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Monday, March 18. 2013
I agree with Buddy about this tune. Let's do one more Irish post. You do not need to know Gaelic to understand the song. That's how it works with good songs.
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'ere's #1 Son...
That's a great keepsake --and fine new-wave film direction, too, seguing straight from the skirling pipes of "Scotland the Brave" to ... "Say hello to your mum!"
--i left a comment at the site --pointing to "When the Pipers Play" by the impressive Isla St Clair. It's got some moments --at around 3:10, when the full pipes and drums come in hard on the chorus, and again at 4:15 when the reserved and proper Ms St Clair exults and reaches high for the sky.
The Mary McCool song has an English translation --a pretty much copybook translation with no attempt at reproducing the Gaelic poetry the song is about.
But the plot comes through --that the speaker is a young feller painfully smitten by a maiden he sees but doesn't have the aquaintance of.
The song says all the things he wants to say to her, the promises he wants to make --but he won't, or can't, even speak to her, because apparently he's soon off to the wars, and the two loves he seeks to protect would through him, collide.
Sentimental as all get out, them Celtics!
Thanks skook --but truth is, BD cans 2 of every 3 i send him --i guess that makes the 1 of 3 'un canny' but i can hardly take the full credit.
Remember your little folkloric Mexican shivaree video post a while back? Here's a Mexican colonial song in rather the same vein:
--beautiful flamenco-styling skook --did you notice the "...la bella soprano con voz angelical...." comment? Along with yours above, that's one for the money and two for the show. Here's seven got ready, for nine to go --
From the year of our lord (and George Orwell, who it is said has up in heaven looking down changed his name to "Oh well") 19 and 84, with two notorious non-rehearsing wingmasters Ray Charles and Willie Nelson, as it dawns on Willie that his natural let-the-phrasing-do the singing isn't holding place with Ray's vastly complex soul coloratura.
So he's lip-synqing along 'til Ray sets up the finale with, ''you gotta help me now willie''.
Because they haven't rehearsed jack shat, they don't get it solved until just barely in time.
As the crowd comes up applauding, willie is so relieved you can smell the missing flop sweat as he lets out a ''whew!"
Poor old Willie. Nothin' poor about him.
I need a coat like Ray's.
They probably told him it was a navy blue blazer
On to the larger point - now I've gone and downloaded two of her albums. A few more swigs of Tullamore Dew and I will have learned to sing in Gaelic.
heh --to 'get into the Irish spirit' is to happen upon a rare instance where the figurative is orderly and the literal could be staggering --!
The young lieutenant of a small Hungarian detachment in the Alps
sent a reconnaissance unit out onto the icy wasteland.
It began to snow
snowed for two days and the unit
did not return.
The lieutenant suffered:
he had dispatched
his own people to death.
But the third day the unit came back.
Where had they been? How had they made their way?
Yes, they said, we considered ourselves
lost and waited for the end. And then one of us
found a map in his pocket. That calmed us down.
We pitched camp, lasted out the snowstorm and then with the map
we discovered our bearings.
And here we are.
The lieutenant borrowed this remarkable map
and had a good look at it. It was not a map of the Alps
but of the Pyrenees
--Miroslav Holub, Brief Thoughts on Maps
--forgot to connect the map story and what it could be said it is wit dat kinda song --and Maria McCool and those with her voice effect.
Remember that Orwell passage on 'missing words'?
The purpose of Newspeak was not only to provide a medium of expression for the world-view and mental habits proper to the devotees of IngSoc, but to make all other modes of thought impossible. It was intended that when Newspeak had been adopted once and for all and Oldspeak forgotten, a heretical thought — that is, a thought diverging from the principles of IngSoc — should be literally unthinkable, at least so far as thought is dependent on words. Its vocabulary was so constructed as to give exact and often very subtle expression to every meaning that a Party member could properly wish to express, while excluding all other meaning and also the possibility of arriving at them by indirect methods.
From the foregoing account it will be seen that in Newspeak the expression of unorthodox opinions, above a very low level, was well-nigh impossible. It was of course possible to utter heresies of a very crude kind, a species of blasphemy. It would have been possible, for example, to say Big Brother is ungood. But this statement, which to an orthodox ear merely conveyed a self-evident absurdity, could not have been sustained by reasoned argument, because the necessary words were not available. Ideas inimical to Ingsoc could only be entertained in a vague wordless form, and could only be named in very broad terms which lumped together and condemned whole groups of heresies without defining them in doing so.
George Orwell, ‘The Principles of Newspeak’, the appendix to his ’1984′ (1949)
So, we hear the song, and it does this physiological thing, and this psychological thing, and first thing ya know you're downloading her work, because you want to repeat that event that --you don't have any words for.
Because there really aren't any, other than as GO (hey, some initials) observes, the crudest descriptions of the base level of it.((*))
We are stuck with describing such music and song as we build a meal on a cafeteria tray --a dish of sad, sprinkle of bittersweet, cupful of evocative, dessert of beautiful, angelic, that girl has an outstanding voice, etcetera.
But none of that really gets there, does it?
But that (above) literal/figurative joke about the drink holds a key to the missing-words mystery, and a nice Easter thought about us humans' intrinsic nature. That, such music, such that makes that indescribable effect on us, is figuratively about an individual's love and loss and sadness and joy and all that, but deeper down it's not 'about' love but --literally --love itself we're hearing/feeling.
Not simple love for our love objects but love for life, for the whole ball-o-wax universe and its time and space, and for all the way back to from whence we came and forward on to where ever we are going.((**))
It's literally the sound of eternity --the song of the maiden, the mother-to-be, who will give to the future our (insert rolling r) darrrlin' human race, ever intrepid and ever hopeful, ever striving to admonish ''get thee behind me, Satan''.
((*)) For my part, when I enter most intimately into what I call myself, I always stumble on some particular perception or other, of heat or cold, light or shade, love or hatred, pain or pleasure. I never can catch myself at any time without a perception, and never can observe any thing but the perception.
--David Hume, A Treatise of Human Nature
(a Celtic take, not to say Gnostic, if there was ever one)
(voice over, Robert Duvall, at the end of the clip, which [i should explain, you'll see why] opens with a gang of slavers, vile torturers and rapists who have kidnapped a female Chinese immigrant come-to-the-promised-land family, getting their come uppance from the heros)
Duvall's elegy, over the closing scene:
We're all travelers in this world ... From the sweet grass to the packin' house ... birth 'til death ... we travel between the eternities.
If BD cans 2 of 3...you must have overloaded him this volley! Here's a "wee ditty" you might like written by a Canuck: