said the teller, told to hercolors bheaded, bled into lines
barcodes telling your many lives
"paper or plastic?
that'll be $6.99"
said the teller, told to hercolors bheaded, bled into lines
barcodes telling your many lives
"paper or plastic?
that'll be $6.99"
Let the drummer kick
that
...on a beat with a twinkly melody
Bombs falling:
their way of
Externalizing
resent, a command from the control tower.
No? Not resent? Static slips out: 'Come in fighter one, we've lost contact.'
"Must let them know who is boss."
Prove it to the other side,
"This war will make us rich, it serves them right."
Destruction comes not from true strength
yet does indeed til the soil for continued death.
That countless-illion-dollar war has, by now
proven a heavy, false strength-necessitating, weakness.
But whose?
no, not MY weakness
Who would be strong enough to take the blame?
Strength sees none to begin with,
yet may be blinded by a former ig'nance,
you see strength makes you see it is only so through refusing to be
not. Negated. But
Once begun, bomb begets bomb
and tangles up lives
Of someone's brother, mother, sister, wives.
Could anyone truly admit, consent that yes, this war's strength is legit?
Or has it gone too far, reaches back into history, long been too late to quit
In turn some sheltered, bombarded they are
by inspiration.
shell clips raining a hard-fought protected sensation.
Perhaps the kind that could feed a nation
Rations of war hurriedly dropped down
from a place in the sky where a pilot,
bird of prey,
'that guy' thought he'd find a piece of His pie.
Helping myself, is that really helping others?
One based on the former
forgotten in favor of more like yore, huh?
If I bake it to feed it
to them the way it is eaten
by lovers not fighters,
would the gesture be taken as a weakness
spur increased hunger to bite
the hand that feeds...
Inspiration.
The word almost feels bad
in my imagined mouth.
Alongside actual hardship
Strength born of actual weakness says
Don't eat it, quick
spit it out.
How'd it get in there it doesn't belong
On the tongue of someone who'd use it
for what is not wrong
for he, might be right for she
"who's to say?"
While strength knows its team,
strength cannot pave the way,
though yellow lines down strength will lay.
Its components: a cabinet full of spices, tricks of games and vices
From whence it derives its strength to be wrong
in so doing,
trips on a fatal flaw, Achilles heel,
Iron-fisted rich meal.
Look deeper to see it, as the stronger you are, the harder to fall, the longer it may take
to uncover what many still only know as fake:
the source of real hunger, teeth just about to break,
tongues blood-ridden and bitten.
Makes a prince from a pauper once starved for food alone,
Now left to feed his strength, an ever-emptied bowl
of a currency that can destroy the soul:
when stemmed, removed from its petald-weakness, made no longer whole
placed upon a shelf, the bell jar doth toll
dictates what's to be seen bi the eye
is only one half of that proper flower in bloom,
a full token of respect
paid to soldiers too late, their strength too broken to cry.
Although I haven't spoken
of it, my mind can taste
the distaste
of over-thought, over wrought visions of peace in the Middle East
the ME; one giant metaphor for the inner beast which thumps
we each hold, held inside us
not always awakened to have, to serve as a figure-shaping coal.
and then there are those
Bombs Over Baghdad, with them we
Wobble the line don't want to tip it into cliché,
my sources have a need,
must remain pure, shored-up close to the chest,
experience born of that spring can shoulder the eventual decay,
the sudden unrest.
Strength admits its defeat in the face of real life
to turn it on its back,
Making more of the rest,
remains,
strength becomes a middle-man,
recycling gains.
Certain speeds will help the drifter stay in shape.
Doesn't worry much about the past
That thing- it takes care of its own assit's
just so simple to see,
Revisiting themes will evolve to revolve you back rather frequently.
Fear not their shapes will change
Enough to stave away inclinations toward
running from boredom of and with
that which your strength picks.
