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Old 07-18-2022, 08:02 AM   #41 (permalink)
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Lamento Boliviano - Los Enanitos Verdes

Apparently the lyrics reference Gabriel Gárcia Márquez's novel Crónica de una muerte anunciada, in particular the lines "Soy como una roca / Palabras no me tocan" and "Nena no te peines en la cama / Que los viajantes se van a atrasar". When I tried to read Gárcia Márquez I found my Spanish to be (severely) lacking, so I'm afraid I can't add any more detail than that. But it's a great song, and perhaps someone else can elaborate on the lirerary connection.
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Old 07-18-2022, 04:00 PM   #42 (permalink)
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^ Yes, nice song, Pet Sounds. I particularly liked the acoustic guitar interlude at 1:50 seconds. I read Márquez's novel, but so long ago that I can't help in tracing influences from novel to song I'm afraid.

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Originally Posted by Ayn Marx View Post
There’s a difference between noise meaning volume and noise meaning distortion.
The distorted noise often swamping heavy metal has a big market, usually teenagers who delight in locking themselves into their bedroom, turning up the volume on their crappy ghetto blasters and sandpapering mummy and daddies eardrums.
However, heavy metal doesn’t always need to be a form of aural torture. Some of the most powerful political criticism of where our species has placed itself can be heard in heavy metal. Shame most of todays classical music has no similar political message.
I guess "noise" is a word with several nuances of meaning, Ayn. I wasn't using the word to mean volume, which was obviously mine to control. I wasn't particularly referring to distortion, which I am often quite fond of. I suppose by "noisy" I meant: I can't enjoy this because there are too many instruments playing too fast simultaneously. If there's a better word for that feeling, I'm open to suggestions.

Anyway, thanks to you both for contributing to a thread that doesn't get much attention.
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Old 07-18-2022, 04:42 PM   #43 (permalink)
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Anyway, thanks to you both for contributing to a thread that doesn't get much attention.
Thanks for the explanation. Often these things are very hard to describe with one word. As to my contribution I’m often annoyed with my fellow classical music lovers who refuse to see how serious a lot of metal is. There are far too many classical music lovers whose approach to music is a form of hiding from the real world. Odd, given there’s a long standing tradition, especially in Italian opera, of serious political criticism just below the surface.
Enough, I’m turning into a grumpy geriatric.

It’s just occurred to me there’s a real problem with a lot of live rock/metal/etc bands. Often each musician has their own feedback speaker aimed just at themselves. The irony is this started so musicians could hear themselves over the extreme volume of the entire group. Often the sad result is individuals have little clear idea of what the rest of the band is up to. How many times have we witnessed at live gigs one player waving at the sound mixer to up the volume of their own feedback speakers?
Interestingly very few live jazz performances suffer from the same problem.

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Old 07-18-2022, 04:55 PM   #44 (permalink)
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Apparently the lyrics reference Gabriel Gárcia Márquez's novel Crónica de una muerte anunciada, in particular the lines "Soy como una roca / Palabras no me tocan" and "Nena no te peines en la cama / Que los viajantes se van a atrasar". When I tried to read Gárcia Márquez I found my Spanish to be (severely) lacking, so I'm afraid I can't add any more detail than that. But it's a great song, and perhaps someone else can elaborate on the lirerary connection.
"I'm like a rock / Words don't touch me" and "Baby, don't comb your hair in bed / The travelers are going to be late” ? ? ? ?
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Old 07-18-2022, 07:43 PM   #45 (permalink)
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Quote:
It’s just occurred to me there’s a real problem with a lot of live rock/metal/etc bands. Often each musician has their own feedback speaker aimed just at themselves. The irony is this started so musicians could hear themselves over the extreme volume of the entire group. Often the sad result is individuals have little clear idea of what the rest of the band is up to. How many times have we witnessed at live gigs one player waving at the sound mixer to up the volume of their own feedback speakers?
I wonder if these individual feedback speakers are used with older acts in which the singer has lost his/her voice?
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Old 07-18-2022, 07:56 PM   #46 (permalink)
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Not hearing what the band is doing>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>not hearing what you're doing
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Old 12-16-2022, 08:19 AM   #47 (permalink)
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You probably won't recognise the title, Cielito Lindo, but I bet you'll recognise the swaying hook line: "Ay Ay Ay Ay, Canto y no llores":



Best known Mariachi song in the world, I should think, which is why, back in 1951, the local band in the Peruvian town of Cartavio had it on their playlist when they were hired to play by Cartavio's bigwigs. At the time, the local aristocracy were trying to diffuse tensions with the exploited workers of the town's sugar industry, and so they contrived a public party in the Main Square:



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"Late one Sunday afternoon, the tables were set up on the square by the central market, the band struck its first chord, and the aroma of roasted flesh began to wind through the streets... house by house, the workers and their families began to file out in their best shirts, with lavender oil matting their hair.
The music, the food, and the rum were working their spell that night. Ay, ay, ay ay! Canta y no llores! ....Before long, Cartavio was full of belly-bouncing laughter, a roaring, squealing bacchanalia."
It's all there in Marie Arana's memoir, American Chica: Two Worlds, One Childhood.

My Verdict: It's a pity the song is so hackneyed that it's become a joke today. It has some sentimental lyrics about a girl identified as "Lovely Little Sky" but it's real power is in the the admonition of the chorus, "Ay, ay, ay! Sing and don't cry!". It's just the perfect drinking song for people who want to drown their sorrows. You can almost see the beer slopping out of their mugs as people sway and sing along. Highly recommended next time you are planning a roaring, squealing bacchanalia of your own.
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Old 03-11-2023, 07:45 AM   #48 (permalink)
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There's no way I'd go on a road trip with 51-year-old Deborah Lacks, but there is also no way in a zillion years that she ever would have invited me. It took intrepid science student and (now) published writer, Rebecca Skloot over a year of patience and sympathy to win Deborah's trust. Why was that worth doing? Well, read Rebecca Skloot's excellent book of science journalism, The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks and the question will be answered.

Meanwhile, back on those road trips: the starting point was Baltimore and the year was 2000/2001 :-

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For each trip, Deborah filled her jeep floor to ceiling with every kind of shoes and clothes she might need. She brought pillows and blankets in case we got stranded somewhere, an oscillating fan in case she got hot, plus all her manicure equipment from beauty school, boxes of videotapes, music CDs, office supplies, and every document she had related to Henrietta [her mom]. We always took two cars because Deborah didn't trust me enough to ride with me. I'd follow behind, watching her black driving cap bop up and down to her music. Sometimes, when we rounded curves or stopped at lights, I could here her belting out "Born To Be Wild" or her favorite William Bell song, "I Forgot To Be Your Lover".


My Verdict: I was very surprised to hear an opening line that Van Morrison copied complete and used to make a song of his own. But after that spark of surprise, my interest in this song dwindled pretty fast, as it usually does with soul music. William Bell has a sincere-sounding, reassurring voice, but the song sounds like so many other ballads, helped along by strings and sax, in which a man sings about needing love, caring, holding on girl, etc, etc. It's a song clearly designed to win over a woman, which is perhaps why Deborah liked it and I don't. Still, in the context of a road trip, I can see this song fitting in very well: in a movie, it'll be that part where the initial excitement has passed and the people are just putting in the miles, no need for conversation, as the landscape is washed in beautiful afternoon sunlight, which slowly fades into the sadness of evening. I wonder if that was how it was for Deborah and Rebecca? Now only Rebecca knows, because Deborah died eight years after those road trips, aged 60.

R.I.P. Deborah Lacks, who, more than most people, was clearly in need of rest and peace during her lifetime.
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