{"id":774,"date":"2013-04-19T02:18:58","date_gmt":"2013-04-19T00:18:58","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/vdgg.art.pl\/portal\/?page_id=774"},"modified":"2013-05-03T02:08:12","modified_gmt":"2013-05-03T00:08:12","slug":"5-nadirs-big-chance","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/vdgg.art.pl\/portal\/teksty\/teksty-oryginalne\/teksty-ph-solo\/5-nadirs-big-chance\/","title":{"rendered":"5. Nadir’s Big Chance"},"content":{"rendered":"

<\/a>
\nNadir’s Big Chance<\/strong><\/p>\n

I’ve been hanging around, waiting for my chance
\nto tell you what I think about the music that’s gone down
\nto which you madly danced – frankly, you know that it stinks.
\nI’m gonna scream, gonna shout, gonna play my guitar
\nuntil your body’s rigid and you see stars.<\/p>\n

Look at all the jerks in their tinsel glitter suits,
\npansying around; look at all the nerks
\nin their leather platform boots, making with the heavy sound…
\nI’m gonna stamp on the stardust and scream till I’m ill –
\nif the guitar don’t get ya, the drums will.<\/p>\n

Now’s my big break – let me up on the stage,
\nI’ll show you what it’s all about; enough of the fake,
\nbang your feet in a rage, tear down the walls and let us out!
\nWe’re more than mere morons, perpetually conned,
\nso come on everybody, smash the system with the song.<\/p>\n

Smash the system with the song!<\/p>\n

<\/a>
\nThe Institute of mental Health, burning<\/strong><\/p>\n

It was the first day of July;
\nno wind breathed in the sky
\nwhen a pin-striped suit
\nsaw that the Institute of Mental Health was burning.<\/p>\n

He stood upon the corner
\nwhere the sun was warmer…
\nlooking across the street,
\nhe moved the shackles on his feet
\nas the Institute was burning.<\/p>\n

Flames were roaring, singing like a thunderstorm;
\nsmoke was pouring straight up to the sky;
\nwindows smashing, Gothic doors and lintels fall;
\ntimbers crashing and we both know why.<\/p>\n

Nobody else came by to stare;
\nyou see, they didn’t really care.
\nCan’t call the fire brigade –
\nnone of them had been paid
\nand so the Institute was burning.<\/p>\n

Throughout the city, people say it isn’t pretty,
\neveryone agrees, and everyone feels glad;
\ndoctored brains celebrate and everyone waves their chains…
\nIt’s a pity they’re all mad.<\/p>\n

The Institute of Mental Health
\nspontaneously killed itself.
\nAshes to ashes
\nand dust to dust:
\nmy chains began to rust
\nas the Institute was burning, burning, burning.<\/p>\n

(Chris Judge Smith)<\/p>\n

<\/a>
\nOpen Your Eyes<\/strong><\/p>\n

I was sitting in the dance-hall,
\nbut my mind was far away
\nso when the usherette walked over
\nI didn’t know quite what to say.
\nI tried to look cool
\nbut I knew that I blew it somehow.
\nHer fishnet tights took me quite by surprise…
\nI had to open my eyes.<\/p>\n

I told her I was dancing
\nbut she didn’t seem to hear;
\nshe asked if I wanted to learn judo,
\nthen she threw me out on my ear
\nbefore I’d even had time to take a bow.
\nI landed on the street, all dishevelled my disguise
\nbut I really opened her eyes.<\/p>\n

So if you’re leaning over the balcony
\nor hanging around the floor
\nthese are the last of the days of the Locarnos–
\nthere really are no more.
\nAnd the usherette smiles,
\nbut she’s not telling all she knows….
\nBut there’s time in the end for us all to get wise
\nif we only open our eyes.<\/p>\n

<\/a>
\nNobody’s Business<\/strong><\/p>\n

Look out through your dark hair,
\ntell me the colour of your eyes when they’re cool;
\nlook out through the dark ages
\nand tell me what’s covert, transfixing you.<\/p>\n

