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The Harbeth User Group is the primary channel for public communication with Harbeth's HQ. If you have a 'scientific mind' and are curious about how the ear works, how it can lead us to make the right - and wrong - audio equipment decisions, and about the technical ins and outs of audio equipment, how it's designed and what choices the designer makes, then the factual Science of Audio sub-forum area of HUG is your place. The objective methods of comparing audio equipment under controlled conditions has been thoroughly examined here on HUG and elsewhere and should be accessible to non-experts and able to be tried-out at home without deep technical knowledge. From a design perspective, today's award winning Harbeths could not have been designed any other way.

Alternatively, if you just like chatting about audio and subjectivity rules for you, then the Subjective Soundings area is you. If you are quite set in your subjectivity, then HUG is likely to be a bit too fact based for you, as many of the contributors have maximised their pleasure in home music reproduction by allowing their head to rule their heart. If upon examination we think that Posts are better suited to one sub-forum than than the other, they will be redirected during Moderation, which is applied throughout the site.

Questions and Posts about, for example, 'does amplifier A sounds better than amplifier B' or 'which speaker stands or cables are best' are suitable for the Subjective Soundings area only, although HUG is really not the best place to have these sort of purely subjective airings.

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Robert "Nobel" Zimmerman and other notable events

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  • Robert "Nobel" Zimmerman and other notable events

    Congratulations to Robert Zimmerman for the announcement today of a Nobel Prize for Literature for his contribution to 20th Century Music. Well deserved. There must be some cool dudes hanging out in Oslo.

    Of no less significance, my little lad is - as I type - doing his first live session on Leeds Student Radio, entitled "Flamingo Blues". First two tracks, Primal Scream and The Rolling Stones. Well, he learnt something somewhere.

    Is it worth having a favourite lyrics tribute thread? Simple Twist of Fate (Blood on the Tracks) and With God on Our Side (The Times They Are A-Changing) might be a good start, but you look down the track listings (in the 60s anyway) and his genius was remarkably consistent. Except I never understood a word of Visions of Johanna (Blonde on Blonde) even after listening to it 5 times consecutively on a train going up north.

    Anyway, my little boy is now playing "Rainy Day Women" from Blonde on Blonde, not exactly poetic, but a simple message well delivered. What a hero ...

  • #2
    Long overdue!

    Congratulations Bob. Well deserved and long overdue.

    Comment


    • #3
      Dario Fo

      Originally posted by ssfas View Post
      Congratulations to Robert Zimmerman for the announcement today of a Nobel Prize for Literature for his contribution to 20th Century Music. Well deserved. There must be some cool dudes hanging out in Oslo.
      Also yesterday Dario Fo, 1997 Nobel prize for literature, passed away at 90. Just like Dylan, he was not a "regular"...

      Riposa in pace, sommo giullare.

      Comment


      • #4
        The times that are changing....

        The next years I am anticipating Nobel proposals for Joni Mitchell and Leonard Cohen, let's add Ian Curtis .....

        In antic times poems were sung, so poets - learn playing guitar! Otherwise no chances for you!

        Congrats to Bob from Duluth
        ATB

        Comment


        • #5
          Buzz-saw Bob

          I'm younger than you Dave and cannot understand what all the fuss is about... A song of his was played on Radio 2 yesterday, a lovely blend of acoustic guitars with backing band (I think it was a later track though) but this buzz-saw voice rising and falling like a siren, which spoiled what may have been good lyrics (I couldn't understand them).

          OK, I'm a philistine...

          Comment


          • #6
            Dylan & Albert Hall

            Originally posted by DSRANCE View Post
            I'm younger than you Dave and cannot understand what all the fuss is about... A song of his was played on Radio 2 yesterday, a lovely blend of acoustic guitars with backing band (I think it was a later track though) but this buzz-saw voice rising and falling like a siren, which spoiled what may have been good lyrics (I couldn't understand them).

            OK, I'm a philistine...
            I went to see Bob at the Albert Hall last year, when he was touring the Tempest album, his voice was completely shot.