The real strength lets you
keep your authenticity
Reserve some of those thoughts for just
_e. Takes it not beyond to break under pressure.
Keeps it buried down under,
compression making strength's stone for the brighter, the sharper, the better.
And all the same those bombs they fall,
in waves of multiple elements
encased by see-through material, strength
found in the silver lining of a locket
breaks open, to crash upon times like these: fertile lands scoured by a bent-over
seed
gathering,
what is it, exactly?
Like a tree trunk it is
1 O.A.K.
See, its innate.ure all of the time.
Snowflakes build up to avalanche over a warm life
bones they'll melt
to reveal water and a whole new shell.
It meta-morphs,
moves on with its partner in crime,
Sees a new partner in: Time, here comes change with that grandfather clock
Strength builds itself up for the flesh to receive,
a reality that
strength has been here before, tore down walls once felt a necessity
understands and believes the seasons' weather will weather incessantly
Salt poured-into-wounds in the road, cracks in the base
braces wheels against ice,
a colder, stronger version of life.
In hindsight those who've known,
Confess that pain was their strength
When their weakness showed, eventually made it around to accept
Strength is weakness,
one strong enough to allow
seams undone of strummed, stirred strings still
in.tact it can also be trapped
But don't squeeze too tight:
fast it will flow,
Strength will always prove stronger than your physical might.
Smarter too, did it make that known?
One would hope it not the case,
Its poker ace:
Strength likes to come along quietly
Unassumingly, maybe even in spite
Of itself,
strength knows minimally.
As the more it comes in contact with,
strength admits it is inherently inadequate.
Intends to enrich blank stares of pauses, its own in introspection,
where most-certainly feared emptiness eats strength up hungrily.
For a future recollection,
Strength's memory banks on what its lost
to teach it further lessons in gain.
Strength hesitates not to readdress, reinvest
In more and more of different
which strength eventually melds into same.
their way of
Externalizing
resent, a command from the control tower.
No? Not resent? Static slips out: 'Come in fighter one, we've lost contact.'
"Must let them know who is boss."
Prove it to the other side,
"This war will make us rich, it serves them right."
Destruction comes not from true strength
yet does indeed til the soil for continued death.
That countless-illion-dollar war has, by now
proven a heavy, false strength-necessitating, weakness.
But whose?
no, not MY weakness
Who would be strong enough to take the blame?
Strength sees none to begin with,
yet may be blinded by a former ig'nance,
you see strength makes you see it is only so through refusing to be
not. Negated. But
Once begun, bomb begets bomb
and tangles up lives
Of someone's brother, mother, sister, wives.
Could anyone truly admit, consent that yes, this war's strength is legit?
Or has it gone too far, reaches back into history, long been too late to quit
In turn some sheltered, bombarded they are
by inspiration.
shell clips raining a hard-fought protected sensation.
Perhaps the kind that could feed a nation
Rations of war hurriedly dropped down
from a place in the sky where a pilot,
bird of prey,
'that guy' thought he'd find a piece of His pie.
Helping myself, is that really helping others?
One based on the former
forgotten in favor of more like yore, huh?
If I bake it to feed it
to them the way it is eaten
by lovers not fighters,
would the gesture be taken as a weakness
spur increased hunger to bite
the hand that feeds...
Inspiration.
The word almost feels bad
in my imagined mouth.
Alongside actual hardship
Strength born of actual weakness says
Don't eat it, quick
spit it out.
How'd it get in there it doesn't belong
On the tongue of someone who'd use it
for what is not wrong
for he, might be right for she
"who's to say?"
While strength knows its team,
strength cannot pave the way,
though yellow lines down strength will lay.
Its components: a cabinet full of spices, tricks of games and vices
From whence it derives its strength to be wrong
in so doing,
trips on a fatal flaw, Achilles heel,
Iron-fisted rich meal.
Look deeper to see it, as the stronger you are, the harder to fall, the longer it may take
to uncover what many still only know as fake:
the source of real hunger, teeth just about to break,
tongues blood-ridden and bitten.
