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John Lennon Knows Your Name
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Пришлось его разделить на три части, ибо он оказался слишком длинным для поста...
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One can only marvel at the mind that thought to factor the number of potholes into the total population of Blackburn, and then went on to apply the same ratio to the whole of Britain as well. “The Holes in Our Roads” can scarcely be bettered as an example of rationality gone mad, and its incorporation into “A Day in the Life,” by equating this trivia to the previous descriptions of a personal tragedy and a national triumph, is an implicit act of commentary on the earlier verses of the song. But the reference to the Albert Hall is something else again. One of the prime venues of British show business, the Albert Hall was the site of the Beatles’ first London concert in 1963, and by applying the lunatic logic of “The Holes in Our Roads” to this great showplace, “A Day in the Life” revives the metaphor of performance that links the preceding twelve tracks on Sgt. Pepper. The question on which the song and the album ends may be rephrased to ask: How many holes—that is, how many lonely hearts and empty souls—does it take to fill the Albert Hall? Thus does the last line of the last verse reintegrate this astonishing last track into the concept of the album it ends. Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band is an act of exquisite artifice: a recording posing as a live concert, performed by a world-famous group of musicians posing as a once-famous group of musicians. It is the concert that the real-life Beatles could never have given live. This was not only because the complex sounds on the record could never be reproduced onstage, but, more important, because the response the Beatles elicited from their audiences during the three years they toured the world was of such a magnitude as to make it impossible for them or their audience to hear the music they played—an all-but-unprecedented development that effectively placed them into the role of the spectators at their own concerts. In the epilogue that ends Sgt. Pepper, John Lennon’s brilliantly disassociated performance presents us with the disquieting spectacle of the singer as a spectator in his own song, lost in a daze of imagery and information, constructing his world out of whatever it is that happens to pass in front of his eyes.
If the twelve songs that precede “A Day in the Life” may be likened to the dozen or so “turns” that made up an evening of music-hall entertainment, they may also be likened to the “somersets” in “Being for the Benefit of Mr. Kite!” For each of these carefully conceived tracks is a feat of artistic skill and daring that strikes its own balance between the poles of laughter and longing, satire and sentiment, that form the spectrum of popular art. “A Day in the Life” is literally another story. By breaking out of the theatrical frame, the song (wrote the critic Richard Poirier) “projects a degree of loneliness that cannot be managed within the conventions of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band”—nor, for that matter, within the conventions of popular music as they existed in 1967. “A Day in the Life” pushes the metaphor of variety entertainment beyond the stunts of the stolid Hendersons, performed “on solid ground.” This incomparable final track, which is arguably not only the single greatest performance in the Beatles’ canon, but in the history of recorded rock, raises the artistic ante to the level of the celebrated Mr. Kite himself, who performs his daredevil twists and turns in the air above the ring, to a crowd that thrills with fear and excitement at each improbable leap. It is the sound of that crowd that can be heard in the second, crescendoing rush of the orchestra that follows the final verse, rising again from a hum to a gasp to a shout to a roar, fusing at last into a deafening shriek (its similarity to the sound of the crowds at Beatle concerts is surely no accident), a surge of unmediated sensation that combines every form of response an audience has ever felt toward a performer—every shade of love, lust, awe, envy, laughter, suspense, and delight. The onrushing sound of the orchestra at the end of “A Day in the Life” has transcended more than the conventions of Sgt. Pepper’s Band. It is the nightmare res-olution of the Beatles’ show within a show. It is the sound in the ears of the high-wire artist as the ground rushes up from below. There is a blinding flash of silence, then the stunning impact of a tremendous E major piano chord that hangs in the empty air for a small eternity, slowly fading away, a forty-second meditation on finality that leaves each member of the audience listening with a new kind of attention and awareness to the sound of nothing at all. |
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In the second stanza, Ringo’s tom-toms make a thunderous entrance, adding a counterpoint of percussive violence to the darkening imagery of the song, with its description of a car crash and its macabre play on the drug slang “blow your mind.” The lyric is chillingly matter-of-fact in describing the momentary lapse of attention that caused the accident. And it is chillingly plausible in its account of the witnesses at the scene, whose attention is focused entirely on the question of whether or not the victim was famous—possibly even a lord. Their reaction parallels that of the singer himself: they’re trying to connect the corpse in the wreckage to a name they might recognize while he’s trying to connect the photograph in the newspaper to the face of his friend.
