"Janis Joplin walked into a bar in San Francisco one evening in 1967, unassuming, wearing her signature round glasses and the rebellious curls framing her face. No grand entrance. No one recognized her yet. Then she stepped onto the stage, grabbed the microphone, and as soon as her voice pierced the air, the entire room fell silent. A rasping, heart-wrenching lament filled the space, cutting through the chatter and the clinking of glasses. Raw, untamed, electric. Moments later, people were on their feet, some crying, others frozen in place. Janis wasn’t just singing. She was bleeding in her songs. That night she left the stage with a new reputation: the woman who could silence a room with her pain.

Born in Port Arthur, Texas, she grew up feeling like an outcast. She loved the blues: Bessie Smith, Lead Belly, Ma Rainey, while most girls her age listened to pop hits. In high school, she was bullied for her looks, called cruel names, struggling to find her place. Even as a teenager, she sought refuge in music, sneaking into record stores to buy blues albums. Once she wrote on her bedroom wall: “One day, everyone will understand.”

Her escape was Austin, where she discovered the local folk and blues scene, often playing small venues with her guitar. But her voice, too big, too rough, too filled with pain, wasn’t easily categorized. When she moved to San Francisco in 1966 to join Big Brother and the Holding Company, she was still a shy, anxious artist, drinking Southern Comfort to calm her nerves before every concert. But when she sang, something raw and uncontrollable took over. The first time she performed Ball and Chain at the 1967 Monterey Pop Festival, Mama Cass was caught on camera, stunned, whispering, “Wow.” Janis had exploded onto the scene.

Behind the screams, the beads, and the flashy feather boas, there was a woman craving acceptance. Her deep voice and bold laughter, tinged with whiskey, made her seem confident, but she always carried with her a profound solitude, as cutting as her voice. She fell madly in love, often loving too much and recklessly. When she loved, she threw herself in completely, whether it was for a musician, a roadie, or a fleeting one-night fling. She once wrote, “On stage, I make love to 25,000 people, then I go home alone.” This shows how deeply she felt the connection with her audience.

She longed for validation, especially from those who once ridiculed her. When she planned to attend her high school reunion, she wanted to return as a symbol of success. She arrived in Port Arthur in a psychedelic Porsche, dressed in full rockstar style, but old wounds reopened immediately. She wasn’t celebrated. She was still a stranger. That night she drank until dawn."
 
Joni Mitchell - Goodbye Pork Pie Hat

I don't know, unlike certain violent idiots who rage here and elsewhere, how one can tolerate absolute deficiency.
Evidently, it's me who is wrong, never the little teachers.
Go fuck yourself, you piece of shit.
You win: you've driven me away from here.
I just don't feel like breathing your air like a guard.
 
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Fortunately, apart from the Sampdorian fans, the Milanese, and above all, the Juventus supporters, there are people who stand with the right side of their city. If I were from Bergamo, I would adore La DEA, but unfortunately, my allegiance has been interista since birth!
 
“Radio Linetti” Linus e Albertino teatro Alcione Milano 09-05-2024

I continue to dissociate myself from the home screen, but at this point I believe it doesn't matter.

But what I would like to say about this... director? It’s very simple.
Mediocrity.

That, unfortunately, marzullian, through sordid characters unable to love anything but themselves, trying to pass themselves off as human beings as if it were the greatest virtue while failing to recognize their own flaws, continue to exalt.

Those who know how to do these things know that I have already told the story about Peter Gabriel.
He - the Moffetta - had no idea whether he played well or badly: he asked Faso.
 
Joni Mitchell - Goodbye Pork Pie Hat

I repeat and will stubbornly repeat that the homepage is terrible.
Then if someone wants to worship THE goddess, let them do so.
 
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I continue, in a stubborn & contrary & seemingly monomaniacal direction, my solitary battle against the DB startup screen.
How much money do I have to give you to buy you out and bring it down?
Is it possible there isn't a scrap of graph that shows the horror?
Then even some of the DeUtenti fools see a blue when it’s obviously a purple. Lilac, to be precise.
Put the Milka tablet on the screen and you will notice it’s identical.

