"Non consumiamo Marx"
Um manifesto impressionante do compositor italiano Luigi Nono. Com auscultadores ouvem-se outras coisas. Lá pelo meio, canções revolucionárias, como Bella Ciao, ao lado de slogans de Maio de 68 escritos nos muros ("ne consommons pas Marx"), sons do boicote ao festival de Veneza de 1968 e de muitas outras lutas. Electrónica, revolução, resistência, sons gravados e manipulados.
domingo, 28 de novembro de 2010
war requiem
Um dos mais belos manifestos contra a guerra é "War Requiem", de Benjamin Britten. Wilfred Owen é o autor dos poemas que acompanham o texto típico do Requiem. Owen morreu aos 27 anos, uma semana antes da guerra acabar, em 1918.
No "Dies Irae" (aqui dirigido por Rostropovitch), os trompetes têm um papel de destque, certamente por causa do "Tuba mirum espargens sonum" (soa o trompete do dia do julgamento final...).
Ei-lo:
No "Dies Irae" (aqui dirigido por Rostropovitch), os trompetes têm um papel de destque, certamente por causa do "Tuba mirum espargens sonum" (soa o trompete do dia do julgamento final...).
Ei-lo:
Jim Morrison contra a guerra
Jim Morrison é executado em palco... por uma guitarra (aos 1:50).
Uma denúncia da guerra em concerto, na canção "Unknown soldier".
Wait until the war is over
And we're both a little older.
The unknown soldier.
Breakfast where the news is read.
Television children fed.
Unborn living. Living dead.
Bullet strikes the helmet's head
And it's all over
For the unknown soldier.
It's all over
For the unknown soldier.
*army marching sounds*
*gun firing*
Make a grave for the unknown soldier
Nestled in your hollow shoulder.
The unknown soldier.
Breakfast where the news is read.
Television children fed.
Bullet strikes the helmet's head
And, it's all over.
The war is over.
It's all over.
The war is over.
Well, all over, baby.
All over, baby.
Oh, over, yeah.
All over, baby..
Uma denúncia da guerra em concerto, na canção "Unknown soldier".
Wait until the war is over
And we're both a little older.
The unknown soldier.
Breakfast where the news is read.
Television children fed.
Unborn living. Living dead.
Bullet strikes the helmet's head
And it's all over
For the unknown soldier.
It's all over
For the unknown soldier.
*army marching sounds*
*gun firing*
Make a grave for the unknown soldier
Nestled in your hollow shoulder.
The unknown soldier.
Breakfast where the news is read.
Television children fed.
Bullet strikes the helmet's head
And, it's all over.
The war is over.
It's all over.
The war is over.
Well, all over, baby.
All over, baby.
Oh, over, yeah.
All over, baby..
ensaio antifa para um requiem
A primeira versão desta primeira sinfonia de Karl Amadeus Hartmann foi escrita em 1936. Chamava-se "Unser Leben: Symphonisches Fragment". Foi revista depois, nos anos 50, e mudou de nome: "Versuch eines Requiem", em memória das vítimas do fascismo e do nazismo.
Ouça-se pelo menos o início do primeiro andamento, espantoso e violento. Pena que Hartmann seja um compositor alemão tão subvalorizado e pouco conhecido.
No vídeo está a tradução alemã que é cantada.
Aqui vai o texto original de Walt Whitman, em inglês:
"I sit and look out upon all the sorrows of the world, and upon all
oppression and shame;
I hear secret convulsive sobs from young men, at anguish with
themselves, remorseful after deeds done;
I see, in low life, the mother misused by her children, dying,
neglected, gaunt, desperate;
I see the wife misused by her husband—I see the treacherous seducer
of young women;
I mark the ranklings of jealousy and unrequited love, attempted to be
hid—I see these sights on the earth;
I see the workings of battle, pestilence, tyranny—I see martyrs and
prisoners;
I observe a famine at sea—I observe the sailors casting lots who
shall be kill'd, to preserve the lives of the rest;
I observe the slights and degradations cast by arrogant persons upon
laborers, the poor, and upon negroes, and the like;
All these—All the meanness and agony without end, I sitting, look
out upon,
See, hear, and am silent."