The theme of mediated experience plays a part in every song that Lennon wrote for Sgt. Pepper, but “A Day in the Life” compounds this theme in the third stanza of the verse, with its deflated reference to a film in which the English army has won the war. As with Tara Browne, so with How I Won the War; the point is not the allusion to Lennon’s recent role in Richard Lester’s movie, but the use he makes of it. The implication is that for members of the postwar generation, the stirring story of Britain’s Finest Hour is just another media cliché. Only the singer bothers to pay attention—not out of any compelling interest, but rather out of a sense of curiosity concerning how closely the movie version coincides with the book he has read.
John’s voice ends the verse on high falsetto G. He clings to that note at the start of the refrain, “I’d love to…” before descending a fifth to warble the second half of the line, “…turn you on,” between a pair of adjoining notes. The effect is like the hum of a turbine revving up. The acoustic guitar and drums gradually melt away, leaving a faint pulse of bass and piano, while in some new sonic center, a swell begins to build. On it comes, this new sound, the volume increasing while the strings mirror the waver in John’s voice. Then, after four bars, the pitch lifts off crazily as well. This new sound is emanating from the Beatles’ Clown Nose & Gorilla Paw Orchestra, whose forty members, having been given a low note on which to begin, a high note on which to end, and twenty-four bars over which to complete the journey, are behaving the way any large group of highly trained musicians would behave if they were asked on the spur of the moment to do something that violated every principle of their performance practice except the basic tenet that they should do as they were told. “Don’t try to stay together,” George Martin instructed them. The ascending, accelerating, crescendoing glissando of sound they produce seems to skirt the edge of music and enter the realm of pure sonic sensation; it turns those twenty-four bars into a vertiginous eternity that sweeps away the preexisting musical landmarks, before ending, with electronically enhanced precision, in a sudden blip. What remains are the piano plinks—in a different key, to be sure, but otherwise quite like the plinks from which this eruption arose. An alarm clock rings. The drums sputter to life at twice the tempo of the earlier verse, followed by a voice—Paul’s voice it is, phrasing briskly, without a trace of echo, the opposite in every respect of John’s voice in the verse. He recounts a morning routine of waking up, getting out of bed, combing his hair (a piano fill intrudes over a foreshortened bar of 2/4 time, simulating the expert twists and turns of a teenager’s comb), then heading downstairs for a cup of tea, glancing at the clock, and seeing that he’s late. Caricatured by a series of panting breaths that hark back to “Lovely Rita,” the very concept of “late” seems far removed from the languid, timeless place where “A Day in the Life” began. Here, in its bridge, the song seems to have passed by means of that dizzying instrumental eruption into another dimension. As he grabs his coat and races to catch his bus, the singer is back in the workaday world of unmediated experience, and the use of Paul’s brighter, keener voice to express this shift in time and place is a remarkable touch. But now, cued by the sound of “somebody” speaking, that other voice, John’s voice, returns with an anguished, echoey cry that rises and falls across an eight-bar sequence of chords that search for a key before yielding to five huge notes, voiced in stacked octaves by the entire orchestra, descending E…D-C…D-G, which muscle the music back into G, the original key of the song. All that survives from the middle section is the tempo; “A Day in the Life” is racing at speed as it nears its end. Though he’s phrasing in half-time, John can barely keep up with the band as he delivers his final news bulletin, this one referring to the presence of ten thousand holes in Blackburn, Lancashire, each of which had to be counted, thereby yielding the number of holes it would take to “fill the Albert Hall.” Against chiming C major piano chords, John’s voice goes up like a choirboy’s on the last two notes of the line.
