Nick Drake fez uma para mim :)


PS: Não, parece que Nick Drake não fez nenhuma para mim: esta é de Robin Frederick. Mas quem sabe se não foi para mim que gravou, né? 🙂 Coloquei ao final um texto em que Robin Frederick fala de Nick Drake.

PS2: Não custa esclarecer: minha brincadeira tem a ver com um maço diário de Malboro que fumo, com tal grau de invasão da nicotina no metabolismo que, a despeito de sucessivas tentativas, não consigo deixar, embora claramente esteja ferrando com a minha saúde. A música pode se referir a outro hábito de fumar (que talvez cause menos danos físicos e dependência menos agressiva do que meus cigarros diários, aliás).



BEEN SMOKING TOO LONG

well I wake up in the morning
look at my clock
it’s way past noon time
now I’m late for work

tell me, tell me
what have I done wrong?
ain’t nothing go right with me
must be I’ve been smoking too long

well I go to find me some breakfast
but I ain’t got no food
take me a shower
but the water don’t feel no good

tell me…

I’ve got opium in my chimney
no other life to choose
nightmare made of hash dreams
got the devil in my shoes

tell me…

well when I’m smoking
put my worries on a shelf
don’t think about nothin’
try not to see myself

tell me…

well in this blues I’m singin’
there’s a lesson to be learned
don’t go around smokin’
unless you want to get burned

tell me…









THE SOUTH OF FRANCE
Robin Friederick

In March, 1967, I was a 19-year-old American girl living in Aix-en-Provence, France. I was (and still am) a singer and songwriter. At that time I was performing folk songs and my own originals with a partner in a cabaret in Aix, nominally enrolled in university classes during the day. Nick Drake introduced himself one evening after I’d finished my set and asked if I’d like to get together to play some songs. Among the songs I played for him was one of my own called Been Smokin’ Too Long. I couldn’t have known then that I would one day hear his voice singing it back to me, long after he was dead.

Nick would appear at odd hours of the night at the door of my flat. I’d let him in and we’d pass the time playing songs for each other. He stared at the wall or the floor or into the fire. So did I. It was always nighttime, always twilight in the room with the gas fire. These are my memories.

Nick never sang any of his own songs. I doubt that he had written any at that time, or if he had, he didn’t feel confident about playing them yet. He was singing songs by Bob Dylan, Bert Jansch, the songs we all covered. There was a Phil Ochs song I used to play that he liked called Changes. It’s a beautiful song with a haunting melody, I think I hear traces of it in Nick’s songs. It wouldn’t surprise me; I got the feeling he was absorbing everything around him – music, lyrics, ideas, emotions – quietly taking it all in.

We knew each other for only a short time. I’m still not sure who I met; but then, that’s what everyone says about him. Yet, for someone who was so elusive, he had an unmistakable presence that drew people to him. To put it bluntly, falling in love with Nick was a no-brainer and I promptly did; not that I ever let on, mind you. He was extraordinarily attractive and that, plus his natural quietness, made it easy to weave a web of fantasies around him. This was the south of France, after all, and we were writers and singers roaming ancient streets where Cezanne painted and Rimbaud died. I was already quite good at imagining myself to be all kinds of people I wasn’t. So it was a simple matter to envelop Nick in the dark halo of Baudelaire. I don’t know how much he himself played this role. More than a little, as I recall.

Within a few weeks, he left for Morocco and I went to Greece. June came soon after and school was over. I headed off for parts north and never saw Nick again. But he was not out of my life, not out of my life at all.

Anúncios

Sobre Ani

Outros que contem passo por passo | Eu morro ontem | Nasço amanhã | Ando onde há espaço: | – Meu tempo é quando. ~Vinicius de Moraes~
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