clear the room, there's, a fire, a fire, a fire!

(Joanninha em versão Quagmire)

Joanna Newsom, 24 de Janeiro, Casa da Música, Sala Suggia.

Conheci-a em 2007. Foi, muito em parte pelas circunstâncias em que a conheci, uma espécie de revelação. Estive colada no Ys muitos meses, enquanto pensava quem era aquela catraia de 20 e poucos anos que não escrevia canções, escrevia épicos...fada e trovadora que no meio da bicharada toda pegava num instrumento pouco comum  - a harpa- e construia músicas de 12 minutos com uma estrutura que pouco tinha a ver com o pop/rock ao qual estava habituada.

Sendo eu pouco dada a freakalhadas e borboletas/fadinhas style - concedo-me um Nag Champa de quando a quando, mas só porque é, sem dúvida, o melhor dos incensos - fiquei supreendida pelo meu colanço. Ao longo destes anos tenho vindo a 'dissecar' a sua razão, chegando recentemente à conclusão de que eu não gosto da Joanna Newsom. Gosto do Ys. É o álbum do milénio, de todos eles. 

 

A começar pela 'pintura' de Benjamin A. Vierling (toda riscada, com muita pena minha, de tanto andar no carro da minha mãe, mas estou a pensar comprar um novo só por causa disso)e continuando nas orquestrações de Van Dyke Parks e na mistura de Jim O'Rourke, passando pela 'perninha' do shôr Bill Callahan - que na altura lhe andava a saltar à espinha. E as letras. Coisas assim pró poético/complexo, daquelas que e preciso ter um dicionário ao lado e alguma sensibilidade para conseguir perceber todas as nuances e alegorias. Será 'complexo' sinónimo de qualidade? Nem sempre..., mas apesar de tudo estas fábulas são uma espécie de lufada de ar fresco no meio de tantos 'baby', 'loves' e desgraças da vida cantadas em verso/refrão/verso.

Saliento a 'Emily', dedicada à irmã de Joanna, astrónoma : 

And, Emily - I saw you last night by the river
I dreamed you were skipping little stones across the surface of the water
Frowning at the angle where they were lost, and slipped under forever,
In a mud-cloud, mica-spangled, like the sky'd been breathing on a mirror

Anyhow - I sat by your side, by the water
You taught me the names of the stars overhead that I wrote down in my ledger
Though all I knew of the rote universe were those pleiades loosed in december
I promised you I‘d set them to verse so I'd always remember

That the meteorite is a source of the light
And the meteor's just what we see
And the meteoroid is a stone that's devoid of the fire that propelled it to thee

...sim, ela canta uns 'thee' lá pró meio, mas nada mais condizente com a imagem dela. É pena que a descrição do meteorito/meteoro/meteoróide não esteja de todo correcta, mas...who cares?

Saliento também a Only Skin (e transcrevo-a toda) a coisa mais brilhante e bem construida que ouvi na minha vida, 16 minutos de puro êxtase e lá pelo meio um clímax inexplicável :

and there was a booming above you
that night, black airplanes flew over the sea
and they were lowing and shifting like
beached whales
shelled snails
as you strained and you squinted to see
the retreat of their hairless and blind cavalry

you froze in your sand shoal
prayed for your poor soul
sky was a bread roll, soaking in a milk-bowl
and when the bread broke, fell in bricks of wet smoke
my sleeping heart woke, and my waking heart spoke

then there was a silence you took to mean something:
mean, run, sing
for alive you will evermore be
and the plague of the greasy black engines a-skulkin'
has gone east
while you're left to explain them to me
released from their hairless and blind cavalry

with your hands in your pockets, stubbily running
to where I'm unfresh, undressed and yawning
well, what is this craziness? this crazy talking?
you caught some small death when you were sleepwalking

it was a dark dream, darlin', it's over
the firebreather is beneath the clover
beneath his breathing there is cold clay, forever
a toothless hound-dog choking on a feather

but I took my fishingpole (fearing your fever)
down to the swimminghole, where there grows bitter herb
that blooms but one day a year by the riverside - I'd bring it here:
apply it gently
to the love you've lent me

while the river was twisting and braiding, the bait bobbed
and the string sobbed, as it cut through the hustling breeze
and I watched how the water was kneading so neatly
gone treacly
nearly slowed to a stop in this heat
- frenzy coiling flush along the muscles beneath

press on me: we are restless things
webs of seaweed are swaddling
you call upon the dusk
of the musk of a squid
shot full of ink, until you sink into your crib

rowing along, among the reeds, among the rushes
I heard your song, before my heart had time to hush it!
smell of a stone fruit being cut and being opened
smell of a low and of a lazy cinder smoking

and when the fire moves away
fire moves away, son
why would you say
I was the last one?
scrape your knee; it is only skin
makes the sound of violins
when you cut my hair, and leave the birds the trimmings
I am the happiest woman among all women
and the shallow
water
stretches as far as I can see
knee-deep, trudging along
a seagull weeps; "so long"

I'm humming a threshing song
until the night is over
hold on!
hold on!
hold your horses back from the fickle dawn

I have got some business out at the edge of town
candy weighing both of my pockets down
'til I can hardly stay afloat, from the weight of them
(and knowing how the common-folk condemn
what it is I do, to you, to keep you warm
being a woman, being a woman)

but always up the mountainside you're clambering
groping blindly, hungry for anything:
picking through your pocket linings - well, what is this?
scrap of sassafras, eh Sisyphus?

