This is an instrumental version of a song from Iceland that documents a series of Ottoman raids of Icelandic towns during June and July, 1627. Annoyingly, I haven’t been able to find one with lyrics, but according to various historical accounts, Dutch pirate Murat Reis commanded ships of Barbary corsairs from Morocco and Algeria that captured around 400 people. Only about two dozen escaped and made it back to Iceland.
This is an old “line stomp” dance from northern Iraq – part of the ancient Assyrian empire.
The Assyrian Empire
The Assyrian empire stretched across Israel, parts of Egypt, Lebanon, Jordan, Syria, Turkey, Iran, Iraq, and Saudi Arabia. The empire took its name from its original capital, the ancient city of Aššur, in what is now the Salah Al Din province of northern Iraq. It existed as an independent entity for nineteen centuries – from roughly 2500 BC to 605 BC. For the next thirteen centuries, until the about 650 AD, it was ruled predominantly by foreign powers, thus giving rise to a number of neo-Assyrian states within the borders of the empire. The empire fell to the Arab Islamic invasion in the mid-7th century AD.
It can be hard for westerns – especially Americans – to remember that Iraq existed before 1991, or 2003, or 2014. It has existed for thousands of years and been part of one of the richest civilizations the world has ever know. Now more than ever is it important to remember this, as ISIS pushes through parts of Iraq that used to be Assyrian.
Source: Washington Post
There is nothing remarkable about today that I know of, certainly nothing that I feel compelled to dwell on. So I turned to the history books.
One entry for June 25 particularly caught me. (And no, it wasn’t the introduction of the fork to American dining in 1630. I’m not that predictable.)
Some guy named Wibbert was chosen as anti-pope Clemens III in 1080.
And I have no idea what that means. But I think it’s marvelous.
AND! Wibbert – sorry, Clemens – was from Ravenna! Italy! Sold! Hooray!
So here’s my favorite song by totally swingin’ Italian pianist Raphael Gualazzi. Lyrics below with slightly triply Google Translate translation. ITALIAN READERS I am so sorry for this terrible Italian.
—
Calda estate non si riesce a far più niente
che morire sotto il sole tra le gabole e la gente
e non so più dove andare ma non voglio questa gente
dove sei,dove sei,dove sei,dove sei
Mi rinfranco faccio un bagno dentro il sole
gioco a scopa nella scuola vuota come un capannone
mi distendo sopra un pianoforte forse sciolto e mi chiedo
dove sei, dove sei, dove sei, dove sei
Ah che bella questa estate questa gente,
tutto immagine e poi niente
e nessuno vuole dirmi
dove sei
faccio stragi ma se passo da perdente
prima o poi la stessa gente
mi telefona e mi dice dove sei
Sono stanco delle mie stesse parole
qui si fanno solo prove
non si sa chi diventare
per fortuna che ti ho visto
per fortuna almeno tu sei come sei
come sei,come sei,come sei
Ora basta questa estate,
questa gente non mi portano più a niente
ma che importa se mi dici dove sei
Pensa un po che mi travesto da pezzente
sparo lacrime abbronzanti
prevedendo per scoprire dove sei
Calda estate non riesco a far più niente
qui si muore con la gente che
non sa cosa vuol dire insieme a te
ti ho trovata sopra un panfilo lucente,
l’ammiraglio è inconcludente
ma che importa se tu sei vicino a me…
Hot summer, you can’t do anything
who die in the sun between the Gabola and people
I do not know where to go but I do not want these people
Where are you, where are you, where are you, where are you
I am heartened – take a bath in the sun
Game of cards at the school as an empty hangar
I lay on top of a piano maybe loose and I wonder
Where are you, where are you, where are you, where are you
Oh what a beautiful this summer, these people,
whole image and then nothing
and nobody wants to tell me
where are you
massacres but if I step away from losing
sooner or later the same people
calls me and tells me where you are
I’m tired of my own words
here you are only testing
no one knows who become
luckily I saw you
fortunately, at least you are as you are
as you are, as you are, as you are
Now just this summer,
these people do not bring me anything
but who cares if you tell me where you are
Just think that I disguise as beggar
shot tears tanning
expecting to find out where you are
Hot summer I can not do anything
here you will die with the people who
do not know what it’s like with you
I found you on a yacht shiny
Admiral is inconclusive
but who cares if you’re near me …
Brazil and Mexico tied each other in the World Cup yesterday, an outcome which I might be alone in thinking is kind of awesome. I was a hell of a match, as you can see by the stats below.