Ouça-se pelo menos o início do primeiro andamento, espantoso e violento. Pena que Hartmann seja um compositor alemão tão subvalorizado e pouco conhecido.
No vídeo está a tradução alemã que é cantada.
Aqui vai o texto original de Walt Whitman, em inglês:
"I sit and look out upon all the sorrows of the world, and upon all
oppression and shame;
I hear secret convulsive sobs from young men, at anguish with
themselves, remorseful after deeds done;
I see, in low life, the mother misused by her children, dying,
neglected, gaunt, desperate;
I see the wife misused by her husband—I see the treacherous seducer
of young women;
I mark the ranklings of jealousy and unrequited love, attempted to be
hid—I see these sights on the earth;
I see the workings of battle, pestilence, tyranny—I see martyrs and
prisoners;
I observe a famine at sea—I observe the sailors casting lots who
shall be kill'd, to preserve the lives of the rest;
I observe the slights and degradations cast by arrogant persons upon
laborers, the poor, and upon negroes, and the like;
All these—All the meanness and agony without end, I sitting, look
out upon,
See, hear, and am silent."
sábado, 27 de novembro de 2010
dança do desempregado
O terceiro álbum de Gabriel, O Pensador, "Quebra-Cabeça", de 1997, vendeu mais de 500 mil cópias. Duvido que tenha quebrado mais a cabeça do que os dois primeiros discos, provocadores como o mercado gosta, mas politizados como não era costume para um menino de classe média nascido no Rio de Janeiro em 1974.
De qualquer forma, "Quebra-cabeça" incluía esta "Dança do desempregado", denúncia bem humorada e bem actual do desemprego.
Essa é a dança do desempregado
Quem ainda não dançou tá na hora de aprender
A nova dança do desempregado
Amanhã o dançarino pode ser você
E vai levando um pé na bunda vai
Vai por olho da rua e não volta nunca mais
E vai saindo vai saindo sai
Com uma mão na frente e a outra atrás
E bota a mão no bolsinho (Não tem nada)
E bota a mão na carteira (Não tem nada)
E bota a mão no outro bolso (Não tem nada)
E vai abrindo a geladeira (Não tem nada)
Vai porcurar mais um emprego (Não tem nada)
E olha nos classificados (Não tem nada)
E vai batendo o desespero (Não tem nada)
E vai ficar desempregado
Essa é a dança do desempregado
Quem ainda não dançou tá na hora de aprender
A nova dança do desempregado
Amanhã o dançarino pode ser você
E vai descendo vai descendo vai
E vai descendo até o Paragüai
E vai voltando vai voltando vai
"Muamba de primeira olhaí quem vai?"
E vai vendendo vai vendendo vai
Sobrevivendo feito camelô
E vai correndo vai correndo vai
O rapa tá chegando olhaí sujô!...
E vai rodando a bolsinha (Vai, vai!)
E vai tirando a calcinha (Vai, vai!)
E vai virando a bundinha (Vai, vai!)
E vai ganhando uma graninha
E vai vendendo o corpinho (Vai, vai!)
E vai ganhando o leitinho (Vai, vai!)
É o leitinho das crianças (Vai, vai!)
E vai entrando nessa dança
Essa é a dança do desempregado
Quem ainda não dançou tá na hora de aprender
A nova dança do desempregado
Amanhã o dançarino pode ser você
E bota a mão no bolsinho (Não tem nada)
E bota a mão na carteira (Não tem nada)
E não tem nada pra comer (Não tem nada)
E não tem nada a perder
E bota a mão no trinta e oito e vai devagarinho
E bota o ferro na cintura e vai no sapatinho
E vai roubar só uma vez pra comprar feijão
E vai roubando e vai roubando e vai virar ladrão
E bota a mão na cabeça!! (É a polícia)
E joga a arma no chão E bota as mãos nas algemas
E vai parar no camburão
E vai contando a sua história lá pro delegado
"E cala a boca vagabundo malandro safado"
E vai entrando e olhando o sol nascer quadrado
E vai dançando nessa dança do desempregado
Essa é a dança do desempregado
Quem ainda não dançou tá na hora de aprender
A nova dança do desempregado
Amanhã o dançarino pode ser você
De qualquer forma, "Quebra-cabeça" incluía esta "Dança do desempregado", denúncia bem humorada e bem actual do desemprego.