This choice morsel from the Beatles’ ashcan school of lyric-writing inspired no end of speculation on the part of critics and fans. But the ten thousand holes in Lancashire are neither needle marks nor an allusion to Britain’s grisly “Moors Murders” of 1966. They refer instead to potholes (no pun intended) as noted in a column called “Far & Near” that ran in the Daily Mail. It’s not hard to see how John Lennon’s sense of the absurd would have been piqued by the unintended Goonery of an item titled “The Holes in Our Roads,” which read in its entirety:
There are 4,000 holes in the road in Blackburn, Lancashire, or one twenty-sixth of a hole per person, according to a council survey. If Blackburn is typical there are two million holes in Britain’s roads and 300,000 in London.
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Дорогой Еж! Как раз сегодня прочитал блестящий анализ Джонатана на Day in Life... вот он AD IT ENDED right there, Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band would still have been a remarkable achievement. But the Beatles elected to save the best for last, an idea that went counter to the pop aesthetic, which, whether in fashion, music, or visual art, was more concerned with making a strong impression than with making that impression last. Within the context of the Pepper Show, it is possible to view “A Day in the Life” as an encore. (In that case, it would be the encore that the Beatles never performed when they were playing live.) Yet in many ways the track is antithetical to all that has come before. It is devoid of the satire and sentiment, devoid of period flavor as well. Instead the song exists outside the context of the Pepper Show, in a parallel or alternative reality.
In the outpouring of critical commentary that followed the release of Sgt. Pepper, admirers of the album sought to exalt the Beatles’ accomplishment by comparing it to such high-art antecedents as T. S. Eliot’s “The Wasteland” and the song cycles of Schubert, Schumann, and Mahler. Yet the most strikingly similar antecedent to Sgt. Pepper in the realm of high art was a more obscure work, the modernist ballet Parade, a collaboration of Jean Cocteau, who wrote the libretto, Pablo Picasso, who designed the costumes and sets, and Erik Satie, whose score Cocteau likened to the sound of “an inspired village band” (and which included parts for typewriters, sirens, gunshots, and the roar of a dynamo). First performed by the Ballet Russe in 1917, Parade takes place at a Sunday fair in Paris, where a traveling theater troupe is preparing to perform inside a tent. In keeping with the traditional practice of itinerant entertainers, the managers of the company seek to draw a crowd by presenting a “parade” of vaudeville-style acts, who perform for free outside the tent. But the crowd that gathers confuses the parade with the performance it is intended to advertise. The frustrated managers resort to cruder and cruder forms of hucksterism to lure people into the tent, but their efforts are in vain. “The chief theme of Parade,” wrote Cocteau’s biographer Francis Steegmuller, is “that any performance seen by an audience is as nothing compared with the invisibles the artists are up to within.” So, too, in “A Day in the Life,” the Beatles presumed to show their real-life audience what lay within. The result is such a powerful and evocative performance that it threatens to turn the entire Pepper show, for all its brilliance, into a prelude, raising the Alice-like possibility that everything that precedes it might be a collection of vivid dreams or fond memories in the mind of the detached, disassociated narrator of the album’s final track.
The scratchy acoustic guitar that starts the song sounds emaciated after the rich palette of instruments and timbres that have filled the album thus far, but it is soon joined by an ascending flourish of piano chords that billows across the track. Then the piano subsides, and the first verse of “A Day in the Life” is sung to the spare strum of the guitar, the pulse of a pair of maracas, and Paul McCartney’s bass, which starts off with a stream of notes but, finding nothing to push against, quickly grows subdued. The voice that floats in behind the instruments is John at his most languid, singing as if in a trance: “I read the news today—oh boy….” Here, too, there is a sense of explicit contrast with the power fulpresence and rich affect that has characterized the singing on all the preceding tracks. This contrast is deepened by the vast amount of echo on the vocal, which creates the impression of an immensely broad depth of field, with the singer at its far end. The melody steps lightly up the scale under the words “I read the news today,” then falls back on the phrase “oh boy,” a corny cliché of enthusiasm that John transforms into a tour de force of deflation.