The stats, below.
Though Brazil was favored to win – home team advantage and all that – Mexico put up a hell of a fight. Seven saves! Amazing! So it’s only fitting we take a quick trip to Mexico today and hang with the Mexican Institute of Sound.
Oh you totally knew this was coming. Like there is any other song I could post on Wednesday during Shame Week. (Happily I don’t own any Venga Boys. This entry could have taken way longer to come up with.) And don’t pretend like you don’t secretly love this song. It’s a great song! It’s also so terrible that I have never once wondered what it actually means. It just doesn’t make that much of a difference to me. It’s fun to yell “maaayaHEEE, maaayaHOOO” while bopping up and down at a house party, and that’s good enough for me.
The beat of the first few seconds of this song just kills me. It’s like a very Euro-flavored disco version of Dr. Who. Erlend Øye is a great pop artist from Norway who has been part of a number of other bands (remember Royksopp? Remember their song “Poor Leno?” Yep, that was Erlend. Ever hear of The Whitest Boy Alive? Erlend.). His voice is like soy milk – very smooth, pretty devoid of flavor, but surprisingly tasty.
It’s been a long time coming, but I finally feel settled in some sort of groove these days. This is in no way synonymous with phrases like, “of course I know what I’m doing,” “please ask me for directions and/or advice,” or “I’d love to tell you where I’m going to be in five years.” Rather, what I mean is, I know what to do when catastrophe strikes, when I don’t know how to cook a squash, when my faucet is leaking, when I need to go to the E.R., when I’ve had a terrible day, and when things upset me. I call one of my people. That’s what I do.
You spend most of your 20s constructing yourself. Somewhere around age 29 or 30 you have a sense of deep satisfaction that comes from having a fuller grasp of who you are and what you’re about. And then you spend a good part of your 30s realizing that, to paraphrase President Obama, you didn’t build yourself alone. You had a lot of help. I know how to deal with the E.R. on a rainy Tuesday because a friend came with me when I hurt my knee. I know how to process my terrible thoughts because I have friends who listen to them. I know how to deal with the vagaries of my job because I have peers who can relate and tell me stories that remind me of my own issues. Creating your own family is the very best part of growing up.
—
Far from the electric floor
Removed from the red meat market
I look for a fire door
An escape from the drums and barking
Bereft of all social charms
Struck dumb by the hand of fear
I fall into the corner’s arms
The same way that I’ve done for years
I’m trapped in a collapsing building
Come find me now, we’ll hide and
We’ll speak in our secret tongues
Will you come back to my corner?
Spent too long alone tonight
Would you come brighten my corner?
A lit torch to the woodpile (aye)
Dead wood needs to ignite
There’s no spark on a dampened floor
A snapped limb in an unlit pyre
Won’t you come and break down this door?
I’m trapped in an abandoned building
Come find me now, we’ll hide and
We’ll speak in our secret tongues
Will you come back to my corner?
Spent too long alone tonight
Would you come brighten my corner?
A lit torch to the woodpile (aye)
Come find me now, we’ll hide and
We’ll speak in our secret tongues
I’m about to head into three days of mostly day-long meetings and I am fully anticipating that they will be feel and sound like this, one of my favorite pieces by Argentine tango genius, Astor Piazzolla. Put a group of fun, smart, interesting people together in a room, give them a cool topic and a lot of coffee, and watch them go. Nothing better.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iorfsFAJJsI
I have a vision of the northern Sahara at dusk. There are bare scrubby trees, and sentient-looking rocks carved by wind and sand. It looks like a place called Tassili N’Ajjer Plateau, in Algeria. This is where the Tuareg group Tinariwen recorded their 2011 album “Tassili,” from which this song comes. The album was recorded outside in the desert. I have a lot of wanderlust by nature, but this song – and the vision this song gave a tune to – makes me all but grab my passport and run out my front door.
