LSF

I’m on it, get on it
The troops are on fire!
Ya know I need it, much closer
I’m trading just a little more
Step on it, electronic
The troops are on fire!
I’m much deeper, a sleeper
Waiting for the final trip
Come on it, get on it
I’m carving thru a letterbomb
I need it, loud potions
These drugs are just an hour away
Come on it, electronic
A polyphonic prostitute, the motors, on fire
Messiah for the animals

Ahhh, oh come on!
We got our backs to the wall!
Ah!
Get on!
And watch out!
Sayin, “Yer gonna kill us all!”

Kasabian e a ótima L.S.F. (Lost Souls Forever).

Porque sim.

I’m on it, get on it
The troops are on fire!
Ya know I need it, much closer
I’m trading just a little more
Step on it, electronic
The troops are on fire!
I’m much deeper, a sleeper
Waiting for the final trip
Come on it, get on it
I’m carving thru a letterbomb
I need it, loud potions
These drugs are just an hour away
Come on it, electronic
A polyphonic prostitute, the motors, on fire
Messiah for the animals

Ahhh, oh come on!
We got our backs to the wall!
Ah!
Get on!
And watch out!
Sayin, “Yer gonna kill us all!”

Kasabian e a ótima L.S.F. (Lost Souls Forever).

Porque sim.

Mensagem

Letra de uma das minhas músicas favoritas, a clássica The Message, de Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five (de 1982):

Broken glass everywhere
People pissing on the stairs, you know they just
Don’t care
I can’t take the smell, I can’t take the noise
Got no money to move out, I guess I got no choice
Rats in the front room, roaches in the back
Junkie’s in the alley with a baseball bat
I tried to get away, but I couldn’t get far
Cause the man with the tow-truck repossessed my car
Chorus:
Don’t push me, cause I’m close to the edge
I’m trying not to loose my head
It’s like a jungle sometimes, it makes me wonder
How I keep from going under

Standing on the front stoop, hangin’ out the window
Watching all the cars go by, roaring as the breezes
Blow
Crazy lady, livin’ in a bag
Eating out of garbage piles, used to be a fag-hag
Search and test a tango, skips the life and then go
To search a prince to see the last of senses
Down at the peepshow, watching all the creeps
So she can tell the stories to the girls back home
She went to the city and got so so so ditty
She had to get a pimp, she couldn’t make it on her
Own

It’s like a jungle sometimes, it makes me wonder
How I keep from goin’ under

My brother’s doing fast on my mother’s t.v.
Says she watches to much, is just not healthy
All my children in the daytime, dallas at night
Can’t even see the game or the sugar ray fight
Bill collectors they ring my phone
And scare my wife when I’m not home
Got a bum education, double-digit inflation
Can’t take the train to the job, there’s a strike
At the station
Me on king kong standin’ on my back
Can’t stop to turn around, broke my sacroiliac
Midrange, migraine, cancered membrane
Sometimes I think I’m going insane, I swear I might
Hijack a plane!

It’s like a jungle sometimes, it makes me wonder
How I keep from goin’ under

My son said daddy I don’t wanna go to school
Cause the teacher’s a jerk, he must think I’m a
Fool
And all the kids smoke reefer, I think it’d be
Cheaper
If I just got a job, learned to be a street sweeper
I dance to the beat, shuffle my feet
Wear a shirt and tie and run with the creeps
Cause it’s all about money, ain’t a damn thing
Funny
You got to have a con in this land of milk and
Honey
They push that girl in front of a train
Took her to a doctor, sowed the arm on again
Stabbed that man, right in his heart
Gave him a transplant before a brand new start
I can’t walk through the park, cause it’s crazy
After the dark
Keep my hand on the gun, cause they got me on the
Run
I feel like an outlaw, broke my last fast jaw
Hear them say you want some more, livin’ on a
Seesaw