Though the opening verses of “A Day in the Life” were surely inspired by the death of the Guinness heir Tara Browne, to associate the song with Browne is to confuse the inspiration with the art, for it is only John’s identification with this unfortunate figure that has any bearing on the song. Both were young, rich, and famous, and the laugh that John had to laugh is a laugh of recognition, an involuntary response to glancing through the newspaper and finding a familiar face. In John’s case, of course, this was an everyday occurrence, although the face he most often encountered in this manner was his own.
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Вот следующая песня с Револьвера и как ее анализирует Джонатан Гульд: IT’S EASY TO generalize about the difference between the songs by Lennon and those by McCartney on Revolver. Paul’s songs, without exception, address the importance of human relations. John’s songs mainly express a desire to be left alone. The first of these, “I’m Only Sleeping,” is another missive from the back room at Weybridge. “When I wake up early in the morning, lift my head, I’m still yawning,” John sings over a sensuous, swinging accompaniment that moves in dream time, forward through the verses and backward through sinuous interludes of George Harrison’s tape-reversed guitar. “I’m Only Sleeping” can be heard as the testimonial of a devoted Jungian, so hooked into the dreamworld of his unconscious that he can’t bear to leave his bed. It can also be heard as an answer to the question that was posed by Maureen Cleave. How does a Beatle live? John Lennon lived like this. The musical accompaniment to this reverie is filled with mimetic effects, beginning with the melody, which opens on a drowsy plateau, stirs slightly under the phrase “lift my head,” and then gapes upward a sixth on “I’m still yawning.” The rhythm is dotted with quirky anticipations and retards, including moments when the whole band seems to nod off for an instant and then hastily regain its place. Paul’s bass nudges into the otherwise empty space between the verse and the bridge with the muffled insistence of sounds impinging on sleep; John later fills this same spot with a histrionically unstifled yawn. Best of all is George’s mewing, backward guitar solo, which draws on the capacity of music to suspend the laws of time and motion to simulate the half-coherence of the state between wakefulness and sleep, extending the analogy between dreams and drugs that underlies the song. John himself handles this innuendo in the same way that music-hall comedians handled sexual double entendre—by simply defying his listeners not to take him at his word. “Please don’t spoil my day, I’m miles away,” he pleads in a voice of wistful innocence—the voice of a tired child. “And after all, I’m only sleeping.” |
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Спасибо, еж, за добрые слова и вдумчивое отношение. Действительно в музыкологическом анализе Джонатана Гульда поражает его способность прочитать самые глубокие контексты, спрятанные в текстах и музыкальной структуре песен, выявить основные контрапункты, определить настроение, определить степень родства с другими музыкальными произведениями прежде всего самих Битлзов,но не только... в книге много говориться о современниках Битлзов, о Бич Бойз, Роллинг Стоунз, проводятся параллели, сопоставления.. Спасибо за то, что Вы привлекли внимание к словам "тихое отчаяние", такое типично анлийское чувство, которое все более становится лейтмотивом для всех нас.