Tassili N’Ajjer Plateau, Algeria
—
Imidiwan ma tennam dagh awa dagh enha semmen?
Tenere den tas-tennam enta dagh wam toyyam teglam
Aqqalanagh aljihalat tamattem dagh illa assahat
Tenere den tossamat lat medden eha sahat
Aksan kallan s tandallat taqqal enta tisharat
Aqqalanagh aljihalat tamattem dagh assahat
What have you got to say, my friends, about this painful time we’re living through?
You’ve left this desert where you say you were born, you’ve gone and abandoned it
We live in ignorance and it holds all the power
The desert is jealous and its men are strong
While it’s drying up, green lands exist elsewhere
We live in ignorance and it holds all the power
I was living abroad during September 11th and the invasions of Afghanistan and Iraq, so it was easy to know what the world thought about these things. I’d talk to my neighbors, the woman who worked at the coffee shop, my local friends. It’s harder to keep your finger on the pulse of international public opinion when you’re in the States, and ten years of living on American soil again can leave one feeling oddly disconnected. When I want to remember what it was like to watch my country from afar, I put on this song.
MC Solaar, a Senegal-born French rap and hip-hop artist, wrote and recorded this in 2003 about the U.S. invasion of Iraq. (Interestingly, the album from which this song is taken wasn’t released in the U.S. until 2006. But that’s neither here nor there.) MC Solaar is known for his nuanced, interesting lyrics, which certainly why I love him so much, and I find the lyrics to this song so arresting. The line “like in football, the goalie wants to shoot the ball” always stuck with me since I first heard it.
English translation follows after the French lyrics. Apologies for the mistakes.
—
La vie est belle
La vie est belle
La vie est belle
Seul dans ma chambre un jour normal
J’apprends dans les journaux que j’ suis dans l’axe du mal
Je lis entre les lignes et j’ comprends qu’on veut me killer
J’ ferme la serrure pour être un peu plus tranquille
Dehors c’est la guerre et j’ crois qu’elle vient vers moi
Malgré les manifs qui vivra la verra
Je mets des sacs de sables dans mon salon
Des salauds veulent me shooter
Comme au foot le stoppeur veut shooter le ballon
A la télé j’entends qu’ j’ suis l’ pire des mecs
Longue vie aux non violents, la propagande est impec
J’flippe: des troupes spéciales des B52
J’ regrette ce que j’ai fait, j’ crois qu’ j’aurais pu faire mieux
Mais l’erreur est humaine, j’avoue j’ai fais des erreurs
Prendre position c’est prendre une pluie de terreur
Au nom du Père du Fils et du Saint Esprit d’ l’Imam et du Rabin
Plus jamais ceci
Comme un oiseau sans ailes
Je vole vers le ciel
Mais j’ sais qu’la vie est belle
Comme un oiseau sans ailes
Je vole vers le ciel
Mais j’ sais qu’ la vie est belle
Moi j’ suis un missile
J’ suis pas coupable
On m’ guide par satellite
Pour faire un travail impeccable
Toutes les technologies sont mises à mon service
Dans le but de chasser le mal
Et que j’agisse pour un monde peace
J’ suis dans un porte avion et fais c’ qu’on me demande
Ce soir je dois frapper un type qui est tout seul dans sa chambre
J’ suis un oiseau sans aile suppositoire de fer
500 km à faire et puis pour lui c’est l’enfer
Ca y est j’ suis parti j’ vole vers son domicile
Et je préserve la paix en commettant des homicides
J’ perce les nuages vers l’abscisse et l’ordonnée
Objectif mémorisé j’ connais les coordonnées
J’ suis de fer, nu de chair, arrive à l’improviste
Vole au dessus des manifs de ces millions de pacifistes
Au nom du Père du Fils et du Saint Esprit d’ l’Imam et du Rabin
Plus jamais ceci
Comme un oiseau sans aile
Je vole vers le ciel
Mais j’ sais qu’ la vie est belle
Comme un oiseau sans aile
Je vole vers le ciel
Mais j’ sais qu’ la vie est belle
Et sur la chaîne info j’apprends qu’un missile arrive
Il s’invite chez moi pourtant c’est pas mon convive
On bombarde ma ville mon quartier mon bâtiment
Ce soir tu vas mourir tel est mon ressentiment
Tranquille je range ma chambre et puis je vois les photos
De moi même, de mon ex, vacances au Colorado
des bivouacs en montagne avec nos sacs à dos
Là-haut donne des discours avec tous ces ados
Je vois mon père et puis ma mère sur des clichés loin de là haut
