Sioux
Gila - Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee [WEA 1973] Na década de 70, com o progressivo no seu auge, imagino que os mais puristas tivessem dificuldade em colocar este disco na mesma prateleira. Se na sua ideologia Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee fugia às “trips” ou à mitologia características da época para dar lugar a um disco conceptual baseado na exterminação do povo indígena pelos americanos brancos (o massacre de Wounded Knee em 1980), musicalmente falando também aqui não há quilómetros de solos nem outras excentricidades típicas. Vejo alguns sites a colarem-no ao kraut, embora aí acredite que seja mais por afinidade geográfica e pelo facto de quase todos os membros dos Popol Vuh terem feito parte do alinhamento (logo há Florian Fricke nas teclas!!). É um disco quase acústico (não no sentido literal) com elementos de prog, psicadélico e folk. Uma viagem melancólica e inspiradora, uma companhia tremenda.
posted by ::Andre:: @ 30.6.10
1 comments
1 Comments:
American Names
by Stephen Vincent Benét
I have fallen in love with American names,
The sharp names that never get fat,
The snakeskin-titles of mining-claims,
The plumed war-bonnet of Medicine Hat,
Tucson and Deadwood and Lost Mule Flat.
Seine and Piave are silver spoons,
But the spoonbowl-metal is thin and worn,
There are English counties like hunting-tunes
Played on the keys of a postboy’s horn,
But I will remember where I was born.
I will remember Carquinez Straits,
Little French Lick and Lundy’s Lane,
The Yankee ships and the Yankee dates
And the bullet-towns of Calamity Jane.
I will remember Skunktown Plain.
I will fall in love with a Salem tree
And a rawhide quirt from Santa Cruz,
I will get me a bottle of Boston sea
And a blue-gum nigger to sing me blues.
I am tired of loving a foreign muse.
Rue des Martyrs and Bleeding-Heart-Yard,
Senlis, Pisa, and Blindman’s Oast,
It is a magic ghost you guard
But I am sick for a newer ghost,
Harrisburg, Spartanburg, Painted Post.
Henry and John were never so
And Henry and John were always right?
Granted, but when it was time to go
And the tea and the laurels had stood all night,
Did they never watch for Nantucket Light?
I shall not rest quiet in Montparnasse.
I shall not lie easy at Winchelsea.
You may bury my body in Sussex grass,
You may bury my tongue at Champmédy.
I shall not be there. I shall rise and pass.
Bury my heart at Wounded Knee.
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