A personal post (for a change)

Although this blog has become over its short existence little more than a reflection of my point of view on music, film and any other arts, I recognise this change has arrived as an answer to my progressive lack of journalistic work on other websites. And let’s face it – I live for the words, for the text, for their power and consequent influence on society as a whole.

 

So today’s post is different; I take hold of this so-called power of the words to bring back some loose memories of a distant time and place. Or maybe not so distant – although sometimes it feels like a whole lifetime has gone by. The rose. The grapefruit. The photo. The kiss – a kiss is never just a kiss, mr. Hupfeld, no matter what Sam plays. The bed. The song. The city. The secret. The poems – oh, the beautiful poems written for their own muse, mixed with long letters of despair while seeking for someone we’ve already found.

And, just like it arrived, it’s gone. The remainings – a short story, a box, everything possible to make us believe it wasn’t just a dream. And the time-erased memories, slowly disappearing only to return once in a while, when it all comes around your head all over again, vivid like a well-preserved film copy.

So today it came around my head once again. And will dance itself to death until it rises again, years from now, to haunt me like a past life’s karma alert.

 

 

 

Chronicles of a Vinyl Collector – The Lisbon Era

One of the first purchases I made when I moved to Lisbon a couple of months ago was a turntable (slash radio slash cd and mp3 player) for I wasn’t in the mood to bring my whole hi-fi from home.

The first sign arrived when I was looking for an appartment and the one I ended up choosing has shelves especially designed for vinyl records that seemed to have been constructed four ou five decades ago – which, I may add, is a visible sign of a music lover when you are talking about an appartment as small as a studio. Then, slowly, I began to bring some of my records and, obviously, made some new, interesting purchases.

So this entry is a micro-catalogue of what is on those shelves the moment I write about it. I therefore present you about 10% of my collection.

Imagine, John Lennon (1971),

EMI 2000 digitally remastered edition

 

The Velvet Underground and Nico, Velvet Underground (1967),

Verve 2000 yellow vinyl remastered edition (ltd 500 copies)

 

Portishead, Portishead (1997),

1997 Go! Beat edited by Polygram US double LP edition

 

MTV Unplugged in New York, Nirvana (1994),

2008 Geffen Records European release (part of the Back to Black series)

 

Waiting For the Sun, The Doors (1968),

2009 Elektra reissue 180-gram vinyl US edition

 

A Arte Maior de, Elis Regina (1983)

1983 Polygram Discos double vinyl edition

 

Abbey Road, The Beatles (1969),

1995 Capitol Records Yellow Apple US Release

 

 

Transformer, Lou Reed (1972),

Undated Portuguese RCA – Polygram release

 

 

Disque d’Or vol. 1, Edith Piaf (1980)

1980 Portuguese Columbia edition

 

 

Ralph Burns, Cabaret OST (1972),

1977 ABC Records US edition

 

About Love, Plastiscines (2009),

2009 Nylon Records US Edition

 

Back To Black, Amy Winehouse (2007),

2007 Universal Island Records Europe edition

 

Carl Orff’s Carmina Burana, Leipzig Philharmonic Orchestra (1982),

1982 Spanish Phillips, brazillian edition

 

Pulp Fiction OST, V.A (1991),

2008 MCA Records Europe (part of the Back to Black series)

 

Big Brother & the Holding Company, Big Brother & the Holding Company (1967),

2008 Sundazed Records US mono edition

 

Falco 3, Falco (1985),

1985 A&M edition, US promotional use only release

 

The Big Black & The Blue, first Aid Kit (2010),

2010 Wichita Recordings Ltd UK edition

 

Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts’ Club Band, The Beatles (1967),

1967 UK EMI/Parlophone first edition with cutout insert

 

Serge Gainsbourg ft. Brigitte Bardot, Bonnie and Clyde (1968),

2009 4 Men With Beards US edition 180 gram vinyl

The Singles, Pretenders (1987),

1987 WEA Records European edition (Spain)

Un jour cet air me rendra folle

Paris is like the lover you fear falling in love with, for as soon as she realizes that – and she will -, you’ll become just one more of her list. You arrive to her with your heart and mind open, how naïve of you! When she realizes you’ve come to stay, she’ll slap you in the face to see what you’re made off. And you cry. And you want to go home.

Next, she makes your life a living hell by showing you her deepest corners filled with solitude, which you will have to cope with along with the beauty that has already trapped you in a matter of seconds. And she chews you and spits you, she beats you and licks your wounds almost simoultaneously so that you live a daily dillemma on quitting her or not.

After hours, days, weeks and months passed, the time finally comes when you’re hit by the second time. You will be unprepared, alone, probably walking with your own thoughts, wandering around with no particular destination. And it’s when something is whispered in your ear, a warmth fills your heart and calms your soul; your cheeks are warm and your heart beats faster, as if you were about to meet your long-lost soulmate, and something inside you has changed. That’s when Paris finally embraces you and lets you know that she loves you, as long as you don’t try to own her or change her in any way. A bond is established and you two begin to live as one, breathing the same energy and existing timelessly, as if you had known each other for all your lives.

And if, by any chance, you leave her one day, don’t make the mistake of missing her to the point of going back for her. She is the lover you should come back to when you’re emotionally stable – otherwise the disappointment will be too harsh for you to take, leading you to erase all the good memories you cherished. Paris is meant to be missed; she will miss you too and stay forever in your heart, her lips solemnly sealed with a smile that conceals every single secret you told her.

Edith Piaf, Padam Padam (1951)

Les 37 ponts qui traversent mon coeur

‘Sous le ciel de Paris
S’envole une chanson
Elle est née d’aujourd’hui
Dans le coeur d’un garçon’

[C'est le ciel, ce sont les rues, c'est la rivière et tous mes petits coins que je manque encore]

‘C’est physique!’ [Happy Valentine's Day]

Never a Valentine’s person myself, I dedicate this post to love in all forms and shapes; for L’Accordéoniste, beautifully interpreted by Edith Piaf, is a sad love story between a prostitute and a musician that played “la Java” and with whom she longs to marry, but he is sent to war and never returns. But especially, it is a song about the feeling the girl has when she hears the song played by “l’accordéoniste”, whose fingers run “through her skin, from below, from above” until she wants to scream that “it’s physical”.

Therefore, the true essence of love of this song reaches something beyond the common “falling in love”, metaphorizing it through projections that the prostitute makes of her own sensations, dreams, fantasies and, of course, happiness.

Edith Piaf’s L’Accordéoniste (1941)

La foule

I woke up this morning and my heart ached and my throat was closed and something inside my chest hurted so much I could hardly breathe; so I went for a walk by the Seine but although it was sunny it began to rain and the wind was so raw and the last thing I recall seeing before returning home to my little parisian shelter was a 45rpm with a sad-eyed Edith Piaf in the cover. And then I realized she was one of those who will always look after me.

Je me suis reveillée ce matin et j’étais mal au coeur et ma gorge était fermée et quelque chose dedans ma poitrine était si mal que je respirais durement; donc je suis allée me balader près la Seine mais bien qu’il faisait beau la pluie a commencée a tomber et le vent était si rude et la dernière chose que je me rappelle de avoir vu avant retourner chez moi, chez mon petit refuge parisien, ça a été un 45rpm avec une Edith Piaf aux yeux tristes sur l’image de la pochette du disque. Et puis j’en ai conclu qu’elle était une de ces qui vont toujours s’occuper de moi.

La Foule, Edith Piaf (1961)