onsdag 4 september 2013

Det finns en väg ut

På mysteriska vägar tände han ett hopp, ett motstånd, inne i den förtryckande klassens egna förtryckta. Som inte längre kunde andas under apartheid.

There is another way
Det finns en väg ut. Searching for Sugar Man lever kvar i mig. Såg den på nytt i natt.

Det dramatiska slutet på en ickekarriär, så lät myten: Om hur Rodriguez tände eld på sig själv på scen, under konserten, den sista.

I filmen klipps kommentarer in, hängande som fisktärnan, på väg, känslig för rörelserna i de lägsta skikten: Konstnären är en pionjär. Han vann aldrig något val, men ville ge röst åt dem saknade röst. Street Boy - Sweet Boy.

På alla ställen jag har spelat är människor som människor är. Kanske känner du igen någon av dem, säger Jesus Sixto Rodriguez.

Pappa gjorde konsten tillgänglig för oss, säger dottern. I Detroit daglönaren med hårdaste kroppsarbete. I Sydafrika en ikon, en spjutspets mot apartheid.

Han kröp upp i soffan, ville inte knöla till lakanen i King Size-bädden, så att andra skulle behöva bädda efter honom.

- Tack för att ni hållit mig vid liv, var hans första kommentar, på den fullsatta arenan i Cape Town. Från att ha varit utstött, till att bli den han var! Sa folk. Det var som om han hittat hem.

Vi drömmer om ett högre jag. Och historien om Rodriguez verkar vara för verklig för att vara sann. Han bevarade sin mystik.

Man of mystery. Han har visat att människan har ett val.

Han representerar en "human spirit".



Här några av sångerna:

The Establishment's Blues

You get something going.
Giving substance to your shadows
The mayor hides the crime rate
council woman hesitates

Public gets irate but forget the vote date
Weatherman complaining, predicted sun, it's raining
Everyone's protesting, boyfriend keeps suggesting
you're not like all of the rest.

Garbage ain't collected, women ain't protected
Politicians using people, they've been abusing
The mafia's getting bigger, like pollution in the river
And you tell me that this is where it's at.

Woke up this moming with an ache in my head
Splashed on my clothes as I spilled out of bed
Opened the window to listen to the news
But all I heard was the Establishment's Blues.

Gun sales are soaring, housewives find life boring
Divorce the only answer smoking causes cancer
This system's gonna fall soon, to an angry young tune
And that's a concrete cold fact.

The pope digs population, freedom from taxation
Teeny Bops are up tight, drinking at a stoplight
Miniskirt is flirting I can't stop so I'm hurting
Spinster sells her hopeless chest.

Adultery plays the kitchen, bigot cops non-fiction
The little man gets shafted, sons and monies drafted
Living by a time piece, new war in the far east.
Can you pass the Rorschach test?


Inner City Blues

It's a hassle is an educated guess.
Well, frankly I couldn't care less.

Going down a dirty inner city side road
I plotted
Madness passed me by, she smiled hi
I nodded
Looked up as the sky began to cry
She shot it.

Met a girl from Dearborn, early six o'clock this morn
A cold fact
Asked about her bag, suburbia's such a drag
Won't go back
'Cos Papa don't allow no new ideas here
And now he sees the news, but the picture's not too clear.

Mama, Papa, stop
Treasure what you got
Soon you may be caught
Without it
The curfew's set for eight
Will it ever all be straight
I doubt it.

7 jealous fools playing by her rules
Can't believe her
He feels so in between, can't break the scene
It would grieve her
And that's the reason why he must cry
He'll never leave her.

Crooked children, yellow chalk
writing on the concrete walk
Their King died
Drinking from a Judas cup,
looking down but seeing up
Sweet red wine
'Cos Papa don't allow no new ideas here
And now you hear the music
but the words don't sound too clear.

Mama, Papa, stop
Treasure what you got
Soon you may be caught
Without it
The curfew's set for eight
Will it ever all be straight
I doubt it.

Going down a dusty, Georgian side road
I wonder
The wind splashed in my face
can smell a trace
Of thunder

Rich Folks Hoax

The moon is hanging in the purple sky
The baby's sleeping while its mother sighs
Talking 'bout the rich folks
Rich folks have the same jokes
And they park in basic places.

The priest is preaching from a shallow grave
He counts his money, then he paints you saved
Talking to the young folks
Young folks share the same jokes
But they meet in older places.

So don't tell me about your success
Nor your recipes for my happiness
Smoke in bed
I never could digest
Those illusions you claim to have going.

The sun is shining, as it's always done
Coffin dust is the fate of everyone
Talking 'bout the rich folks
The poor create the rich hoax
And only late breast-fed fools believe it.

So don't tell me about your success
Nor your recipes for my happiness
Smoke in bed
I never could digest
Those illusions you claim to have going.


Crucify Your Mind

Was it a huntsman or a player
That made you pay the cost
That now assumes relaxed positions
And prostitutes your loss?
Were you tortured by your own thirst
In those pleasures that you seek
That made you Tom the curious
That makes you James the weak?

And you claim you got something going
Something you call unique
But I've seen your self-pity showing
As the tears rolled down your cheeks

Soon you know I'll leave you
And I'll never look behind
'Cos I was born for the purpose
That crucifies your mind
So con, convince your mirror
As you've always done before
Giving substance to shadows
Giving substance ever more

And you assume you got something to offer
Secrets shiny and new
But how much of you is repetition
That you didn't whisper to him too


Street Boy

Street boy
You've been out too long
Street boy
Ain't you got enough sense to go home
Street boy
You're gonna end up alone
You need some love and understanding
Not that dead-end life you're planning
Street boy

You go home but you can't stay
Because something's always pulling you away
Your fast hellos and quick goodbyes
You're just a street boy
With the streetlights in your eyes
You better get yourself together
Look for something better

Street boy
You've been out too long
Street boy
Ain't you got enough sense to go home
Street boy
You're gonna end up alone
You need some love and understanding
Not that dead-end life you're planning
Street boy

Your sister says that every week
You just come home to eat and go to sleep
And you make plans you never keep
Because your mind is always in the streets
You better get yourself together
Look for something better

Street boy
You've been out too long
Street boy
Ain't you got enough sense to go home
Street boy
You're gonna end up alone
You need some love and understanding
Not that dead-end life you're planning
Street boy

There's one last word then I'll conclude
Before you pick up and put on your attitude
Bet you'll never find or ever meet
Any street boy who's ever beat the streets

Street boy
Street boy
Street boy
Street boy
Street boy
Street boy

Sweet boy





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