            Sad to hear about Dario Fo. He had a period of popularity over here, I remember going to see some of his stuff in the 1980s. I suspect comedia dell'arte was considered at the time an antidote to Margaret Thatcher.

            Comment


            • #7
              Awkward Bugger Blues

              Originally posted by pkwba View Post
              The next years I am anticipating Nobel proposals for Joni Mitchell and Leonard Cohen, let's add Ian Curtis .....

              In antic times poems were sung, so poets - learn playing guitar! Otherwise no chances for you!

              Congrats to Bob from Duluth
              ATB
              Cynical, secretive, manipulative, difficult, contrary even, Dylan has borrowed and stole his way to immortality. More great lines than Shakespeare.

              Comment


              • #8
                Lyrics - first

                Originally posted by DSRANCE View Post
                I'm younger than you Dave and cannot understand what all the fuss is about... A song of his was played on Radio 2 yesterday, a lovely blend of acoustic guitars with backing band (I think it was a later track though) but this buzz-saw voice rising and falling like a siren, which spoiled what may have been good lyrics (I couldn't understand them).

                OK, I'm a philistine...
                Correct. I bought Dylan's first album when it came out in 1962 - one of the first things I purchased when I started work. I had a 'folky' friend who turned me on to Dylan and I had to visit a specialist shop in London because no one had even heard of Dylan.

                With Dylan it is, above all, the lyrics, followed by the tunes. If you want a pure voice, forget it. It's the 'soul' in his voice, the passion, the earnestness, the heartache, the cheeky twinkle when needed. If you want a sweet voice, then Opera is for you.

                Comment


                • #9
                  Slow train coming ....

                  Originally posted by jair44 View Post
                  Cynical, secretive, manipulative, difficult, contrary even, Dylan has borrowed and stole his way to immortality. More great lines than Shakespeare.
                  Oh my dear, I would be the last not to appreciate Dylan as a a great bard and commentator of our times. We grown up on his songs.

                  But here we touch more a bit more delicate question - isn't anybody else in American prose or poetry who deserves more attention of high jury as a representative of flowering, sparkling American writing art, which touches all the aspects of modern life at I'd say much more refined (sometimes stratospheric) level than writing songs. Americans have at least over hundred of poets who made very substantial input to world's culture in last century and now.

                  http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/count...can_poets.html

                  One of the latest songs of Dylan, which remained in my memory was "Slow train" (1979).

                  "...All that foreign oil controlling American soil
                  Look around you, it's just bound to make you embarrassed
                  Sheiks walking around like kings, wearing fancy jewels and nose rings
                  Deciding America's future from Amsterdam and to Paris
                  And there's slow, slow train coming up around the bend.

                  Man's ego is inflated, his laws are outdated, they don't apply no more
                  You can't rely no more to be standing around waiting
                  In the home of the brave, Jefferson turning over in his grave
                  Fools glorifying themselves, trying to manipulate Satan
                  And there's slow, slow train coming up around the bend.

                  Big-time negotiators, false healers and woman haters
                  Masters of the bluff and masters of the proposition
                  But the enemy I see wears a cloak of decency
                  All non-believers and men stealers talking in the name of religion
                  And there's slow, there's slow train coming up around the bend.

                  People starving and thirsting, grain elevators are bursting
                  Oh, you know it costs more to store the food than it do to give it
                  They say loose your inhibitions, follow your own ambitions
                  They talk about a life of brotherly love, show me someone who knows how to live it
                  There's slow, slow train coming up around the bend...."

                  Great text but smells somehow like cheap demagogy cultivated by populist politicians, surely it catches the brains and hearts of average citizens Smiths. And sells. In States sells very well, the best.
                  If American soil is controlled by sheiks it is disaster, but when American moguls are controlling elsewhere outside, everything's O.K.

                  I do even not dare to assess literary value of above lyrics, some in English language educated professional could do this.


