ADRIANO CELENTANO - "Prisencolinesunaciusol"

(post status: high priority)
(effect of following clip on your face: melting)

Adriano Celentano - "Prisencolinesunaciusol"




WE, reader, are only a blog. We cannot make you read us, we cannot make you add us to your RSS feed. We cannot make you check us out intermittently on your iPhone. WE cannot tap almost imperceptibly at your window every night for several hours, in order to send the disturbing signal to your unconscious mind that we know where you sleep.

WE can only do so much. But, reader, if you choose on your own to step within the bounds of the line-drawn sand that marks what we can do, then that is another story entirely.

WE cannot make you watch this clip, or enjoy it. This bothers us. It bothers us that you reader are still allowed to decide for yourself. Because, were it up to us, not only would you have no choice in the matter, a lack of enjoyment of this clip would as well be officially recognized as a symptom of a mild personality disorder.

Celentano, an Italian, sings, as do his back-up vocalists, in a language wholly of his own devising. In an interview, he said that making a song that reckoned with incommunicability was a result of 'modern life, where no one understands each other anymore'. You don't need to be a graduate student to pick up on a whole other kind of understanding and communication that's going on in this song, so invigorating is it that sea urchins and lichen are responsive to it - remember in Ghostbusters 2, when they play that song that makes the ooze dance in the toaster? Same thing. Oh and Prisencolinwhatever is supposed to mean "universal love".

Here's a post over at Cosmic Boogie about DJ edit master Greg Wilson's new version of the track: http://www.cosmicboogie.co.uk/2008/03/27/greg-wilson-ruff-edits/

And here's a mix by Baleric DJ Timm Sure posted over at Nearest Faraway Place, which features said edit by Greg Wilson:

http://nearestfarawayplace.blogspot.com/2008/04/well-is-it.html

NEW WEEKEND PRINCE: CAVA SCURA

WEEKEND PRINCE: CAVA SCURA



In the moment we are born, the spirit that we are before we enter into this world is split. I don't want to say that it is split into two. Because, it's not a matter of the one becoming a two, two symmetric halves, that might one day become again the one. As is spoken, for example, in the famous image from Plato's Symposium. In that scene, the reconciliation spoken of is one of love, and of a relation between two beings of the same kind. Here, instead, I mean that in order for us to take a living form, a form that is alive in this world, there is part of us that is clipped or cut, and sent away. I don't know where it goes to. I don't know if this part is sent to meet with the other parts that have been clipped from all those in the world, and if they know and commune with one another, in some phantom city never seen, erected on an Asian plain, or beneath the ocean's deepest doldrums, where furious currents have gone to die.

I know that there is a way to meet this split spirit again. Or maybe it is not a meeting face-to-face, maybe it is a way only to wear the face of this spirit, the way that one acts on a stage, or wears a festival mask. In the way that there are some things that live in this world as a mask, a disguise, a costume, and when the costume is laid down again on the bed, the spirit is gone.

Often this way involves visiting a foreign country. It can happen that while traveling abroad, this shadow lost before birth can be heard in a silent speech by one's innermost ear. No matter what, you will never see or touch this shadow, at most you will hear its wordless pronouncement: here, in this land, you and I may come to know about each other. And in all that you take in about this land, its foods and languages and music and so on, it is in a kind of mute and private acknowledgment, a recognition, a greeting.

So it is, I think, with Christina and Italy. Who for our all-too-brief trip seemed to be living the life of another, not one which is an escape from one's first life, but which makes the first seem to be an extended exile from the second. In some people, travel is a catharsis, a kind of necessary semi-regular exercise useful in purging built-up energies and tensions. In others, it cleaves the psyche in two for good, such that dynamic energies are sparked for eternity. It is not known whether in this case the soul becomes permanently restless, or turns to face for the first time the restlessness which has always haunted it.

On a trip for five days through Rome, in the ceaseless heat, on the stony earth, each day punctuated by the shot from the noon cannon. Those traveling days where everything bears a faint halo of mythic intensity. We spent three days on the island of Ischia, a volcanic island reachable by ferry from Napoli, and home to several thermal springs, one of which is cava scura, 'secret cave', and that lies at the end of a path one can take from the small beach of Maronti, where we took seafood pasta on the beach for lunch.

Not on purpose is the song structured into three parts. The song is so structured, in three parts which do not repeat in an A-B form, because this form is boring and constraining and I can't do it. Whatever inner daimon it is whose hand moves my creative impulses, it is one that seems to prefer the horizontal flows, tangents, contiguities, unfoldings, and so on, and all those other trappings of nomadic freedom.

(..As much as on the other hand there is another daimon, perhaps one who resents the first, one who craves the brutal cut, the unforgiving amputation, the diabolical reduction....)