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Music

Random Lyrics Thursday

This week's Random Lyrics Thursday is in honor of SuperMegaDio:

We Rock by Dio

You watch their faces
You'll see the traces
Of the things they want to be
But only we can see

They come for killing
They leave and still it seems
The cloud that's left behind
Oh, can penetrate your mind

But sail on, sing a song, carry on
Cause We Rock, We Rock, We Rock, We Rock

We pray to someone
But when it's said and done
It's really all the same
With just a different name

So many voices
All giving choices
If we listen they will say
Oh, we can find the way

But we'll sail on, sing a song, carry on
Cause We Rock, We Rock, We Rock, We Rock
We Rock, We Rock, We Rock, We Rock
We Rock!

We Rock
You watch their faces
You'll see the traces
Of the things they want to be
But only we can see

They come for killing
They leave and still it seems
The cloud that's left behind
Can penetrate your mind

Sail on, sing a song, carry on
Cause We Rock, We Rock, We Rock, We Rock
We Rock, We Rock, We Rock, We Rock

Ride out - stand and shout - carry on
Sail on - Sing your song - carry on

Cause We Rock, We Rock, see how We Rock
We Rock
That's rock
We Rock
We Rock


By fnord12 | February 22, 2007, 9:23 AM | Music | Comments (2)| Link



Sting & the Police

Link:

To those whose memories are faulty (or judgment weak) on this one, the Police were a great band. Great band. They were hard-working, fame-greedy, juvenile, reasonably beau-laid, and even, for a brief formative patch, obscure. Reggae plagiarism aside, what the Police did better than anyone was take their own precious prog-rock musicianship and rack it to the limits of the three-minute pop ditty. This takes more than cheek or talent; it takes craft, and the Police were extraordinary craftsmen. But don't trust, verify: listen to "Man in a Suitcase," "Roxanne" - a perfectly executed tango, no less - "Canary in a Coalmine," "Don't Stand So Close to Me," "Peanuts," "Hole in My Life," "Bed's Too Big Without You," "Regatta de Blanc" (tcha!).

Exquisitely cut little gems, one and all, and the creation, like all the best rock and roll, of multiple talents frequently at war. Before he joined the trio, Andy Summers (now an improbable 64 years old) had played guitar with everyone from Soft Machine to Neil Sedaka. Stewart Copeland, meanwhile, had started making his reputation as a visionary drummer behind the prog outfit Curved Air. Sting may have given the Police lyrics and melodies; but just as critically, Copeland, who founded the band and whose intricately manic polyrhythms define its sound, prevented Sting from impressing too much of his character on its music. Unyoked from Copeland, Sting was free to become what he is today: one-third spirit in the material world, two-thirds scented candle.


By fnord12 | February 21, 2007, 2:58 PM | Music | Comments (0)| Link



Here you go: Mixtapes

Just happened to come across this. Here's an example of why copyright enforcement for music is a problem outside the entertainment world: Police resources were wasted doing work like this:

Late in the afternoon of Jan. 16, a SWAT team from the Fulton County Sheriff's Office, backed up by officers from the Clayton County Sheriff's Office and the local police department, along with a few drug-sniffing dogs, burst into a unmarked recording studio on a short, quiet street in an industrial neighborhood near the Georgia Dome in Atlanta. The officers entered with their guns drawn; the local police chief said later that they were "prepared for the worst." They had come to serve a warrant for the arrest of the studio's owners on the grounds that they had violated the state's Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations law, or RICO, a charge often used to lock up people who make a business of selling drugs or breaking people's arms to extort money. The officers confiscated recording equipment, cars, computers and bank statements along with more than 25,000 music CDs. Two of the three owners of the studio, Tyree Simmons, who is 28, and Donald Cannon, who is 27, were arrested and held overnight in the Fulton County jail. Eight employees, mostly interns from local colleges, were briefly detained as well.

Later that night, a reporter for the local Fox TV station, Stacey Elgin, delivered a report on the raid from the darkened street in front of the studio. She announced that the owners of the studio, known professionally as DJ Drama and DJ Don Cannon, were arrested for making "illegal CDs." The report cut to an interview with Matthew Kilgo, an official with the Recording Industry Association of America, who was involved in the raid. The R.I.A.A., a trade and lobbying group that represents the major American record labels, works closely with the Department of Justice and local police departments to crack down on illegal downloading and music piracy, which most record-company executives see as a dire threat to their business.

