I like using my brain. It is my favorite thing to do. I love to spend hours thinking, turning things over in my mind, then talking about these things with people. I remember great conversations like they were trips I went on. I get the same high from intellectual stimulation as I do from my favorite physical activity, running. The rhythm of this song reminds me of both, and therefore makes me happy.
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
It’s gonna be a big week this week, Tune-Up fans. Work is picking up, a dear friend is moving across the country to start a new chapter in her life, another dear friend is interviewing for a new job – the list goes on. This is a good song to boost morale and energy levels.
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.
To say this is one of my personal theme songs – me, a woman who lives for music – would be like a devout Christian saying that the ten commandments were the rules they lived by. It’s so obvious it sounds dumb. It’s not at all lost on me either that there are few well-known female funk musicians, so I also bow down to Ms. Davis for kicking it in a male-dominated field. And finally, she’s belting out a funk song about how people think she’s weird for loving the music she does. That’s a pretty baller combination. So, whenever I’ve been made to feel weird, or whenever someone patronizes me because I’m a woman, I lean on Ms. Davis for a little pick-me-up. Works like a charm.
—
They say I’m different ’cause I’m a piece of sugar cane
Sweet to the core that’s why I got rhythm
My Great Grandma didn’t like to foxtrot,
no instead she spitted snuff and boogied to Elmore James
Spit On!
They say I’m different ’cause I eat chitlins
I can’t help it I was born and raised on ’em
That’s right, oh, every mornin’ I had to slop the hogs
and they be gettin off humpin to John Lee Hooker
Gettin off!
They say I’m different ’cause I’m a piece of sugar cane
and when I kick my legs I got rhythm
My Great Grandpa was a blues lover
He be rockin his moonshine to B.B. King and Jimmy Reed
Rock on pappy!
That’s why they say I’m different
That’s why they say I’m strange
Talkin bout Big Mama Thornton
Talkin bout Lightning Hopkins
Talkin bout Howlin Wolf
I’m talkin bout Albert King
Alright
Alright
Chuck Berry, Chuck Berry, Chuck Berry
When I was sweet sixteen
And that’s why they say I’m different
That’s why you think I’m strange
I’m talkin bout T. Bone Walker
I’m talkin bout Muddy Waters
I’m talkin bout Leadbelly, Sonny Terry, Brownie McGhee, Son House, and Freddie King
Bessie Smith!
Bessie Smith! Oh, Oh, Hey
Oh Bo Diddley have you heard it?
That’s why they say I’m different
That’s why they say I’m strange
and that’s why they say I’m funky
Little Richard, Wild Lou, sunshine you sure can sing
Robert Johnson, Robert Johnson, Robert Johnson!
You play the blues for me
That’s why, That’s why, That’s why they say I’m different
That’s why, That’s why, That’s why they say I’m strange
This seemed to be an appropriate (if a bit delightfully sacrilegious) song for the day before Easter. Holy Week itself has always had a bit of a “final countdown” feel to it, but it wasn’t until last year while I was getting vested to sing the Palm Sunday service that a friend of mine commented that the run up to Easter always put her in the mind of “that Europe song – you know the one?” And I, being a total goober who can recall obscure Monteverdi motets on command but not, like, I don’t know, anything more recent and normal, was like, “the what song?” Upon hearing her sing the synth riff, the lyrics of the song came back to me, and I have to admit that I laughed so hard I started crying. This, mind you, comes from a baptized, confirmed, tithing, choir-singing Episcopalian. Never mind that the words really don’t make any sense in any sort of context, nor, for that matter, does the video (marshland? a church spire? trains? what?)
So, while you’re decorating the Easter eggs, glazing the ham, breaking out all of your festive pastels, and relishing the thought of diving back into whatever it was you gave up for Lent*, I encourage you to share the day with the bouffant boys of Europe.
*I gave up cursing. It has been excruciatingly difficult. And, yes, while it was meaningful and now I am more aware of cursing, which is great, oh man – I’m going to be cursing like a happy little sailor while I cook Easter dinner Sunday afternoon.
Gorecki was a modern Polish composer who is probably best known for his Symphony of Sorrowful Songs. This piece is my favorite of his. It is a very simple arrangement of a Polish folk song about undying love.
—
Broad waters on the Vistula,
Now I’ll tell you my thoughts.
As it was yesterday, so it is today:
I must be with you through the ages.
This is such a sucker-punch of a song. You don’t even need to understand the words (which are below, never fear, faithful readers) to know it’s about something fairly wretched involving a train. This song portrays the life of black African migrant workers working in South African mineral mines. Some melancholy songs are more mellow than sad. Not this one, not by a long shot. This is sad, resigned, longing, resentful, and angry, all at the same time. By the time harmony spreads out at 2:31, you’ve already committed yourself to listening to the whole thing, maybe even again a second time, even though it’s a tough haul.
Masekela wrote this song in 1974, about halfway through the lifespan of the apartheid regime in South Africa.
—-
There is a train that comes from Namibia and Malawi
there is a train that comes from Zambia and Zimbabwe,
There is a train that comes from Angola and Mozambique,
From Lesotho, from Botswana, from Zwaziland,
From all the hinterland of Southern and Central Africa.
This train carries young and old, African men
Who are conscripted to come and work on contract
In the golden mineral mines of Johannesburg
And its surrounding metropolis, sixteen hours or more a day
For almost no pay.
Deep, deep, deep down in the belly of the earth
When they are digging and drilling that shiny mighty evasive stone,
Or when they dish that mish mesh mush food
into their iron plates with the iron shovel.
Or when they sit in their stinking, funky, filthy,
Flea-ridden barracks and hostels.
They think about the loved ones they may never see again. Because they might have already been forcibly removed
From where they last left them
Or wantonly murdered in the dead of night
By roving and marauding gangs of no particular origin,
We are told. They think about their lands, their herds
That were taken away from them
With a gun, bomb, teargas and the cannon.
And when they hear that Choo-Choo train
They always curse, curse the coal train,
The coal train that brought them to Johannesburg.
We sang this anthem in church today, so it’s fresh on my mind – and means we are back to regularly scheduled program of Renaissance polyphony. (I promise to change it up soon, Tuners.)
Beyond this being one of the three anthems I sang at Palm Sunday service today and therefore stuck in my craw, this is a magnificent example of Byrd’s use of harmony. Each individual line is gorgeous on its own: as in Bach’s music, each line goes on its own exploration, interacting with the others but not necessarily serving the melody alone. My favorite part begins at 2:15 at the “Dona nobis pacem.” You can hear the plea echoed within each line in a different way. It wraps you up in the community of all those who came before you asking for the same thing – Lord, give us peace. And because there is such a community of prayers, it gives one the feeling that there’s a chance that the prayer will be granted. That’s a pretty nice feeling.
The choir of Christ Church, Oxford, sings this recording.
Felix Mendelssohn, you magnificent bastard. (I read your book! …Wait. (“Patton?” Anyone? Ok I’ll stop.)) Mendelssohn wrote this in 1830. Let’s see what else was happening around that time, shall we?
And Mendelssohn wrote this gorgeous symphony, inspired by a trip he took to Scotland.
Mendelssohn was German and one of the early Romantic composers. He definitely crams a lot of feeling into nine minutes. I love the swelling major to minor at 4:28. Gives me tingles every time. Although I do deeply resent that he wrote this piece when he was 21. Show-off.
The Daily Tune-Up 