It’s like a jungle sometimes, it makes me wonder
How I keep from goin’ under

A child was born, with no state of mind
Blind to the ways of mankind
God is smiling on you but he’s frowning too
Cause only God knows what you go through
You grow in the ghetto, living second rate
And your eyes will sing a song of deep hate
The places you play and where you stay
Looks like one great big alley way
You’ll admire all the number book takers
Thugs, pimps, pushers and the big money makers
Driving big cars, spending twenties and tens
And you wanna grow up to be just like them
Smugglers, scrambles, burglars, gamblers
Pickpockets, peddlers and even pan-handlers
You say I’m cool, I’m no fool
But then you wind up dropping out of high school
Now you’re unemployed, all null ’n’ void
Walking around like you’re pretty boy floyd
Turned stickup kid, look what you done did
Got send up for a eight year bid
Now your man is took and you’re a may tag
Spend the next two years as an undercover fag
Being used and abused, and served like hell
Till one day you was find hung dead in a cell
It was plain to see that your life was lost
You was cold and your body swung back and forth
But now your eyes sing the sad sad song
Of how you lived so fast and died so young

It’s like a jungle sometimes, it makes me wonder
How I keep from goin’ under

Letra de uma das minhas músicas favoritas, a clássica The Message, de Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five (de 1982):

Broken glass everywhere
People pissing on the stairs, you know they just
Don’t care
I can’t take the smell, I can’t take the noise
Got no money to move out, I guess I got no choice
Rats in the front room, roaches in the back
Junkie’s in the alley with a baseball bat
I tried to get away, but I couldn’t get far
Cause the man with the tow-truck repossessed my car
Chorus:
Don’t push me, cause I’m close to the edge
I’m trying not to loose my head
It’s like a jungle sometimes, it makes me wonder
How I keep from going under

Standing on the front stoop, hangin’ out the window
Watching all the cars go by, roaring as the breezes
Blow
Crazy lady, livin’ in a bag
Eating out of garbage piles, used to be a fag-hag
Search and test a tango, skips the life and then go
To search a prince to see the last of senses
Down at the peepshow, watching all the creeps
So she can tell the stories to the girls back home
She went to the city and got so so so ditty
She had to get a pimp, she couldn’t make it on her
Own

It’s like a jungle sometimes, it makes me wonder
How I keep from goin’ under

My brother’s doing fast on my mother’s t.v.
Says she watches to much, is just not healthy
All my children in the daytime, dallas at night
Can’t even see the game or the sugar ray fight
Bill collectors they ring my phone
And scare my wife when I’m not home
Got a bum education, double-digit inflation
Can’t take the train to the job, there’s a strike
At the station
Me on king kong standin’ on my back
Can’t stop to turn around, broke my sacroiliac
Midrange, migraine, cancered membrane
Sometimes I think I’m going insane, I swear I might
Hijack a plane!

It’s like a jungle sometimes, it makes me wonder
How I keep from goin’ under

My son said daddy I don’t wanna go to school
Cause the teacher’s a jerk, he must think I’m a
Fool
And all the kids smoke reefer, I think it’d be
Cheaper
If I just got a job, learned to be a street sweeper
I dance to the beat, shuffle my feet
Wear a shirt and tie and run with the creeps
Cause it’s all about money, ain’t a damn thing
Funny
You got to have a con in this land of milk and
Honey
They push that girl in front of a train
Took her to a doctor, sowed the arm on again
Stabbed that man, right in his heart
Gave him a transplant before a brand new start
I can’t walk through the park, cause it’s crazy
After the dark
Keep my hand on the gun, cause they got me on the
Run
I feel like an outlaw, broke my last fast jaw
Hear them say you want some more, livin’ on a
Seesaw

It’s like a jungle sometimes, it makes me wonder
How I keep from goin’ under

A child was born, with no state of mind
Blind to the ways of mankind
God is smiling on you but he’s frowning too
Cause only God knows what you go through
You grow in the ghetto, living second rate
And your eyes will sing a song of deep hate
The places you play and where you stay
Looks like one great big alley way
You’ll admire all the number book takers
Thugs, pimps, pushers and the big money makers
Driving big cars, spending twenties and tens
And you wanna grow up to be just like them
Smugglers, scrambles, burglars, gamblers
Pickpockets, peddlers and even pan-handlers
You say I’m cool, I’m no fool
But then you wind up dropping out of high school
Now you’re unemployed, all null ’n’ void
Walking around like you’re pretty boy floyd
Turned stickup kid, look what you done did
Got send up for a eight year bid
Now your man is took and you’re a may tag
Spend the next two years as an undercover fag
Being used and abused, and served like hell
Till one day you was find hung dead in a cell
It was plain to see that your life was lost
You was cold and your body swung back and forth
But now your eyes sing the sad sad song
Of how you lived so fast and died so young

It’s like a jungle sometimes, it makes me wonder
How I keep from goin’ under

Luz Interior

E a noite pede este testemunho de fé na humanidade que é Mean Machine, dos magníficos e tão queridos THE CRAMPS:

I’m mean.
I’m a mean machine.
I gotta be mean.
Just a bad human being.