Kilgo works in the R.I.A.A.'s Atlanta office, and in the weeks before the raid, the local police chief said, R.I.A.A. investigators helped the police collect evidence and conduct surveillance at the studio. Kilgo consulted with the R.I.A.A.'s national headquarters in advance of the raid, and after the raid, a team of men wearing R.I.A.A. jackets was responsible for boxing the CDs and carting them to a warehouse for examination.

Of course, even within the world of entertainment copyright enforcement is a problem. Albums that are now considered masterpieces like Paul's Boutique could never be made today because of how expensive it would be to get permission to use all the samples. That's what these people were essentially doing and they were busted and put in jail because of it:

The CDs made in the Aphilliates' studio are called mixtapes - album-length compilations of 20 or so songs, often connected by a theme; they are produced and mixed by a D.J. and usually "hosted" by a rapper, well known or up-and-coming, who peppers the disc with short boasts, shout-outs or promotions for an upcoming album. Some mixtapes are part of an ongoing series - in the last few years, the Aphilliates have produced 16 numbered installments of "Gangsta Grillz," an award-winning series that focuses on Southern hip-hop; others represent a one-time deal, a quick way for a rapper to respond to an insult or to remind fans he exists between album releases. The CDs are packaged in thin plastic jewel cases with low-quality covers and are sold at flea markets and independent record stores and through online clearinghouses like mixtapekingz.com. A mixtape can consist of remixes of hit songs - for instance, the Aphilliates offered a CD of classic Michael Jackson songs doctored by a Detroit D.J. Or it can feature a rapper "freestyling," or improvising raps, over the beat from another artist's song; so, on one mixtape, LL Cool J's "Love You Better" became 50 Cent's "After My Cheddar." In most cases, the D.J. modifies the original song without acquiring the rights to it, and if he wants to throw in a sample of Ray Charles singing or a line from a Bugs Bunny cartoon, he doesn't worry about copyright. The language on mixtapes is raw and uncensored; rappers sometimes devote a whole CD to insulting another rapper by name. Mixtapes also feature unreleased songs, often "leaked" to the D.J. by a record label that wants to test an artist's popularity or build hype for a coming album release. Record labels regularly hire mixtape D.J.'s to produce CDs featuring a specific artist. In many cases, these arrangements are conducted with a wink and a nod rather than with a contract; the label doesn't officially grant the D.J. the right to distribute the artist's songs or formally allow the artist to record work outside of his contract.

By fnord12 | February 21, 2007, 2:12 PM | Liberal Outrage & Music | Comments (1)| Link



Random Lyrics Thursday

Gila Copter by the Revolting Cocks (with Timothy Leary)

Hey kids!
You want a soundtrack that's gonna make you feel tense?
Let you express your frustration?
Make ya scared, wanna ruuuuun out and buy a guuuuun?
You're looking for another rock'n'roll record that'll make you feel like a victim.
You're like a victim - you love to be a victim.
You love the United States prime time victim show.
Hey, bells, gilacopters, machine guns.
Listen to that! Listen to that!
Kill for Allah. Kill for Jesus.
1980´s shit - turn it down.
Tone it down

Hey! Listen to me!
All that 1980s shit is over.
Brothers and sisters - we'll turn the volume down.
Brothers and sisters - we're gonna shut down this mechanical stuff, that makes us feel like victims.
Take those machine guns, and turn 'em down.
Yeah. Turn off those cop shows.
Listen to those gilacopters, listen to the sirens.
Makin´ ya feel nervious, and angry.
1980s shit - turn it down.
Tone it down.

Now I ask you -
I ask you in quiet tone of voice:
Is the gilacopter a machine of pleasure?
Is the gilacopter a love machine?
Turn it on.
Silence those church bells.
Fuck the sirens.
Lets have some quiet, quiet silence
Yeah.. Yeah... I wanna hold you close.
You wanna hold... someone close.
Hey. We wanna- we wanna feel good!
I wanna make you laugh.
Turn down that shit.
Oh yeah. Yeah thats better.
Hey- we wanna look each other in the eye.
Doing a high-five.
When I whisper. When I whisper it sorta stings in your ear.
I wanna tremble your earbones.
Open your trembling earbones.
Listen.
Turn that gilacopter off baby!
We will not be angry victims no more!
We're gonna- we're gonna say yeah...
Turn it off! Turn it off!
Turn that gilacopter down!
We're gonna say yeah. We're gonna say yeah.
We're gonna say yeah. We're gonna make it all.
We're God!
We're gonna have a moment of silence now.