I see the blossoms broke and wet after the rain
little sister, he will be back again
I have washed a thousand spiders down the drain
spiders ghosts hang soaked and dangelin'
silently from all the blooming cherry trees
in tiny nooses, safe from everyone
- nothing but a nuisance; gone now, dead and done
be a woman, be a woman!

though we felt the spray of the waves
we decided to stay 'til the tide rose too far
we weren't afraid, 'cause we know what you are
and you know that we know what you are

awful atoll
- o, incalculable indiscreetness and sorrow!
bawl, bellow:
Sibyl sea-cow, all done up in a bow

toddle and roll;
teeth an impalpable bit of leather
while yarrow, heather and hollyhock
awkwardly molt along the shore

are you mine?
my heart?
mine anymore?

stay with me for awhile
that's an awfully real gun
I know life will lay you down
as the lightning has lately done
failing this, failing this,
follow me, my sweetest friend
to see what you anointed in pointing your gun there

lay it down! nice and slow!
there is nowhere to go, save up
up where the light, undiluted, is weaving in a drunk dream
at the sight of my baby, out back:
back on the patio watching the bats bring night in
- while, elsewhere, estuaries of wax-white
wend, endlessly, towards seashores unmapped

last week our picture window produced a half-word
heavy and hollow, hit by a brown bird
we stood and watched her gape like a rattlesnake
and pant and labour over every intake

I said a sort of prayer for some sort of rare grace
then thought I ought to take her to a higher place
said: "dog nor vulture nor cat shall toy with you
and though you die, bird, you will have a fine view"
then in my hot hand
she slumped her sick weight
we tramped through the poison oak
heartbroke and inchoate

the dogs were snapping
so you cuffed their collars
while I climbed the tree-house
then how I hollered!
cause she'd lain, as still as a stone, in my palm, for a lifetime or two

then, saw the treetops, cocked her head and up and flew
(while, back in the world that moves, often
according to the hoarding of these clues
dogs still run roughly around
little tufts of finch-down)

the cities we passed were a flickering wasteland
but his hand in my hand made them hale and harmless
while down in the lowlands the crops are all coming;
we have everything
life is thundering blissful towards death
in a stampede of his fumbling green gentleness

you stopped by, I was all alive
in my doorway, we shucked and jived
and when you wept, I was gone:
see, I got gone when I got wise
but I can't with certainty say we survived

then down, and down
and down, and down
and down, and deeper
stoke without sound
the blameless flames
you endless sleeper

through fire below, and fire above, and fire within
sleeped through the things that couldn't have been if you hadn't have been

and when the fire moves away
fire moves away, son
why would you say
I was the last one?

all my bones they are gone, gone, gone
take my bones, I don't need none
cold, cold cupboard, Lord, nothing to chew on!
suck all day on a cherry stone

dig a little hole, not three inches round
spit your pit in the hole in the ground
weep upon the spot for the starving of me!
till up grow a fine young cherry tree

well when the bough breaks, what'll you make for me?
a little willow cabin to rest on your knee
what'll I do with a trinket such as this?
think of your woman, who's gone to the west

but I'm starving and freezing in my measly old bed!
then I'll crawl across the salt flats to stroke your sweet head
come across the desert with no shoes on!
I love you truly, or I love no-one

fire
moves
away

fire moves away, son
why would you say
I was the last one?

clear the room! there's a fire, a fire, a fire
get going, and I'm going to be right behind you
and if the love of a woman or two, dear,
couldn't move you to such heights, then all I can do
is do, my darling, right by you

(para uma crítica assim mais pró poeticamente bem escrito ver : Pitchfork)

O problema é que antes do Ys veio isto : 

E depois do Ys veio isto :

O primeiro é uma coisa um bocado infantilóide e irritante e o terceiro... bem, no terceiro ela parece que decidiu ser mulher e livrar-se dos esquilos, fadinhas e bambis que a seguiam. O Ípsilon diz que gostou. Eu detestei. Para além de ter muito mais pianadas, o tom de voz é muito mais acessivel e melódico, não raras vezes a fazer mesmo mesmo lembrar a shôra Kate Bush.

O problema é que olho para as setlist dos últimos concertos e percebo que perdi a oportunidade de ver Joanna Newsom como realmente a gostaria de ver. É natural para quem tem músicas tão longas e complexas que tenha que, de álbum a álbum, abdicar de tocar grande parte das anteriores.

Claro que não deixarei de ir ver...mas fica desde já aqui a minha praga rogada a quem, em 2007, a viu no Theatro Circo.