lido por aí

duas referências ao blog Provas de Contacto de João Lisboa (ainda não sei é se é o João Lisboa do Sound & Vision, se é outro)

1. Post sobre a Neko Case, aqui.
2. Post sobre calinadas ortográficas, aqui.

e ainda um excelente artigo (mais um) do Son of Dave, que, para além de ser grande músico, tem um sentido de humor apurado, aqui. Reprodução do texto sem a permição do artista, mas ele não se deve importar mesmo!

It's time to pick the weakest gate and smash through it

“Look ready to face the day,” you fascist swine worshipper. Get out of bed and put on your gimp suit, the Nivea ad says. Look forward to the profits. If you spray this slick shit on your face, no one will smell the hungry stray you slept with last night while you were all coked up. If you wear this urban camouflage, no one will recognise you from the disco the night before. You can go about your booming business of buying and selling other people’s hard work at great profit without any fear of being held responsible for their impoverished lives. Then you can come home with another faceless fashion whore and play her the songs you learned to play at college.“What men want.” Indeed.

These are exciting times. Capitalism is facing some heavy scrutiny, but it’s by no means weakened despite the economy drunkenly riding a unicycle on a high wire. It’s fun to try and figure out who’s gonna profit from an economic collapse. Someone always profits from someone else’s loss. When huge amounts of dough seem to disappear, interesting things happen. But, like energy, money isn’t created or lost. It just moves and changes and big explosions go off. Where is the lady, where’s the lady?

These times are not without hope. With so much scrutiny, and with so many people re-assessing what it is to make money, we can see the poker face of capitalism and we can see that some of the huge profits earned through institutionalised gambling were from marked decks. Hopefully some of the money will be put back on the table and the cheaters will be marked. Then we can start the dirty game all over again.

The man in this Nivea ad (not the poor witless model, but the character) is not a teacher. He isn’t a fisherman or bartender or dentist or doctor. He is a young businessman. Possibly an estate agent. He earns a percentage. He wins when others lose. He looks like Mark Ronson. I’m sure it wasn’t intentional.

The guitar in the background represents his youth. The woman in the bed is nice to have had, but most importantly, with his suit, the smug little bastard is telling us to prioritise the professional life. We can have our childish rock’n’roll and our bimbos, but the money is where it’s at. (Notice ties are getting thinner again! Fat businessmen are out of style. The look should be slimmer now. Shows that you know how to budget. A more vertical line. Trim. Times are tight. Profit comes only to those who are quick on their feet and ruthless as fuck.)

For two decades, businessmen have been seeing themselves as rock stars up in first class; the travelling, the shades, the jewellery, the gadgets and loose women. The big problem is that some confused people in the music business try to compete with these pinheads. The men and women who own music retail chains, record companies, video channels, guitar manufacturers, publishing companies, radio stations, MySpace share-holders, and established shiny music magazines, all probably have one thing in common: they enjoy music, and are clever enough to make a living working with what they love. But if a line were to be drawn in the sand, which side would they stand on? Music over here, finance over there. It’s a tricky business selling art, advertising love, or capitalising on youthful spirit. It’s become impossible to tell the city man and the A&R man apart. Terrifying.

These times are volatile. Money doesn’t accurately reflect work done, or energy expended. It’s not a fair measure of real worth. But it’s the only measure some people understand, and they measure you by your wealth. Money is practical. I can’t exchange a box of CDs for a train ticket. In fact, I can’t exchange a box of CDs for anything these days. So when huge amounts of money get hijacked, the surface worth of everything changes and that makes for some very upset and defensive people. They can go off like rockets. But true worth is not flammable. Some of us don’t have to worry. A good bluesman doesn’t have to worry.

Nivea moisturiser isn’t anything more than rubbing paraffin on an ugly face. My doctor prescribes me the good stuff, with quite simple ingredients in it. The popular brands are designed to make you smell pretty, feel nice and moist for a while, but then they wear off so you need to buy more. That beautiful young male model in the ad may find himself scratching and wheezing in a few years as the allergies and asthma set in. Then the Nivea won’t be worth a fart. It takes axle grease to keep the skin from falling off all over your date’s dinner when your immune system fights your own hide. I could recommend some powerful steroids to help him with this.

I’d like to be the poster boy for steroid creams. In the bed beside me there’d be a big strong Danish gal rolling a joint, some old 45s and a little turntable. I’d still be in elegant pyjamas I inherited from my grandfather. The slogan would be: “If only everyday were like this.” The campaign would be called “Life’s more worth living with the help of Western medicine.” This won’t make sense to most people. But it needs to be said in case somebody understands it. He or she won’t feel so alone in their madness.

I passed this damned Nivea ad and became obsessed with it while on the way to Paris to perform on French telly. Then, on the train, I fell asleep and dreamed this dream:

I was eating lunch in Terminus Nord. The phone rang. It was my agent. They wanted me in a Levi’s ad wearing the new blue jeans that I’d designed. Tonight. “How much?” I asked. “10,000,” he said. “No way, not for under a 100 grand.”

The jeans I had designed were high-wasted, dark blue denim, or black, with small belt-loops for a skinny belt, or buttons for braces. The concealed change pocket is right up above the belt in the lining. They have two pleats and are baggy as zoots with a turn-up at the bottom. The dangling lucky dice wallet chain is sold separately. Together with a simple old thin-strap undershirt and paperboy cap, the return to the 1940’s American ghetto is put in tune with the youth of today. The return to classics brings back long lost American pride. Tattoos and diamond necklaces keep the look glamorous and dangerous. The ‘homey-chip’ in the Levi’s tag lets our friends know where we are... or we can set it to private for when we’re crime-ing.

“They want you to model them. It’s perfect timing for the album release. The publicity will be huge, and worth millions in album sales. You should probably just take the 10 grand they’re offering.”

“But Levi’s is loaded! And what about their sweatshops in Canada? Everybody knows they treat the natives like slaves and just pay them with booze and cigarettes.”

“Listen, it isn’t your job to set the work standard for the company - just design the jeans and wear ’em for the camera.”

“Okay, I’ll let you call this one, Harvey, but I’m not gonna let them tell me how to accessorise, and you can warn them ahead of time about that. I’ll be on the toilet and not taking any calls until 6pm. Ciao.”

Then the French waiter purposely pours scalding soupe à l’oignon all over my crotch and I knew the jeans were ruined... I woke up screaming. My pecker was burning from the Oil of Olay.

This moment in time is crucial. There is confusion in their camp. We need to pick the least fortified gate and crash it. Then we find the guns and melt them. Then we find the gold and put it back in the ground. Then we make the bastards play music for us while we relax for a bit. Softer. No, not like that, I’m trying to make love to your wife... Yes, that’s a sexy chord change. Now sing something about the old days before advertising made liars of us all.


Son of Dave
www.myspace.com/thesonofdave