Nick Cave - I'm Your Man

discos para o resto da vida [22.2.]
(1988) i'm your man, leonard cohen

este é o disco que atirou cohen para o estrelato. tem essa importância comercial.
mas este é também o primeiro disco em que cohen encontra uma expressão musical à altura da sua poesia. estabeleceu um cânone, ainda que o tenha aligeirado mais à frente, quando as finanças o atiraram para a estrada.

quanto a esta canção, é uma espécie de pronto-a-vestir (ou pronto-a-despir...) para os amantes de todas as ocasiões.

leonard cohen - i'm your man

R.E.M. - First We Take Manhattan

discos para o resto da vida [22.1.]
(1988) i'm your man, leonard cohen

quando há dias alguém dedicou esta canção a guterres, agora na sua condição de líder da onu que bateu uma fulana apoiada pelos alemães, não pude deixar de me lembrar da vez em que usei a canção num texto de alegada análise política (1999).

uma canção sobre a utopia, todas as utopias.

leonard cohen - first we take manhattan

do tempo em que os dylans eram nóbeis

Samuel Úria - Carga de Ombro [2016]

discos para o resto da vida [21.5.]
(1965) highway 61 revisited, bob dylan

When you’re lost in the rain in Juarez
And it’s Eastertime too
And your gravity fails
And negativity don’t pull you through
Don’t put on any airs
When you’re down on Rue Morgue Avenue
They got some hungry women there
And they really make a mess outta you

Now if you see Saint Annie
Please tell her thanks a lot
I cannot move
My fingers are all in a knot
I don’t have the strength
To get up and take another shot
And my best friend, my doctor
Won’t even say what it is I’ve got

Sweet Melinda
The peasants call her the goddess of gloom
She speaks good English
And she invites you up into her room
And you’re so kind
And careful not to go to her too soon
And she takes your voice
And leaves you howling at the moon

Up on Housing Project Hill
It’s either fortune or fame
You must pick up one or the other
Though neither of them are to be what they claim
If you’re lookin’ to get silly
You better go back to from where you came
Because the cops don’t need you
And man they expect the same

Now all the authorities
They just stand around and boast
How they blackmailed the sergeant-at-arms
Into leaving his post
And picking up Angel who
Just arrived here from the coast
Who looked so fine at first
But left looking just like a ghost

I started out on burgundy
But soon hit the harder stuff
Everybody said they’d stand behind me
When the game got rough
But the joke was on me
There was nobody even there to call my bluff
I’m going back to New York City
I do believe I’ve had enough

The Last Shadow Puppets - Is This What You Wanted [2016]

discos para o resto da vida [21.4.]
(1965) highway 61 revisited, bob dylan

When your mother sends back all your invitations
And your father to your sister he explains
That you’re tired of yourself and all of your creations
Won’t you come see me, Queen Jane?  

Now when all of the flower ladies want back what they have lent you
And the smell of their roses does not remain
And all of your children start to resent you
Won’t you come see me, Queen Jane?

Now when all the clowns that you have commissioned
Have died in battle or in vain
And you’re sick of all this repetition
Won’t you come see me, Queen Jane?

When all of your advisers heave their plastic
At your feet to convince you of your pain
Trying to prove that your conclusions should be more drastic

Now when all the bandits that you turned your other cheek to
All lay down their bandanas and complain
And you want somebody you don’t have to speak to
Won’t you come see me, Queen Jane?

Hamilton Leithauser + Rostam - 1959 [2016]

discos para o resto da vida [21.3.]
(1965) highway 61 revisited, bob dylan

You walk into the room
With your pencil in your hand
You see somebody naked
And you say, “Who is that man?”
You try so hard
But you don’t understand
Just what you’ll say
When you get home

Because something is happening here
But you don’t know what it is
Do you, Mister Jones?

You raise up your head
And you ask, “Is this where it is?”
And somebody points to you and says
“It’s his”
And you say, “What’s mine?”
And somebody else says, “Where what is?”
And you say, “Oh my God
Am I here all alone?”

You hand in your ticket
And you go watch the geek
Who immediately walks up to you
When he hears you speak
And says, “How does it feel
To be such a freak?”
And you say, “Impossible”
As he hands you a bone

You have many contacts
Among the lumberjacks
To get you facts
When someone attacks your imagination
But nobody has any respect
Anyway they already expect you
To just give a check
To tax-deductible charity organizations

You’ve been with the professors
And they’ve all liked your looks
With great lawyers you have
Discussed lepers and crooks
You’ve been through all of
F. Scott Fitzgerald’s books
You’re very well read
It’s well known

Well, the sword swallower, he comes up to you
And then he kneels
He crosses himself
And then he clicks his high heels
And without further notice
He asks you how it feels
And he says, “Here is your throat back
Thanks for the loan”