Oh, you’re nobody’s business,
\noh, you’re nobody’s business
\nand the patterns of your life
\nare suddenly twisted and torn
\nand gone are all the clothes that you’ve worn.
\nJust like yesterday’s papers
\nyou’re tired and forlorn
\nand you’re no-one.<\/p>\n

Look back at the photos you’ve saved,
\ndead mementoes of your modelling days;
\nI look through all my cuttings of you,
\nbut they all seem so lost, so dead, out of phase.<\/p>\n

Oh, you’re nobody’s business….<\/p>\n

I think back to the girl that I knew –
\nshe doesn’t seem so very much like you:
\nshe used to care about her smile and not her face…
\nthat’s before it was her fortune and took over her soul’s place.<\/p>\n

Oh, you’re nobody’s business….<\/p>\n

Papering yesterday’s pages,
\ntapering off in the storm,
\nyou’re no-one.<\/p>\n

<\/a>
\nBeen Alone so Long<\/strong> \"Przek\u0142ad\"<\/a><\/p>\n

Been alone so long
\nthat I’ve forgotten what it’s like
\nto feel somebody next to me
\nand hear her breathing peacefully
\nwhen I wake up at night.<\/p>\n

Been alone so long
\nthat I’ve forgotten what to say –
\nif I meet somebody who
\nmight easily resemble you
\nI smile, but look away…
\nI look away.<\/p>\n

Been alone so long
\nthat I’ve forgotten what to do:
\nhow to make the whole thing right
\nand how to help if she’s uptight
\nand when to run and when to fight…
\nhow to make her stay the night –
\nthat’s if I ever knew.<\/p>\n

Been alone so long
\nthat I’ve forgotten what it’s like
\nto feel somebody next to me
\nand hear her breathing peacefully
\nwhen I wake up at night,
\nwake up at night<\/p>\n

(Chris Judge Smith)<\/p>\n

<\/a>
\nPompeii<\/strong><\/p>\n

The golden dream, the seat of all decorum,
\na satellite to match the light of Rome;
\nits silver children chatter in the Forum,
\nthe bath-house, and the brothels, and their homes
\nabout the latest fashions for their clothes.
\nAcross the Tyrrhenian Sea comes drifting
\na song that none of them have ever known.<\/p>\n

The golden dream that holds back all the hours
\nfor the ladies in their Dionysian rites,
\nblonde heads all garlanded with flowers,
\nwine and love and laughter through the night
\nin constant masque and pageant, constant flight.
\nThe ground below them whispers in a murmur
\nof passion which is hotter yet than white.<\/p>\n

The golden dream, the city of all cities,
\nits towers piercing into azure sky,
\nwhose hand is dealt, regardless of all pity,
\ncondemned to martyrdom, but not to die.
\nTwo lovers look up from their hidden bower.
\nThe wine has stood too long and it turns sour.<\/p>\n

I see the tall and bending of your streets
\nbut now they echo only leather tourist feet
\nand waking, ashen, grey-blue blinding death
\nyour sudden winding-sheet.<\/p>\n

<\/a>
\nShingle Song<\/strong><\/p>\n

You can see in the last light that’s graced as dawn
\nthat there’s nothing in my heart but pain
\nas I stand, facing sea, knowing that you’re gone…
\nall the elements rage to explain
\nthat I should really be on my way
\nbut there is something
\nwhich ensures I must stay.<\/p>\n

Beneath the roar of the seething surf,
\nbeneath the caterwaul of scattered call wind
\nthoughts and gestures unspoken, unheard
\nand now the dance of rapture begins
\nas the waves rush along across the beach –
\nlike you, like your love
\nforever out of reach.<\/p>\n

