It’s not the same moon

Quanto mi piace…

 

Did you ever hear the theory of the universe?
Where every time you make a choice,
A brand new planet gets created?

Did you ever hear that theory?
Does it carry any sense?
That a choice can split the world in two,
Or is it all just too immense for you?

That they all exist in parallel,
Each one separate from the other,
And every subsequent decision,
Makes a new world then another,
And they all stretch out towards infinity,
Getting further and further away.

Now, were a man to reconsider his position,
And try to spin the world back to its original state?

It’s not a scientific proposition,
And relatively speaking…you’re late.

It’s not the same moon in the sky,
And these are different stars,
And these are different constellations,
From the ones that you’ve described.

Different rules of navigation,
Strange coordinates and lines,
A completely different zodiac,
Of unfamiliar signs.

It’s not the same moon in the sky,
And those planets are misleading,
I wouldn’t even try to take a bearing or a reading,
Just accept that things are different,
You’ve no choice but to comply,
When smarter men have failed to see,
The logic as to why.

It’s not the same moon,
It’s not the same moon,
In the sky.

There’s fire in me belly, there’s wind in me sails…

Questa per esempio è una specie di fiaba moderna: un pugile, un duro, un lottatore di strada che si innamora di una ragazza, solo che lei lo ignora e le amiche ridono di lui,

At me bloody nose dripping and me cauliflower ear,
For it’s hard to convince in a romantic pose,
With a lovely black eye and a broken nose,

(del sangue che mi colava dal naso, delle mie orecchie a cavolfiore,
perché è dura essere convincenti in un atteggiamento romantico
con un grazioso occhio nero e il naso rotto)

Lui però non si dà per vinto e impara a danzare ballando il valzer con una scopa: così se lo avessero scoperto avrebbe potuto fingere di allenarsi o al limite di ramazzare il pavimento. E proprio quando sembra che la fortuna gli abbia voltato le spalle, “bruciare i ponti della strategia”, ossia lasciarsi andare, si rivelerà la mossa vincente:

Ye swing to the left, ye swing to the right,
Keep your eyes on your partner, more or less like a fight,
Ye just follow the rhythm, and ye keep to the beat,
The important thing’s never to look at your feet,
Then a miracle happens, your mind’s in a trance,
Though the strategy’s subtle, retreat and advance,
It’s all about attitude, all in your stance,
Attention to detail, leaving nothing to chance,
Which explains how the pugilist finally learned how to dance.

Well, I’d waltz with a broomstick and if I was caught,
I’d pretend I was sweeping or practicing sport,
But I really had eyes for your mother ye see,
Wanting her to acknowledge this new version of me,
But now everyone’s watching, expecting I’ll fail,
But there’s fire in me belly, there’s wind in me sails,
I knew it was risky and I was taking a chance,
I couldn’t retreat now, I had to advance.

[…]

It’s a three-minute round and you’re back in yr corner,
You’re licking yr wounds just like little Jack Horner,
Don’t let your guard down try a jab with your right,
Or you’re losing on points by the end of the night,
Then a miracle happens, and everyone’s screaming,
You’re pinching yourself just in case you’re still dreaming,
You’ve taken the initiative, you’ve taken your chance,
It’s the night when this pugilist finally learned how to dance.
In a bout where the strategist’s bridges were burned,
Where it seemed that his fortune had suddenly turned,
‘Twas the night that this scrapper was suddenly dapper,
And this poor fellow’s heart was still going like the clappers,
The night that the pugilist finally learned how to dance.

Funny feeling… farfalle in my stomach

Sting è Sting e per me non si discute. Ma Josh Groban è uno di quei pochi capaci con la sua voce di annodarmi lo stomaco in un groviglio tale che non capisco più se aumenta l’irrequietezza o se l’attenua.

Sting is Sting and to me he’s the number one. Yet Josh Groban is one of the very few who is able with his voice to make my stomach feel knotted in a funny way, I no longer know if it increases my restlessness or soothes me.

 