Now you see this one-eyed midget
Shouting the word “NOW”
And you say, “For what reason?”
And he says, “How?”
And you say, “What does this mean?”
And he screams back, “You’re a cow
Give me some milk
Or else go home”

Well, you walk into the room
Like a camel and then you frown
You put your eyes in your pocket
And your nose on the ground
There ought to be a law
Against you comin’ around
You should be made
To wear earphones

Regina Spektor - The Visit [2016]

Robbie Williams | Party Like A Russian [2017]

discos para o resto da vida [21.2.]
(1965) highway 61 revisited, bob dylan

They’re selling postcards of the hanging
They’re painting the passports brown
The beauty parlor is filled with sailors
The circus is in town
Here comes the blind commissioner
They’ve got him in a trance
One hand is tied to the tight-rope walker
The other is in his pants
And the riot squad they’re restless
They need somewhere to go
As Lady and I look out tonight
From Desolation Row

Cinderella, she seems so easy
“It takes one to know one,” she smiles
And puts her hands in her back pockets
Bette Davis style
And in comes Romeo, he’s moaning
“You Belong to Me I Believe”
And someone says, “You’re in the wrong place my friend
You better leave”
And the only sound that’s left
After the ambulances go
Is Cinderella sweeping up
On Desolation Row

Now the moon is almost hidden
The stars are beginning to hide
The fortune-telling lady
Has even taken all her things inside
All except for Cain and Abel
And the hunchback of Notre Dame
Everybody is making love
Or else expecting rain
And the Good Samaritan, he’s dressing
He’s getting ready for the show
He’s going to the carnival tonight
On Desolation Row

Now Ophelia, she’s ’neath the window
For her I feel so afraid
On her twenty-second birthday
She already is an old maid
To her, death is quite romantic
She wears an iron vest
Her profession’s her religion
Her sin is her lifelessness
And though her eyes are fixed upon
Noah’s great rainbow
She spends her time peeking
Into Desolation Row

Einstein, disguised as Robin Hood
With his memories in a trunk
Passed this way an hour ago
With his friend, a jealous monk
He looked so immaculately frightful
As he bummed a cigarette
Then he went off sniffing drainpipes
And reciting the alphabet
Now you would not think to look at him
But he was famous long ago
For playing the electric violin
On Desolation Row

Dr. Filth, he keeps his world
Inside of a leather cup
But all his sexless patients
They’re trying to blow it up
Now his nurse, some local loser
She’s in charge of the cyanide hole
And she also keeps the cards that read
“Have Mercy on His Soul”
They all play on pennywhistles
You can hear them blow
If you lean your head out far enough
From Desolation Row

Across the street they’ve nailed the curtains
They’re getting ready for the feast
The Phantom of the Opera
A perfect image of a priest
They’re spoonfeeding Casanova
To get him to feel more assured
Then they’ll kill him with self-confidence
After poisoning him with words
And the Phantom’s shouting to skinny girls
“Get Outa Here If You Don’t Know
Casanova is just being punished for going
To Desolation Row”

Now at midnight all the agents
And the superhuman crew
Come out and round up everyone
That knows more than they do
Then they bring them to the factory
Where the heart-attack machine
Is strapped across their shoulders
And then the kerosene
Is brought down from the castles
By insurance men who go
Check to see that nobody is escaping
To Desolation Row

Praise be to Nero’s Neptune
The Titanic sails at dawn
And everybody’s shouting
“Which Side Are You On?”
And Ezra Pound and T. S. Eliot
Fighting in the captain’s tower
While calypso singers laugh at them
And fishermen hold flowers
Between the windows of the sea
Where lovely mermaids flow
And nobody has to think too much
About Desolation Row

Yes, I received your letter yesterday
(About the time the doorknob broke)
When you asked how I was doing
Was that some kind of joke?
All these people that you mention
Yes, I know them, they’re quite lame
I had to rearrange their faces
And give them all another name
Right now I can’t read too good
Don’t send me no more letters, no
Not unless you mail them
From Desolation Row

Kid Cudi ft. Kanye West - Can't Look Into My Eyes [2016]

Seafret - Oceans [2016]

discos para o resto da vida [21.1.]
(1965) highway 61 revisited, bob dylan

Once upon a time you dressed so fine
You threw the bums a dime in your prime, didn’t you?
People’d call, say, “Beware doll, you’re bound to fall”
You thought they were all kiddin’ you
You used to laugh about
Everybody that was hangin’ out
Now you don’t talk so loud
Now you don’t seem so proud
About having to be scrounging for your next meal

How does it feel
How does it feel
To be without a home
Like a complete unknown
Like a rolling stone?

