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With the "ranking" of the best covers, it has nonetheless been a nice page to remember Willy DeVille. I also remembered to thank the kind soul (a spot for him in heaven) who found the single’s cover instead of the photo from Willy's concert two years ago that I had sent.
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@voodoomiles if anything it was the opposite, Chris D's production for their debut completely transformed the true sound of the Gun Club, which was certainly less brutal than what you can hear in "Fire of Love," and indeed Jeffrey complained about being defined as the punk version of Robert Johnson while he said that in Miami you could hear the real Gun Club. As mentioned on other occasions, this album has much less blues than the first; it features the country of Mother of Heart, John Hardy, Carry Home, and Texas Serenade, the voodoo of Watermelon Man, the angry ballads of Carry Home, Bad Indian, Like Calling up Thunder, the stunning Brothers & Sisters, but I see very little blues in it. Long live the green cover!
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brother debaserian caravan I checked that on my cover of "Couldn't Stand the Weather" it says "Voodoo Chile," but if yours says "Voodoo Child," then I'll take a step back because it's hot over here...
Oneida Rated O
13 aug 09
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Max Cady and his tattoos are legendary...
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brother debaserian caravan don’t get worked up, it’s hot ...there’s always time: manana por la manana
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For me, the most beautiful cover might be the one made by Blue Cheer of "Summertime Blues" (Eddie Cochran) 1967/68, scorching metal when they still didn't know what metal was.
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Hey, so many nice comments for the old pirate, I didn't expect them even though I used the "trick" of associating him with a fantastic piece like "Hey Joe." You see, @ez, this is what I meant by honoring Willy; it doesn’t make sense (to me) to try to honor him with a review of an album that is among his least successful and to pass it off as a good starting point for those who have never listened to him. Maybe it would discourage them with those final twenty minutes of spoken words that already reek of death. For those who have Jimi’s version in mind, there is no hope for the others; in fact, as I mentioned in the review, many think it was written by Jimi, like the person who posted this video with the absolutely Hendrixian rendition by Body Count (with an extraordinary Ice-T on vocals). But Willy's version remains stunning for me, capturing the sense of the inevitability of life that flows ironically like a long, tranquil river... you love, you kill, you go off to spend the rest of your life away, and every day is the same. I swear on Punisher’s head that I would truly put it on an eternal loop, even though Willy is a craftsman. Kosmo is right; Willy's version is one that shines in concert, he sings it angrier with a slide that makes the atmosphere even more heated, and among those I’ve seen online, the most beautiful one I have is from a concert of his two years ago, filmed with makeshift means. Anyone who wants it (2,3 MB) can request it from me via email without hesitation. It was an extraordinary concert, maybe not up to the level of what a Cammariere or a Bosso can do, dear caravan, but still a great concert.
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I, the undersigned, ride my bike, meaning I race with a number pinned on, but I've always scorned the road, the asphalt. I test myself on the rocks and stones of exhausting off-road races like the Dolomiti Superbike in Bolzano, the Roc D'Azur in France, the Kitzalp Bike in Austria. It's a way for me to feel alive in this plastic world made even more plastic by people like Pantani et similia. I haven't read the book reviewed by Ale, but upon reading the line "What would the bicycle mean, if it were a hieroglyph carved on an Egyptian obelisk? Would it express movement or rest? The flight of time or eternity? I wouldn’t be surprised if it meant love," I stopped to think about how right that son of a good woman Malaparte was. Love isn’t made with Viagra, and cycling isn’t done with doping.
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Even I get something in my stomach when I see the name Steve Wynn, it seems to be called emotion. Of the two, one album is red like the sun and sounds loud and brash, while the other is blue like the moon and sounds more intimate and personal. I wouldn't forget to mention what Chris Brokaw, Steve's old partner, does with the guitars. Perhaps, but perhaps not, for me his masterpiece is really the latest "Crossin Dragon Bridge," while last year's release as The Baseball Project is equally stunning, a supergroup with Scott McCaughey on bass, Linda Pitmon on drums, and Peter Buck on guitars, a great album about the sports myths most beloved by Americans.
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I can't understand the rush of these instant-reviews; if you really love Willie and want to honor him, do it spontaneously with some of his best albums where he showcases his fiery blend of rock, R&B, and New Orleans, like Cabretta, Return to Magenta, Coup de Grace, Victory Mixture, or Backstreet of Desire—not with this latest one, which is among his most hesitant, featuring the last three embarrassing tracks that are frankly yawning spoken songs. What remains with me is the image from a couple of years ago, of this great rock gypsy, who, due to his wild nature, stayed on the fringes of show business, captivating the crowd at a free concert at the Liri Blues Festival for three hours, composed mostly of people who didn't know him at all. Goodbye Willy.