Bonus Film: Fraises et Crème Fraîche 16:9 PAL, DTS 5.1 (4.1), DD2.0 The Musicians Discography
The Lewinsky March 5:25
Business As Usual 6:23
Fraises et Crème Fraîche 9:53
Got To Go Home 8:51
Oum Saïd 10:36
Maltese Chicken Farm 9:36
Ma Muse M'amuse 9:37
Pont Neuf 5:41
Total time 66:24
THE MUSICIANS: Rabih Abou-Khalil, oud Eddie Allen, trumpet Dave Ballou, trumpet Tom Varner, frencn horn Dave Bargeron, euphonium Michel Godard, tuba Gabriele Mirabassi, clarinet Antonio Hart, alto saxophone Ellery Eskelin, tenor saxophone Vincent Courtois, cello Nabil Khaiat, frame drums Jarrod Cagwin, drums Walter Quintus, sound engineer
All compositions written and arranged by Rabih Abou-Khalil
Recorded by Walter Quintus and Bardo Kox (WDR) at the WDR Studio, Cologne, Germany, on July 22-30, 2000 Produced by Rabih Abou-Khalil and Walter Quintus Mixed by Walter Quintus at Sound Studio Zerkall, Germany Executive Producer: Matthias Winckelmann
Because I was only a passing visitor to her far-away land I know nothing of her and I shall never discover anything about her. And as her disturbing appearance entered my sight for but brief burning moments, I know neither her name nor the world in which she grew up. And still, her presence remains with me, radiant, pulsing with a firm rhythm, obscured only now and then when enthusiasm flags, worries accumulate and sorrow grows.
I saw her in Samarkand when I arrived with a sundry group of different nationalities from far-away countries. I was caught up in the city. I became acquainted with its invisible horizons, fired by everything I had read and learned about it, by what I had heard of its particular music, of the trees I knew from ancient miniatures and which were unknown in my country, of the domes, the gates, and the ceramics, decorated with their predominant blue, their yellow blended with red, impressive lines far above, entwined and interwoven.
I was well-informed. And yet, I was unknowing.
I carry my Samarkand deep inside me. My Samarkand, born from me, bound up with my plans, my subtlest desires, my flourishing fantasies. From this point of view I could consider myself well-informed and knowledgeable.
But of the city existing in the realm of my senses I knew only what little had reached me from guides and interpreters. If I were to move from the hotel we were staying in just a short distance, I might not find my way back. I listened to the people talking but did not understand a word, and I was unable to decipher a single letter of the Uzbek writing. Thus I was unknowing.
In my memory today there is a long-drawn-out street, small shops, round balls of cheese, of the kind I know from Kurdistan, vegetables and flowers, monumental entrances of mosques constructed by Tamerlane and his successors.
I see before me a rectangular hall in an ancient building with high walls. One of those places weighed down with the breath of generations, that sharpens my senses, and where I can listen to bygone times. Now, while I write this, I am unable to find my way back to that building, or that hall. And even if I were fortunate enough to return to those regions, I would not find them as they were then, during my first stay there. Within that short period of time states have collapsed, others risen. Among them the country of that girl. In what land, I wonder, does she live and move now, if she might still be alive? In which spot is she buried, should she have departed this life?
I have no answer. But I am aware of my submission to this place and those moments of bewilderment. It has stayed with me. I take it with me on my travels even if I can only reach it with difficulty. It is entirely thanks to her that I can do so; for place and time were merely the frame for her luminous apparition, a delightful radiance that was not accomplished all of a sudden, as I recall what happened that afternoon. Entering that yellow painted building I felt certain that she was within my reach. Somehow I grasped her presence nearby, although I only became aware of it some time later.
After some friendly words of welcome two musicians entered. One was holding a violin whose bow he held up, bending over it. The other had his arm round an enormous instrument. Then a third one came in, taking his seat a little way off. He was leaning forward, gazing at his wooden flute. The second player began to move his bow over the strings of his instrument, that resembled a guitar and a double-bass at the same time, an instrument with oriental features, harsh in tone, yet touching, sorrowful and full of despair.
These melodies were simply a prelude to her luminous, fragrant apparition. In an instant, hard to define or pin down, she moved into the empty space in the centre of the hall. Even now I wonder whether her feet touched the ground or whether she just floated in. She was wearing robes of the colour of rare butterflies' wings. Her fingers were straightened, outstretched, wide apart, each with its own place, its independent gesture seeming to express a mysterious meaning.
At times I betake myself to places going back a long way which are flawless. I wrap myself in their shadow and their atmosphere. Domes fascinate me, for as much as they enclose me in themselves, symbols of the circularity of all being, they liberate me and set free anything still inside me. I have visited the wooden dome of Imam al-Shâfii's mausoleum, the domes of the mosques of Qalawûn, of Qâyitbay and Barqûq, Barsbay and Omar Ibn al-Fârid. I was rescued by the Blue Mosque in Istanbul; in Fes I drew myself up beneath a small compact, inclusive dome in the Qarawiyîn-Mosque.
Those windows high up at the point where square becomes circle, windows of coloured glass framed with plaster look to the four cardinal points and the ones between. At every hour of the day the sunlight filters through a yellow square, a green octagon, or a blue circle. The rays coming from the depths of the universe, from the furnace of eternal explosions and blazing atoms, follow the paths laid down by those artists who passed away after they had built, decorated and traced the course of light.
