Zic unii ca acesta ar fi cel mai frumos cantec brazilian. Eu as largi aria geografica. Dar oricum e foarte greu sa pui vreun anume cantec in top, cand s-a scris atat de multa muzica buna. E clar ca e unul din cantecele care imi dau motive sa traiesc, care ma fac sa trec peste lucrurile urate din viata, sau ca sa folosesc parte din textul cantecului, mi-aduc bucuria in suflet .
Antonio Carlos Jobim a fost un muzician de geniu. Bossanova (noul val) i-o datoram in mare parte. Mai mult decat atat, a dus-o in jazz sau jazzul l-a adus in bossanova, nici nu stiu cum e mai bine spus. Ce a iesit e ceva fara de care nu se poate concepe muzica.
Aici, Elis Regina da o lectie de simplitate, naturalete, profesionalism. Nimic fortat, nimic sclifosit, fara triluri si vibrato. Talent pur. Pare simplu sa canti asa, dar de fapt, e teribil de complicat.
A stick, a stone, it’s the end of the road It’s the rest of a stump, it’s a little alone It’s a sliver of glass, it is life, it’s the sun It is night, it is death, it’s a trap, it’s a gun
The oak when it blooms, a fox in the brush A knot in the wood, the song of a thrush The wood of the wind, a cliff, a fall A scratch, a lump, it is nothing at all
It’s the wind blowing free, it’s the end of the slope It’s a beam, it’s a void, it’s a hunch, it’s a hope And the river bank talks of the waters of March It’s the end of the strain, it’s the joy in your heart The foot, the ground, the flesh and the bone The beat of the road, a slingshot’s stone A fish, a flash, a silvery glowA fight, a bet, the flange of a bow
The bed of the well, the end of the line The dismay in the face, it’s a loss, it’s a find A spear, a spike, a point, a nail A drip, a drop, the end of the tale
A truckload of bricks in the soft morning light The sound of a shot in the dead of the night A mile, a must, a thrust, a bump, It’s a girl, it’s a rhyme, it’s a cold, it’s the mumps
The plan of the house, the body in bed And the car that got stuck, it’s the mud, it’s the mud A float, a drift, a flight, a wing A hank, a quail, the promise of spring And the river bank talks of the waters of March It’s the promise of life, it’s the joy in your heart A snake, a stick, it is John, it is Joe It’s a thorn on your hand and a cut in your toe A point, a grain, a bee, a bite A blink, a buzzard, a sudden stroke of night pin, a needle, a sting, a pain A snail, a riddle, a wasp or a stain A pass in the mountains, a horse and a mule In the distance the shelves rode three shadows of blue And the river bank talks of the waters of March It’s the promise of life in your heart, in your heart A stick, a stone, the end of the road The rest of a stump, a lonesome road A sliver of glass, a life, the sun A knife, a death, the end of the run And the river bank talks of the waters of March It’s the end of all strain, it’s the joy in your heart
Sursă foto: stock.xchng.