                  Let's go to more humble examples of modern American poetry non-deserving deeper insight of high juries of great literary prizes:


                  M in a vicious world-to love virtue
                  A in a craven world-to have courage
                  R in a treacherous world-to prove loyal
                  I in a wavering world-to stand firm

                  A in a cruel world-to show mercy
                  N in a biased world-to act justly
                  N in a shameless world-to live nobly
                  E in a hateful world-to forgive

                  M in a venal world-to be honest
                  O in a heartless world-to be human
                  O in a killing world-to create
                  R in a sick world-to be whole

                  E in an epoch of UNself-to be ONEself

                  e.e.cummings "Marianne Moore (35)"

                  such a nothing meaning try of American writer ..., can we call him a poet ?


                  I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by
                  madness, starving hysterical naked,
                  dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn
                  looking for an angry fix,
                  angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly
                  connection to the starry dynamo in the machin-
                  ery of night,
                  who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat
                  up smoking in the supernatural darkness of
                  cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities
                  contemplating jazz,
                  who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and
                  saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tene-
                  ment roofs illuminated,
                  who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes
                  hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy
                  among the scholars of war,
                  who were expelled from the academies for crazy &
                  publishing obscene odes on the windows of the
                  skull,
                  who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burn-
                  ing their money in wastebaskets and listening
                  to the Terror through the wall,
                  who got busted in their pubic beards returning through
                  Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,
                  who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in
                  Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their
                  torsos night after night
                  with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, al-
                  cohol and cock and endless balls,
                  incomparable blind; streets of shuddering cloud and
                  lightning in the mind leaping toward poles of
                  Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the mo-
                  tionless world of Time between ...,

                  Allen Ginsberg "Howl" (fragment)
                  Who, tell me?
                  The text hits one's guts but is it to be the verse?


                  I look and look.
                  Looking’s a way of being: one becomes,
                  sometimes, a pair of eyes walking.
                  Walking wherever looking takes one.

                  The eyes
                  dig and burrow into the world.
                  They touch
                  fanfare, howl, madrigal, clamor.
                  World and the past of it,
                  not only
                  visible present, solid and shadow
                  that looks at one looking.

                  And language? Rhythms
                  of echo and interruption?
                  That’s
                  a way of breathing.

                  breathing to sustain
                  looking,
                  walking and looking,
                  through the world,
                  in it.

                  Denise Levertov – "Looking, Walking, Being"
                  Some ridiculous writing about tramping, isn't it?

                  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JDxgy48h45A


                  The back, the yoke, the yardage. Lapped seams,
                  The nearly invisible stitches along the collar
                  Turned in a sweatshop by Koreans or Malaysians

                  Gossiping over tea and noodles on their break
                  Or talking money or politics while one fitted
                  This armpiece with its overseam to the band

                  Of cuff I button at my wrist. The presser, the cutter,
                  The wringer, the mangle. The needle, the union,
                  The treadle, the bobbin. The code. The infamous blaze

                  At the Triangle Factory in nineteen-eleven.
                  One hundred and forty-six died in the flames
                  On the ninth floor, no hydrants, no fire escapes--

                  The witness in a building across the street
                  Who watched how a young man helped a girl to step
                  Up to the windowsill, then held her out

                  Away from the masonry wall and let her drop.
                  And then another. As if he were helping them up
                  To enter a streetcar, and not eternity.

                  A third before he dropped her put her arms
                  Around his neck and kissed him. Then he held
                  Her into space, and dropped her. Almost at once

                  He stepped up to the sill himself, his jacket flared
                  And fluttered up from his shirt as he came down,
                  Air filling up the legs of his gray trousers--

                  Like Hart Crane's Bedlamite, "shrill shirt ballooning."
                  Wonderful how the patern matches perfectly
                  Across the placket and over the twin bar-tacked

                  Corners of both pockets, like a strict rhyme
                  Or a major chord. Prints, plaids, checks,
                  Houndstooth, Tattersall, Madras. The clan tartans

                  Invented by mill-owners inspired by the hoax of Ossian,
                  To control their savage Scottish workers, tamed
                  By a fabricated heraldry: MacGregor,