Essa é a dança do desempregado
Quem ainda não dançou tá na hora de aprender
A nova dança do desempregado
Amanhã o dançarino pode ser você
E vai levando um pé na bunda vai
Vai por olho da rua e não volta nunca mais
E vai saindo vai saindo sai
Com uma mão na frente e a outra atrás
E bota a mão no bolsinho (Não tem nada)
E bota a mão na carteira (Não tem nada)
E bota a mão no outro bolso (Não tem nada)
E vai abrindo a geladeira (Não tem nada)
Vai porcurar mais um emprego (Não tem nada)
E olha nos classificados (Não tem nada)
E vai batendo o desespero (Não tem nada)
E vai ficar desempregado
Essa é a dança do desempregado
Quem ainda não dançou tá na hora de aprender
A nova dança do desempregado
Amanhã o dançarino pode ser você
E vai descendo vai descendo vai
E vai descendo até o Paragüai
E vai voltando vai voltando vai
"Muamba de primeira olhaí quem vai?"
E vai vendendo vai vendendo vai
Sobrevivendo feito camelô
E vai correndo vai correndo vai
O rapa tá chegando olhaí sujô!...
E vai rodando a bolsinha (Vai, vai!)
E vai tirando a calcinha (Vai, vai!)
E vai virando a bundinha (Vai, vai!)
E vai ganhando uma graninha
E vai vendendo o corpinho (Vai, vai!)
E vai ganhando o leitinho (Vai, vai!)
É o leitinho das crianças (Vai, vai!)
E vai entrando nessa dança
Essa é a dança do desempregado
Quem ainda não dançou tá na hora de aprender
A nova dança do desempregado
Amanhã o dançarino pode ser você
E bota a mão no bolsinho (Não tem nada)
E bota a mão na carteira (Não tem nada)
E não tem nada pra comer (Não tem nada)
E não tem nada a perder
E bota a mão no trinta e oito e vai devagarinho
E bota o ferro na cintura e vai no sapatinho
E vai roubar só uma vez pra comprar feijão
E vai roubando e vai roubando e vai virar ladrão
E bota a mão na cabeça!! (É a polícia)
E joga a arma no chão E bota as mãos nas algemas
E vai parar no camburão
E vai contando a sua história lá pro delegado
"E cala a boca vagabundo malandro safado"
E vai entrando e olhando o sol nascer quadrado
E vai dançando nessa dança do desempregado
Essa é a dança do desempregado
Quem ainda não dançou tá na hora de aprender
A nova dança do desempregado
Amanhã o dançarino pode ser você
sexta-feira, 26 de novembro de 2010
tra la la la la la (tempos modernos)
Ela escreveu-lhe a letra nas mangas, porque ele se tinha esquecido.
Mas as mangas saltam. Na urgência, ele improvisa. Todos os golpes decisivos são dados com a mão esquerda.
Ei-lo: Chaplin e a mais subversiva canção "sem letra" do cinema.
Mas as mangas saltam. Na urgência, ele improvisa. Todos os golpes decisivos são dados com a mão esquerda.
Ei-lo: Chaplin e a mais subversiva canção "sem letra" do cinema.
two good men
Talvez a mais famosa canção de Woody Guthrie acerca de Sacco e Vanzetti, anarquistas e imigrantes italianos nos EUA, executados na cadeira eléctrica a 23 Agosto de 1927.
Say, there, did you hear the news?
Sacco worked at trimmin' shoes;
Vanzetti was a peddlin' man,
Pushed his fish cart with his hand.
Two good men a long time gone,
Two good men a long time gone,
Sacco an' Vanzetti are gone,
[ALTERNATE: Two good men a long time gone] Left me here to sing this song.
Sacco's born across the sea,
Somewhere over in Italy;
Vanzetti born of parents fine,
Drank the best Italian wine.
Sacco sailed the sea one day,
Landed up in the Boston Bay.
Vanzetti sailed the ocean blue,
An' landed up in Boston, too.
