My mum and I have an incredible friendship now after a mixture of pain, honesty, unconditional love and a long break from each other
P!nkThe music had ceased. Alex walked over to the gramophone, wound it up again, and put on more blues, a woman singing this time, gay and sad at once, like a stranded angel who had traded holiness for humanity but remembered what it used to be like to know God.
Barbara HamblyTag: music singing blues singer fallen-angel
YOLO = you only live once - *warning not to be over used*
DrakeFans are what make a performer and I've always taken them seriously.
Charley PrideTag: music frank black pride singer charley
You've got to kiss an Angel good morning.
Charlie PrideTag: music-lyrics singer
I didn't do music to live; I lived so that I could do music.
Charlotte ErikssonTag: life music artist musician songwriting singer songwriter
Anyway, she sings like a mad tropical bird, and it's just a fondue of molten wanting and grieving and the sadness of the large naked swinging breasts and soft olive skin and everything that you wish you could remember and feel and know.
Nicholson BakerTag: latin brazil singer bachianas-brasileiras saudades victoria-de-los-angeles
I care so much about making things that are useful for people to have and listen to, but I don't care so much that I won't do whatever the hell I want. It's just one of those things.
Regina SpektorTag: useful singer song-writing helping-people
I was born very far from where I'm supposed to be, and so I'm on my way home.
Bob DylanTag: interview bob-dylan singer archive-footage
The other evening, in that cafe-cabaret in the Rue de la Fontaine, where I had run aground with Tramsel and Jocard, who had taken me there to see that supposedly-fashionable singer... how could they fail to see that she was nothing but a corpse?
Yes, beneath the sumptuous and heavy ballgown, which swaddled her and held her upright like a sentry-box of pink velvet trimmed and embroidered with gold - a coffin befitting the queen of Spain - there was a corpse! But the others, amused by her wan voice and her emaciated frame, found her quaint - more than that, quite 'droll'...
Droll! that drab, soft and inconsistent epithet that everyone uses nowadays! The woman had, to be sure, a tiny carven head, and a kind of macabre prettiness within the furry heap of her opera-cloak. They studied her minutely, interested by the romance of her story: a petite bourgeoise thrown into the high life following the fad which had caught her up - and neither of them, nor anyone else besides in the whole of that room, had perceived what was immediately evident to my eyes. Placed flat on the white satin of her dress, the two hands of that singer were the two hands of a skeleton: two sets of knuckle-bones gloved in white suede. They might have been drawn by Albrecht
Durer: the ten fingers of an evil dead woman, fitted at the ends of the two overlong and excessively thin arms of a mannequin...
And while that room convulsed with laughter and thrilled with pleasure, greeting her buffoonery and her animal cries with a dolorous ovation, I became convinced that her hands no more belonged to her body than her body, with its excessively high shoulders, belonged to her head...
The conviction filled me with such fear and sickness that I did not hear the singing of a living woman, but of some automaton pieced together from disparate odds and ends - or perhaps even worse, some dead woman hastily reconstructed from hospital remains: the macabre fantasy of some medical student, dreamed up on the benches of the lecture-hall... and that evening began, like some tale of Hoffmann, to turn into a vision of the lunatic asylum.
Oh, how that Olympia of the concert-hall has hastened the progress of my malady!
Tag: decadence corpse singer decadent decadents droll mannequin e-t-a-hoffmann albrecht-durer
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