My Favorite Things, by John Coltrane

Aunque él hubiese querido decir lo contrario, que le gustaba el saxofón y que entendía a Coltrane, prefirió decir lo que pensaba. "El saxofón no me gusta, y que sea el 'instrumento' del jazz es la idea del amater, lo mejor de Coltrane es que hizo mancuerna con Tyner." Sin entender, vio cómo todo se crispaba; cómo la luz blanca lo cegaba; cómo el rostro de Ana desaparecía y luego reaparecía al tiempo que un ardor en medio de su rostro se iba expandiendo como incendio. Cuando supo lo que había pasado ya era tarde: Ana se había levantado diciendo algo de estar harta y se había alejado mientras él espiaba esas piernas y ese trasero por el que había navegado tantas veces. Esas cosas que siempre preferí de ti, murmuró.

Poster of a Girl, by Metric

I played tennis on a grass lawn in Jesus Green yesterday. Doubles with Yanna, Mike and Nichol.

Didn't get much sleep last night. I cried myself awake and listened to Fobia for a while. Yo no soy buen perdedor.

Then I decided to go do some maths, as ever an efficient escape.

Dawn was just breaking and the air was crisp.

I got to my office and started pottering about. Maybe reading a bit and stumbled on two hundred bars.

Had way too much tequila last night, followed by pints and pints and then some more alcohol. When I got back to mine I had a wee night cap too.

I first invited Nichol to come play football with my friends because she was too stressed and didn't even leave her room, always studying for Part III exams.

Her room overlooks a street lined with pubs. Every night rambling drunks shout and sing just outside her window.

Sitting there all these months, toiling away.

She has been so far the only person that has moved me to tears over the last three years. My heart trembles when I see her still.

I've missed her from five different countries and a couple of continents.

But she does not want me.

Even went as far as driving back from Geneva to pick her up from Heathrow.
It didn't impress her much.

She said she had a crush on Mike a couple of days ago.

Throughout the entire year I had been pestering her for attention. Calling her too many times a day and caving in to her ridiculous vegan diet.

I introduced her to Mike, effectively, and never thought I would lose her like that.

Obsession does not even begin to describe my last 8 months. We met on the 2nd of October and I've spent so much time thinking about her since, sorry, lost so much time.

Mike sent me an email yesterday. It said he and Nichol were together. I could see it coming. But just as a train rushing towards me, it is hard to get off the tracks once its close.

Nichol had her last exam yesterday. I had been waiting for this day for 8 months, she was always too busy solving example sheets.

Mike was in his office and Nichol went to see him just after she finished her last exam. I tried playing it cool. Instead of licking my wounds I thought I was above it.

So we decided to play tennis, and for a couple of hours I played my best part yet. My inner thesp was proud. Me, not so much. Ever sprayed lime on your open bleeding flesh?

She was trying to be nice, and in doing so lied to me.

Now I feel like an imbecile.
She was my poster of a girl.

by Pablo.

Love Minus Zero/No Limit, by Bob Dylan

From a breakthrough album (the album that started it all, Bringing It All Back Home, 1965) a breakthrough song. After the political experiments in The Times They Are A-Changin' and the first onirical experiments in his lyrics featured in Another Side Of Bob Dylan, here Zimmermann played with language, played with the structure of the pop song, experimented what he had learned with the Beatles and at the same time showed them what you can do with clever lyrics.

The cloak and dagger dangles,

Madams light the candles.

In ceremonies of the horsemen,

Even the pawn must hold a grudge.

Statues made of match sticks,

Crumble into one another,

My love winks, she does not bother,

She knows too much to argue or to judge.

Besides, this is the title I borrowed for my novel.

Johnny Cash, by Sons & Daughters

It had been a very long time since any band had made me feel like this.

I remember my classroom in the second floor, being 16 and listening to the Pixies in my walkman. I remember rewinding I've Been Tired again and again, looking at the weekday morning get old as my Geography class started without me. The morning would grow colder as I listened to my taped version of Come On Pilgrim for the upteenth time, while something inside me made me want to jump, get tattooed, make love until I ran out of breath, run under the rain as if there were no tomorrow.