Un po’ della “mia” musica

Ieri era giornata di classica, oggi è giornata di Bruce Springsteen e la “radio basata su” di lui. Grazie a questo post di Gramonhill ho ascoltato Jungleland con particolare attenzione e ho fatto bene. Io ho un approccio strano alla musica devo dire. Non solo alla musica, ok, ma adesso parliamo di questo. Ho due cantanti (musicisti?) preferiti per quanto riguarda il pop/rock (non mi chiedete di scendere in dettagli sul genere) che sono Sting e Bruce Springsteen. Ho una innumerevole serie di cantanti (italiani e no) che ogni tanto ascolto con enorme piacere ma di cui non conosco tutte le canzoni e neanche la maggior parte. Penso a Stevie Wonder, ai Dire Straits, a Vecchioni, De André, Tenco, molti cantanti soul, jazz e persino country. qualcuno addirittura più vecchiotto ancora, tipo Frank Sinatra o Elvis Presley, per dire. chissà quanti altri, ma tutta roba molto mainstream e radiofonica. Anche nella classica. Mozart, Beethoven, Puccini, Bach (l’Ave Maria è meravigliosa), Brahms, i soliti insomma. Poi ci sono le canzoni singole che hanno segnato momenti particolari della mia vita, la prima che mi viene in mente è I feel good di Jackson Brown, a potrei tranquillamente citarne insieme un paio di Baglioni (Stelle di stelle, avete presente? Un capolavoro, a mio dilettantistico parere. Ma anche Giorni di neve, le mie orecchie la considerano tale) e Luca Barbarossa senza (troppa) vergogna. Mi sento in soggezione quando qualcuno posta brani che non solo non ho mai sentito, ma che appartengono a cantanti/autori che non ho, a loro volta, mai sentito. Poi ogni tanto, grazie a un certo ben noto “servizio musicale” o più raramente ai figli, mi imbatto in qualche gemma preziosa e nascosta. Ma temo che ormai i miei gusti siano così formati, che le gemme per me sono quelle che rispecchiano almeno in parte cosa che amavo già prima. Tipo Josh Groban. Quest’uomo ha una voce pazzesca, per me, da brividi, e Bridge Over Troubled Waters è un altro punto fermo nella mia personale colonna sonora.  O i Mumford & sons. Però meno, Josh Groban mi commuove in maniera particolare, ma proprio molto particolare. Piccoli pezzetti di una mia scompigliatissima colonna sonora 🙂

 

 

Venti stagionali / Season Winds

Alcune canzoni per i momenti di malinconia autunnale, quando la stagione che cambia può far pensare al tempo che passa e alle illusioni che continuiamo a coltivare, la più tenace delle quali è quella di non farsi illusioni.

Ma se la tristezza è un’emozione di cui a volte non sappiamo fare a meno, possiamo almeno farne una scusa per circondarci di cose belle, musica, libri, parole, nostalgia, tenerezza, silenzi, sono spesso tristi in maniera dolce, come una coperta calda e le coccole che ci concediamo per consolarci dai primi freddi. Così capita che ci prendiamo cura della nostra tristezza con un certo affetto, perché anche se sembra il contrario, in realtà ci aiuta a volte a vivere meglio.

AUGUST WINDS

/

When August winds are turning,
The fishing boats set out upon the sea,
I watch ‘til they sail out of sight,
The winter follows soon,
I watch them drawn into the night,
Beneath the August moon.

No one knows I come here,
Some things I don’t share,
I can’t explain the reasons why,
It moves me close to tears,
Or something in the season’s change,
Will find me wandering here.

And in my public moments,
I hear the things I say but they’re not me,
Perhaps I’ll know before I die,
Admit that there’s a reason why,
I count the boats returning to the sea,
I count the boats returning to the sea.

And in my private moments,
I drop the mask that I’ve been forced to wear,
But no one knows this secret me,
Where albeit unconsciously,
I count the boats returning from the sea,
I count the boats returning from the sea.

PRACTICAL ARRANGEMENT

/

Am I asking for the moon?
Is it really so implausible?
That you and I could soon,
Come to some kind of arrangement?
I’m not asking for the moon,
I’ve always been a realist,
When it’s really nothing more,
Than a simple rearrangement.
With one roof above our heads,
A warm house to return to,
We could start with separate beds,
I could sleep alone or learn to.
I’m not suggesting that we’d find some earthly paradise forever,
I mean how often does that happen now? The answer’s probably never.
But we could come to an arrangement, a practical arrangement,
And you could learn to love me given time.

I’m not promising the moon,
I’m not promising a rainbow,
Just a practical solution,
To a solitary life.
I’d be a father to your boy,
A shoulder you could lean on,
How bad could it be,
To be my wife?
With one roof above our heads,
A warm house to return to,
You wouldn’t have to cook for me,
You wouldn’t have to learn to,
I’m not suggesting that this proposition here could last forever,
I’ve no intention of deceiving you, you’re far too clever.
But we could come to an arrangement,
A practical arrangement,
And perhaps you’d learn to love me given time.
It may not be the romance that you had in mind,
But you could learn to love me,
Given time.

I LOVE HER BUT SHE LOVES SOMEONE ELSE

/

When a man of my age shaves his face in the morning,
Who is it that stares back and greets him?
The ghost of his father long dead all these years?
Or the boy that he was, still wet in the ears?
Or the terrible sum of all of his fears,
In the eyes of this stranger who meets him?

So his glance rarely strays from his chin or his jawline,
To face up to the truth of his soul,
It’s the eyes he avoids so afraid to acknowledge,
Something strange, unexpected, out of control.

There are times when a man needs to brave his reflection,
And face what he sees without fear,
It takes a man to accept his mortality,
Or be surprised by the presence of a tear.

It was only an arrangement, a practical arrangement,
I forgot the first commandment of the realist’s handbook,
Don’t be fooled by illusions you created yourself,
And fall in love with someone, when she loves someone else.