But poor Marco gets no attention from anyone, not even his mom. Ahr ahr aut!
 
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But can you explain to me why?
Yes, because there are only two explanations here: either it's a (un)intentional thing or it's not.
Don't take it the wrong way, but I repeat: this thing cannot be seen. Regardless.
 
Piero Ciampi - Te lo faccio vedere chi sono io

There are people who drink, and certainly not just water, especially not still water. Then there are those who don’t drink and can’t understand how one could do it: why self-destruct when life is so beautiful? They think. Now, I don’t have anything against teetotalers: like black people, Jews, Arabs, and those from that damn PD, they have the right to take it up the ass. But they shouldn’t disturb us intelligent people.
 
Vecchio - Renato Zero

This is for one of the many good people I've met here.
He will understand #maybe.
 
Catherine Spaak e Johnny Dorelli - Non mi innamoro più

How disgusting, playing live with those hands full of fingers!
She wasn't exactly my Browning on Marijuana, but at least she knew how to do a barre chord.
Fortunately, nowadays these messes are no longer needed.
 
Mother

I have always associated this piece with the relationship between the two Davids - Gilmour and Bowie - and their mothers, rather than with Andy, who wrote it, I suppose, for himself.

Of course, from what they themselves have shared - I sincerely believe - in various documentaries and/or interviews, I find they refer to a rather "complicated" perspective concerning the maternal figure. That many boys take for granted: it’s my mother, damn it!

It’s not like that.

Especially if you are an only child, the smart mom will never be satisfied with you, especially because of your father, who is, like all boys, an inept coward she could have done better than. And it’s never her fault, but yours for being born, willingly or unwillingly.
 
Per Brevità Chiamato Artista

I wish someone would understand that they are not the center of the universe.
And, like me and like everyone else, try to grasp their own insignificance.
I know I am not an artist, especially for brevity!
 
Daredevil: Rinascita | Trailer Ufficiale | Dal 5 Marzo su Disney+

Having watched the first two episodes, I must say that, aside from a few rough edges—likely due to the fact that the series was completely rewritten (at the behest of Cox and D'Onofrio more than Disney)—I didn't find it boring at all.
Sure, there's a lot, maybe too much violence: a ton of people die—some in terrible ways—who really don't deserve it. But that’s the character’s trademark: love it or leave it.
However, I believe that once the mechanism is well-oiled, it will be, as always when discussing DD, absolutely fantastic.
And with a Kingpin/D'Onofrio more stellar than ever (he even manages to get elected mayor here, remind you of someone?) there’s no contest!
 
Emmylou Harris & The Band - The last Waltz (evangeline).mpg

Everyone has seen this film, and if someone hasn’t, it’s certainly not my fault.
So why add anything to something that has already been told, already heard, already sublimated to the point of becoming ethereal?
We’re talking about a Scorsese who completely identifies with the musicians of ‘The Band’ – now all deceased – capturing their dreamy gazes as they recount their stories, almost not believing in what they themselves have lived.
The goddess Joni providing the backing vocals, backstage, to a completely out-of-it Neil (was there a liaison?), the kicks in the air from Van (The Man) Morrison, the tired eyes of a Neil Diamond who no one remembers anymore, Emmylou’s sublime ballad about Evangelina who had lost her mind on the banks of the raging Mississippi, the self-importance of a Clapton ridiculed by an immense Robbie Robertson who follows him with a solo that once again proves that the homework of someone who thinks they are the best is not always the best.

And then Bobby arrives. Who, without explaining anything, as always justifies it all. Forever Young,

I’m reminded of ‘Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas’ or ‘The Wild Bunch’ and do you know why?
Because there too we talk about an era that has ended, perhaps before it even began.
 
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Trekkies will understand.
Normal people - that is, those not born from a teleporter - can settle for knowing that this is a Cardassian; a race as dangerous as a snake.
Then there are - like a shitty race - the Romulans, who are to Cardassians what Americans are to Russians.
The Ferengi, on the other hand, might resemble Arabs, but they are less stupid.

Ah: Star Trek is serious business.
Except for "Discovery," which I don't even want to talk about.
 