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А вот, что говорит автор о следующей песни и пожалуй хватит на сегодня “Ahhh—look at all the lonely people!” The Beatles’ voices surge into the grousing aftermath of “Taxman” on a bright rush of melody and urgency—their most arresting beginning since “Can’t Buy Me Love.” “Eleanor Rigby” is a neoclassical tour de force, sung to the accompaniment of an eight-piece string ensemble that knits fretfully behind this opening chorus before settling under the verse into a pattern so taut and staccato it sounds like the baroque equivalent of a backbeat. The use of strings in popular music is not called “sweetening” for nothing, but the violins, violas, and cellos in George Martin’s arrangement are grating, insistent, and bleak. Nor are they given much in the way of harmonic material to work with, since the whole song—chorus, verse, and refrain—transpires over two chords, a minor tonic and a major sixth, that are distinguished by a solitary note of difference. Though the movement between them is accomplished with considerable finesse, these two chords exert so little pull on each other that they barely describe a progression at all. They function instead as another of Paul McCartney’s minimalist harmonic metaphors, mirroring, in their similarity and stasis, the characters in the song. Much was made at the time of the poetic quality of the lyric, the first two verses of which were written by McCartney, the third with Lennon’s help. The critic Karl Miller included a transcription of “Eleanor Rigby” in his 1968 anthology, Writing in England Today. The poet Thom Gunn, writing in The Listener, compared the lyric favorably to an Auden ballad from the 1930s, “Miss Gee,” about another old maid who lives for the church, dreams of the vicar, and dies an anonymous death. In 1967, Allen Ginsberg made a point of playing the song during an audience with Ezra Pound (who was reported to have “smiled lightly” at the end). “I don’t think there’s ever been a better song written,” the lyricist Jerry Leiber would say of “Eleanor Rigby,” and George Melly, hearing it for the first time, felt that “pop had come of age.” The lyric is both vivid and remarkably concise. The phantom relationship between the lonely spinster and the threadbare priest is evoked with great nuance—with nothing but nuance, really, since, like the two chords that constitute the harmony, their relationship is based on little more than the fact that they’re the only two characters in the song. The verses are haunted by the furtive, ghostly image of the woman, waiting (like some aging Juliet) at a window, “wearing a face” that she’s never let anyone see. Eleanor Rigby is a classic type, familiar from novels and films, but the surreal and colloquial touches in the lyric dispel the sense of cliché. McCartney liked to point out that she was a younger girl named “Daisy Hawkins” in the original version (“a bit like Annabel Lee”), and that the priest was named “Father McCartney,” which was changed to MacKenzie because Paul considered it “a bit of a hang-up for my dad, being in this lonely song.” His account suggests that he wrote the first two verses without knowing how the song would end, and that the lyric became progressively less sentimental with Lennon’s help, until, in the final version, the song’s compassion is tempered by its insistence on holding these sad characters responsible for the quiet desperation of their lives. “Eleanor Rigby” draws on some of the hardness a lapsed Catholic like McCartney can feel for the Church and the vision of life it promotes; there is a chilling hint of callous satisfaction in the description of the priest “wiping the dirt from his hands” at the end. But the lyric, as ever, sounds even better than it reads. Each section of the song—chorus, verse, and refrain—is written, performed, and recorded so as to present a different form of commentary. There’s a sense of real anguish in the opening chorus, where the melody is fluid and the harmonized voices full. In the verse the focus narrows, and Paul’s solo voice is tinged with resignation. (The movement of the melody under the woman’s name—three half-steps up on “Eleanor,” two whole steps back on “Rigby”—is like the story of her life.) Extreme stereo imaging in this section places the singing on one side, the strings on the other, with an eerie emptiness in between. The song’s refrain (“All the lonely people”) is a thing of somber beauty. Here, Paul’s voice softens as it floods both sides of the track, but the melody is marked by leaps of an octave (“where do they all come from?”) and a tenth (“where do they all belong?”) that bring a new dimension of distance and detachment to the song. More than anything else, it is this hint of ambivalence, signaled by those leaps, that gives “Eleanor Rigby” the unsettling emotional complexity that impressed many listeners as something new to pop. The questions the song poses aren’t rhetorical; they’re unanswerable. They’re the sort of questions people ask when they don’t know what else to say, and by raising them as he does, Paul calls attention to the inadequacy of his own response. In the last eight bars, his mixed feelings are the subject of an extraordinary double-tracked duet in which the urgency of the chorus is played off contrapuntally against the detachment of the refrain. The effect is truly provocative: having already stretched its listeners’ powers of identification by addressing the familiar theme of unrequited love using characters and a context completely divorced from the world of pop romance, the song leaves off with a concise and starkly honest statement about the limits of empathy.