You’ve gone to the finest school all right, Miss Lonely
But you know you only used to get juiced in it
And nobody has ever taught you how to live on the street
And now you find out you’re gonna have to get used to it
You said you’d never compromise
With the mystery tramp, but now you realize
He’s not selling any alibis
As you stare into the vacuum of his eyes
And ask him do you want to make a deal?

You never turned around to see the frowns on the jugglers and the clowns
When they all come down and did tricks for you
You never understood that it ain’t no good
You shouldn’t let other people get your kicks for you
You used to ride on the chrome horse with your diplomat
Who carried on his shoulder a Siamese cat
Ain’t it hard when you discover that
He really wasn’t where it’s at
After he took from you everything he could steal

Princess on the steeple and all the pretty people
They’re drinkin’, thinkin’ that they got it made
Exchanging all kinds of precious gifts and things
But you’d better lift your diamond ring, you’d better pawn it babe
You used to be so amused
At Napoleon in rags and the language that he used
Go to him now, he calls you, you can’t refuse
When you got nothing, you got nothing to lose
You’re invisible now, you got no secrets to conceal.

extraordinário é que ainda haja quem perca tempo com isto.

38 minutos antes da nobelização de dylan, deixei no blogue a nota em baixo, de um artigo que estivera a ler, na new yorker, sobre leonard cohen. pareceu-me o mote certo para escrever este texto para o blogue da time out.


O número Zero

A melhor definição de Dylan é do próprio Dylan e apareceu há dias, no excelente perfil de Leonard Cohen que a New Yorker publicou a propósito do seu último disco, You Want It Darker.
Dylan tinha comprado uma nova propriedade na zona de Los Angeles e queira mostrá-la a Cohen. Às tantas, na conversa ao volante, sai-se com esta: “Para mim, Leonard, tu és o Número 1. Eu sou o número Zero”.
O número Zero. Dylan tem um dos mais desconcertantes sentidos de humor – as obras-primas da segunda metade da década de 60 são, também, obras-primas do humor, da (auto)ironia –, e é também uma das personalidades mais desassombradas da nossa época. Nele, cruzam-se o herói e o anti-herói, estatutos que o próprio se vai encarregando de desmentir, de certa forma confirmando assim esses mesmos estatutos.
Coincidência do destino, o Nobel chegou-lhe no dia do desaparecimento de outro Nobel da Literatura, cuja distinção gerou mais polémica nos últimos anos – Dario Fo, o dramaturgo e agitador, que os mais tradicionalistas consideravam ser pouco merecedor do Nobel da Literatura. Talvez as mesmas vozes que agora hesitem entre o espanto e a indignação.
Evitando parafrasear Dylan sobre as mudanças e os tempos que mudam, não há como evitar reconhecer que alguns dos comités Nobel estão em franca mutação de critérios. Isso é bem evidente nos galardões da Paz, em que o prémio tem sido atribuído a personalidades e entidades no activo e no calor da acção, como se o Nobel constituísse um verdadeiro incentivo - aconteceu este ano com o Presidente da Colômbia.
Na Literatura, o comité tem vindo a mostrar-nos nos últimos anos a latitude do conceito, preferindo autores quase desconhecidos e muitas vezes nas margens dessa mesma Literatura.
Claro que a obra de Dylan tem cunho literário e há décadas que é estudada nas universidades americanas. Dessa forma, estamos perante Literatura, Literatura a sério. Dylan é um dos raros casos em que as letras das canções – as canções têm “letras”… – são mesmo poemas. Poemas.
Mas o Nobel deste ano, e mais uma vez, no formato em que o comité o tem vindo a desenrolar, ultrapassa largamente as fronteiras da Literatura. É uma distinção de carreira, de Obra, em maiúscula e sentido lato. Dylan recebe o galardão certamente pelos poemas que escreveu – esqueçam as fracas tentativas de obra literária isolada das canções… -, mas também pela revolução que foi a sua música (o tempo verbal não é aqui inocente) e pelo seu papel na revolução permanente dos tempos que temos vivido. O herói e o anti-herói.
Recorrendo à mesma desfaçatez com que Dylan se auto-classifica, permito-me uma auto-citação de um dos textos que sobre ele escrevi para a Time Out, a propósito do disco Tempest (2012): “Falamos do homem que, há cinco décadas, estabeleceu cânones, não apenas na música, mas na cultura tal como a entendemos no sentido mais lato.” Não sei se o comité Nobel leu este texto antes de atribuir o prémio... Mas acho que era mais ou menos isto que eles queriam dizer.


Outras coisas que tenho escrito sobre Dylan:


em Portugal, há três ou quatro rádios que teriam a obrigação - moral, estética, política, artística... - de terem dedicado o dia a Dylan. não dei por nada. miséria também é isto: não haver quem pegue numa molhada de discos e mostre Dylan ao povo.