Sacco's wife three children had;
Sacco was a family man.
Vanzetti was a dreamin' man,
His book was always in his hands.
Sacco earned his bread and butter
Bein' the factory's best shoe cutter.
Vanzetti spoke both day and night,
Told the workers how to fight.
I'll tell you if you ask me
'Bout this payroll robbery.
Two clerks was killed by the shoe fact'ry,
On the streets in South Braintree.
Judge Thayer told his friends around
That he had cut the radicals down.
"Anarchist bastard" was the name
Judge Thayer called these two good men.
I'll tell you the prosecutor's name,
Katzman, Adams, Williams, Kane.
The Judge and lawyers strutted down,
They done more tricks than circus clowns.
Vanzetti docked in nineteen eight;
Slept along the dirty street,
Told the workers "Organize,"
And on the 'lectric chair he dies.
All you people ought to be like me,
And work like Sacco and Vanzetti,
And everyday find ways to fight
On the union side for the workers' rights.
Well, I ain't got time to tell this tale,
The dicks and bulls are on my trail.
But I'll remember these two good men
That died to show me how to live.
All you people in Suassos Lane,
Sing this song and sing it plain.
All you folks that's comin' along,
Jump in with me and sing this song.
sexta-feira, 5 de novembro de 2010
A propósito de feminismo
"Bata Motel", dos Crass, do álbum "Penis Envy" (1981). Do it yourself, feminismo e a política da colagem.
I've got 54321
I've got a red pair of high-heels on
Tumble me over, it doesn't take much
Tumble me over, tumble me, push
In my red high-heels I've no control
The rituals of repression are so old
You can do what you like, there'll be no reprisal
I'm yours, yes I'm yours, it's my means of survival
I've got 54321
Come on my love, I know you're strong
Push me hard, make me stagger
The pain in my back just doesn't matter
You force-hold me above the ground
I can't get away, my feet are bound
So I'm bound to say
That I'm bound to stay
Well today I look so good
Just like I know I should
My breasts to tempt inside my bra
My face is painted like a movie star
I've studied my flaws in your reflection
And put them to rights with savage correction
I've turned my statuesque perfection
And shone it over in your direction
So come on darling, make me yours
Trip me over, show me the floor
Tease me, tease me, make me stay
In my red high-heels I can't get away
I'm trussed and bound like an oven ready bird
But I bleed without dying and I won't say a word
Slice my flesh and I'll ride the scar
Put me into gear like your lady car
Drive me fast and crash me crazy
I'll rise from the wreckage as fresh as a daisy
These wounds leave furrows as they heal
I've travelled them, they're red and real
I know them well, they're part of me
My birth, my sex, my history
They grew with me, my closest friend
My pain's my own, my pain's my end
Clip my wings so you know where I am
I can't get lost while you're my man
Tame me so I know your call
I've stabbed my heels so I am tall
I've bound my twisted falling fall
Beautiful mute against the wall
Beautifully mutilated as I fall
Use me, don't lose me
I've got 54321
I've got a red pair of high-heels on
Strap my ankles, break my heels
Make me kneel, make me feel
Turn, turn, turn, like a clockwork doll
Put in your key and give me a whirl
Tease me, tease me, the reason to play
In my red high-heels I can't get away
I'll be your bonsai, your beautiful bonsai
Your black-eyed bonsai, erotically rotting
Will my tiny feet fit your desire?
Warped and tied I walk on fire
Burn me out, twist my wrists
I promise not to shout, beat me with your fists
Squeeze me, squeeze me, make me feel
In my red high-heels I'm an easy kill
Tease me, Tease me, make me see
You're the only one, I need to be me
Thankyou, will you take me?
Thankyou, will you make me?
Thankyou, will you break me?
Use me, don't lose me
Taste me, don't waste me
Use, lose, taste, waste.