Like a covering of snow on a winter’s night,
It glistens and it sparkles in the moonlight,
But it’s gone by the morning, how quickly it melts,
You still love her but she loves someone else.

And where does that leave you?
You self-styled man of vision.
You feel stupid, you feel angry, are you losing your mind?
To destroy the one she loves, does that become your mission?
Like a pantomime villain with an axe to grind?
To regain your self-respect, hold your head up like a man,
Use the ice around your heart before it melts,
But you’re not fooling anybody, you’re only fooling yourself.

Like a covering of snow on a winter’s night,
It glistens and it sparkles in the moonlight,
But it’s gone by the morning, how quickly it melts,
You still love her but she loves someone else.

/

ALL THIS TIME

I looked out across
The river today
I saw a city in the fog
And an old church tower
Where the seagulls play
Saw the sad shire horses
Walking home in the sodium light
Saw two priests on the ferry
October geese on a cold winter’s night
And all this time
The river flowed
Endlessly,
To the sea.

Two priests came round
Our house tonight
One young, one old,
To offer prayers for the dying,
To serve the final rite
One to learn, one to teach
Which way the cold wind blows
Fussing and flapping in priestly black
Like a murder of crows

And all this time
The river flowed
Endlessly,
To the sea.

If I had my way
I’d take a boat from the river
And I’d bury the old man
I’d bury him at sea

Blessed are the poor
For they shall inherit the earth
One is better to be poor
Than a fat man in the eye of a needle
As these words were spoken
I swear I hear the old man laughing
What good is a used up world,
And how could it be worth having?

And all this time
The river flowed
Endlessly,
To the sea.

All this time
The river flowed
Father, if Jesus exists,
Then how come he never lived here?
Yeah, yeah
Yeah, yeah
Yeah, yeah

Teachers told us
The Romans built this place
They built a wall and a temple on the edge of the
Empire garrison town
They lived and they died
They prayed to their gods
But the stone gods did not make a sound
And their empire crumbled
Till all that was left
Were the stones the workmen found

And all this time the river flowed
In the falling light of a northern sun
If I had my way
I’d take a boat from the river
Men go crazy in congregations
They only get better one by one
One by one
One by one, by one
One by one

I looked out across
The river today
I saw a city in the fog
And an old church tower
Where the seagulls play
Saw the sad shire horses
Walking home in the sodium light
Two priests on the ferry
October geese on a cold winter’s night

Englishman in New York

Adoro Englishman in New York, penso sia una delle canzoni più belle che siano mai state scritte. Esagero con l’entusiasmo? Ovviamente ci sono moltissime altre canzoni di Sting e non solo di Sting che trovo splendide e per certi aspetti anche più belle di questa. Ma qui si tratta di cuore e istinto, senza nessuna spiegazione possibile. Mi è entrata nell’anima da subito e lì è rimasta.

I don’t drink coffee I take tea my dear  / Non bevo caffè, bevo tè, mia cara
I like my toast done on one side / i toast mi piacciono abbrustoliti su un solo lato
You can hear it in my accent when I talk  / e puoi sentirlo nel mio accento quando parlo
I’m an Englishman in New York / sono un Inglese a New York

See me walking down fifth avenue / mi vedi camminare giù per la Quinta Strada
walking cane here at my side / il bastone da passeggio al mio fianco
take it everywhere I walk / lo porto ovunque vada
I’m an Englishman in New York / sono un Inglese a New York

Uh-uh I’m an alien, I’m a legal alien / sono un alieno, per la legge
I’m an Englishman in New York [2] / sono un Inglese a New York

If manners maketh man as someone says / se è l’educazione a fare un uomo, come si dice
he’s the hero of the day / lui è l’eroe del giorno
takes a man to suffer ignorance and smile / ci vuole un vero uomo per sopportare l’ignoranza e lo scherno
be yourself, no matter what they say / essere se stessi, qualunque cosa dicano gli altri

oh-oh I’m an alien, I’m a legal alien
I’m an Englishman in New York [2]

Modesty, propriety / Il riserbo e il decoro
can lead to notoriety  / possono renderti famoso
you could end up as the only one / potresti essere l’ultimo rimasto
gentleness, sobriety are rare in this society / la dolcezza e la sobrietà sono rare in questa società
at night a candle’s brighter than the sun / di notte una candela fa più luce del sole

Takes more than combat gear to make a man / ci vuole più di una tenuta da combattimento per fare un uomo
takes more than a license for a gun / più di un porto d’armi
Confront your enemies, avoid them when you can / Affronta i tuoi nemici, evitali quando puoi
a gentleman will walk but never run / un gentiluomo cammina, non corre mai

If manners maketh man as someone says
he’s the hero of the day
takes a man to suffer ignorance and smile
be yourself, no matter what they say
be yourself, no matter what they say
be yourself, no matter what they say