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А вот великолепный анализ первого трека "Тaxman" The first surprise is that the album should begin with a song by George Harrison; the second surprise is that it should be such a witty song, its humor compounded by the irony that George should finally realize his ambition to write caustic social commentary in the style of Bob Dylan with a song protesting the soak-the-rich policies of the British Welfare State. Harrison had never been one to make light of the burdens of success; “Taxman” is his reminder that even millionaires get the blues. It begins with a grim, miserly voice, slowly intoning, “One, two, three, four, one, two,” against a background of exaggerated tape hum. Sounding like a half-speed version of the brisk shout of “one-two-three-four!” that kicked off the Beatles’ first LP, this opening is an elaborate conceptual joke: in place of that earlier “live effect,” a deliberate “tape effect” that broaches the idea of the Beatles beginning anew in the studio and hints with subtle self-mockery at how the focus of their lives had shifted in the three years since Please Please Me from the dance floor to the counting house. “Let me tell you how it will be…” George sings the verses of “Taxman” with an authoritarian air, phrasing on the offbeats against a stiff soul riff from the band. “Should five percent appear too small [a tambourine sloshes like a pocketful of change], be thankful I don’t take it all [joined by the tock of a cowbell, as hollow as a beggar’s cup].” In the bridge, the backup chorus (John and Paul) comes to the foreground, feeding their lines to George, who answers them as implacably as if he were checking off boxes on a form. There’s a flavor of comic opera in their exchange, which ends with a shriek of “Taxman!” that alludes to the theme of the popular 1966 television series Batman. The awestruck manner in which the Beatles announce the name of this civil service superhero is the song’s true inspiration, a terrific musical joke, and it is answered by an eruption of lead guitar (played by Paul) that knifes into the body of the song like a sinister peal of funhouse laughter. The guitar subsides into a squawking accompaniment to another bullying verse in which John and Paul provide breathy interjections of “A-ahh, Mr. Wilson!” and “A-ahh, Mr. Heath!” cooing the names of the two party leaders like a pair of Profumo-era chorus girls. Then the song merges the certainties of death and taxes in a macabre parting shot, advising even the dead to declare the pennies on their eyes. The extortionary lead guitar sounds again and the music—coins jangling, cup rattling—fades away.
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They left behind them the album Revolver, released in the first week of August 1966, and there had never been a record like it, for the simple reason that there had never been a recording group like the Beatles in this, their newly individuated form. During its three months of development at Abbey Road, the album had evolved into a conscious effort to reconstitute the celebrated whole as the sum of its celebrated parts. After considering titles like Abracadabra and Magic Circles, the group had settled on Revolver as a kind of McLuhanesque pun—revolve is what records do—that also described the way the focus of attention on the album turned evenly from one Beatle to the next. Woven with motifs of circularity, reversal, and inversion, Revolver was the first record on which the Beatles consciously made the interplay of their individual personalities a theme of the music itself. Every aspect of the new album was designed to signal a break with the past. Its cover, for example, consisted for the first time of something besides a flattering photograph of the group. Here instead was a stark, arty, black-and-white collage that caricatured the Beatles in a pen-and-ink style beholden to Aubrey Beardsley, whose Yellow Book illustrations were the subject of a major retrospective at London’s Victoria and Albert Museum in the summer of 1966. The collage was made by the Beatles’ old “exi” friend from Hamburg, Klaus Voorman (who in the intervening years had taken up Stuart Sutcliffe’s old instrument, the bass guitar, moved to London, and joined the pop group Manfred Mann). Voorman assigned each Beatle