That feeling suddenly came back as I was listening to this song. It's the reference in the title; it's the addictive guitars and the percussive tempo, the male, prayer-like voice in combination with the mixed vocals in the chours. It's this part,


She wrote you a song and you bought a wedding dress
Having handsome bite buxom
Have insured people met
Then sundry and nocturnal
You lay your peace to sleep
With your new loves good fortunes
And secrets safe to keep


that makes me think of Black Francis and Kim Deal's dark, sexy, cryptic, steamy lyrical heritage. It's the kind of piece that makes you stop everything and ask, "hey, what the fuck is that?". I had been listening to mere memories, nostalgic returns to a long-gone era, and, with crack and thunder, this wondrous piece of pop craft appears before me with all the power of a true epiphany.

I wish I had an Impala, flames painted on the sides, to ride into the sunset listening to this, a quarter of bourbon warming my old, scarred heart:


What will await you
Can tether no more
What's shrunken withers
In the path to your door



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Overlover, by Delays

En mucho tiempo no había escuchado una canción que pudiera servir como postal auditiva de un momento intimo. Esta mañana sucedió la epifanía que pensaba se había extinguido junto con la adolescencia.

Al llegar a mi casa luego de pasar la noche fuera prendo mi nueva grabadora vintage, abró el anacrónico compartimiento del CD, pongo el disco en la charola, la cierro, aprieto random… entonces comienza el hechizo.

El bajo y la guitarra armonizan el sonido del momento en que termina la fase pública de la noche para abrirle camino a la intimidad.

Inevitablemente recuerdo que los viajes nocturnos en taxi son insoportablemente impersonales; sólo avivan el sentimiento de soledad mientras corren por las avenidas casi vacías como corre por la piel la sangre de una herida. Las señales de quien podría redimir la soledad no aparecen. La música transmite la atmósfera del momento en que el silencio de la soledad es tan opresor que sólo se puede desear romperlo con una canción que no llega; de tu voz que no llega...

Lover its over so let it go,
This club is dead and I'm off home.
The taxis are bleeding they're way off track.
I need some sign, that you'll come back now so...

Come on, come on and make it real
And feel the feelings that we feel,
I'm only waiting for a song to push you into my arms
And keep you there 'till morning comes.

Well lover it's over the sky has drawn this day in close
That we're still gone with.
We're watching the world as it's flags unfurl
But you still escape me so...

Come on, come on and make it real
And feel the feelings that we feel,
I'm only waiting for a song to push you into my arms
And keep you there 'till morning comes.

Finalmente llega la tan esperada señal, la canción que me lleva a tus brazos, de donde no me dejas escapar hasta que el sol alumbra nuestra intimidad.

Tras el aire húmedo de la mañana llega la hora de partir. Al mirar hacia atrás es un recuerdo, al mirar hacia el futuro vuelve a ser una esperanza lo que hace un momento era la íntima y calida realidad de tus brazos: hemos trazado un camino circular al huir de la soledad.

“Por favor, haz que pase otra vez”, pienso al ver tu carro alejarse.

(Do you wanna) come walk with me, by Isobel Campbell

I know, someone said one shouldn't write when one's jolly drunk but I want this to be fresh... like orange juice in Mexico City's morning corners. I just saw Isobel Campbell playing at the small Homefires-Coway Hall festival and it was the mellowest concert I've ever been to. Before Campbell played there were other good bands like Grizzly Bear, ex-Beta Band members as the Aliens and another guys from Glasgow, I think their name was P.C.O. or something like that -they didn't give programs, so that explains why I don't know the name.
I went on my own because, as always, I told my friends at the very last last minute, and they couldn't aford it. Prrrrt. Glasgow was in tha house tonight and the Scottish crew made the London music scene appear pretty upight. Man! Londoners are uptight that's the truth.
The Scottish girl is more like a woman actually. I expected her to be dressed in pink or something retro but she was wearing a plain black dress. While she was playing the cello she looked like the typical mucisian of a chamber orchestra. She is beautiful of course and very very shy, but that wasn't an impediment for her to shut up the people at the back because they were too drunk and not giving a damn bout the gig. Oh that woman is in love, and one doesn't have to be Dr. heart to know it.
Her voice is like a whisper said on a distant cold mountain, warm and sweet as honey. The combination of hers and Mark Lanegan's voice, is a good one coz, as she says, their voices are 'like the two sides of a coin.' Some people call them the beauty and the beast duo, but anyone -well, not actually, I'm thinking of Liz Fraser, but mmm, let's say, any man- could appear as a beast when singing with her.