Makes a prince from a pauper once starved for food alone,
Now left to feed his strength, an ever-emptied bowl
of a currency that can destroy the soul:
when stemmed, removed from its petald-weakness, made no longer whole
placed upon a shelf, the bell jar doth toll
dictates what's to be seen bi the eye
is only one half of that proper flower in bloom,
a full token of respect
paid to soldiers too late, their strength too broken to cry.
Although I haven't spoken
of it, my mind can taste
the distaste
of over-thought, over wrought visions of peace in the Middle East
the ME; one giant metaphor for the inner beast which thumps
we each hold, held inside us
not always awakened to have, to serve as a figure-shaping coal.
and then there are those
Bombs Over Baghdad, with them we
Wobble the line don't want to tip it into cliché,
my sources have a need,
must remain pure, shored-up close to the chest,
experience born of that spring can shoulder the eventual decay,
the sudden unrest.
Strength admits its defeat in the face of real life
to turn it on its back,
Making more of the rest,
remains,
strength becomes a middle-man,
recycling gains.
Certain speeds will help the drifter stay in shape.
Doesn't worry much about the past
That thing- it takes care of its own assit's
just so simple to see,
Revisiting themes will evolve to revolve you back rather frequently.
Fear not their shapes will change
Enough to stave away inclinations toward
running from boredom of and with
that which your strength picks.
The real strength lets you
keep your authenticity
Reserve some of those thoughts for just
_e. Takes it not beyond to break under pressure.
Keeps it buried down under,
compression making strength's stone for the brighter, the sharper, the better.
And all the same those bombs they fall,
in waves of multiple elements
encased by see-through material, strength
found in the silver lining of a locket
breaks open, to crash upon times like these: fertile lands scoured by a bent-over
seed
gathering,
what is it, exactly?
Like a tree trunk it is
1 O.A.K.
See, its innate.ure all of the time.
Snowflakes build up to avalanche over a warm life
bones they'll melt
to reveal water and a whole new shell.
It meta-morphs,
moves on with its partner in crime,
Sees a new partner in: Time, here comes change with that grandfather clock
Strength builds itself up for the flesh to receive,
a reality that
strength has been here before, tore down walls once felt a necessity
understands and believes the seasons' weather will weather incessantly
Salt poured-into-wounds in the road, cracks in the base
braces wheels against ice,
a colder, stronger version of life.
In hindsight those who've known,
Confess that pain was their strength
When their weakness showed, eventually made it around to accept
Strength is weakness,
one strong enough to allow
seams undone of strummed, stirred strings still
in.tact it can also be trapped
But don't squeeze too tight:
fast it will flow,
Strength will always prove stronger than your physical might.
Smarter too, did it make that known?
One would hope it not the case,
Its poker ace:
Strength likes to come along quietly
Unassumingly, maybe even in spite
Of itself,
strength knows minimally.
As the more it comes in contact with,
strength admits it is inherently inadequate.
Intends to enrich blank stares of pauses, its own in introspection,
where most-certainly feared emptiness eats strength up hungrily.
For a future recollection,
Strength's memory banks on what its lost
to teach it further lessons in gain.
Strength hesitates not to readdress, reinvest
In more and more of different
which strength eventually melds into same.
I Met the Walrus
"I don't need to rehearse with Toumani. I never rehearse when it comes to music, because the inspiration will come to me at the right moment:
I know what I am doing, I know what I want. Music is part of the fabric of my body and makes my spirit grow. Sincerely, music quenches they thirst in my heart.
It is my gift, my gift of knowledge. It is the same for Toumani: he is a phenomenon of African culture. The Kora is born with Toumani. There is no competition between us, no hate, no jealousy.
You cannot be jealous of God and of what he gives.
