MP3 vs CD's

As vantagens do MP3 são conhecidas e nem lhes vou tocar. Fica apenas uma questão para quem os prefere aos CD's (já não falo nos vinis). Como é que alguém pode gostar de alguns albúns conceptuais, com uma ligação estreita e quase imperceptível entre as diferentes faixas, num caso dos MP3? Por outra, quando uma música inicia no exacto ponto onde a anterior termina, como é possível gostar do MP3?

Caso concreto: será a mesma coisa ouvir o "Dark Side of the Moon" em MP3? Eu penso que não. E não vejo forma de me convencerem do contrário...

D.mo'Lition Jay

Françoiz Breut & Bastien Lallemant

Hit Radio

As rádios de tops deveriam vir com avisos cuidadosos. Por exemplo um sinal sonoro antes de cada música à semelhança da bolinha vermelha nos ecrãs de televisão

«Música interdita a pessoas com sensibilidade musical acima dos 12 anos de idade»

Outra ideia seriam mensagens nos rádios, à semelhaça dos maços de tabaco

«Este rádio poderá transmitir músicas perniciosas à saúde mental e emocional. Compre por sua conta e risco»

D.mo'Lition Jay

Rádio surrelista

Ouvir em sequência os últimos hits na rádio holandesa: Jennifer Lopez, Gwen Stephani, Coldplay e sei lá que mais, surge de repente o Bucky Done Gun da M.I.A., em promoção de oferta do albúm e de um single do Galang. Aleluia senhor, em terras baixas também surgem milagres.

D.mo'Lition Jay

Mr. Mick Harvey

Voltou com um disco a solo.
"One Man's Treasure" está aí a chegar mas já se ouve aqui.

Entrevistas de Tom Waits em livro

Nuno Galopim e João Lopes encontram-se agora num blog que pode demorar poucos dias a ser referência e foi por lá que reparei numa publicação norte-americana, a Paste.
É precisamente na última edição que aparece criticado o novo lançamento que junta num livro alguns grandes momentos de discurso directo de Tom Waits.

"The Tom Waits Reader - Innocent When You Dream, edited by Mac Montandon (Thunder's Mouth Press)"

A crítica de Brian Howe número 17 da paste :
All respect to Mac Montandon for collating these disparate magazine and newspaper articles and broadcast interviews into a seamless read, but it’s the man and his myth that are the main attraction. Tom Waits is a liar: “I’m going to pull your string from time to time,” he understates to Playboy in 1988. But his lies are truer than most people’s truth, and in a bravura performance spanning four decades, Waits’ derelict koans astound, delight and disturb. Even when paired with talented journalists, he quietly fills all the space in the room without ever fully appearing—he’s always shambling late into his own narrative and vanishing when the check arrives. The interviewer kills time with the standard introduction—a blur of tail-finned cars, whiskey and Naugahyde, long fingers worrying the brim of a tattered porkpie hat, rumpled seven-dollar suits and smoldering squares. Eventually, the door creaks open and a pointy shoe portentously enters the frame. Waits eats soup, rambles with casual brilliance and he’s gone.

Waits’ entire life unfolds in this chronologically arrayed volume, and like all tall tales, alternate versions orbit the truth with such complex trajectories that they become indistinguishable: Waits was born in the back of taxicab or a truck (probably neither); he only smokes Viceroys, Kents, Chesterfields. As a child he longed to be an old man, walking with a cane for style, listening to Harry Belafonte records with his friends’ fathers. It’s often reiterated that young Tom had hypersensitive ears, hearing sounds like Van Gogh saw colors—garish, intense and frightening—and would repeat little nonsense mantras to himself when the world got too loud. It’s hard to imagine a more fitting omen for the music he would one day create.

Part One covers the 1970s, the first stage of Waits’ career, where the Beat-influenced songwriter is in full possession of his rasping croon, but has yet to discover the clangorous musical pastiches on which he’ll make his name. In Part Two, Waits’ marriage to songwriting partner Kathleen Brennan—a script editor he meets in the course of his burgeoning acting career—grants him the confidence and vision to produce his classic 1980s experimental trilogy: Swordfishtrombones, Rain Dogs and Frank’s Wild Years, where instead of trying to emulate the world, he pulls it in, building tracks by slamming doors and banging on old car mufflers. By Part Three, Waits is pretty much ignoring questions to read reporters interesting facts he’s amassed in his notebook, performing rarely and still making dazzling, challenging albums.

For all his leg-pulling, it never seems like Waits is patronizing an interviewer. He’s a man of one weather who takes people on their own terms, answering incisive and shallow questions alike with creative gusto. For a consummate liar, that’s an awfully honest way to be, and it’s this practical (if not verbal) lack of pretense that’s kept Waits’ albums fresh and his style evolving, as he pursues his disconcerting visions of squalor and beauty without a thought toward commercial viability. In his own words, “I don’t want to get a weird haircut just because I saw it at the mall.”

R. L. Burnside R.I.P.

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