Based in Berlin, Germany, the 17 Hippies started off in 1995 as a trio playing the otherwise unlikely mix of Cajun and Baroque music. Gradually, they expanded their line-up and eventually ended up as an orchestra consisting of twenty, sometimes even thirty musicians. Coming from different backgrounds like rock, jazz and classical music, the band members assimilated virtually any musical style available and blended all of this into their own unique sound. Thus, they feel equally at home whether playing at boisterous wedding parties or in the chamber music room. Appearances at the renown SXSW festival in Austin, Texas in 1998 or the simultaneous release of CDs in French, German and Italian in the respective countries in 1999 all contributed to the growing global reputation of this ensemble of world citizens. The band also pursued other projects such as the release of a book of music for children (1999) and the soundtrack for the Andreas Dresen movie Halbe Treppe (English title: Grillpoint) (2002) which won a prize at the 2002 Berlinale, the renown Berlin film festival, and is one of the highlights of post-reunification German cinema.
Reversiones de conocidos que fueron interpretados tambien por gente como Baglietto
Although not considered one of Peter Hammill's best by longtime fans, 1988's In a Foreign Town does contain some worthwhile material. Produced by Hammill himself, the album is far more upbeat than most of his past work, and sounds like mid-'80s Genesis at times. But it may be one of Hammill's most musically varied albums; just give a listen to the new wave sound of "Invisible Ink" (one of the album's catchiest and strongest tracks), the Talking Heads-like "Sci-Finance (Revisited)," and the Adrian Belew/King Crimson sound of "Auto." But the anemic '80s production of the material tends to take away from the compositions; it's the complete opposite of earlier Hammill releases, where he kept things more straight-ahead. The song "Under Cover Names" contains completely un-Hammill-like, cheesy Miami Vice keyboard sounds. The only track where the Peter Hammill-of-old resurfaces is on the stark piano/voice composition "The Play's the Thing." If the one-dimensional production was replaced with more interesting sounds, In a Foreign Town would have turned out better, since there was still plenty of strong Hammill songwriting present.
I am human. I breathe filth and contamination. Phyisical greed spills out of my oil choked pores (razor scraped raw skin red) and suffocates reason (because I allow it to {for just one touch, for just another, just one more}) for satisfaction (is being addicted, is eating broken glass). A need to justify denying reproduction. Stimulation. Release. Lies. Betrayal. Abandonment. Stimulation. Release. Lies. Betrayal. AbandonmentStimulationReleaseLies. Enough. No more. Sickmachine. Malfunction-Pathetic. Delusion. Insecure. What do you want from me? Am I pretty? (stained-rag-stitch-cloth-painted-face-cracked-{rot}). obsessed with being beautiful. With feeling appreciated. needed. wanted. understood. loved. Human filth. We need nothing. We want everything. There is no basic necessity. We are unecessary. I am disease. Contagen incarnated. Consume. breathe sleep, breed and eat and breathe and sleep.., breed. needmachine. Consume. Spawnwaste. Hate down to chemical screaming instinct. Heartpoundchestplate. I am spineless. Ameboa. This is damnation. Hell is animal yearning. Constant. Tearing at the mind. Degradation. Don't touch me. (It's only natural afterall). I am made of lies. Selfdeceptionloathing deprivation. Not of sound mind and body. Touch me. Please don't touch me again. Kill my senses. No sighthearsmelltastetouch again. Don't make me cut it and burn it away. This is addiction. I am junksick. Fuck your drugs. I need an overdose. now. need. againagainagain. Never. Again. Always. Sick with need. Always. -not- beautiful. I refuse this programming with vehement failure consistant as digital transmissions (like it matters). I am thoughtless, algorithmic. There is nothing left. My mind is (echos of what once could have been). animalsurvivalmachine. beast. I am tired of pretending. Dig fingers beneath my skin. Coercion. Tear it out of me while I scream behind smiles. Love. (laughter) Love. Remove the thousand masks. We are damagemachines.
This soundtrack to the Talking Heads film True Stories was the second release in a planned trilogy, the last of which -- the film's actors covering the Talking Heads songs from the album -- never surfaced. Fortunately, this second volume did, a selection of background music and non-David Byrne tunes written for the film. Of the Byrne-penned selections, only a few borrow from Heads songs, and the original compositions, perched somewhere between Penguin Cafe Orchestra and a general Americana feel, are pleasant. Meredith Monk's "Road Song" does Byrne one better in this department, and Carl Finch's incredibly silly "Mall Muzak" suite pokes cockeyed fun. The only proper songs here are Terry Allen's "Cocktail Desperado" and Steve Jordan's Tex-Mex "Soy de Texas," both romping good fun.
The world of pop music was hardly ready for The Velvet Underground's first album when it appeared in the spring of 1967, but while The Velvet Underground and Nico sounded like an open challenge to conventional notions of what rock music could sound like (or what it could discuss), 1968's White Light/White Heat was a no-holds-barred frontal assault on cultural and aesthetic propriety. Recorded without the input of either Nico or Andy Warhol, White Light/White Heat was the purest and rawest document of the key Velvets lineup of Lou Reed, John Cale, Sterling Morrison, and Maureen Tucker, capturing the group at their toughest and most abrasive. The album opens with an open and enthusiastic endorsement of amphetamines (startling even from this group of noted drug enthusiasts), and side one continues with an amusing shaggy-dog story set to a slab of lurching mutant R&B ("The Gift"), a perverse variation on an old folktale ("Lady Godiva's Operation"), and the album's sole "pretty" song, the mildly disquieting "Here She Comes Now." While side one was a good bit darker in tone than the Velvets' first album, side two was where they truly threw down the gauntlet with the manic, free-jazz implosion of "I Heard Her Call My Name" (featuring Reed's guitar work at its most gloriously fractured), and the epic noise jam "Sister Ray," 17 minutes of sex, drugs, violence, and other non-wholesome fun with the loudest rock group in the history of Western Civilization as the house band. White Light/White Heat is easily the least accessible of The Velvet Underground's studio albums, but anyone wanting to hear their guitar-mauling tribal frenzy straight with no chaser will love it, and those benighted souls who think of the Velvets as some sort of folk-rock band are advised to crank their stereo up to ten and give side two a spin.