And with his instrument, Toumani is able to do whatever he wants. We never talked about the repertoire. We don't need to plan ahead. We didn't improvise. It's perfectly normal that I know this material. First it was his father who told me about it. I know Toumani understands. For me, this African culture is part of the fabric of my life, of my inspiration and intelligence.
This recording is a natural wish we all share.
These are songs which belong to a repertoire that goes back to a very artistically fertile period, the '50s & '60s. A time between the end of colonisation and the birth of the independence. A very important period. And I am very proud of it.
This album was made in order to share our knowledge with the new generation, to bring this period back to life and show the significance of this time and the opportunities we had.
If you know something and don't want to share it, then you are selfish.
You came after someone, and someone else will come after you. You can't learn the entire sea by heart.
No.
This is why God created waves in the river and in the sea.
Some leave, and some come. I met Keita Fodiba in 1956 when he was playing this music and he was my inspiration to pick up the guitar. Everyone needs to participate in making sure our culture is healthy, in helping preserver our heritage. And today in Mali, in Bamako, we are working so very hard to fight against the way the third world is being plundered.
And I hope that we will succeed."
- Ali Farka Touré
"In the years leading up to Mali's independence in 1960, part of the struggle against colonial rule was the search for a modern - and indigenous - identity, music played a crucial role in this.
Many musicians, especially Mandé Griots living on either side of the Mali - Guinea border, became involved in an informal cultural movement in which the guitar was the preferred instrument: it could emulate the sounds and styles of local instruments, but was not tied to any one ethnicity or ritual. They developed an acoustic fingerpicking guitar style, drawing on the interlocking techniques of balafon and the delicate ornaments of the Ngoni. They composed new songs that had a lighter, more popular feel than the old Mande Griot classics, with rolling harmonies and laid-back ehythms. They lyrics were philosophical and often talked about the importance of passionate love, in defiance of arranged marriage,, which even today in many parts of Mali remains the norm. Some local writers, such as the novelist Massa Makan Diabaté, began referring to it as "Jamana Kura" meaning "New Age/Era." It was about the songs themselves. It lasted from the '50s right through until the late '60s when the music of dance orchestras and appollo bands began to take over."
- Lucy Duran
"Each of them would suggest or remind the other of a song by playing the first few notes of the melody and that was basically it, beyond the basic song structures, it was completely improvised. If one of them wanted to take a solo, he's nod to the other. At times it seemed like they were just sitting on a groove (albeit a wonderful groove). Then one of them would start damping a string. The other would follow suit, and you had this very detailed interaction that I didn't fully appreciate until we go to the mixing stage. Every single note that both of them played was absolutely mean. For three days every afternoon they played for an hour or two. These sessions were very relaxed, but the concentration between the two of them was intense. The order that appears on the record is exactly the order they played it - except "Kaira," which is from their very first session. There were no second takes. Nothing was edited. The only comparable experience I've had was the first Ruben Gonzalez album, where every note played is what the record is.
They hardly spoke during the Sessions. They didn't need to.
Sometimes I had the thrilling sense of eavesdropping on a moment of very special and intimate communication.
Listening to this record, you'd think they'd played together all their lives. Yet they'd played for a total of three hours before this - spread over fifteen years.
I'd be so completely absorbed by the music.
We needed absolute quiet in the room while they were recording since the Kora is such a very quiet instrument.
A song would end and you'd realize you'd been holding your breath, hypnotized.
It was terrible when those sessions ended.
I wish I could have afternoons like that every day of my life, with the most sublime music just going on - forever.
- Nick Gold, as told to Mark Hudson
All text on the recording of In the Heart of the Moon by Ali Farka Touré & Toumani Diabaté
I know what I am doing, I know what I want. Music is part of the fabric of my body and makes my spirit grow. Sincerely, music quenches they thirst in my heart.
It is my gift, my gift of knowledge. It is the same for Toumani: he is a phenomenon of African culture. The Kora is born with Toumani. There is no competition between us, no hate, no jealousy.
