{"id":1858,"date":"2020-05-10T13:14:11","date_gmt":"2020-05-10T13:14:11","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/meumon.synology.me\/museu\/?p=1858"},"modified":"2020-05-22T09:20:51","modified_gmt":"2020-05-22T09:20:51","slug":"blues","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/meumon.synology.me\/museu\/blues\/","title":{"rendered":"Blues"},"content":{"rendered":"

[ esborrany ]<\/p>\n

James Baldwin:\u00a0https:\/\/www.newyorker.com\/magazine\/1962\/11\/17\/letter-from-a-region-in-my-mind<\/a><\/div>\n
I remember, anyway, church suppers and outings, and, later, after I left the church<\/span>, rent and waistline parties where rage and sorrow sat in the darkness and did not stir, and we ate and drank and talked and laughed and danced and forgot all about \u201cthe man.\u201d We had the liquor, the chicken, the music, and each other, and had no need to pretend to be what we were not. This is the freedom that one hears in some gospel songs, for example, and in jazz. In all jazz, and especially in the blues, there is something tart and ironic, authoritative and double-edged. White Americans seem to feel that happy songs are happy and sad songs are sad, and that, God help us, is exactly the way most white Americans sing them\u2014sounding, in both cases, so helplessly, defenselessly fatuous that one dare not speculate on the temperature of the deep freeze from which issue their brave and sexless little voices. Only people who have been \u201cdown the line,\u201d as the song puts it, know what this music is about. I think it was Big Bill Broonzy who used to sing \u201cI Feel So Good,\u201d a really joyful song about a man who is on his way to the railroad station to meet his girl. She\u2019s coming home. It is the singer\u2019s incredibly moving exuberance that makes one realize how leaden the time must have been while she was gone. There is no guarantee that she will stay this time, either, as the singer clearly knows, and, in fact, she has not yet actually arrived. Tonight, or tomorrow, or within the next five minutes, he may very well be singing \u201cLonesome in My Bedroom,\u201d or insisting, \u201cAin\u2019t we, ain\u2019t we, going to make it all right? Well, if we don\u2019t today, we will tomorrow night.\u201d White Americans do not understand the depths out of which such an ironic tenacity comes, but they suspect that the force is sensual, and they are terrified of sensuality and do not any longer understand it. The word \u201csensual\u201d is not intended to bring to mind quivering dusky maidens or priapic black studs. I am referring to something much simpler and much less fanciful. To be sensual, I think, is to respect and rejoice in the force of life, of life itself, and to be present in all that one does, from the effort of loving to the breaking of bread. It will be a great day for America, incidentally, when we begin to eat bread again, instead of the blasphemous and tasteless foam rubber that we have substituted for it. And I am not being frivolous now, either. Something very sinister happens to the people of a country when they begin to distrust their own reactions as deeply as they do here, and become as joyless as they have become. It is this individual uncertainty on the part of white American men and women, this inability to renew themselves at the fountain of their own lives, that makes the discussion, let alone elucidation, of any conundrum\u2014that is, any reality\u2014so supremely difficult. The person who distrusts himself has no touchstone for reality\u2014for this touchstone can be only oneself. Such a person interposes between himself and reality nothing less than a labyrinth of attitudes. And these attitudes, furthermore, though the person is usually unaware of it (is unaware of so much!), are historical and public attitudes.<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
\n
\n
https:\/\/www.newyorker.com\/magazine\/2019\/03\/11\/buddy-guy-is-keeping-the-blues-alive<\/a><\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
On jukeboxes, he liked the bluesmen especially: Arthur Crudup, who wrote \u201cThat\u2019s All Right,\u201d Elvis Presley<\/a>\u2019s first hit, and John Lee Hooker, a Mississippi plantation worker, who went North to work as a janitor in a Detroit Ford factory and, in 1948, recorded a droning, spooky hit called \u201cBoogie Chillen.\u201d<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
There is no indisputable geography of the blues and its beginnings, but the best way to think of the story is as an accretion of influences. Robert Palmer, in his book \u201cDeep Blues,\u201d writes of griots in Senegambia, on the West Coast of Africa, singing songs of praise, of Yoruba drumming, of the African origins of the \u201cblue notes,\u201d the flatted thirds and sevenths, that are so distinctive in early Southern work songs and later blues. There are countless studies on the influence of the black church and whooping preachers; of field hollers and work songs sung under the lash in the cotton fields of Parchman Farm, the oldest penitentiary in Mississippi; of boogie-woogie piano players in the lumber and turpentine camps of Texas. The Delta blues, the kind of music that would one day galvanize Chicago, originated, at least in part, on Will Dockery\u2019s plantation, a cotton farm and sawmill on the Sunflower River, in Mississippi, where black farmers lived in the old slave quarters. Charley Patton and Howlin\u2019 Wolf were residents. So was Roebuck (Pops) Staples, the paterfamilias of the Staple Singers. Accompanying themselves on guitar, they sang songs of work, heartbreak, the road, the rails, the fragility of everything.<\/div>\n
\u201cThe blues contain multitudes,\u201d Kevin Young, the poet and essayist (and this magazine\u2019s poetry editor), writes. \u201cJust when you say the blues are about one thing\u2014lost love, say\u2014here comes a song about death, or about work, about canned heat or loose women, hard men or harder times, to challenge your definitions. Urban and rural, tragic and comic, modern as African America and primal as America, the blues are as innovative in structure as they are in mood\u2014they resurrect old feelings even as they describe them in new ways.\u201d<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
When Guy hears that, he said, \u201cI can\u2019t help thinking: Somebody forgot us, forgot the blues.\u201d<\/div>\n
Well, not entirely. There are still some extraordinary musicians around who play and sing the blues with the sort of richness that Guy admires: Robert Cray, Gary Clark, Jr., Bonnie Raitt, Adia Victoria, Keb\u2019 Mo\u2019, Derek Trucks and Susan Tedeschi, Shemekia Copeland. Guy has even coached a couple of teen-age guitar prodigies: Christone (Kingfish) Ingram, who comes from the Delta, and Quinn Sullivan, who first performed onstage with Guy when he was seven. But as Copeland, a singer and the daughter of the guitarist Johnny Copeland, told me, \u201cThe blues as Buddy knows it, as he does it, really will be gone when he is gone.\u201d In fact, she went on, \u201cthere are some artists now who think that if they call themselves blues artists it\u2019s like saying, \u2018I have herpes.\u2019 Like it\u2019s some terrible thing.\u201d<\/div>\n
Rashawnna, who now works part time at Legends, said that, if blues is often about the journey, hip-hop is about the conditions of the street. \u201cI believe the connection is through the lyrics and the expression,\u201d she went on. \u201cThe blues came from being down and out, and making the best of it. Hip-hop is an explanation of growing up in the ghetto, telling our story, making the best of things.\u201d<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
\n