I've got 54321
I've got a red pair of high-heels on
Tumble me over, it doesn't take much
Tumble me over, tumble me, push
In my red high-heels I've no control
The rituals of repression are so old
You can do what you like, there'll be no reprisal
I'm yours, yes I'm yours, it's my means of survival
I've got 54321
Come on my love, I know you're strong
Push me hard, make me stagger
The pain in my back just doesn't matter
You force-hold me above the ground
I can't get away, my feet are bound
So I'm bound to say
That I'm bound to stay
Well today I look so good
Just like I know I should
My breasts to tempt inside my bra
My face is painted like a movie star
I've studied my flaws in your reflection
And put them to rights with savage correction
I've turned my statuesque perfection
And shone it over in your direction
So come on darling, make me yours
Trip me over, show me the floor
Tease me, tease me, make me stay
In my red high-heels I can't get away
I'm trussed and bound like an oven ready bird
But I bleed without dying and I won't say a word
Slice my flesh and I'll ride the scar
Put me into gear like your lady car
Drive me fast and crash me crazy
I'll rise from the wreckage as fresh as a daisy
These wounds leave furrows as they heal
I've travelled them, they're red and real
I know them well, they're part of me
My birth, my sex, my history
They grew with me, my closest friend
My pain's my own, my pain's my end
Clip my wings so you know where I am
I can't get lost while you're my man
Tame me so I know your call
I've stabbed my heels so I am tall
I've bound my twisted falling fall
Beautiful mute against the wall
Beautifully mutilated as I fall
Use me, don't lose me
I've got 54321
I've got a red pair of high-heels on
Strap my ankles, break my heels
Make me kneel, make me feel
Turn, turn, turn, like a clockwork doll
Put in your key and give me a whirl
Tease me, tease me, the reason to play
In my red high-heels I can't get away
I'll be your bonsai, your beautiful bonsai
Your black-eyed bonsai, erotically rotting
Will my tiny feet fit your desire?
Warped and tied I walk on fire
Burn me out, twist my wrists
I promise not to shout, beat me with your fists
Squeeze me, squeeze me, make me feel
In my red high-heels I'm an easy kill
Tease me, Tease me, make me see
You're the only one, I need to be me
Thankyou, will you take me?
Thankyou, will you make me?
Thankyou, will you break me?
Use me, don't lose me
Taste me, don't waste me
Use, lose, taste, waste.
Punk com saudades do futuro
Ao contrário do "No future" dos Sex Pistols, em Nostalgia (original dos The Buzzcocks), aqui interpretado pelos Penetration - sem dúvida melhor do que a versão original -, o punk reflectiu de uma maneira pouco habitual sobre o tempo...
1978...
I bet that you love me like I love you
But I should know that gambling just don't pay
So I look up to the sky
And I wonder what it'll be like in days gone by
As I sit and bathe in the wave of
nostalgia for an age yet to come
I always used to dream of the past
But like they say yesterday never comes
Sometimes there's a song in my brain
And I feel that my heart knows the refrain
I guess it's just the music that brings on
nostalgia for an age yet to come
Ah nostalgia for an age yet to come
Nostalgia for an age yet to come
About the future I only can reminisce
For what I've had is what I'll never get
And although this may sound strange
My future and my past are presently disarranged
And I'm surfing on a wave of nostalgia for an age yet to come
I look I only see what I don't know
All that was strong invincible is slain
Takes more than sunshine to make everything fine
And I feel like I'm trapped in the middle of time
With this constant feeling of nostalgia for an age yet to come
Ah nostalgia for an age yet to come
About the future I only can reminisce
For what I've had is what I'll never get
And although this may sound strange
My future and my past are presently disarranged
And I'm surfing on a wave of nostalgia for an age yet to come
I look I only see what I don't know
All that was strong invincible is slain
Takes more than sunshine to make everything fine
And I feel like I'm caught in the middle of time
And this constant feeling of nostalgia for an age yet to come
Ah nostalgia for an age yet to come
Nostalgia for an age yet to come
Nostalgia for an age yet to come
E a propósito, veja-se também o "Nostalgia for an Age that Never Existed", por Jello Biafra e Mojo Nixon. Mas o sentido é diferente. Aqui trata-se de gozo e ataque directo à nostalgia, com uma melodia e uma progressão harmónica já de si lamentosas, mas com uma voz que cria distância irónica.
