Night: her sable dome scattered with diamonds,
Fused my dust from a light year,
Squeezed me to her breast, sowed me with carbon,
Strung my warp across time
Gave me each a horse, sunrise and graveyard,
Told me only I was her;
Bid me face the east closed me in questions
Built the sky for my dawn...
Cleaned my feet of mud, followed the empty
Zebra ride to the Cirkus,
Past a painted cage, spoke to the paybox
Glove which wrote on my tongue-
Pushed me down a slide to the arena,
Megaphonium fanfare.
In his cloak of words strode the ringmaster
Bid me join the parade...
"Worship!" cried the clown, "I am a T.I.
Making bandsmen go clockwork,
See the slinky seal Cirkus policeman;
Bareback ladies have fish."
Strongmen by his feet, plate-spinning statesman,
Acrobatically juggling-
Bids his tamers go quiet the tumblers
Lest the mirror stop turning...
Elephants forgot, force-fed on stale chalk,
Ate the floors of their cages.
Strongmen lost their hair, paybox collapsed and
Lions sharpened their teeth.
Gloves raced round the ring, stallions stampeded
Pandemonium seesaw...
I ran for the door, ringmasters shouted,
"All the fun of the Cirkus!"
Fused my dust from a light year,
Squeezed me to her breast, sowed me with carbon,
Strung my warp across time
Gave me each a horse, sunrise and graveyard,
Told me only I was her;
Bid me face the east closed me in questions
Built the sky for my dawn...
Cleaned my feet of mud, followed the empty
Zebra ride to the Cirkus,
Past a painted cage, spoke to the paybox
Glove which wrote on my tongue-
Pushed me down a slide to the arena,
Megaphonium fanfare.
In his cloak of words strode the ringmaster
Bid me join the parade...
"Worship!" cried the clown, "I am a T.I.
Making bandsmen go clockwork,
See the slinky seal Cirkus policeman;
Bareback ladies have fish."
Strongmen by his feet, plate-spinning statesman,
Acrobatically juggling-
Bids his tamers go quiet the tumblers
Lest the mirror stop turning...
Elephants forgot, force-fed on stale chalk,
Ate the floors of their cages.
Strongmen lost their hair, paybox collapsed and
Lions sharpened their teeth.
Gloves raced round the ring, stallions stampeded
Pandemonium seesaw...
I ran for the door, ringmasters shouted,
"All the fun of the Cirkus!"
Le premier morceau de Lizard (1970), qui doit être le troisième album de King Crimson ; King Crimson a souvent réussi de redoutables entames, voir aussi "21st century schizoid man" qui ouvre In the court of King Crimson (1969) :
Sur Lizard, on peut entendre Keith Tippett, un monument du free anglais ; évidemment, on peut aussi aller l'écouter dans ses oeuvres, par exemple son duo avec Louis Moholo, No Gossip, enregistré en public à Berlin en 1980 (disque SAJ 28, sorti en 1982) :
THE GUARDIAN
2nd July, 1982
2nd July, 1982
(Author unacknowledged)
Trills and Spills
Louis Moholo/Keith Tippett: No Gossip (Free Music Productions SAJ 28): A tense crowded set, recorded at the Berlin Free Music Workshop two years ago and featuring the regular partnership of West Country pianist Keith Tippett and the South African drummer Louis Moholo.
Considering that a good deal of recorded music leaves you with the impression that the cutting room floor wouldn’t have been harmed by a bit more debris, a session like this is almost unbearably compact. Featuring four themes, seamlessly fused to collective improvising, the encounter begins with a waterfall of treble trills over tight, flickering percussion - notes flying and bouncing like droplets in sunlight. The drumming is typical Moholo, an approaching steady tattoo of fierce intensity that swirls toward you like a typhoon. He keeps that up for the first 15 minutes, before Tippett settles into some rippling rhapsodic passages that roll and ebb like a free Keith Jarrett. Tippett’s playing is so percussive, and Moholo’s drumming so melodic that the two couldn’t be better matched.
And though the pianist resorts once to the Indian war-chanting that was so disconcerting on the opening Company concert at the ICA this week, it’s mercifully brief.
Considering that a good deal of recorded music leaves you with the impression that the cutting room floor wouldn’t have been harmed by a bit more debris, a session like this is almost unbearably compact. Featuring four themes, seamlessly fused to collective improvising, the encounter begins with a waterfall of treble trills over tight, flickering percussion - notes flying and bouncing like droplets in sunlight. The drumming is typical Moholo, an approaching steady tattoo of fierce intensity that swirls toward you like a typhoon. He keeps that up for the first 15 minutes, before Tippett settles into some rippling rhapsodic passages that roll and ebb like a free Keith Jarrett. Tippett’s playing is so percussive, and Moholo’s drumming so melodic that the two couldn’t be better matched.
And though the pianist resorts once to the Indian war-chanting that was so disconcerting on the opening Company concert at the ICA this week, it’s mercifully brief.