This ain’t no art from the bottom
of a henhouse floor.
Rip out your brains if ya got ‘em
throw ‘em out the door.

Cuz I’m mean…
I’m a mean machine.
I gotta be mean.
Just a bad human being.

I can’t stand nuthin’ dull.
I got the high gloss lustre.
I’ll massacre your ass as fast as
Bull offed Custer.

I’m mean…
I’m a mean machine.
I gotta be mean.
Just a bad human being.

Ya wanna go to the Devil
but you don’t like the flames.
Blood on Satan’s Claw
is my middle name.

Yeah I’m mean…
I’m a mean machine.
I gotta be mean.
Just a bad human being.

E a noite pede este testemunho de fé na humanidade que é Mean Machine, dos magníficos e tão queridos THE CRAMPS:

I’m mean.
I’m a mean machine.
I gotta be mean.
Just a bad human being.

This ain’t no art from the bottom
of a henhouse floor.
Rip out your brains if ya got ‘em
throw ‘em out the door.

Cuz I’m mean…
I’m a mean machine.
I gotta be mean.
Just a bad human being.

I can’t stand nuthin’ dull.
I got the high gloss lustre.
I’ll massacre your ass as fast as
Bull offed Custer.

I’m mean…
I’m a mean machine.
I gotta be mean.
Just a bad human being.

Ya wanna go to the Devil
but you don’t like the flames.
Blood on Satan’s Claw
is my middle name.

Yeah I’m mean…
I’m a mean machine.
I gotta be mean.
Just a bad human being.

Seventeen

They only want you when you’re seventeen
When you’re 21, you’re no fun
They take a polaroid and let you go
Say they’ll let you know
So c’mon

They only want you when you’re seventeen
When you’re 21, you’re no fun
They take a polaroid and let you go
Say they’ll let you know
So c’mon

Teatro

A derrubada da estátua de Saddam Hussein foi uma armação teatralizada para enganar otário. TVs do mundo inteiro mostraram a cena de perto, dando a impressão de que uma multidão feliz havia tomado a praça, se encarregando de pôr abaixo o monumento. Fotos mais imparciais, de pontos afastados, mostram a verdade: soldados americanos haviam cercado a praça, usando tanques para manter a multidão afastada – e cedendo um guincho para derrubar a estátua. Na praça havia apenas soldados americanos e ex-exilados iraquianos, postos em cena para simular contentamento.
É impressionante. Vejam as fotos neste link e depois confiram o diagrama sobre as fotos e os textos explicativos neste outro site.

Isso demonstra como os canais de TV, jornais e a mídia em geral são meros departamentos de marketing dos governos, das corporações multinacionais, do controle e do cartel bélico-petroquímico-farmacêutico-de entretenimento que nos diz o que fazer e o que comprar.
Sinceramente, pau no cú dos jornalistas, 99% dos quais são putas corporativas, semi-alfabetizadas e ególatras.
Estamos reinventando Goebbels.

O que me lembra a letra de Exterminator, uma das melhores músicas da minha banda favorita, Primal Scream:

Gun metal skies
Broken eyes
Claustrophobic concrete
English high-rise

Exterminate the underclass
Exterminate the telepaths
No civil disobedience
No civil disobedience

Incubating ultra-violent, psychic distortions
Slow death injectable, narcosis terminal
Damage receptors, fractured speech

No civil disobedience
No civil disobedience

Control violence, hallucinatory programmes
Septicaemic interzone, psychic distortions
Satellite sickness, TV junk

No civil disobedience
No civil disobedience

Insecticide shots for criminal cops
All jails are concentration camps, all judges are bought
Everyone’s a prostitute
Everyone’s a prostitute