Fake '50s clothes
Fake '50s food
Classic gas-guzzling dream cars
In more ads on the tube
Fake home-made cookies
Like mommy usedto make
Nostalgia for an age
That never existed
Do you remember
Art-deco knick-knacks and flings
The stars on the silver screen
Made you forget Hooverville
View the world
Through Time-Life and Nick at Nite
Nostalgia for an age
That never existed
All the stars had a pretty face
Children and Negroes knew their place
Blocks of happy families
With moms and dads all in love
Or are these wholesome memories
Really from reruns on TV
ANd ads in old garage sale magazines
Fake sixiteis
Mask our leaders' sleaze
Is it really a new beiginning
With confederate Kennedys?
Fake Camelot
Before everything went wrong
Nostalgia for an age
That never existed
Do you remember
The Summer of Love
Vietnam, mini-skirts and drugs
Rebellion was so much fun
Tell your own kids
Just Say No to that
Nostalgia for an age
That never existed
Turn that MTV racket off
So your folks can listen to "classic" rock
Mellow out to the same old songs
Again and again and again
Do you wonder or even care
How you wound up such a square
If ya can't stand the Big Chill
Get out of the freezer
Can't stand the Big Chill
Get out of the freezer
everything old is new again
It all comes back, jsut wait your turn
But somehow the magic's always missing
Giving up on future dreams
To dwell on rosy memories
Will make sure your best days
Are in the past
Nostalgia for an age that never existed
Nostalgia for an age that never existed
Do yo uremember
Being the first punk in your town
Outlaw #1
For the t-shirt you had on
Now you stay home
Mad at the whole scene
For refusing to freeze
In 1983
Why can't all the old bands reform
Stick to playing their old songs
It ain't punk
If it ain't just like the old days
That was then, this is now
Suckling up to the sacred cow
Can leave ya stuck in the mud
With its remains
Nostalgia for an age that never existed
Nostalgia for an age that never existed
1978...
I bet that you love me like I love you
But I should know that gambling just don't pay
So I look up to the sky
And I wonder what it'll be like in days gone by
As I sit and bathe in the wave of
nostalgia for an age yet to come
I always used to dream of the past
But like they say yesterday never comes
Sometimes there's a song in my brain
And I feel that my heart knows the refrain
I guess it's just the music that brings on
nostalgia for an age yet to come
Ah nostalgia for an age yet to come
Nostalgia for an age yet to come
About the future I only can reminisce
For what I've had is what I'll never get
And although this may sound strange
My future and my past are presently disarranged
And I'm surfing on a wave of nostalgia for an age yet to come
I look I only see what I don't know
All that was strong invincible is slain
Takes more than sunshine to make everything fine
And I feel like I'm trapped in the middle of time
With this constant feeling of nostalgia for an age yet to come
Ah nostalgia for an age yet to come
About the future I only can reminisce
For what I've had is what I'll never get
And although this may sound strange
My future and my past are presently disarranged
And I'm surfing on a wave of nostalgia for an age yet to come
I look I only see what I don't know
All that was strong invincible is slain
Takes more than sunshine to make everything fine
And I feel like I'm caught in the middle of time
And this constant feeling of nostalgia for an age yet to come
Ah nostalgia for an age yet to come
Nostalgia for an age yet to come
Nostalgia for an age yet to come
E a propósito, veja-se também o "Nostalgia for an Age that Never Existed", por Jello Biafra e Mojo Nixon. Mas o sentido é diferente. Aqui trata-se de gozo e ataque directo à nostalgia, com uma melodia e uma progressão harmónica já de si lamentosas, mas com uma voz que cria distância irónica.
Fake '50s clothes
Fake '50s food
Classic gas-guzzling dream cars
In more ads on the tube
Fake home-made cookies
Like mommy usedto make
Nostalgia for an age
That never existed
Do you remember
Art-deco knick-knacks and flings
The stars on the silver screen
Made you forget Hooverville
View the world
Through Time-Life and Nick at Nite
Nostalgia for an age
That never existed
All the stars had a pretty face
Children and Negroes knew their place
Blocks of happy families
With moms and dads all in love
Or are these wholesome memories
Really from reruns on TV
ANd ads in old garage sale magazines
Fake sixiteis
Mask our leaders' sleaze
Is it really a new beiginning
With confederate Kennedys?
