“You don’t necessarily have to write to be a poet. Some people work in gas stations and they’re poets. I don’t call myself a poet, because I don’t like the word. I’m a trapeze artist.”—Bob Dylan (via fuckyeahbobdylan)
I’m reviewing the latest album by these guys soon. This is the only song of theirs I’ve heard, and it’s like nothing else I’ve heard before. I’m excited, but also scared that I won’t know what to make of it. Here, try some weirdness: Teddybears, “Cho Cha” (feat. Cee-Lo & B52s).
People smoking on bicycles, people smoking and sauntering onto tennis courts. Dirty coattails of a thought dragging through my mind. Another day sick at work, hopefully the last; mucinex and cough syrup, cough drops, the a-bomb. Scorching outside: when you look at the clouds, they seem to be backing away.
“But when Billie Holiday sang “Strange Fruit,” the walls of censorship and fear came down. She sang it with her eyes closed, and the grace of her voice, born to sing that very song, turned it into a hymn. From then on, every black man lynched became more than a strange fruit swinging from a tree, rotting in the sun.
who at age fourteen achieved the miracle of rapt attention in the whorehouses of Harlem where she sang for her supper,
who hid a jackknife in her stocking,
who did not know how to defend herself from the beatings of her lovers and husbands,
who lived a prisoner of drugs and jail,
whose body was a map of needle pricks and scars,
who always sang like never before.”
—Most of “Black Voice,” in Eduardo Galeano’s book Mirrors: Stories of Almost Everyone