                  Bailey, MacMartin. The kilt, devised for workers
                  to wear among the dusty clattering looms.
                  Weavers, carders, spinners. The loader,

                  The docker, the navvy. The planter, the picker, the sorter
                  Sweating at her machine in a litter of cotton
                  As slaves in calico headrags sweated in fields:

                  George Herbert, your descendant is a Black
                  Lady in South Carolina, her name is Irma
                  And she inspected my shirt. Its color and fit

                  And feel and its clean smell have satisfied
                  both her and me. We have culled its cost and quality
                  Down to the buttons of simulated bone,

                  The buttonholes, the sizing, the facing, the characters
                  Printed in black on neckband and tail. The shape,
                  The label, the labor, the color, the shade. The shirt.

                  Robert Pinsky "Shirt"
                  Very elevated topic. Phew. Shirt.

                  http://www.newyorker.com/culture/cul...-pinskys-shirt


                  Do you remember the night Abraham first saw
                  The stars? He cried to Saturn: "You are my Lord!"
                  How happy he was! When he saw the Dawn Star,

                  He cried, ""You are my Lord!" How destroyed he was
                  When he watched them set. Friends, he is like us:
                  We take as our Lord the stars that go down.

                  We are faithful companions to the unfaithful stars.
                  We are diggers, like badgers; we love to feel
                  The dirt flying out from behind our back claws.

                  And no one can convince us that mud is not
                  Beautiful. It is our badger soul that thinks so.
                  We are ready to spend the rest of our life

                  Walking with muddy shoes in the wet fields.
                  We resemble exiles in the kingdom of the serpent.
                  We stand in the onion fields looking up at the night.

                  My heart is a calm potato by day, and a weeping
                  Abandoned woman by night. Friend, tell me what to do,
                  Since I am a man in love with the setting stars.

                  Robert Bly "The Night Abraham Called to the Stars"

                  I do not know how it happens now someone can say anyone wrote more better lines than old good Will. When I attended English studies all visiting lecturers from humble literary chairs of Oxford, Cambridge, London, Stanford and other unnecessary academic centres used to underline that no one as old good Will made deeper insight into human nature and described more aspects of human existence but you know, we live 400 years later so we improved so much his theatrical and literary oeuvre seems factually meaningful.

                  The words beneath also seem to be very outdated, neither very understandable; who the hell feels like that today:

                  Let me not to the marriage of true minds
                  Admit impediments, love is not love
                  Which alters when it alteration finds,
                  Or bends with the remover to remove.
                  O no, it is an ever-fixed mark
                  That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
                  It is the star to every wand'ring bark,
                  Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
                  Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
                  Within his bending sickle's compass come,
                  Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
                  But bears it out even to the edge of doom:
                  If this be error and upon me proved,
                  I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

                  Shakespeare "Sonnet 116"

                  or

                  Well, heaven forgive him! and forgive us all!
                  Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall:
                  Some run from brakes of ice, and answer none:
                  And some condemned for a fault alone.

                  Shakespeare "Measure for measure"


                  Also what is the sense to keep two weird penmen at some American expensive college to do such unproductive work like translating unknown to civilized world 16th century "CEE" (read P-L Commonwealth) poet of no importance:

                  Just as an olive seedling, when it tries
                  To grow up like the big trees towards the skies
                  And sprouts out of the ground, a single stalk,
                  A slender, leafless, twigless, living stick;
                  And which, if lopped by the swift sickle’s blade
                  Weeding out thorns and nettles, starts to fade
                  And, sapped of natural strength, cut off, forlorn,
                  Drops by the tree from whose seed it was born –
                  Growing before her parents’ caring eyes,
                  She’d barely risen above ground when Death
                  Felled the dear child with his infectious breath
                  At our very feet. Hard-eyed Persephone,
                  Were all those tears of no avail to me?


                  JAN KOCHANOWSKI "Lament V"
                  Translated by Stanislaw Baranczak and Seamus Heaney



                  Exactly, slow, slow train coming up around the bend ... for the culture.

                  ATB

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