Look at the sky, but it’s empty now;
\nlook at the sea, it holds nothing but despair.
\nI raise my eyes, but my head stays bowed…
\nI look to my side, but you’re not there.
\nAnd I can’t get you out of my mind,
\nno, no, no, no, I just can’t get you from my mind.<\/p>\n

<\/a>
\nAirport<\/strong><\/p>\n

I stand on the tallest building
\nand stare down at the grey runway
\nand the tail-smoke of the Boeing jet
\nthat’s taking you so far away.<\/p>\n

Believe me, I don’t want you to leave me;
\nlook in my eyes and you’ll see them
\nfilled with pain.
\nImagine just how sad I’ll be
\nin some future day when I turn
\nand no longer see your face.
\nAll I can now cry is goodbye, love, goodbye.<\/p>\n

In a week, in a month, in a year,
\nin a lifetime how I’ll feel none can tell.
\nAll I know is now you’re going
\nthere’s really no-one here to help.<\/p>\n

Believe me….<\/p>\n

Already it’s too late, you’re through the boarding-gate
\nand walking on the tarmac.
\nAlready you are free, already you’ve left me
\nand cannot bear to look back, can you?<\/p>\n

A brief taxi on the runway,
\nthen up into the stilling night sky;
\nand I’m standing on the observation tower,
\nmy eyes too dimmed by distance to cry.<\/p>\n

Believe me….<\/p>\n

All I can now do is walk away alone,
\nwithout you.<\/p>\n

<\/a>
\nPeople you were Going to<\/strong><\/p>\n

Your father has just left your mother,
\ngone off to live with his latest lover;
\nshe sits there, just staring.
\nSo you get back to your own flat
\nbecause the atmosphere in there
\nis so bad you can’t bear it.
\nAnd the people you were going to America with
\njust left on the dawn plane
\nwithout you,
\nwithout you.<\/p>\n

The people in the downstairs flat
\nare no longer there now because they left
\nthe gas tap on, they’re all dead.
\nSo you’ve no-one left to talk to,
\nyou just lie there in melancholy,
\nhalf-naked on your unmade bed.
\nAnd the people you were going to Africa with
\njust left on the Southern Star
\nwithout you,
\nwithout you.<\/p>\n

Yes, the haze that’s been forming round your window-panes
\nis now protracted and poisoned
\nand you cannot feel a portion of the world outside.<\/p>\n

Can you imagine the way you’d feel
\nif all these things had happened to you
\nand the doctor says you’re dying?
\nThat is the way that I feel now
\non finding that your love belongs
\nto someone else and not I.
\nMy chance of heaven has just blown away
\nupon a passing cloud and there is nothing that I can do
\nwithout you.<\/p>\n

The people you were going to
\nhave left, gone far away
\nand you’re lonely<\/p>\n

<\/a>
\n Birthday Special<\/strong><\/p>\n

I’ve got something to say,
\nand it ain’t the usual sort of sob-story
\nthat you hear every day.
\nI’ve got something to ask,
\nand I know that now’s the time,
\nnow all the rooms of the party are dark.
\nProffer me the candy,
\nyes, I understand is fine;
\nblow another candle out
\nand throw another line….
\nBirthday girl, I’ve got something for you,
\nthere’s ice in the cauldron, look out now;
\nbirthday girl, here comes a special
\nlike Hansel and Gretel never had.<\/p>\n

There’s parrots in the pantry
\nand there’s lizards in the loo;
\nthere’s bloaters in the bathroom
\nand this party is a zoo;
\nI’m sitting in the kitchen
\ntrying hard to talk to you
\nBirthday girl….<\/p>\n

I just wanted to say
\nthat I’d like to make this the happiest of all your birthdays
\nand if that means turning the key
\nthen I’ll turn it with you and there’ll be no doubt
\nabout the way I agree,
\nBirthday girl….<\/p>\n

