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George Michael
I posted this a year or so ago on the f3 music thread, but feck it, I like it so much it’s going here as well :) .
I’m not a Madonna fan at all, but this is far and away the best thing she has ever done – a brilliant tune that peaks on so many levels. From it’s ambient, haunting sound to the wonderful, blue bleached desolation of the desert vid. Dear Madge has never looked better with her Henna ink and darkling, goth motif.
Brilliant vid with excellent creature morphing effects.
Brilliant song.
Brilliant, Brilliant, Brilliant 8)Madonna
Ewwww lager :-…
Get some Guinness into you Tezzmeister!!
That will put chests on your hair 8)
Amazing stuff from the young James Joyce.. some of the greatest words ever written.
From.. THE DEAD
She was fast asleep.
Gabriel, leaning on his elbow, looked for a few moments unresentfully on her tangled hair and half-open mouth, listening to her deep-drawn breath. So she had had that romance in her life: a man had died for her sake. It hardly pained him now to think how poor a part he, her husband, had played in her life. He watched her while she slept, as though he and she had never lived together as man and wife. His curious eyes rested long upon her face and on her hair: and, as he thought of what she must have been then, in that time of her first girlish beauty, a strange, friendly pity for her entered his soul. He did not like to say even to himself that her face was no longer beautiful, but he knew that it was no longer the face for which Michael Furey had braved death.
Perhaps she had not told him all the story. His eyes moved to the chair over which she had thrown some of her clothes. A petticoat string dangled to the floor. One boot stood upright, its limp upper fallen down: the fellow of it lay upon its side. He wondered at his riot of emotions of an hour before. From what had it proceeded? From his aunt’s supper, from his own foolish speech, from the wine and dancing, the merry-making when saying good-night in the hall, the pleasure of the walk along the river in the snow. Poor Aunt Julia! She, too, would soon be a shade with the shade of Patrick Morkan and his horse. He had caught that haggard look upon her face for a moment when she was singing Arrayed for the Bridal. Soon, perhaps, he would be sitting in that same drawing-room, dressed in black, his silk hat on his knees. The blinds would be drawn down and Aunt Kate would be sitting beside him, crying and blowing her nose and telling him how Julia had died. He would cast about in his mind for some words that might console her, and would find only lame and useless ones. Yes, yes: that would happen very soon.
The air of the room chilled his shoulders. He stretched himself cautiously along under the sheets and lay down beside his wife. One by one, they were all becoming shades. Better pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age. He thought of how she who lay beside him had locked in her heart for so many years that image of her lover’s eyes when he had told her that he did not wish to live.
Generous tears filled Gabriel’s eyes. He had never felt like that himself towards any woman, but he knew that such a feeling must be love. The tears gathered more thickly in his eyes and in the partial darkness he imagined he saw the form of a young man standing under a dripping tree. Other forms were near. His soul had approached that region where dwell the vast hosts of the dead. He was conscious of, but could not apprehend, their wayward and flickering existence. His own identity was fading out into a grey impalpable world: the solid world itself, which these dead had one time reared and lived in, was dissolving and dwindling.
A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.
@pikey wrote:
Top stuff! If anyone knew the folly of what all this stands for it was Jimmy Joyce.
Ireland is the old sow that eats her farrow.
James Joyce ~ A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
Indeed.
Joyce was not the first writer to feel the sting of rejection by his homeland, nor will he be the last. But he was, in my opinion, the greatest and the most honest. Dismissing what he perceived as the Fairy Loving antics of the Celtic Revivalists, his pen was to be unbendingly obstinate and true to a personal apolitical, amoral vision.
Yet still, he saw the Dublin city of his youth intimately inside his noggin, without favour or fear.. and made it a mesmerising ocean of word and deed, with not to mention a considerable colouring of malicious satire. I defy anyone to tell me that a quintessential Irishness does not paradoxically permeate his work.“Oh Ireland my first and only love
Where Christ and Caesar are hand and glove”
(Gas From A Burner)The passion and the majesty that is the music of RICHARD WAGNER
Die Walkure – Wotan’s Farewell and Magic Fire
Tristan Und Isolde
Intoxicating 8)
Never been the greatest fan of this guy, with the stupid hats etc…
But this, and this alone grants the man legendary status –
A truly beautiful, sad song.
A personal fave..Looking back
On the memory of
The dance we shared
Beneath the stars above
And for a moment
All the world was right
But how could I have known
That you’d ever say goodbyeAnd now
I’m glad I didn’t know
The way it all would end
The way it all would go
Our lives are better left to chance
I could have missed the pain
But I’d of had to miss the danceHolding you
I held everything
For a moment
Wasn’t I the king
But if I’d only known
How the king would fall
Hey who’s to say
You know I might have changed it allAnd now
I’m glad I didn’t know
The way it all would end
The way it all would go
Our lives are better left to chance
I could have missed the pain
But I’d of had to miss the danceYes my life
It’s better left to chance
I could have missed the pain
But I’d of had to miss the danceNo earthly church has ever blessed our union
No state has ever granted us permission
No family bond has ever made us two
No company has ever earned commissionNo debt was paid no dowry to be gained
No treaty over border land or power
No semblance of the world outside remained
To stain the beauty of this nuptial hourThe secret marriage vow is never spoken
The secret marriage never can be brokenNo flowers on the altar
No white veil in your hair
No maiden dress to alter
No bible oath to swearThe secret marriage vow is never spoken
The secret marriage never can be broken
