Cumbiera, versiones

Como cierre de 2011, para honrar a los nuevos dioses que me acamalan, va post ligeramente autodefinitorio. Mis allegados, los que conservan el humor al menos, cuando yo digo "cumbia", si no salen corriendo, traen a colación a Kevin y ríen al encontrar explicación. En el medio me crucé con Buscaglia (metafóricamente, lamentablemente) y el tema que regala en su web es el de cobaya (de gran actualidad por el calendario maya, hay que decirlo). Por último apareció Les Luthiers, de la mano de la Maja que entiende.
Así las cosas. ¡Ah, y gracias totales al dj que hizo todo esto posible!

"Cumbiera intelectual", by Kevin Johansen:


"Cobaya de cumbia", de Martín Buscaglia:


"Dilema de Amor",  de Les Luthiers en Lutherapia:

"Under pressure" versiones RELOADED

Dios, nuestro señor, David Bowie, con Gail Ann Dorsey:



Dios y los chicos de Queen, en un remixado en vivo, onda fanvid. (Bowie es el único tipo que se puede poner un traje verde Nilo y seguir siendo el tipo más sexy de la Tierra.)



RELOADED: un performer con historia (a leer en Youtube, bajo el video), interepretando la versión de estudio de Queen + King David:



Bah bah bah bah bah bah bah bah
Bah bah bah bah bah bah
Pressure pressing down on me
Under pressure
That burns a building down
Splits a family in two
Puts people on streets

Bah bah bah bah bah bah
Bah bah bah bah bah bah

That's o-kay!
Its the terror of knowing
What this world is about
Watching some good friends
Screaming let me out
Pray tomorrow takes me higher
Pressure on people

Do do do bah bah bah bah
O-kay
Chippin around
Kick my brains around the floor
These are the days
It never rains it pours
People on streets
People on streets

Its the terror of knowing
What this world is about
Watching some good friends
Screaming let me out
Pray tomorrow takes me higher
People people on streets
Turned away from it all
Like a blind man
Sat on fence but it don't work
Keep coming up with love
But it's so slashed and torn
Why why why? 
Love love love love

Insanity laughs under pressure were cracking
Cant we give ourselves one more chance? 
Why can't we give love one more chance? 
Why can't we give love give love give love? 
Give love give love give love give love give love
Cause loves such an old fashioned word
And love dares you to care
For people on the edge of the night
And love dares you to change our way
Of caring about ourselves
This is our last dance
This is our last dance
This is ourselves under pressure
Under pressure pressure

"Dancing Towards Disaster", by Mike Batt

Como el mapa completamente en blanco del Bellman, la vida es nonsense tantas veces. En estos días es así también. Pero un mapa en blanco también es la posibilidad, el could, de que el sinsentido tenga otra salida y que no estemos bailando hacia el desastre, como canta el Beaver. Pienso cosas horribles sobre cosas horribles que no se pueden decir de lo horribles que son. The unspeakable. Pero no es eso lo que quiero creer o lo que quiero pensar, y me conmino a pensar, entonces, que el nonsense es múltiple y que no sabemos sobre el futuro.

Así que para esa persona a la que hoy le hice entender todo lo que la quiero, vaya esta canción maravillosa de este musical genial sobre ese texto non plus ultra que es The Hunting of The Snark, de Lewis Carroll, que siempre tiene respuestas para todo, como un oráculo. (Eternamente agradecida a Nacho, among other things, por haber conocido de su mano esta música, y por ende, el texto.)

  

Si no anda el player, andá: http://www.goear.com/listen/04a66e8/dancing-toward-disaster-

(Beaver)
Forget the risks we are taking
Let it rain, let it hail, let it snow;
We could be wrong all along
But at least if we keep on we soon will know,
Although:
We could be dancing towards disaster
With every movement we make,
We could be dancing to disaster,
We could fall with every step we take.
We could be dancing towards disaster,
With every thrill that we share,
We could be dancing to disaster
But I get the feeling we don't care.
There is no time left for wasting
Looking back round the corners we've turned.
Don't count the cost or we're lost,
For the bridges we have crossed have all been burned,
And we've learned:
We could be dancing towards disaster
With every movement we make,
We could be dancing to disaster,
We could fall with every step we take.
We could be dancing towards disaster,
With every thrill that we share,
We could be dancing to disaster
But I get the feeling we don't care.
(Beaver + Crew)
Dancing, dancing,
For all we know we're dancing to disaster.
Dancing, dancing
Dancing to disaster.
Dancing, dancing, dancing, dancing, dancing,
Dancing to disaster.
We could be dancing towards disaster
With every movement we make,
We could be dancing to disaster,
We could fall with every step we take.
We could be dancing towards disaster,
With every thrill that we share,
We could be dancing to disaster
But I get the feeling we don't care.
We don't care.
We don't care.

"Now is the winter of our discontent..."

Richard III | Act I, Scene 1, by William Shakespeare

GLOSTER
Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this sun of York;
And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths;
Our bruised arms hung up for monuments;
Our stern alarums chang'd to merry meetings,
Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.
Grim-visag'd war hath smooth'd his wrinkled front;
And now,--instead of mounting barbed steeds
To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,--
He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber
To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.
But I,--that am not shap'd for sportive tricks,
Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass;
I, that am rudely stamp'd, and want love's majesty
To strut before a wanton ambling nymph;
I, that am curtail'd of this fair proportion,
Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,
Deform'd, unfinish'd, sent before my time
Into this breathing world scarce half made up,
And that so lamely and unfashionable
That dogs bark at me as I halt by them;--
Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace,
Have no delight to pass away the time,
Unless to spy my shadow in the sun,
And descant on mine own deformity:
And therefore,--since I cannot prove a lover,
To entertain these fair well-spoken days,--
I am determined to prove a villain,
And hate the idle pleasures of these days.
Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous,
By drunken prophecies, libels, and dreams,
To set my brother Clarence and the king
In deadly hate the one against the other:
And if King Edward be as true and just
As I am subtle, false, and treacherous,
This day should Clarence closely be mew'd up,--
About a prophecy which says that G
Of Edward's heirs the murderer shall be.
Dive, thoughts, down to my soul:--here Clarence comes.