2009年05月20日

Barnahunt

サックスの春名正治さんのバンド、「BARNAHUNT」= バルナハント、
春名バンドの濁点移動な名前のバンドですが、
先月高円寺のJIROKICHIでライブがありまして、
ギターで参加の松原正樹さんの奥様と共にそれ、撮影したんです。
しかしながら、ライブ前に近所の中華料理屋でその奥様とふたり、
生ビールに引き続きしっかり紹興酒をひと瓶飲んじゃいまして、
二人ともカメラが揺れるどころか、アタシなんか演奏で気持ちよくなっちゃって
意識を保つのが大変、という「あるまじき」状態での撮影になっちゃいまして。
そんな素材(プラス固定カメラ1台、Thanx よし君)ではありますが、
なんとか2曲分、編集しまして、YouTubeに公開しました。

個人的に特筆モノなのは……
そのライブ、松原さんの機材で16トラックのマルチ録音をしたんですが、
その録音素材を借りてきまして、ミキシングをしましたのも……
実はアタシなんです〜〜! プロの、それもこんな凄い人たちの録音物を
混ぜるなんて……もちろん初めて。そして、なんたる光栄!
まあそんなわけで2曲の音のニュアンスも若干違うでしょうし、
ロック親父の甚だミッチリなMIXではありますが、ただ、演奏は凄いす!
是非お手すきの時にご覧いただければと思いまするーー

1曲目……Opening
春名さんの強烈なソロと、エンディング付近のドラム成田さん!
成田さん、オーバー還暦だそうです。ホントにこういうオジサンになりたいです。
フロアタムがもの凄い音で録れてて痺れました。

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SVAmjIbhqns

2曲目……Mars Attack
これはもう松原さんの火を噴くようなソロです!!
曲のほぼ真ん中からラストまでずーっとソロです!
こういう感じの松原さんのソロって……結構レアなのでは、と思います。
ウッチー、ワウってさ、達人ならこう使えるわけだよー……

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1eTZ3kl3i74
posted by nurhati at 03:10| Comment(1) | TrackBack(0) | 日記 | このブログの読者になる | 更新情報をチェックする

LIVE 13

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 ライブ第13回、やりますです!!
=============================

ホントに前回から時間が経ってしまいましたがやっと!、
来たる6月6日の土曜日、第13回のライブ、開催させていただきます。
インフルエンザの流行具合も心配ですが……
ウズベキスタン戦もありますが……
(アウェイなので終わってすぐお帰りになれば後半は見られると思いますのでー)
何はともあれ、やっちゃいます!

今回は開場後すぐにフロントアクトとして、
「花見川まさひろ&東京ウエストサイド」というバンドが出演してくれます。
昔懐かしいカバーを何曲か。畏れ多くも先輩の皆さんに場をあっためていただきます。
というわけで、ほかのお店で一杯二杯、勢いつけてからランタンへ、という方も
毎回多いようなんですが、今回は是非、開場に合わせてお越しいただけますれば、と思います。
19時半ごろ登場予定。

我々BEEFは今回、新曲は4曲ほど。只今煮詰めております。
うち1曲はちょっとスペシャル……に聞こえるといいなあ、と頑張ってます。
聴く側の体力も考えろ、と怒られたこともあるんですが、今回もミッチリな感じで……。
でも、かつてのパワーで押しまくりの内山から、最近はちょっと変わってきたような気も。
その理由は当日【アンコール前に】(笑) 本人にお尋ねください。

えー、というようなわけでございまして、メンバー一同、
お待ちしております!


■□■ BEEF LIVE 13 ■□■□■□■□■
6月6日(土)19時開場・19時半スタート
井の頭線・神泉駅前「Lantern(ランタン・以下WEBご参照)」にて
http://lantern.web.infoseek.co.jp/
お代は 1,800円+オーダー
↓こちらにフライヤーの画像を準備してあります。地図も載っております。
http://homepage.mac.com/nurhati/LIVE13/Layout4_sml.jpg
□■□■□■□■□■□■□■□■□■□
posted by nurhati at 01:34| Comment(1) | TrackBack(0) | 日記 | このブログの読者になる | 更新情報をチェックする

2009年02月22日

EGG

たまには英語の勉強でも……

Good evening. I have come to Jerusalem today as a novelist, which is to say as a professional spinner of lies.

Of course, novelists are not the only ones who tell lies. Politicians do it, too, as we all know. Diplomats and military men tell their own kinds of lies on occasion, as do used car salesmen, butchers and builders. The lies of novelists differ from others, however, in that no one criticizes the novelist as immoral for telling them. Indeed, the bigger and better his lies and the more ingeniously he creates them, the more he is likely to be praised by the public and the critics. Why should that be?

My answer would be this: Namely, that by telling skillful lies - which is to say, by making up fictions that appear to be true - the novelist can bring a truth out to a new location and shine a new light on it. In most cases, it is virtually impossible to grasp a truth in its original form and depict it accurately. This is why we try to grab its tail by luring the truth from its hiding place, transferring it to a fictional location, and replacing it with a fictional form. In order to accomplish this, however, we first have to clarify where the truth lies within us. This is an important qualification for making up good lies.

Today, however, I have no intention of lying. I will try to be as honest as I can. There are a few days in the year when I do not engage in telling lies, and today happens to be one of them.