No civil disobedience
No civil disobedience

So look out kid, you keep it all hid
You think you’re free, but you ain’t free, just free to be hit
You’re an unchannelled frequency
Nobody’s listening
You imbalanced permanent
Nobody’s listening

No civil disobedience
No civil disobedience

A derrubada da estátua de Saddam Hussein foi uma armação teatralizada para enganar otário. TVs do mundo inteiro mostraram a cena de perto, dando a impressão de que uma multidão feliz havia tomado a praça, se encarregando de pôr abaixo o monumento. Fotos mais imparciais, de pontos afastados, mostram a verdade: soldados americanos haviam cercado a praça, usando tanques para manter a multidão afastada – e cedendo um guincho para derrubar a estátua. Na praça havia apenas soldados americanos e ex-exilados iraquianos, postos em cena para simular contentamento.
É impressionante. Vejam as fotos neste link e depois confiram o diagrama sobre as fotos e os textos explicativos neste outro site.

Isso demonstra como os canais de TV, jornais e a mídia em geral são meros departamentos de marketing dos governos, das corporações multinacionais, do controle e do cartel bélico-petroquímico-farmacêutico-de entretenimento que nos diz o que fazer e o que comprar.
Sinceramente, pau no cú dos jornalistas, 99% dos quais são putas corporativas, semi-alfabetizadas e ególatras.
Estamos reinventando Goebbels.

O que me lembra a letra de Exterminator, uma das melhores músicas da minha banda favorita, Primal Scream:

Gun metal skies
Broken eyes
Claustrophobic concrete
English high-rise

Exterminate the underclass
Exterminate the telepaths
No civil disobedience
No civil disobedience

Incubating ultra-violent, psychic distortions
Slow death injectable, narcosis terminal
Damage receptors, fractured speech

No civil disobedience
No civil disobedience

Control violence, hallucinatory programmes
Septicaemic interzone, psychic distortions
Satellite sickness, TV junk

No civil disobedience
No civil disobedience

Insecticide shots for criminal cops
All jails are concentration camps, all judges are bought
Everyone’s a prostitute
Everyone’s a prostitute

No civil disobedience
No civil disobedience

So look out kid, you keep it all hid
You think you’re free, but you ain’t free, just free to be hit
You’re an unchannelled frequency
Nobody’s listening
You imbalanced permanent
Nobody’s listening

No civil disobedience
No civil disobedience

CDs Bichados

Cautela nunca é demais na hora de comprar CD feitos no Brasil que venham em caixas de papelão. Uma amiga minha comprou recentemente uma coletânea da Björk e um ao vivo do Radiohead e os dois vieram estragados graças às tais caixas. A cola usada para montar a embalagem gruda no CD acondicionado dentra dela, transformando o objeto em uma caca grudenta. Claro, ele também toca cheio de pulos e arranhões. Parece que os fabricantes usam muita cola (ou cola de má qualidade) e guardam os discos dentro da embalagem antes que o adesivo seque completamente. Assim, o CD se enche de cola. A tal embalagem de que estou falando é aquele envelope de papel cartonado, que muitas vezes vêm escondido dentro da caixa externa de plástico do CD.
O disco da Björk saiu aqui pela Universal e o do Radiohead pela EMI. É ridículo que duas das auto-proclamadas “majors” não tenham tecnologia para dobrar e colar decentemente um envelope de papel. Conselho meu: se quiser comprar um disco e a embalagem da edição nacional for assim, poupe tempo e grana: baixe da Internet. Em poucos anos as gravadoras terão que mudar de ramo mesmo.
Um bom motivo para lembrar dos meus queridos Sex Pistols e a clássica letra de EMI:

E.M.I.

There’s unlimited supply
And there is no reason why
I tell you it was all a frame
They only did it ‘cos of fame
Who?

E.M.I. E.M.I. E.M.I.

Too many people had the suss
Too many people support us
Un unlimited amount
Too many outlets in and out
Who?

E.M.I E.M.I E.M.I

And sir and friends are crucified
A day they wished that we had died
We are an addition
We are ruled by none
Never ever never

And you thought that we were faking
That we were all just money making
You do not believe we’re for real
Or you would lose your cheap appeal?