<\/a>
\nTwo or Three Spectres<\/strong><\/p>\n

„Sod the music,” said the man in the suit,
\n„I understand profit and without that, it’s no use.
\nWhy don’t you go away and write commercial songs;
\ncome back in three years, that shouldn’t be too long…”
\nHe’s a joker and an acrobat,
\na record exec. in a Mayfair flat
\nwith Altec speakers wall to wall,
\na Radford and a Revox and through it all he plays
\nstrictly nowhere Muzak.<\/p>\n

„Hey, listen, baby, this band’s got a lot of soul…
\nif we can beat that out of them I see a disc of gold!
\nGive them an image, maybe glitter, maybe sex,
\nmaybe outrage, maybe elegance –
\nhow about as nervous wrecks?”
\nSigns up the product at two percent,
\njustified by vinyl shortage and the increased rent
\non the yacht he has to hire to make his pitch at Midem
\nand all the press receptions for his business friends
\nwho spill their Taittinger upon the floor
\nwhile the band sip English lager just outside the door.<\/p>\n

Treble, alto, bass clefs on the page,
\ncrotchets, quavers, minims all the rage
\nbut you’ll never find a pound note in the score –
\nit’s there when it’s strictly merchandise,
\nthrough all the propagated lies about what the whole thing’s for.
\nHe’ll make you a star, he’ll make you so famous
\nthat all you desire is to be left nameless,
\ndrained of all you felt you had to offer at the start.<\/p>\n

Not without blame, either, are the gentlemen of the press:
\nyou can talk about the state of music,
\nthey will write about your dress.
\nPlay them the new album, they will say it’s great (or not) –
\nwhen the articles come out, they’re all about
\nhow many dogs you’ve got.
\nGod to keep the human interest high,
\nand the hacks are only too willing to comply,
\npander to the ego, build up frail men as gods –
\nbut somewhere in the process, the prime purpose is forgotten.<\/p>\n

Groupies offer their bodies, the hangers-on their coke;
\nit’s all very jolly – what a joke!
\nFellini creatures cluster round the dressing-room,
\nthe heavenly bodies all got to have their moons.
\nIn the cult of the superman the music plays a supporting role
\nand far more important is the shape of his nose,
\nthe size of his codpiece and the cut of his clothes…
\nsoul and feeling always take second place
\nto the bump and grind of a Fender bass.
\nFrankly, most musicians bore me – but not as much as those
\nwho chase the glory to bask in reflected light,
\nmaking the man much more important
\nthan his arpeggios and mordants,
\nwhen it’s the other way that’s right.<\/p>\n

On the values by which this world makes its heroes
\nthen the best violinist ever was Nero,
\nbecause he had the most Press
\nand his fire gimmick was simply the best.<\/p>\n

We got the live thing too,
\nthe Human Zoo:
\nTen thousand arms are raised, just like the Hitler Youth –
\nten thousand peace signs mark the entry of the sax.
\nTen thousand peace signs,
\nbut they’re different from the back.<\/p>\n

\"Przewi\u0144<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Nadir’s Big Chance I’ve been hanging around, waiting for my chance to tell you what I think about the music that’s gone down to which you madly danced – frankly, you know that it stinks. I’m gonna scream, gonna shout, … Czytaj dalej →<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":659,"parent":519,"menu_order":5,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"sidebar-page.php","meta":{"_sitemap_exclude":false,"_sitemap_priority":"","_sitemap_frequency":"","footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-774","page","type-page","status-publish","has-post-thumbnail","hentry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/vdgg.art.pl\/portal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/774","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/vdgg.art.pl\/portal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/vdgg.art.pl\/portal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/vdgg.art.pl\/portal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/vdgg.art.pl\/portal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=774"}],"version-history":[{"count":5,"href":"https:\/\/vdgg.art.pl\/portal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/774\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":776,"href":"https:\/\/vdgg.art.pl\/portal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/774\/revisions\/776"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/vdgg.art.pl\/portal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/519"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/vdgg.art.pl\/portal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/659"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/vdgg.art.pl\/portal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=774"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}