They say, "sing while you slave," but I just get bored.: Handel's Messiah in Vancouver

segunda-feira, dezembro 25, 2006

Handel's Messiah in Vancouver

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Next, Back, Thread Ahead: Pedras Portuguêsas, Thread Back: St. James United Church, Montréal.

Vancouver Cantata Singers, Vancouver Opera Orchestra, Conductor - Jean-Marie Zeitouni, Mezzo-Soprano - Laura Pudwell, at the Orpheum Theatre.

Just lucky to see it with my son. Hope springs eternal, and indeed sprang up again in my heart at these sublime sounds.

For unto us a child is born ...

I know that my redeemer liveth ...

Still no pictures, hahaha, Martin finally admits it is a 'bug' - but it is not a bug, it is software incompetence ... okokok.

Oops - it came back! With the help of my son I reloaded Picasa and Hello and now it works again. Who knows what changed - possibly even some of my own incompetence mixed in there eh?

Merry Christmas to you all. Be well.

22/12/06, Margaret Wente, Go ahead, make my Christmas, (Archive).
23/12/06, Rex Murphy, The last spasm of Humbugitis, (Archive).
27/12/06, Neil Reynolds, The most giving nation? It's not us, (Archive).
20/01/07, Margaret Wente, The charitable and the cheap: Which one are you?, (Archive).

Tags: Vancouver, Handel, Messiah, Jean-Marie Zeitouni, Laura Pudwell, Margaret Wente, Rex Murphy, Neil Reynolds.

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Ira Hayes

Gather round me people
There's a story I would tell
About a brave young Indian
You should remember well

From the land of the Pima Indian
A proud and noble band
Who farmed the Phoenix valley
In Arizona land

Down the ditches for a thousand years
The water grew Ira's peoples' crops
'Till the white man stole the water rights
And the sparklin' water stopped

Now Ira's folks were hungry
And their land grew crops of weeds
When war came, Ira volunteered
And forgot the white man's greed

There they battled up Iwo Jima's hill,
Two hundred and fifty men
But only twenty-seven lived
To walk back down again

And when the fight was over
And when Old Glory raised
Among the men who held it high
Was the Indian, Ira Hayes

Ira returned a hero
Celebrated through the land
He was wined and speeched and honored
Everybody shook his hand

But he was just a Pima Indian
No water, no crops, no chance
At home nobody cared what Ira'd done
And when did the Indians dance

Then Ira started drinkin' hard
Jail was often his home
They'd let him raise the flag and lower it
like you'd throw a dog a bone!

He died drunk one mornin'
Alone in the land he fought to save
Two inches of water in a lonely ditch
Was a grave for Ira Hayes

Yeah, call him drunken Ira Hayes
But his land is just as dry
And his ghost is lyin' thirsty
In the ditch where Ira died

Call him drunken Ira Hayes
He won't answer anymore
Not the whiskey drinkin' Indian
Nor the Marine that went to war

Johnny Cash

All Along the Watchtower

"There must be some way out of here,"
Said the joker to the thief,
"There's too much confusion,
I can't get no relief.
Businessmen, they drink my wine,
Plowmen dig my earth,
None of them along the line
Know what any of it is worth."

"No reason to get excited,"
The thief, he kindly spoke,
"There are many here among us
Who feel that life is but a joke.
But you and I, we've been through that,
And this is not our fate,
So let us not talk falsely now,
The hour is getting late."

All along the watchtower,
Princes kept the view
While all the women came and went,
Barefoot servants, too.

Outside in the distance
A wildcat did growl,
Two riders were approaching,
The wind began to howl.

Bob Dylan

Vacilão

Aquilo que era mulher
Pra não te acordar cedo,
Saia da cama na ponta do pé
Só te chamava tarde sabia teu gosto,
Na bandeja café
Chocolate, biscoito, salada de fruta
Suco de mamão
No almoço era filé mignom
Com arroz a lá grega,
Batata corada um vinho do bom
No jantar era a mesma fartura do almoço
E ainda tinha opção
É mais deu mole ela dispensou você

Chegou em casa outra vez doidão
Brigou com a preta sem razão
Quis comer arroz doce com quiabo
Botou sal na batida de limão
Deu lavagem ao macaco,
Banana pro porco, osso pro gato
Sardinha ao cachorro, cachaça pro pato
Entrou no chuveiro de terno e sapato,
Não queria papo
Foi lá no porão, pegou treisoitão
Deu tiro na mão do próprio irmão
Que quis lhe segurar,
Eu consegui lhe desarmar

Foi pra rua de novo,
Entrou no velório pulando a janela
Xingou o defunto, apagou a vela
Cantou a viúva mulher de favela,
Deu um beijo nela
O bicho pegou a polícia chegou
Um coro levou em cana entrou
E ela não te quer mais,

Bem feito!

Zeca Pagodinho.

Helpless

There is a town in north Ontario,
With dream comfort memory to spare,
And in my mind I still need a place to go,
All my changes were there.

Blue, blue windows behind the stars,
Yellow moon on the rise,
Big birds flying across the sky,
Throwing shadows on our eyes.

That leave us
Helpless, helpless, helpless

Baby can you hear me now?
The chains are locked
And tied across the door,
Baby, sing with me somehow.

Blue, blue windows behind the stars,
Yellow moon on the rise,
Big birds flying across the sky,
Throwing shadows on our eyes.

And leave us
Helpless, helpless, helpless.