Don’t judge a book just by the cover
Unless you cover just another
And blind acceptance is a sign
Of stupid fools who stand in line
Like

E.M.I E.M.I E.M.I

Unlimted edition
With an unlimited supply
That was the only reason
We all had to say goodbye

Unlimited supply (E.M.I)
There is no reason why (E.M.I)
I tell you it was all a frame (E.M.I)
They only did it ‘cos of fame (E.M.I)
I do not need the pressure (E.M.I)
I can’t stand those useless fools (E.M.I)
Unlimited supply (E.M.I)
Hello E.M.I
Goodbye A & M

Cautela nunca é demais na hora de comprar CD feitos no Brasil que venham em caixas de papelão. Uma amiga minha comprou recentemente uma coletânea da Björk e um ao vivo do Radiohead e os dois vieram estragados graças às tais caixas. A cola usada para montar a embalagem gruda no CD acondicionado dentra dela, transformando o objeto em uma caca grudenta. Claro, ele também toca cheio de pulos e arranhões. Parece que os fabricantes usam muita cola (ou cola de má qualidade) e guardam os discos dentro da embalagem antes que o adesivo seque completamente. Assim, o CD se enche de cola. A tal embalagem de que estou falando é aquele envelope de papel cartonado, que muitas vezes vêm escondido dentro da caixa externa de plástico do CD.
O disco da Björk saiu aqui pela Universal e o do Radiohead pela EMI. É ridículo que duas das auto-proclamadas “majors” não tenham tecnologia para dobrar e colar decentemente um envelope de papel. Conselho meu: se quiser comprar um disco e a embalagem da edição nacional for assim, poupe tempo e grana: baixe da Internet. Em poucos anos as gravadoras terão que mudar de ramo mesmo.
Um bom motivo para lembrar dos meus queridos Sex Pistols e a clássica letra de EMI:

E.M.I.

There’s unlimited supply
And there is no reason why
I tell you it was all a frame
They only did it ‘cos of fame
Who?

E.M.I. E.M.I. E.M.I.

Too many people had the suss
Too many people support us
Un unlimited amount
Too many outlets in and out
Who?

E.M.I E.M.I E.M.I

And sir and friends are crucified
A day they wished that we had died
We are an addition
We are ruled by none
Never ever never

And you thought that we were faking
That we were all just money making
You do not believe we’re for real
Or you would lose your cheap appeal?

Don’t judge a book just by the cover
Unless you cover just another
And blind acceptance is a sign
Of stupid fools who stand in line
Like

E.M.I E.M.I E.M.I

Unlimted edition
With an unlimited supply
That was the only reason
We all had to say goodbye

Unlimited supply (E.M.I)
There is no reason why (E.M.I)
I tell you it was all a frame (E.M.I)
They only did it ‘cos of fame (E.M.I)
I do not need the pressure (E.M.I)
I can’t stand those useless fools (E.M.I)
Unlimited supply (E.M.I)
Hello E.M.I
Goodbye A & M

Thursday, February 20, 2003 at 11:50 AM

Bandas “deprês” me enchem o saco. Afinal, o sujeito tem uma banda de rock, lança discos, está em top charts, ganha dinheiro fazendo música e ainda vem reclamar de um monte de coisas no meu ouvido? Tá reclamando de quê?!?? Mas algumas raras pessoas têm propriedade para falar de alguns assuntos. Velvet Underground, Oh Sweet Nuthin’:

Say a word for Jimmy Brown
He ain’t got nothing at all
Not a shirt right of his back
He ain’t got nothing at all
And say a word for Ginger Brown
Walks with his head down to the ground
Took the shoes right of his feet
To poor boy right out in the street

And this is what he said
Oh sweet nuthin’
She ain’t got nothing at all
Oh sweet nutin’
She ain’t got nothing at all

Say a word for Polly May
She can’t tell the night from the day
They threw her out in the street
But just like a cat she landed on her feet
And say a word for Joanna Love
She ain’t got nothing at all
‘Cos everyday she falls in love
And everynight she falls when she does

She said
Oh sweet nuthin’
You know she ain’t got nothing at all
Oh sweet nutin’
She ain’t got nothing at all

Essa música é como alguém derramando vodka com conta-gotas no seu ouvido e está no subestimado álbum Loaded, que o Velvet lançou em 1970 (ano em que eu nasci).