Financial Management By Pandy

Elegy: Tom Waits

The Californian author of 'Rain Dogs' finally arrives to Spain - His expected presence evokes the great performances of legendary bands and singers in our country

CARLOS 11/07/2008 BOYER

perceive old age

because the memories are blurred, confused dates, convenient distance to feel cherished memories, you hurt the parties which have always played (he said it sage Leonard Cohen), embellishing memories because they may be the only thing that will help you survive the winter, your information has come amid a dreadful insomnia (thanks, Martin Amis) that death is no longer an attractive and illustrated prestigious teen game or mildly kamikaze. That there is gobbled up by multiple biological reasons, accidental, unavoidable or vocational those who always had close, who lost sight but there was something very strong, those who left, who left you, which you left you, to those damn feelings associated with loss, betrayal and abandonment . And I relate my life as others do so for infinitely more logical and humane, as always magical birth of children or the certainty that you finally found shelter with the World Cup merchants and the mythological presence in vivo and in direct people making wonderful music on vinyl, in that format as imperfect as vital to the Phoenicians of the music industry demanded that we banish, on behalf of a little thing as unbreakable as aseptic compact call. Deprived us of the fascinating album art, handling of the fetish ritual, to accommodate your cyclothymic moods scratched or objectionable to the groove of that object that reproduced voices and sounds unaffordable, that you stay fried by excessive emotions, alcohol or other drugs, and continue to wake up listening to the hypnotic buzz of the needle, someone circumstantial and beautiful (in the latter have to be lucky, or style, or money), or yourself, or you raise your inconsolable loneliness solutions, recipes castaway, walls against the desolation: "We must turn the other side of the disc." And remember in the early mists concerts in this city parallel walled and open in the complex "say I speak in Madrid." Remember joints that caused hunger, laughter and sex. And the feeling that nothing was volcanic what appeared to the first Tripi, the fear of not returning to earth, ecstasy threatened by a supernatural concerns. And remember the first concert of the wood by patriotic duty to odors or flaky disturbances of the enthusiastic audience's perception with the assurance that times were changing. And I remember Soft Machine pioneer in a room next to Torres Blancas (which were and are black), and Robert Fripp and Brian Eno telling us what happened in the court of King Crimson, and Carlos Santana's guitar getting horny all staff with Abraxas, and Leonard Cohen sat on a stool, unaccompanied, revealing that people say that Suzanne is crazy but he loved her perfect body with his mind. And in 1976 came sympathy for the devil to Barcelona. Before we had tasted the deceptively destroyed Lou Reed. The Universal Rolling Stones gave a recital passable, but all returned provincial delighted. Rays had to join the intolerable heat, cleansing rain, the conviction that they expressed better than anyone the rhythm of the street, the desire to fuck the anger and the urgent satisfaction for all staff had orgasms with the enduring concert Calderón in 1982. And years later, the big boss Dylan made his debut in the field of Rayo Vallecano. And the great Van Morrison bastard strove to be elusive, pale with the Chieftains in the Rockódromo. And the sound of resignation and melancholy, that is, Miles Davis, was determined to let us record that was great in at least 10 performances. And Sinatra also sang in Madrid. Missing only one of the largest. It's more than a musician, an exceptional singer, a showman, an actor, but a symbol. It is a state of mind, is the delusion and the painkiller from the loser, is filled with beautiful volcano and disaster daily is the most profound things that can happen when you have the liver and heart broken fucked up, is the heart of Saturday night is the last train to the city, matters of the heart, is the soil greatly cold night are the hawks at the diner, the girl from Jersey, is November is the time, nobody, is the beautiful disease the drug is able to establish a truce with my deepest pain is self-destruction and need to live, is self-pity and tears, is the depths of loneliness and helplessness, is the cockiness helpless and sensuality of dawn, is the need to go and stay, is the elegy and obsession, paints a disturbing individual and unique voice named Tom Waits. And I can see the most coveted, the sound that has made thousand mornings bearable threatened by vertigo, saves the dirty everyday, because I have to fill with intensity and sort words, microphones and cameras work excellently paid to talk about the other . But I do not know how many times I've cried listening to Tom Waits, which I have felt in the depths incomparable expressiveness of what has happened so many times to my body and my soul. And, of course, hate the twelve-tone, to sadistically loud, the roaring drunk and cokehead abrasive, the idol of modern at any time. I I'm not the type of fans, although I have sometimes behaved like a hopeless idiot. But when you groan when you throw in soul and body when you lyric, when you suffer for truth, when relieved melancholy sarcasm, I love you, Mr. Waits. For