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What I saw, here, is a man who is not at all happy about being old.
He is not someone I adore: I have always found him too long-winded for my rather indifferent tastes.
But in the heart, as we know, no cross is missing.
And seeing him so vulnerable, human, almost like a singer ("I don't remember how to play") can only move me to immense respect.

Listen to the "Sound" of this record.
Above all, Ellade and Antonio.
My tastes.
 
BRUNO PIZZUL - intervista in Friulano sulla Ribolla Gialla

Hello, Bruno, and I will teach you Friulian, whoever is working.
 
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I am republishing this article by Giorgio Agamben – a philosopher who ranges from aesthetics to linguistics – on "prepositions, and perhaps on adverbs," published on Quodlibet.it.

“To free our thoughts from the shackles that prevent them from taking flight, it is essential first to train ourselves not to think in nouns (which, as the name itself unmistakably betrays, imprison us in that 'substance,' with which a millennia-old tradition has believed it could grasp being), but rather (as William James once suggested) in prepositions and perhaps in adverbs. The fact that thought, that the mind itself, has, so to speak, a non-substantial but adverbial character is beautifully illustrated by the singular fact that in our language, to form an adverb, one simply adds the term 'mente' to an adjective: amorosamente, crudelmente, meravigliosamente.

The noun – the substantial – is quantitative and imposing; the adverb is qualitative and light; and if you find yourself in difficulty, it will not be a 'what,' but a 'how,' an adverb and not a noun that will help you. 'What to do?' paralyzes and pins you down; only 'how to do?' opens a way out.

Thus, to think about time, which has always put the minds of philosophers to the test, nothing is more useful than to rely – as poets do – on adverbs: 'always,' 'never,' 'already,' 'immediately,' 'again' – and perhaps – of all, the most mysterious – 'while.' 'While' (from Latin: dum, interim) does not designate a time but a 'meanwhile,' that is, a curious simultaneity between two actions or two times.

Its equivalent in verb forms is the gerund, which is neither a verb nor a noun in the strictest sense, but implies a verb or a noun to accompany: 'but it goes and while going listens,' says Virgil to Dante, and everyone remembers Pascoli’s Romagna, 'the land where, while going, the azure vision of San Marino accompanies us.' Let us reflect on this special time, which we can think of only through an adverb and a gerund: it is not a measurable interval between two times, nor is it even a time in the proper sense; rather, it is almost an immaterial place where we somehow dwell, in a sort of subdued and interlocutory permanence.

True thought is not that which deduces and infers according to a before and an after: 'I think, therefore I am,' but, more soberly: 'while I think, I am.' And the time we live is not the abstract and breathless flight of elusive moments: it is this simple, motionless 'while,' in which we are always already – without even noticing it – our trivial eternity, which no weary clock will ever measure.”

Giorgio Agamben
Mentre
Quodlibet.it
March 14, 2024

Ps. I’ll keep quiet and learn; you do as you wish.
 
Pat Metheny with Charlie Haden - Cinema Paradiso

Every now and then, I know, I might not seem entirely focused.
Many mistake my anal curiosity for intelligence: nothing could be further from me, as I’ve taken quite a while, but now I know myself.

Ah, damn, I need to say something.

If you take this "minimal" version of the masterpiece by the Maestro and compare it to the "orchestral" one, the choice might seem easy.
But it’s not.
Because, in my opinion, Patrizio & Carletto here play all the harmonies without actually playing the individual notes.
Try - whether it’s a matter of anal curiosity or compulsive behavior - to listen to the two versions in the order you prefer.

In Pat & Charlie's version, you can hear all the strange instruments that the Supreme composer loved to use: from frying pans to ocarinas. It’s just that they’re nestled between the notes that they DON'T play.

Don’t understand what it is?
It’s Jazz!
 
Big Sleep (Remastered 2002)

Just crappy music in the eighties, let's face it!
 
The Band - Forever Young

One cannot give oneself courage.
You remain there, unable to love this character whom I do not love, and I believe that he doesn’t care about being loved either.
But how can you not be fascinated by his absolute distance from himself?