24 jun. 2010

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Este sábado voy a tocar unos temas con la acústica después de la proyección de Blanca tu humedad en Artecinema.
Nos vemos!
-murci

4 jun. 2010

A hand held camera being poorly operated while moving around the backroom of a pub.
Smith making not the slightest attempt to lip sync properly.
Fabulously bad wallpaper.

Random members of the band sitting at the bar and playing pool.

Brix doing absolutely nothing.

An empty beer glass on the table.
The North of England outside the window.

This was the song that made me hate the Fall for many years until that damascene moment that we all experience when it all slips into place and you’re finally part of the club.

Possible lineup:

Mark E. Smith – vocals, piano, violin
Craig Scanlon – guitar, vocals
Steve Hanley – bass guitar
Paul Hanley – drums, keyboards
Karl Burns – drums, bass guitar
Brix Smith – guitar & vocals

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Day by day.
The moon gains on me.
Day by day.
The moon gains on me.

Purchased pair of flabby wings.
I took to doing some hovering.
Here is a list of incorrect things.

Hovered mid-air outside a study.
An academic needed his chin,
Sent in the dust of some cheap magazines.
His academic rust, could not burn them up.

Recruited some gremlins.
To get me clear of the airline routes.
I paid them off with stuffing from my wings.
They had some fun with those cheapo airline snobs.

The stuffing loss made me hit a timelock.
I ended up in the eighteen sixties.
I’ve been there for one hundred and twenty five years.
A small alteration of the past. can turn time into space.

Ended up under ardwick bridge.
With some veterans from the u.s. civil war.
They were under irish patronage.
We shot dead a stupid sergeant,
But I got hit in the crossfire.
The lucky hit made me hit a time lock.

But, when I got back.
The place I made the purchase, no longer exists
I’d erased it under the bridge.

Day by day.
The moon came towards me
By such things.
The moon came towards me.

So now I sleep in ditches.
And hide away from nosey kids.
The wings rot and feather under me.
The wings rot and curl right under me.
A small alteration of the past.
Can turn time into space.
Small touches can alter more than a mere decade.

Wings...


crecen

habían 20 personas, o treinta. era ir por ir. y fuimos. pero esa música llegó. fondo azul, voz delay, siluetas y acantilado. viajé y luego viajé y en la noche de una combi en medio de la nada esas palabras adornaron la ruta nocturna. muy luego y por medio de martín estuve en esa sala vacía de ensayos. muchas gracias y fuck you bandas indies de baires. me quedo con un mate y demás de los buenos muchachos.

Sopla el viento y le silba el poste
Escarchada la noche
Tras la escarcha como manto enorme
El paisaje congela

Montes chicos pierden horizontes
El molino chillando
Tinto aguado dame uno más
Uno más
Guitarra trapera

Detrás del sol
Otra marea
Detrás del sol…
¿the sun?
The sun is brightning
The sun is brightning
Like the sun

Girando en el mate en la espuma viene
Es el atardecer que el agua refleja
Y los teros pastan en el campo inerte
El cielo es donde las estrellas crecen