She wrote the lyrics of her last album, The Ballad of Broken Hearts, from a male's perspective, and made Lanegan sing them. I can imagine that must have been fun.

I'm not saying I love you
I won't say I'll be true
there's a crimson bird flying
when I go down on you

I wonder how many men would dare say something like this, since they're not only afraid of love and compromise but also of expressing that they actually enjoy giving pleasure to girls.

Let Down, by Radiohead

Te llevaste todo.

No puedo dejar de sentir asco al verte cruzar la calle, negar tu derecho a ser tú mismo. Seguro piensas lo mismo que yo, esto que creo lo masticas como cuero todos los días, al sentarte en tu casa vacía, viendo algún noticiario sobre los hijos de la pobreza, alguna comedia sobre la guerra... esas porquerías que te gusta ver.

No puedo verte a los ojos desde que no hay imagen en el espejo. Y te odio por eso.

Let Down, by Radiohead

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Untitled No. 3, by Sigúr Rós

The fresh morning air running thru my lungs. But it is too pure for me, so I mess it up with a cigarrette. The first cigarrette of the day. I get to my usual spot in Parque México, a bench nearby the small lake. I observe the usual people. The beautiful thirty year old lady, walking her two dogs. The old man walking his German Shepperd. The first sun beams passing thru the trees, while I close my eyes and concentrate in the piano scale repeated over and over again thru the 6.33 minutes the song lasts. This part of the park has become too affluent.
The following day I change my location and move where the tower with the clock is. New usual people, a man with his guitar who stares at me, an old lady with yellow pants and sweatshirt, the cafeteria across the street. The same song. Nothing changes in the end. The piano, the people, the same routine for five or six months.

Endless, by Keith Jarrett

Cuenta la leyenda que el disco Changeless de Jarrett fue grabado en dos días y que cada pieza fue interpretada una sola vez; y sólo una vez porque ellas son hijas de la improvisación: ni uno de los tres músicos que en ellas tocan tuvieron partituras que seguir, nada de eso.

El éxito de la improvisación es que la pieza que se toca parece nueva, adquiere una energía única y el escucha se contagia de la destreza y de la frescura de las estructuras. Aquí, sin embargo, ocurre que la improvisación no es un sistema colateral a la estructura base, sino que ella es la estructura. Y esta estructura es emotiva y se pone más emotiva cuando hacia la mitad de la pieza el piano se vuelve agudo y los graves los da el bajo ayudado por el tartamudeo de las percusiones que, a su vez, son el reflejo del repetitivo sonido del piano. Luego de este momento, el piano se tranquiliza, todo vuelve a la calma, una calma momentánea.

Si ustedes quieren escuchar la pieza métanse al blog del evelio, y disfruten.

Endless, by Keith Jarrett

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Pure, by The Lightning Seeds

Los noventa...

...el hermoso candor desde Liverpool...y de pronto en un disco casi mediocre: una joya que transmite pasajes de dulce porvenir:

night time slows, raindrops splash rainbows
perhaps someone you know, could sparkle and shine
as daydreams slide to colour from shadow
picture the moonglow, that dazzles my eyes
and I love you

Yo tenía 19 años cuando salió este disco: me gustaba adormecerme con teorías lejanas en la lluvia y en el incansable walkman:

just lying smiling in the dark
shooting stars around your heart
dreams come bouncing in your head
pure and simple everytime
now you're crying in your sleep
i wish you'd never learnt to weep
don't sell the dreams you should be keeping
pure and simple everytime

El mundo, en su infinito azar, ofrece crepúsculos que colman de plenitud el alma: la ingenuidad puede ser un nuevo paraíso:

I'll sing a softer tune
pure and simple over you
pure and simple just for you

Pure, by The Lightning Seeds

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Holocaust, by Big Star

Your eyes are almost dead
Can't get out of bed
And you can't sleep

The deep crater of the soul:

My dark pilgrimage burns out in the twilight: memories awaken me to remind me my own cavities. Happiness is quickly forgotten when we shared wounds with the remains of our breath. You: the thin carnal horizon to reveal that daylight was here. At his hour ghosts achieve their full meaning:

You're a wasted face
You're a sad-eyed lie
You're a holocaust.