Moi qui les trouvais durs j’ fais la même à mes enfants
Ils dorment tranquillement, ils doivent compter des moutons
Ou bien faisaient des rêves quand il y a eu l’explosion
On a tué ma famille sans même la connaître
Moi, ma femme et mes enfants semblent ajouter aux pertes
Des missiles kill, dans le civil, kill
Des enfants dociles, le monde est hostile
J’ai rien fais, ils n’ont rien fait, ils n’avaient rien fait
Ils parlaient de bienfaits mais je ne vois que des méfaits
Non ce n’est pas du rap c’est, crever l’abcès
Que s’ils sont absents, c’est grâce à vos excès
J’appelle les synagogues, les mosquées et les temples
L’Eglise les chapelles, militant et militante
Au nom du Père du Fils et du Saint Esprit d’ l’Imam et du Rabin
Plus jamais ceci
Je vole vers le ciel mais j’ sais que la vie est belle
Je vole vers le ciel mais j’ sais que la vie est belle
Au nom du Père du Fils et du Saint Esprit d’ l’Imam et du Rabin
Plus jamais ceci
Life is beautiful (x3)
Alone in my room, a normal day
I learn in the newspapers that I’m in the axis of evil
I read between the lines and I understand they want to kill me
I lock things up so I can be a little calmer
Outside, it’s war, and I believe it’s coming towards me
Despite the demonstrators who’ll live, who’ll see it
I put some sandbags in my living room
Some bastards want to shoot me
Like in football, the goalie wants to shoot the ball
On the TV I hear that I’m the worst of the guys
Long life to non-violents — the propaganda is flawless
I flip: some special B52 troops
I regret what I did, I believe I could’ve done better
But mistakes are human, I swear I’ve made mistakes
Taking a position is just asking for a rain of terror
In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, and the Imam and the Rabbi
Let this never be again.
REFRAIN: (x2)
Like a bird without wings
I fly towards heaven
But I know that life is beautiful
Me, I’m a missile
I can’t be blamed
They guide me via satellite
To do a flawless job
All the technologies are put at my service
In the goal of hunting evil
And so that I act for a world of peace
I’m in a carrier plane and I do what they ask me to
Tonight I need to hit a guy who’s all alone in his room
I’m a bird without a wing: a suppository of fire
500 km to go, and then it’s Hell for him
There it is, I’ve left, and I fly towards his home
And I preserve the country while committing homicides
I pierce the clouds towards the abscess and the ordered
My objective memorised, I know the coordinates
I’m made of fire, he’s made of flesh. I arrive at the improvised protest
I fly over the demonstrations of these millions of pacifists
In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, and the Imam and the Rabbi
Let this never be again.
(REFRAIN)
And through the chain of information I learn that a missile is coming
It invites itself to my home, although I don’t welcome it
It bombards my city, my quarter, my building
“Tonight you’re going to die; such is my resentment.”
Calmly I tidy up my room and then I see the photos
Of myself, of my ex, of vacations in Colorado
Of walks in the mountains with our backpacks
There I had conversations with all these youths
I see my father and then my mother on black-and-white plates
I, who found them difficult — I did the same to my children
They sleep peacefully… they must have been counting sheep
Or maybe having dreams, when there was an explosion
They killed my family without even knowing them
Me, my wife and my kids seem to be added to the casualties
The missiles kill — in the civilisation, kill —
docile babies; the world is hostile.
I didn’t do anything, the babies didn’t do anything, and they wouldn’t have done anything.
They talk about benefits but all I see are misdeeds
… that is, to burst the abscess.
If only they weren’t around! It’s all thanks to your excess.
I call upon the synagogues, the mosques and the temples
The Church, the chapels, military men and women
In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, and the Imam and the Rabbi
Let this never be again.
I fly towards heaven, but I know life is beautiful. (x2)
In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, and the Imam and the Rabbi,
Let this never be again.
The Daily Tune-Up 