post sobre el blues. si l’efecte marc ens diu que la bellesa \u00e9s a tot arreu, el blues ens diu que hi ha dolor i esperan\u00e7a a tot arreu + link JLCO i les mates. estic futu per\u00f2 tiro endavant<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

[ esborrany ] James Baldwin:\u00a0https:\/\/www.newyorker.com\/magazine\/1962\/11\/17\/letter-from-a-region-in-my-mind I remember, anyway, church suppers and outings, and, later, after I left the church, rent and waistline parties where rage and sorrow sat in the darkness and did not stir, and we ate and drank and talked and laughed and danced and forgot all about \u201cthe man.\u201d We had the … <\/p>\n

Continue reading “Blues”<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[188],"tags":[398],"anotacio":[],"civilitzacio":[],"spec":[],"aspecies":[],"Tema poesia":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/meumon.synology.me\/museu\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1858"}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/meumon.synology.me\/museu\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/meumon.synology.me\/museu\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/meumon.synology.me\/museu\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/meumon.synology.me\/museu\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1858"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"http:\/\/meumon.synology.me\/museu\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1858\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/meumon.synology.me\/museu\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1858"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/meumon.synology.me\/museu\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=1858"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/meumon.synology.me\/museu\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=1858"},{"taxonomy":"anotacio","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/meumon.synology.me\/museu\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/anotacio?post=1858"},{"taxonomy":"civilitzacio","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/meumon.synology.me\/museu\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/civilitzacio?post=1858"},{"taxonomy":"spec","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/meumon.synology.me\/museu\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/spec?post=1858"},{"taxonomy":"aspecies","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/meumon.synology.me\/museu\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/aspecies?post=1858"},{"taxonomy":"Tema poesia","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/meumon.synology.me\/museu\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/Tema poesia?post=1858"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}