Take me back to the genesis of house music

On the eighth day God created house music...

(Ecoute / listen):

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tFuujExs03A

The more I listen to today's commercially motivated airwave violations screaming in my ear from every money-seeking radio station around, the more my love of the underground sparkles and shimmers. Here's a toast to a time when music was about something more than earning em. Long live Larry Heard.

(Lyrcis from the aforementioned tune follow, aren't they potent? )

In the beginning, there was Jack, and Jack had a groove.
And from this groove came the groove of all grooves.
And while one day viciously throwing down on his box, Jack boldy declared,

"Let there be house!" and house music was born.

I am, you see,
I am the creator, and this is my house!
And, in my house there is only house music. But, I am not so
selfish because once you enter my house it then becomes OUR house and
OUR house music!" And, you see, no one can own house because
house music is a universal language, spoken and understood by all.

You see, house is a feeling that no one can understand really unless
you're deep into the vibe of house. House is an uncontrollable
desire to jack your body. And, as I told you before, this is
Find More lyrics at www.sweetslyrics.com
our house and our house music. And in every house, you
understand, there is a keeper. And, in this house, the keeper
is Jack. Now some of you who might wonder.

Who is Jack, and what is it that Jack does?

Jack is the one who gives you the power to jack your body!
Jack is the one who gives you the power to do the snake.
Jack is the one who gives you the key to the wiggly worm.
Jack is the one who learns you how to walk your body.
Jack is the one that can bring nations and nations of all
Jackers together under one house.

You may be black, you may be white; you may be Jew or Gentile.
It don't make difference in our House.

Extra reading

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mr._Fingers

http://www.allmusic.com/cg/amg.dll?p=amg&sql=11:dpfuxqq5ldae

Pour Faire le Portrait d'un Oiseau

Jacques Prévert
"Pour faire le portrait d’un oiseau"
Whilst deeply engrossed in the downtempo Hôtel Costes, Vol. 1: France et Choiseul compilation, I stumbled upon Stéphane Pompougnac's "Pour faire le portrait d’un oiseau" track, inspired by the poetry of the post war French poet, Jacques Prevert, recited by none other than Yves Montand. I was spellbound from the onset. Catch the soundtrack to the poem below:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oJpxhq6Uq0Y



Jacques Prévert (1900-1977) was a French poet whose poems are often about life in Paris after the Second World War. He also wrote several classic screenplays for film director Marcel Carné, the most famous of which, Les enfants du paradis (The Children of Paradise, 1945), is considered one of the greatest French films of all time.
translated from the French to English by Jacqueline Michaud (scroll further down)

"Pour faire le portrait d’un oiseau"

A Elsa Henriquez

Peindre d’abord une cage
avec une porte ouverte
peindre ensuite
quelque chose de joli
quelque chose de simple
quelque chose de beau
quelque chose d’utile
pour l’oiseau
placer ensuite la toile contre un arbre
dans un jardin
dans un bois
ou dans une forêt
se cacher derrière l’arbre
sans rien dire
sans bouger . . .
Parfois l’oiseau arrive vite
mais il peut aussi bien mettre de longues années
avant de se décider
Ne pas se décourager
attendre
attendre s’il le faut pendant des années
la vitesse ou la lenteur de l’arrivée de l’oiseau
n’ayant aucun rapport
avec la réussite du tableau
Quand l’oiseau arrive
s’il arrive
observer le plus profond silence
attendre que l’oiseau entre dans le cage
et quand il est entré
fermer doucement la porte avec le pinceau
puis
effacer un à un tous les barreaux
en ayant soin de ne toucher aucune des plumes de l’oiseau
Faire ensuite le portrait de l’arbre
en choisissant la plus belle de ses branches
pour l’oiseau
peindre aussi le vert feuillage et la fraîcheur du vent
la poussière du soleil
et le bruit des bêtes de l’herbe dans la chaleur de l’été
et puis attendre que l’oiseau se décide à chanter
Si l’oiseau ne chante pas
c’est mauvais signe
Signe que le tableau est mauvais
mais s’il chante c’est bon signe
signe que vous pouvez signer



"To Paint a Bird's Portrait"

to Elsa Henriquez

Paint first a cage
with the door open
next paint
something pretty
something simple
something lovely
something of use
to the bird
then put the canvas near a tree
in a garden
in the woods
or in a forest
hide behind the tree
say nothing
don’t move…
Sometimes the bird comes quickly
but it can just as well take many years
before deciding
Don’t be disheartened
wait
wait years if need be
the pace of the bird’s arrival
bearing no relation
to the success of the painting
When the bird comes
if it comes
keep very still
wait for the bird to enter the cage
and once it has
gently shut the door with the brush
then
paint out the bars one by one
taking care not to touch any of the bird’s feathers
Next paint the tree’s portrait
choosing the loveliest of its branches
for the bird
paint likewise the green leaves and fresh breeze
the sun’s scintillation
and the clamor of crickets in the heat of summer
and then wait until the bird decides to sing
If the bird does not sing
that’s a bad sign
A sign the painting is no good
but if it sings that’s a good sign
a sign you can sign

• • •

Links:

Hôtel Costes, Vol. 1: France et Choiseul

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hôtel_Costes,_Vol._1

Stéphane Pompougnac

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stéphane_Pompougnac

Jacques Prévert

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jacques_Prévert

Invictus, by William Ernest Henley

Two days away from the biggest match of the hockey season, and my stomach is coiling with tension.

So close to glory, so far from reality

So dexterous and so boisterous, so naive and so plain,

So assured and so upright, so humble and so fragile

To merit we trek, to the glory of an earnest fight.

Hope's a tangent we beseech, for our goal remains within our reach.

AMK, inspired by the words and wizardry of William Ernest Henley.

Invictus (Latin for "Unconquered")

Out of the night that covers me,

Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.