Turn down the machines.
Turn down the gilacopter.
Turn down the prime time.
Shut those guns down.
Yeah. yeah...
Isn't that better?


By fnord12 | February 15, 2007, 8:56 AM | Music | Comments (0)| Link



Random Lyrics Thursday

Dave the Moon Man by Looper

Drunk, and lying outside on the lawn-

Dave the Moonman.

He'd look up at the blurred stars, as the dew on the grass soaked through the back of his jacket and the back of his trousers, and then he'd look towards the moon. All that distance from the surface he was pinned down on to the surface glowing in the darkness, with nothing but space all the way in between. Nothing to hold onto. And yet, someone had managed to get there. Someone had managed to do that. A truly impossible thing. So he'd get up out of the grass, light-hearted again. It made everything else possible. Anything you could think of, anything you were stuck with, it could be done. Because that had been done. Someone had got up and gone to the moon. And nothing else was more impossible than that.

Dave the Moonman.

But sober and playing around on the internet he started to find bits and pieces, Dave the Moonman. Things about the Van-Allen Belt, and about Kodak film and dual light sources. And he talked to people who knew about similar stuff, and he read bits in magazines and books.

The first time I met him was at a party. He was surrounded by a group of people and he was giving short lectures about all the stuff he had learned, going round the party one group at a time with all the energy of someone newly-born to a religion. You had to wait your turn if you wanted him to tell you about it, so I waited my turn.

The first thing was the Van-Allen Belt, he said; an outer layer of the atmosphere that all the shuttle flights stay inside, that protects the earth from radiation. He raid somewhere that if the astronauts had really gone beyond that, and gone all the way to the moon, the radiation would have killed them soon afterwards. Then there were the photographs of the astronauts walking on the moon. He said you could tell from the shadows that the light sources were all wrong, which suggested studio lighting. And there was something about the photograph of the footprint too. If a moon boot could leave such a deep impression on the surface of the moon, then the thrust of the rocket when it was landing should have forced two big mounds up on either side of the rocket. But there are none in the pictures.

There was a whole load of stuff. A whole load of stuff more than that. And so he was coming to believe it was a hoax, and that no-one had ever been to the moon.

I thought he had a mission, Dave the Moonman, to prove to everyone that no-one had ever landed on the moon. But that wasn't it at all. He was telling everyone all this stuff he'd learned cause he was hoping someone could prove to him it was wrong, and it wasn't just a hoax. Cause dreaming was so much harder otherwise. And it was so much harder to find the belief to get things done- lying out on the lawn at night, drunk, with the dew soaking through the back of your jacket. And all that distance between here and there. And he really wanted to believe that people had travelled to the moon in that crazy rocket, that looked as if it was made out of tin-foil and cardboard. He really wanted to believe that they'd managed to get it there, just by strapping enough fuel on, even though today you probably wouldn't trust it to get you down the shops.

Dave the Moonman...


By fnord12 | February 8, 2007, 8:48 AM | Music | Comments (0)| Link



Random Lyrics Thursday

Guns of Brixton by The Clash

When they kick out your front door
How you gonna come?
With your hands on your head
Or on the trigger of your gun

When the law break in
How you gonna go?
Shot down on the pavement
Or waiting in death row

You can crush us
You can bruise us
But you'll have to answer to
Oh, Guns of Brixton

The money feels good
And your life you like it well
But surely your time will come
As in heaven, as in hell

You see, he feels like Ivan
Born under the Brixton sun
His game is called survivin'
At the end of the harder they come

You know it means no mercy
They caught him with a gun
No need for the Black Maria
Goodbye to the Brixton sun

You can crush us
You can bruise us
But you'll have to answer to
Oh-the guns of Brixton

When they kick out your front door
How you gonna come?
With your hands on your head
Or on the trigger of your gun

You can crush us
You can bruise us
And even shoot us
But oh- the guns of Brixton

Shot down on the pavement
Waiting in death row
His game was survivin'
As in heaven as in hell

You can crush us
You can bruise us
But you'll have to answer to
Oh, the guns of Brixton


By fnord12 | February 1, 2007, 8:46 AM | Music | Comments (0)| Link



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