So let me tell you the truth. A fair number of people advised me not to come here to accept the Jerusalem Prize. Some even warned me they would instigate a boycott of my books if I came.

The reason for this, of course, was the fierce battle that was raging in Gaza. The UN reported that more than a thousand people had lost their lives in the blockaded Gaza City, many of them unarmed citizens - children and old people.

Any number of times after receiving notice of the award, I asked myself whether traveling to Israel at a time like this and accepting a literary prize was the proper thing to do, whether this would create the impression that I supported one side in the conflict, that I endorsed the policies of a nation that chose to unleash its overwhelming military power. This is an impression, of course, that I would not wish to give. I do not approve of any war, and I do not support any nation. Neither, of course, do I wish to see my books subjected to a boycott.

Finally, however, after careful consideration, I made up my mind to come here. One reason for my decision was that all too many people advised me not to do it. Perhaps, like many other novelists, I tend to do the exact opposite of what I am told. If people are telling me - and especially if they are warning me - "don't go there," "don't do that," I tend to want to "go there" and "do that." It's in my nature, you might say, as a novelist. Novelists are a special breed. They cannot genuinely trust anything they have not seen with their own eyes or touched with their own hands.

And that is why I am here. I chose to come here rather than stay away. I chose to see for myself rather than not to see. I chose to speak to you rather than to say nothing.

This is not to say that I am here to deliver a political message. To make judgments about right and wrong is one of the novelist's most important duties, of course.

It is left to each writer, however, to decide upon the form in which he or she will convey those judgments to others. I myself prefer to transform them into stories - stories that tend toward the surreal. Which is why I do not intend to stand before you today delivering a direct political message.

Please do, however, allow me to deliver one very personal message. It is something that I always keep in mind while I am writing fiction. I have never gone so far as to write it on a piece of paper and paste it to the wall: Rather, it is carved into the wall of my mind, and it goes something like this:

"Between a high, solid wall and an egg that breaks against it, I will always stand on the side of the egg."

Yes, no matter how right the wall may be and how wrong the egg, I will stand with the egg. Someone else will have to decide what is right and what is wrong; perhaps time or history will decide. If there were a novelist who, for whatever reason, wrote works standing with the wall, of what value would such works be?

What is the meaning of this metaphor? In some cases, it is all too simple and clear. Bombers and tanks and rockets and white phosphorus shells are that high, solid wall. The eggs are the unarmed civilians who are crushed and burned and shot by them. This is one meaning of the metaphor.

This is not all, though. It carries a deeper meaning. Think of it this way. Each of us is, more or less, an egg. Each of us is a unique, irreplaceable soul enclosed in a fragile shell. This is true of me, and it is true of each of you. And each of us, to a greater or lesser degree, is confronting a high, solid wall. The wall has a name: It is The System. The System is supposed to protect us, but sometimes it takes on a life of its own, and then it begins to kill us and cause us to kill others - coldly, efficiently, systematically.

I have only one reason to write novels, and that is to bring the dignity of the individual soul to the surface and shine a light upon it. The purpose of a story is to sound an alarm, to keep a light trained on The System in order to prevent it from tangling our souls in its web and demeaning them. I fully believe it is the novelist's job to keep trying to clarify the uniqueness of each individual soul by writing stories - stories of life and death, stories of love, stories that make people cry and quake with fear and shake with laughter. This is why we go on, day after day, concocting fictions with utter seriousness.

My father died last year at the age of 90. He was a retired teacher and a part-time Buddhist priest. When he was in graduate school, he was drafted into the army and sent to fight in China. As a child born after the war, I used to see him every morning before breakfast offering up long, deeply-felt prayers at the Buddhist altar in our house. One time I asked him why he did this, and he told me he was praying for the people who had died in the war.

He was praying for all the people who died, he said, both ally and enemy alike. Staring at his back as he knelt at the altar, I seemed to feel the shadow of death hovering around him.

My father died, and with him he took his memories, memories that I can never know. But the presence of death that lurked about him remains in my own memory. It is one of the few things I carry on from him, and one of the most important.

I have only one thing I hope to convey to you today. We are all human beings, individuals transcending nationality and race and religion, fragile eggs faced with a solid wall called The System. To all appearances, we have no hope of winning. The wall is too high, too strong - and too cold. If we have any hope of victory at all, it will have to come from our believing in the utter uniqueness and irreplaceability of our own and others' souls and from the warmth we gain by joining souls together.

Take a moment to think about this. Each of us possesses a tangible, living soul. The System has no such thing. We must not allow The System to exploit us. We must not allow The System to take on a life of its own. The System did not make us: We made The System.

That is all I have to say to you.

I am grateful to have been awarded the Jerusalem Prize. I am grateful that my books are being read by people in many parts of the world. And I am glad to have had the opportunity to speak to you here today.
(from http://www.haaretz.com/)

===================================

僕の様な年式・経歴では大多数の人が何かしら経験している筈のもので
僕には完全に欠落しているものがいくつかありまして。
The Whoを聴いてない、Godfatherを1本も見てない、等々。
氏の小説もそのひとつでした。

どういうものを書く人なのか、読んでみようかな。
とりあえず1冊手に取ってみるなら何がいいでしょうか吉岡さん。

(ちなみに日本語訳は例えばここに。)
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