You cannot be jealous of God and of what he gives.
And with his instrument, Toumani is able to do whatever he wants. We never talked about the repertoire. We don't need to plan ahead. We didn't improvise. It's perfectly normal that I know this material. First it was his father who told me about it. I know Toumani understands. For me, this African culture is part of the fabric of my life, of my inspiration and intelligence.
This recording is a natural wish we all share.
These are songs which belong to a repertoire that goes back to a very artistically fertile period, the '50s & '60s. A time between the end of colonisation and the birth of the independence. A very important period. And I am very proud of it.
This album was made in order to share our knowledge with the new generation, to bring this period back to life and show the significance of this time and the opportunities we had.
If you know something and don't want to share it, then you are selfish.
You came after someone, and someone else will come after you. You can't learn the entire sea by heart.
No.
This is why God created waves in the river and in the sea.
Some leave, and some come. I met Keita Fodiba in 1956 when he was playing this music and he was my inspiration to pick up the guitar. Everyone needs to participate in making sure our culture is healthy, in helping preserver our heritage. And today in Mali, in Bamako, we are working so very hard to fight against the way the third world is being plundered.
And I hope that we will succeed."
- Ali Farka Touré
"In the years leading up to Mali's independence in 1960, part of the struggle against colonial rule was the search for a modern - and indigenous - identity, music played a crucial role in this.
Many musicians, especially Mandé Griots living on either side of the Mali - Guinea border, became involved in an informal cultural movement in which the guitar was the preferred instrument: it could emulate the sounds and styles of local instruments, but was not tied to any one ethnicity or ritual. They developed an acoustic fingerpicking guitar style, drawing on the interlocking techniques of balafon and the delicate ornaments of the Ngoni. They composed new songs that had a lighter, more popular feel than the old Mande Griot classics, with rolling harmonies and laid-back ehythms. They lyrics were philosophical and often talked about the importance of passionate love, in defiance of arranged marriage,, which even today in many parts of Mali remains the norm. Some local writers, such as the novelist Massa Makan Diabaté, began referring to it as "Jamana Kura" meaning "New Age/Era." It was about the songs themselves. It lasted from the '50s right through until the late '60s when the music of dance orchestras and appollo bands began to take over."
- Lucy Duran
"Each of them would suggest or remind the other of a song by playing the first few notes of the melody and that was basically it, beyond the basic song structures, it was completely improvised. If one of them wanted to take a solo, he's nod to the other. At times it seemed like they were just sitting on a groove (albeit a wonderful groove). Then one of them would start damping a string. The other would follow suit, and you had this very detailed interaction that I didn't fully appreciate until we go to the mixing stage. Every single note that both of them played was absolutely mean. For three days every afternoon they played for an hour or two. These sessions were very relaxed, but the concentration between the two of them was intense. The order that appears on the record is exactly the order they played it - except "Kaira," which is from their very first session. There were no second takes. Nothing was edited. The only comparable experience I've had was the first Ruben Gonzalez album, where every note played is what the record is.
They hardly spoke during the Sessions. They didn't need to.
Sometimes I had the thrilling sense of eavesdropping on a moment of very special and intimate communication.
Listening to this record, you'd think they'd played together all their lives. Yet they'd played for a total of three hours before this - spread over fifteen years.
I'd be so completely absorbed by the music.
We needed absolute quiet in the room while they were recording since the Kora is such a very quiet instrument.
A song would end and you'd realize you'd been holding your breath, hypnotized.
It was terrible when those sessions ended.
I wish I could have afternoons like that every day of my life, with the most sublime music just going on - forever.
- Nick Gold, as told to Mark Hudson
All text on the recording of In the Heart of the Moon by Ali Farka Touré & Toumani Diabaté
"form needs matter as much as matter needs form"
matter
.___________.
form
.
_______________________________
I want to start at the end with this one -
"I just hope I don't forget and wind up back tracking."