Fake Camelot
Before everything went wrong
Nostalgia for an age
That never existed
Do you remember
The Summer of Love
Vietnam, mini-skirts and drugs
Rebellion was so much fun
Tell your own kids
Just Say No to that
Nostalgia for an age
That never existed
Turn that MTV racket off
So your folks can listen to "classic" rock
Mellow out to the same old songs
Again and again and again
Do you wonder or even care
How you wound up such a square
If ya can't stand the Big Chill
Get out of the freezer
Can't stand the Big Chill
Get out of the freezer
everything old is new again
It all comes back, jsut wait your turn
But somehow the magic's always missing
Giving up on future dreams
To dwell on rosy memories
Will make sure your best days
Are in the past
Nostalgia for an age that never existed
Nostalgia for an age that never existed
Do yo uremember
Being the first punk in your town
Outlaw #1
For the t-shirt you had on
Now you stay home
Mad at the whole scene
For refusing to freeze
In 1983
Why can't all the old bands reform
Stick to playing their old songs
It ain't punk
If it ain't just like the old days
That was then, this is now
Suckling up to the sacred cow
Can leave ya stuck in the mud
With its remains
Nostalgia for an age that never existed
Nostalgia for an age that never existed
Meninas típicas
Uma canção feminista, leve e bem humorada, que descontrói as meninas "típicas". O vídeo punk e tosco está a altura.
As Slits, uma interessantíssima banda punk rock inglesa que nasceu em 1976, tiveram alguma projecção até aos anos 80. A banda foi refeita em 2005. Ari Up, a fundadora da banda, morreu em Outubro de 2010.
Don't create
Don't rebel
Have intuition
Can't decide
Typical girls get upset to quickly
Typical girls can't control themselves
Typical girls are so confusing
Typical girls - you can always tell
Typical girls don't think too clearly
Typical girls are all predictable
Typical girls try to be
Typical girls very well
Typical girls are looking for something
Typical girls fall under spells
Typical girls buy magazines
Typical girls feel like hell
Typical girls worry about spots, fat, and natural smells
Sniky fake smells
Typical girls try to be
Typical girls very well
Don't create
Don't rebel
Have intution
Don't drive well
Typical girls try to be
Typical girls very well
Can't decide what clothes to wear
Typical girls are sensitive
Typical girls are emotional
Typical girls are cruel and bewitching
She's a femme fatale
Typical girls stand by their man
Typical girls are really swell
Typical girls learn how to act shocked
Typical girls don't rebel
Who invented the typical girl?
Who's bringing out the new improved model?
And there's another marketing ploy
Typical girl gets the typical boy
The typical boy gets the typical girl
The typical girl gets the typical boy
Are emotional
As Slits, uma interessantíssima banda punk rock inglesa que nasceu em 1976, tiveram alguma projecção até aos anos 80. A banda foi refeita em 2005. Ari Up, a fundadora da banda, morreu em Outubro de 2010.
Don't create
Don't rebel
Have intuition
Can't decide
Typical girls get upset to quickly
Typical girls can't control themselves
Typical girls are so confusing
Typical girls - you can always tell
Typical girls don't think too clearly
Typical girls are all predictable
Typical girls try to be
Typical girls very well
Typical girls are looking for something
Typical girls fall under spells
Typical girls buy magazines
Typical girls feel like hell
Typical girls worry about spots, fat, and natural smells
Sniky fake smells
Typical girls try to be
Typical girls very well
Don't create
Don't rebel
Have intution
Don't drive well
Typical girls try to be
Typical girls very well
Can't decide what clothes to wear
Typical girls are sensitive
Typical girls are emotional
Typical girls are cruel and bewitching
She's a femme fatale
Typical girls stand by their man
Typical girls are really swell
Typical girls learn how to act shocked
Typical girls don't rebel
Who invented the typical girl?
Who's bringing out the new improved model?
And there's another marketing ploy
Typical girl gets the typical boy
The typical boy gets the typical girl
The typical girl gets the typical boy
Are emotional
On nous attaque, on se défend
Canção francesa lúcida e irónica contra a violência policial.