Neil Young

Hallelujah

Now I've heard there was a secret chord
That David played, and it pleased the Lord
But you don't really care for music, do ya?
It goes like this, the fourth, the fifth
The minor fall, the major lift
The baffled king composing Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah

Your faith was strong but you needed proof
You saw her bathing on the roof
Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew ya
She tied you to a kitchen chair
She broke your throne, and she cut your hair
And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah

You say I took the name in vain
I don't even know the name
But if I did, well really, what's it to ya?
There's a blaze of light in every word
It doesn't matter which you heard
The holy or the broken Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah

I did my best, it wasn't much
I couldn't feel, so I tried to touch
I've told the truth, I didn't come to fool ya
And even if it all goes wrong
I'll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah

Leonard Cohen

As irmas da graça

As irmas da graça
Elas não partiram nem sumiram.
Elas estavam esperando por mim
Quando eu pensei que não podia andar mais.
E elas me trouxeram conforto
E mais tarde me trouxeram esta canção.
Eu desejo que você as encontre
Você que estavam viajando há tanto tempo.
Sim você que deve deixar tudo
Que não pode controlar.
Isso começa com sua familia
Mas logo chega até sua alma.
Então, eu estive onde você está parado
Eu penso que eu posso ver como você estancou:
Quando você não se sente santo
Sua solidão fala que você pecou.

Eu me deitei ao lado delas
Eu me confecei com elas.
E elas beijaram meus olhos
E eu beijei o orvalho dos seus queixos.
Se sua vida é uma folha
Que as estações rejetam e condenam
Elas vão prendê-lo com amor
Que é gracioso e verde como um caule.

Quando eu saí elas dormiam
Eu desejo que você as encontre logo.
Não acenda as luzes
Você pode ler o endereço delas na lua.
E você não me fará ciúme
Se eu ouvir que elas adoçaram sua noite:
Nós não éramos namorados assim
E ainda que assim fosse estaria certo.
Nós não éramos namorados assim
E ainda que assim fosse estaria certo.

Leonard Cohen (mais ou menos)

It Takes a Lot to Laugh,
It Takes a Train to Cry

I ride on a mail train, babe,
You know I, can't buy a thrill.
And I've been up all night,
Leanin' on the window sill.
Well, if I die
At the top of the hill
And if I don't make it,
You know my baby will.

Don't the moon look good, mama,
Shinin' through the trees?
Don't the brakeman look good, mama,
Flagging down the "Double E"?
Don't the sun look good
Goin' down over the sea?
And don't my gal look fine
When she's comin' on after me?

Now the wintertime is coming,
The windows are filled with frost.
I ran to tell everybody,
But I just could not get across.
I wanna be your lover, babe,
I don't wanna be your boss.
Don't say I never warned you
When your train gets lost.

Bob Dylan

de Fleurs du Mal

Soyez béni, mon Dieu,
Qui donnez la souffrance
Comme un divin remède
À nos impuretés
Et comme la meilleure
Et la plus pure essence
Qui prépare les forts
Aux saintes voluptés!

Ceux-là dont les désirs
Ont la forme des nues,
Et qui rêvent,
Ainsi qu'un conscrit le canon,
De vastes voluptés,
Changeantes, inconnues,
Et dont l'esprit humain
N'a jamais su le nom!

Charles Baudelaire

Nothing But A Breeze

Life is just too short for some folks
For other folks it just drags on
Some people like the taste of smokey whiskey
Others figure tea is too strong
I'm the kind of guy who likes to ride the middle
I don't like all this bouncing back and forth
Me, I want to live with my feet in Dixie
And my head in the cool blue North

There we'll do just as we please
It ain't nothing but a breeze

In a small suburban garden
Not a single neighbor knows our name
I know the woman wishes we would move somewhere
Where the houses aren't all the same
Jesse, I wish you would take me
Where the grass is greener
I really couldn't say where it may be
Somewhere up on a mountain top
Or down by the deep blue sea

There we'll do just as we please
It ain't nothing but a breeze

One day I'll be old gray grandpa
And all the pretty girls will call me "sir,"
Now, where they're asking me how things are
Then they'll ask me how things were
Well, I don't mind being an old gray grandpa
If you'll be my gray old great grandma
And we can go with our milk and cookies
To the shade of an old paw-paw

There we'll do just as we please
It ain't nothing but a breeze

Jesse Winchester

The fate of art that tries to do without criticism is instructive. The attempt to reach the public directly through 'popular' art assumes that criticism is artificial and public taste natural. Behind this is a further assumption about natural taste which goes back through Tolstoy to Romantic theories of a spontaneously creative 'folk.' These theories have had a fair trial; they have not stood up very well to the facts of literary history and experience, and it is perhaps time to move beyond them. An extreme reaction against the primitive view, at one time associated with the 'art for art's sake' catchword, thinks of art in precisely the opposite terms, as a mystery, an initiation into an esoterically civilized community. Here criticism is restricted to ritual Masonic gestures, to raised eyebrows and cryptic comments and other signs of an understanding too occult for syntax. The fallacy common to both attitudes is that of a rough correlation between the merit of art and the degree of public response to it, though the correlation assumed is direct in one case and inverse in the other.
Northrop Frye - Anatomy of Criticism.

They say, "sing while you slave," but I just get bored.

segunda-feira, dezembro 25, 2006

Handel's Messiah in Vancouver

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