to a quadrant of the record sleeve and tied their four heads together with a great common field of hair, its tousled surface swarming with elfin Beatle caricatures and tiny Beatle likenesses taken from old album covers and publicity shots, crawling around in the Beatles’ hair like the ideas crawling around in their heads. On the back of the album jacket, above a dimly lit photograph of the Beatles all wearing sunglasses—Ringo is sporting a particularly ludicrous, bug-eyed pair—the list of song titles is paralleled by a list of names designating the “Lead Singer” on each track. Liner notes on previous Beatle albums had identified who sang on which songs, but on Revolver the matter of lead voice and authorship was emphasized as never before. Whereas no fewer than half the songs on Rubber Soul and its predecessors were listed as jointly sung, each song on Revolver was linked to the name of a single Beatle. These designations were repeated on the record label itself, and even in the advertisements EMI placed in the trade papers to announce the album’s release. (This emphasis on authorship was one of the reasons the Beatles responded so angrily to Capitol’s requisition of three tracks for Yesterday and Today, since all three of those tracks happened to be John Lennon’s songs. Their subsequent omission from the American version of Revolver skewed the whole concept of the album, leaving John as lead singer on only two of the remaining tracks. The result was the most seriously compromised version of the Parlophone product that Capitol would ever release.)
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Ну что ж, он заслуживает этого титула больше, чем Эндрю Ллойд Вебер...хотя тот тоже очень неплох... недавно прослушал ремастеринг JCS по поводу 50-летий.. очень мощная вещь... даже по прошествии полувека
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Перевод: Я вернулся... Пол пояснил, что он обещал вернуться и вот.... вернулся
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Обсуждение новости: "Новость "На сайте Change.org появилась петиция с призывом выпустить расширенную версию сериала The Beatles: Get Back"" Автор: John Lennon Knows Your Name Дата: 04.02.22 20:35:14 | Перейти в тему |
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director's cut...даст Бог!
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2Янка-битломанка: Спасибо за понимание, Янка, моя беда, наверное в том, что у меня было какое-то вполне определенное ожидание, связанное с новыми клипами Джорджа Я всегда очень любил его клип When we was fab https://www.georgeharrison.com/videos/when-we-was-fab-3/конечно же великолепный клип Crackerbox Palace Этот же клип мне не представляется сопоставимым по ценности с образцами клипов самого Джорджа. >2John Lennon Knows Your Name: >>может быть действительно я не прав и это отличный >клип... >Нет-нет, у каждого своё видение) Если Вам по >какой-то причине не понравилось, то это взгляд >с другой стороны. |
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2Skirtalo Bzhungungaziev: Спасибо, никак не поворачивается язык вас назвать, очень уж сложно получается, за цитату... интересная цитата Перевод не совсем правильный: последняя часть переводится "он так себя накачивает, что ему опять хочется на воскресную проповедь"...т.е. вопрос "качелей" - то католицизм, то кокаин... уж не знаю в какой мере прав Джон, ему виднее... хотя мне представляется, что в последние годы Джордж был скорее убежденным индуистом, нежели католиком... может быть Джон под католиком подразумевал человека с религизиозным сознанием... у него теперь не спросишь... ни у Джона, ни у Джорджа... или может быть надо подождать, потом можно будет спросить...зависит от точки зрения на загробную жизнь
>Нарезку можно к любой песне Джорджа приспособить. >Да и не только Джорджа. >Насчет же богов, Леннон называл Джорджа "испуганным >католиком", который нанюхался кокаина и теперь >боится идти на воскресную проповедь - прихожане >выдадут. |
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Рад, что со мной многие не согласились... может быть действительно я не прав и это отличный клип... надо его пересмотреть |