Ho je n’oublierai pas devant nous les casqués,
Les fusils lance-grenades, et les grands boucliers,
Tout ça pour nous forcer quand nous n’avions pour nous
Que nos poings, le bon droit, et puis quelques cailloux.
D’abord on s’avançait en frappant dans les mains,
Y en avait parmi eux, de vrais têtes de gamins,
Les regards s’affrontaient, face à face, de tout près,
Eux devaient la boucler, nous pas et on chantait
Allez les gars, combien on vous paye, combien on vous paye pour faire ça ?
Allez les gars, combien on vous paye, combien on vous paye pour faire ça ?
Combien ça vaut, quel est le prix
De te faire détester ainsi
Par tous ces gens qu’tu connais pas,
Qui sans ça n’auraient rien contr’ toi ?
Tu sais, nous on est pas méchants,
On ne grenade pas les enfants.
On nous attaque, on se défend,
Désolé si c’est toi qui prend.
Allez les gars, combien on vous paye, combien on vous paye pour faire ça ?
Allez les gars, combien on vous paye, combien on vous paye pour faire ça ?
Pense que ceux pour qui tu travailles,
Qu’on voit jamais dans la bataille,
Pendant qu’tu encaisses des cailloux,
Empain, Schneider ramassent les sous.
Avoue franchement qu’c’est quand même pas
La vie qu’t’avais rêvée pour toi :
Cogner des gens pour faire tes heures.
T’aurais mieux fait d’rester chômeur.
Allez les gars, combien on vous paye, combien on vous paye pour faire ça ?
Allez les gars, combien on vous paye, combien on vous paye pour faire ça ?
Je ne me fais guère d’illusions
Sur la portée de cette chanson.
Je sais qu’tu vas pas hésiter
Dans deux minutes à m’castagner.
Je sais qu’tu vas pas hésiter,
T’es bien dressé, baratiné,
Mais au moins j’aurai essayé,
Avant les bosses, de te causer.
Allez les gars, combien on vous paye, combien on vous paye pour faire ça ?
Allez les gars, combien on vous paye, combien on vous paye pour faire ça ?
Ho je n’oublierai pas devant nous les casqués,
Les fusils lance-grenades, et les grands boucliers,
Tout ça pour nous forcer quand nous n’avions pour nous
Que nos poings, le bon droit, et puis quelques cailloux.
D’abord on s’avançait en frappant dans les mains,
Y en avait parmi eux, de vrais têtes de gamins,
Les regards s’affrontaient, face à face, de tout près,
Eux devaient la boucler, nous pas et on chantait
Allez les gars, combien on vous paye, combien on vous paye pour faire ça ?
Allez les gars, combien on vous paye, combien on vous paye pour faire ça ?
Combien ça vaut, quel est le prix
De te faire détester ainsi
Par tous ces gens qu’tu connais pas,
Qui sans ça n’auraient rien contr’ toi ?
Tu sais, nous on est pas méchants,
On ne grenade pas les enfants.
On nous attaque, on se défend,
Désolé si c’est toi qui prend.
Allez les gars, combien on vous paye, combien on vous paye pour faire ça ?
Allez les gars, combien on vous paye, combien on vous paye pour faire ça ?
Pense que ceux pour qui tu travailles,
Qu’on voit jamais dans la bataille,
Pendant qu’tu encaisses des cailloux,
Empain, Schneider ramassent les sous.
Avoue franchement qu’c’est quand même pas
La vie qu’t’avais rêvée pour toi :
Cogner des gens pour faire tes heures.
T’aurais mieux fait d’rester chômeur.
Allez les gars, combien on vous paye, combien on vous paye pour faire ça ?
Allez les gars, combien on vous paye, combien on vous paye pour faire ça ?
Je ne me fais guère d’illusions
Sur la portée de cette chanson.
Je sais qu’tu vas pas hésiter
Dans deux minutes à m’castagner.
Je sais qu’tu vas pas hésiter,
T’es bien dressé, baratiné,
Mais au moins j’aurai essayé,
Avant les bosses, de te causer.
Allez les gars, combien on vous paye, combien on vous paye pour faire ça ?
Allez les gars, combien on vous paye, combien on vous paye pour faire ça ?
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