#581 Musings Beyond the Bunker (Saturday February 11)
Good morning,
MUSIC
Sometimes after a Musing there emerges a string of commentary from music buffs that I don’t always share. Recently, however, there was an exchange that went on for days about bossanova, jazz, Brazilian greats, Jobim, etc., etc. This yielded some great stuff. Here is Mark DiMaria providing a “lesson” on music, together with his selections:
“The first of [these] is a bossa nova piece, are both marked by patterns of almost hypnotic musical repetition, while carrying obscure but vivid poetic images in the lyrics. The first is a very well-known piece by Antonio Carlos Jobim, which you all certainly have heard before. The second is a Sean Jones recording of a Kurt Elling composition, and really does not get into the intense chanting portion until the latter part, so be patient and enjoy the jazz trumpet interlude as you work toward it.
First, “The Waters of March”: …the Jobim solo version in English with the great lyrics we can understand... (I note that Sergio Mendes also has an accessible version, which I…have seen him perform.) The original, of course, is the most chant-hypnotic:
Second, “Esperanto.” You need to be in a pensive, receptive mental place for this one with lyrics in subtitle by trumpeter Sean Jones, in which Carolyn Perteete handles the singing, which merges with the drums over the final two minutes to an ecstatic crescendo that makes you wish there was more. This one may take a second listening, so be patient and give it a chance:
Okay, class dismissed.
IN THE ORIGINAL
Sometimes it’s just better in the original—in this case, Portuguese, performed by Nova: “Águas de Março” (“Waters of March”), by Antônio Carlos Jobim:
and “Garota De Ipanema” (“Girl From Ipanema”), by Jobim/Moraes:
MY FAVORITE
Jobim, Al Jarreau, and Oleta Adams:
POETRY
The tune is beautiful but the words are sheer poetry. Remember March is at the end of the summer in Brazil, when the waters begin to fall. These little snippets of what the early waters of the Fall call to mind are so evocative. That the Waters of March translates so beautifully into English reminds us that poetry in any language is, well, poetic!:
THE WATERS OF MARCH
A stick a stone, it’s the end of the road, it’s the rest of the stump, it’s a little alone, it’s a sliver of glass, it is life, it’s the sun, it is night, it is death, it’s a trap, it’s a gun.
The oak when it blooms, a fox in the brush, the knot in the wood, the song of the thrush. the wood of the wind, a cliff, a fall, a scratch, a lump, it is nothing at all.
It’s the wind blowing free. it’s the end of a slope. it’s a beam, it’s a void, it’s a hunch, it’s a hope. and the riverbank talks of the water of March. it’s the end of the strain, it’s the joy in your heart.
The foot, the ground, the flesh, the bone, the beat of the road, a slingshot stone. a fish, a flash, a silvery glow, a fight, a bet, the range of the bow.
The bed of the well, the end of the line, the dismay in the face, it’s a loss, it’s a find. a spear, a spike, a point, a nail, a drip, a drop, the end of the tale.
A truckload of bricks in the soft morning light, the shot of a gun, in the dead of the night. a mile, a must, a thrust, a bump. it’s a girl, it’s a rhyme, it’s the cold, it’s the mumps.
The plan of the house, the body in bed, the car that got stuck, it’s the mud, it’s the mud. a float, a drift, a flight, a wing, a hawk, a quail, the promise of spring.
And the riverbanks talks of the waters of March. it’s the promise of life, it’s the joy in your heart.
A snake, a stick, it is john, it is joe, it’s a thorn in your hand, and a cut on your toe. a point, a grain, a bee, a bite, a blink, a buzzard, the sudden stroke of night. a pin, a needle, a sting, a pain, a snail, a riddle, a weep, a stain.
A pass in the mountains. a horse, a mule, in the distance the shelves rode three shadows of blue. and the riverbanks talks of the waters of March. it’s the promise of life in your heart, in your heart.
A stick, a stone, the end of the load, the rest of the stump, a lonesome road. a sliver of glass, a life, the sun, a night, a death, the end of the run. and the riverbank talks of the waters of March. it’s the end of all strain it’s the joy in your heart.
Have a great weekend,
Glenn