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Мне этот клип совсем не понравился... может быть я от него ожидал чего-то другого... все-таки тема любви к Богу... Харе-кришна... Индия... можно было бы снять что-то, имеющее большее отношение к смыслу песни.. здесь же постоянно появляются знакомые лица... нечто вроде капустника... несколько дурацкого... в духе Magical Mystery Tour... уже тогда Битлзов критиковали за пустяшный сюжет...ну, впрочем, это не фильм, а так клип... постоянные какие-то хохмы... образчики английского юмора.. не всем другим нациям доступного... ладно... пусть... я вижу людям нравится... мурашки по коже...goose bumps... пишут, правда по поводу песни, а не клипа... вообще в этом клипе, как и в переиздании альбома ATMP чувствуется авторский почерк Дхани, который чем дальше, тем мне меньше нравится |
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Ну вот, дочитал я этот двухтомник Маккарнти, его книгу автобиографического содержания, даже книгой это сложно назвать, ибо это по факту они предствляет собой компендиум из интервью, взятых у него Полом Малдуном, только организована она не в форме интерьвью, а в форме эссе по отдельным песням из репертуара Битлзов и самого Маккартни, два Пола беседовали, все их разговоры записывались на носители и потом из них были убраны вопросы и соображения Малдуна и оставлены и причесаны ответы Пола Маккартни. Получился эдакий разговор на тему о творчестве, со многими отступлениями биографического и вообще расужденческого плана. Потом в этот материал добавили тематические фотографии и рукописные факсимиле текстов песен, такими какими они были написаны в те времена, благо существует огромный архив MPL, в котором более миллиона! единиц хранения. Как я уже отмечал ранее, что это очень легкое чтиво, ибо в основе лежит просто беседа за чашкой чая (это происходило в Нью-Йорке и они постоянно пили зеленый чай по словам Малдуна). |
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Я достаточно увлекся книгой и начал читать ее по порядку, а не по наиболее интересным песням, как я делал раньше, ибо я понял, что любая песня является лишь отправной точкой для рассуждений и воспоминаний Пола... которые мне, как человеку, интересующемуся его творчеством, небезынтересны... действительно, в каждом эссе, которые он пишет по поводу песен, есть что-то интересное, часто не относящееся непоредственно к тексту самой песни... так что эту книгу можно читать и последовательно... правда, я начал со второго тома, но уж как-то не хочется ползти как вошь по гребню (есть и другое более хлесткое выражение для передачи того же смысла, но я воздержусь) с первой страницы до последней |
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На самом деле в некотором смысле, эта книга содержит целый ряд самообнажающих утверждений, которые требуют некоторой смелости, чтобы их сделать... так, например, он признается, что постоянно заигрывал с некоторыми "слоями населения" (crowd), которые курили марихуану и нюхали кокаин, что на самом деле не слишком правильное поведение, учитывая опасность, связанную с употреблением наркотиков (фатальных случаев, в частности, в поп-крауде, очень много)...он говорит, что делал это всегда из мальчишеского задора, типа "и нашим, и вашим", те кто в теме, поймут... не знаю насколько мне симпатично сейчас по прошествии многих лет такое кокетство... в любом случае молодец Пол, что не стесняется писать то, что не слишком записывается в его активы... с другой стороны, некоторые вещи..типа того, что он отказывал себе после женитьбы на Линде смотреть на девушек в неглиже по телевизору, мне представляется уже некоторым перебором моногамности... впрочем, наверное, он к тому времени "завязял" со всякими авантюрами, ибо уверовал в вечную любовь...хотелось бы попросить его самого объяснить, но все равно не получится... остаемся со своими интерпретациями
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Продолжаю с удовольтвием в полугомеопатических дозах читать книгу Маккартни о его творчестве...книга безусловно интересная, это сборник из 150 эссе на тему о песнях и вообще о жизни, которую Пол вел и которая его окружала в те году... беседа по душам с мэтром...я оценил, ибо всегда хотел задать Полу какие-то вопросы, но как это сделать... а теперь вот он угадал те вопросы, которые я (да и далеко не только я, а все мы) хотел задать и отвечает на них...я всегда сомневался в том, что он хороший человек, но у меня нет сомнений в том, что он приятный собеседник... |
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