Holocaust, by Big Star

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Into The Mystic, by Van Morrison

Hay dos momentos fundamentales de la adolescencia que son de suma importancia en mi vida: John Keats y Van Morrison. Yo tenía 18 años. Había reprobado ocho materias en la preparatoria, razón suficiente para no salir con mi generación. Ese año me quedé solo. Mientras descansaba de las horas de estudio para preparar los extraordinarios me gustaba pedir libros de poesía al bibliotecario. Una tarde mis ojos leyeron por primera vez un poema de Keats y la luz del día no volvió a ser la misma: Ode to Autumn me dibujó la visibilidad de la gracia por primera vez. Lo recuerdo con toda claridad: dos días después escuché por primera vez el Moondance de Van Morrison y recuerdo que guardé un silencio reverencial cuando Into the Mystic sonó por primera vez en mi vida.

Al final de la segunda estrofa del poema de Keats, el verso:

Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours

me cautivó por el suave sonido de oozings encadenado a hours. En la canción de Van Morrison la línea:

And when that fog horn blows I will be coming home

no se queda atrás en su serena imagen de arena.
***************************************
Van Morrison: el eterno troubadour de la mirada que recibe la felicidad del tiempo que nos pasa:

We were born before the wind
Also younger than the sun

Fuga del tiempo. Esse sustancialis que murmura las primeras imágenes de la creación. Una orilla que recomienza su fluir en su mortal calma a tus pies. Tus manos se apoderan del oleaje mientras el antiguo paraíso se agolpa en un imán de luz. Tu recurso esperado de agua suspendido en la medida del mundo: tu lenta mano que desprende los cantos de aves dispersas:

Hark, now hear the sailors cry
Smell the sea and feel the sky
Let your soul and spirit fly into the mystic

Into The Mystic, by Van Morrison

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With God On Our Side, by Bob Dylan

So this is Bob Dylan's week.
When I was in high school, my history teacher told me: "Have you heard 'With God On Our Side' by Bob Dylan?" I answered, "No". She told me: "Would you listen to it and give us a sort of show and tell about it?" Why not? After all, I am a huge fan of Dylan. That evening I had an epiphany. By that time one of the few records I hadn't heard by him was The Times They Are A-Changin' (1964), which I consider to be his most political record. So I got home, downloaded the song (yeah, I know I did wrong, but some months later I bought the record) and checked the lyrics here. I think this one is the epic poem of the United States. The most honest, the most terrifying, the most brutal. The tone of resignation at the final lines ("So now as I'm leaving, I'm weary as hell, the confussion I'm feeling, ain't no tongue can tell"). Like "North Country Blues", it is so sadly present.

(as a recommendation, listen to the version included in The Bootleg Series Vol. 6 Live 1964. The Philarmonic Hall Concert, where Dylan sings it duo with Joan Baez).

North Country Blues, by Bob Dylan

I read the news yesterday.

Of all the depressing news about the state of the world, one strikes me the most: the front page features a photograph of the three children, aged 4, 2 and six months, two girls and a baby boy, who were abandoned by their mother in front of a Mexican nursing home, with a letter explaining she could not support them any longer.

I read the news yesterday.

Another picture grabs my attention: the wrinkled, grey hands of a Mexican migrant worker, crossing the desert with a crumpled picture of St. Judas, some lentils and a copper coin as his only possessions.

I've read the news, watched the newscasts about the situation of the miners all over the world, including the U.S. and Mexico. I have seen their faces, covered with coal and dirt, and that of their mourning families, covered with tears.

I am reminded of the first time I came to hear of these situations. Sadly, I begin humming North Country Blues, by Bob Dylan. The singer as narrator, gathering people around him, a story has to be told. And we will all learn something.

The true power of good pop music: to be relevant and memorable. To make an artistic, aesthetic, political comment about the world beyond the mere instantaneity of the present moment. To last.

Today, Bob Dylan turns 65. Thirty-five years ago, Charlie Brown famously said there was nothing more depressing than Dylan turning 30. I am damn sure there are much more depressing things. Even Chuck realized that.

Happy Birthday, Bob Dylan.


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