)

HELL BROKE LUCE

I had a good home but I left
I had a good home but I left, right, left
That big fucking bomb made me deaf, deaf
A Humvee mechanic put his Kevlar on wrong
I guarantee you’ll meet up with a suicide bomb
Hell broke luce
Hell broke luce

Big fucking ditches in the middle of the road
You pay a hundred dollars just for fillin’ in the hole
Listen to the general, every goddamn word
How many ways can you polish up a turd?
Left, right, left, left, right, left, right
Hell broke luce
Hell broke luce
Hell broke luce
How is it that the only ones responsible for making this mess got their sorry asses stapled to a goddamn desk?
And hell broke luce
Hell broke luce
Left, right, left
What did you do before the war?
I was a chef, I was a chef
What was your name?
It was Geoff, Geoff
I lost my buddy and I wept, wept
I come down from the meth so I slept, slept
I had a good home but I left, left

Pantsed at the wind for a joke
I pranced right in with the dope
Glanced at her shin, she said, “Nope, pope”
Left, right, left
Nimrod Bodfish, have you any wool?
Get me another body bag, the body bag’s full
My face was scorched, scorched
I miss my home, I miss my porch, porch
Left, right, left
Can I go home in March? March
My stanch was a chin full of soap
That rancid dinner with the pope
And left, right, left
Kelly Presutto got his thumbs blown off
Sergio’s developing a real bad cough
Sergio’s developing a real bad cough
And hell broke luce
Hell broke luce
Hell broke luce

”Boom’, went his head away and, “Boom” went Valerie
What the hell was it that the president said?
Give him all a beautiful parade instead
And left, right, left
When I was over here I never got to vote
I left my arm in my coat
My mom she died and never wrote
We sat by the fire and ate a goat
Just before he died he had a toke
Now I’m home and I’m blind and I’m broke
What is next?

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Benzina – Quim Monzó (1983)

Hi va haver una època que es vivia més enllà del típic “bo” i “dolent” de les nostres vides. Més enllà dels simplistes “m’agrada” i “no m’agrada”. Els 80’s van obrir les ments a còpia de curiositat i d’accidents. A base d’or i morralla, vivíem com si la llibertat fos en risc d’extinció, com si fos l’últim dia de les nostres vides. I tampoc passava res.
Veníem d’una època molt dura en tots els sentits, difícil de superar des del punt de vista de la creativitat. Mancances i prohibicions havien esmolat uns criteris i uns talents que eren fets de fred i de foscor. De l’empatx de cares llargues i lamentacions, el calendari va dur un canvi de normes i criteris que tenia el vistiplau de la majoria il·lustrada. Al blanc i negre li calia color, a determinades expressions els faltava menys tibantor, la roba baldera estava bé però podia ajustar-se.
A partir dels 80’s, la gent del carrer no es qüestionava els gustos, volia acció. Tothom en tenia per donar i per vendre. No hi havien tantes manies.

 

 

La relectura de Benzina, una de les primeres obres de Quim Monzó, conserva el gust i les ganes. El ritme i l’absurd. Un món i un temps enllaunats, el realisme brut del moment. La narració busca els límits sense immutar-se. Traspuen les nits d’una mena de Barcelona ianqui,o d’una Nova York barcelonina, el gust per Salter, Salinger i Carver, l’experiència de l’autor a l’escola Massana i les diatribes artístiques de l’època. Com un orfebre, Monzó calibra els pesos de la història fins al punt just. El curs del llibre ha deixat alguns defectes: el temps verbal podria ser-ne un altre. O el ritme narratiu. El tractament del sexe, atrevit per l’època, ara es veu força caduc. Tot i això, el llibre retrata amb encert aquell inici de llibertat que va enganxar uns quants de nit pel carrer.
Recordo quan trobava Monzó al Bodeguín del carrer Herzegovina. Amb el professor Barnils. Jo entrava a comprar tabac, era l’excusa per mirar-me’l de prop una estona. Gran i gros, imposava com un Sant Pau dins d’un abrig llarg color cendra. El cabell estarrufat, la mirada desorbitada i els tics que el bellugaven com un retrat de Duchamp, com una escultura del futurista Boccioni. Una gàrgola del temps, coses del passat.

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