Final relaxation pose. Laying stretched out. Breathing return to normal. Relax your all. Let your focus float. A song with Gypsy-Kings-esque guitar sounds played. In a far-east, Indian vein.
The song triggered thoughts of the French (Spanish) band.
Bring your focus back to your breath. Wiggle your fingers and toes. Wake your body up slowly.
Thank.
I get nostalgic, want to hear the band's music. Not realizing how nostalgic the actual sound of it would make one, it threw me, I whose I was open and willing, blind yet all-seeing; into a vulnerable, infinitely forgiving and loving place. The music called to memory my father. Who will forever be related those Kings. And then it projected me. Like never before in my life I was so far into the future, with enough presence to realize how crucial is this present. I got scared. Scared like I never get. I imagined this music playing, delivering to me memories of a person no longer. And I felt the sadness of a future aching for a past where I could have lived in the present, appreciating those people we all so often take for granted.
Looking at it that way tore down, ripped apart, pushed me through all notions, scummy residues of regret, guilt, resistance, 'I'll do it another day'-ance. I needed to let them know that I wanted them to know that I ached to appreciate them. To not miss them in front of me before I had to miss them entirely. While I could. While they could appreciate it back.
Growing up. I don't think I can forget this. Back tracking might be all but impossible when you've seen the future.
"I just hope I don't forget and wind up back tracking."
Final relaxation pose. Laying stretched out. Breathing return to normal. Relax your all. Let your focus float. A song with Gypsy-Kings-esque guitar sounds played. In a far-east, Indian vein.
The song triggered thoughts of the French (Spanish) band.
Bring your focus back to your breath. Wiggle your fingers and toes. Wake your body up slowly.
Thank.
I get nostalgic, want to hear the band's music. Not realizing how nostalgic the actual sound of it would make one, it threw me, I whose I was open and willing, blind yet all-seeing; into a vulnerable, infinitely forgiving and loving place. The music called to memory my father. Who will forever be related those Kings. And then it projected me. Like never before in my life I was so far into the future, with enough presence to realize how crucial is this present. I got scared. Scared like I never get. I imagined this music playing, delivering to me memories of a person no longer. And I felt the sadness of a future aching for a past where I could have lived in the present, appreciating those people we all so often take for granted.
Looking at it that way tore down, ripped apart, pushed me through all notions, scummy residues of regret, guilt, resistance, 'I'll do it another day'-ance. I needed to let them know that I wanted them to know that I ached to appreciate them. To not miss them in front of me before I had to miss them entirely. While I could. While they could appreciate it back.
Growing up. I don't think I can forget this. Back tracking might be all but impossible when you've seen the future.
"I just stopped making records about ten years ago. I don't enjoy recording much; it makes me very nervous. When I play for a live audience I am nervous only until I get to the stage; once I'm on stage I feel like a fish in water. Recording does make me nervous, with the extra emphasis on perfection, but I do want to leave a record of my thoughts on the music that has meant most to me. I am not adding new material to my repertoire now; instead, I devote myself to the music I have lived with and love for half-century and more. I like the way my sessions are handled by Deutsche Grammophon. When there is an error or some reason for a re-take, I won't do a 'surgical' job, slipping in a note here or there: repairs must be co-ordinated so the emotional impact, the instinctive quality will be continuous; so the idea, the fire, the lyricism will not be interrupted by patches. If something has to be re-aken, I play a big part of it, for the sake of the continuity. [...] In Milstein's definition, "virtuosity" has nothing to do with mere display, but indicated "the highest degree of professional excellence - in any sort of undertaking, not only a musical one. I think War and Peace is a virtuoso work." He also distinguishes technique from mere dexterity: "technique is not just a matter of muscular control - technique means adjusting the medium to what I want to do."
- Gandhi
"Always remember that you came here having already understood the necessity of contending with yourself only with yourself and therefore thank everyone who affords such opportunities."
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