At three o'clock in the afternoon, in summer as in winter, whether the days are long or short, she makes her appearance at exactly the time when the segment of green light on the pillar to the right, the northern one, takes on a shade that has no equal anywhere, a green harbouring the secret of eternity, sug¬gesting the delicacy of a breeze, intimating the source of joy, the horizons of eternity, the purity of secret wishes and desires from time immemorial.
The flowing rays mingle with the coloured glass, every hour passing through another pane and taking on its colour. The third hour is for green, and for that girl from Samarkand, fashioned from a drop of light, from the fertilization of yellow and blue, from the secret of dusk and dawn with its touch of light at the horizon.
Her delicate form, source of calm and security, appeared tied to that stretch of sparkling light which, when my gaze fell on it, seemed like glistening water, leading the eye to all colours hidden in it. I turned to look at her, taking on, as it were, the age-old attitude of the suckling which finds peace the moment its lips close firmly over the generous nipple and opens the floodgates of the milky warm.
She was neither tall nor small, an had a waist so delicate that one would think there was nothing connecting the upper and lower parts of her body. She had a smiling look in spite of a visible sadness in her eyes, her skin was the fulfillment of promises given long ago. Her whole being made you think of a bouquet of flowers, of the freshness of colours after rain. Green was her dominant colour, and when the green of thriving plants turns from colour into light, it becomes a secret that resists comprehension. An intense green, absorbing, captivating, but also unparalleled and impossible to define.
I followed the floating dance of her dress as she bowed slightly, gazing somewhere indefinable and imperceptible. When she moved her fingers she seemed to point to the limits of being, sending eloquent signs to indeterminate and ineffable regions of the soul, signs that I call messages, metaphorically. That is because I was a stranger, passing through her country. A letter is only delivered to a resident, to someone with a fixed domicile. For a missive to arrive, an address is indispensable. How can one reach a vagabond, someone who keeps moving from one place to another, from one moment to another?
During my travels, I have not infrequently passed through cities where no one knew me. What loneliness this has aroused in me! Our eyes met only for a fleeting moment, but with that sparkling passion engulfed me. An attachment was sparked, desire was kindled, and the everlasting seed of yearning burgeoned.
Such were the flashes of all-encompassing desire. Yet it came in an inauspicious moment. Unfortunately, I have been born with slow reactions, so that when at last they find their way to my lips or my pen, after much consideration, everything is over.
The scream that I should have uttered I let out several times, but not in her hearing, in another country than hers and not in the moment when we met.
I did indeed open wide my arms and stretch out my hands towards her as if to embrace her and lose myself in her. But this occurred at a place where she was not present, a place where she only existed in my imagination.
I took the measure of my movement towards her, yet only after great distances had been covered, much time had passed and many things had changed. I queried out loud:
Are you the essence of all modes and melodies? Do all the strings of the world connect to your body? Do the tunes well up from you or from the instruments?
All the questions I wanted to ask I uttered, but, alas, at the wrong moment.
After she left me, my fate was sealed when I returned to my country: Every day I recalled her and the moment she burst into view and came into my soul. And when I felt sure that there was a connection between the green light and glimpses I had of her, I took to haunting the dome in the afternoon.
When the satin hour comes and the dazzling green starts to shimmer, painful yet inspiring, she begins her daily dance in harmony with the movement of the stars. Then the dance begins to infect me. I become ever lighter, ever more radiant, and patiently I look upwards. I stare for a long time trying to make out her features and her movements from that drop of light. Finally what I long for comes to pass, but not in the way I have imagined or expected. For I have waited a long time for the rays to reach me and the glittering light to make its appearance. I have seen this rare green colour but it has seemed uncertain, giving light but cut off from its source.
The sparkling has moved towards me, away from the pillar, and the approaching rays have surrounded me, coming closer, filling my mouth with the sweet taste of rosewater. My whole being is shaken and I have tasted a pleasure such I have never experienced with any woman.
But to be united with the light in such incandescence my heart has had to be torn asunder.
Gamal Ghitany. Cairo Translated from Arabic by Hartmut Fähndrich Revised by Hilary Kilpatrick
Раби Абу-Халили, композитор и музыкант - из космополитичного Бейрута, ребенком научился играть на уде (арабская лютня, очень похожие). Покинув Ливан, учился в Музыкальной академии Мюнхена на флейте. Ну а потом джаз, со своими исходными, арабскими корнями. Дискография богатая, последние диски записывал на Эньи. Для Энья это единственный диск в формате ДВДА. Его редко спрашивают, поэтому, когда заказал, то прислали СД версию. Потом извинились, предложили чего-нибудь выбрать в возмещение затрат по обратной пересылке (простил я им эти два доллара). В музыкальном плане двоякое впечатление. Я не люблю много дудок, а на востоке модно что-то бодренькое шумным делать. Но есть лирические или почти фри или боп композиции, главное – малоинструментные. Вон на них и уд, и чело, и бубны, и кларнет, и саксы, и туба, да и труба с музыкой восточной вязи весьма симпатично звучат. А уж Земляника со свежими сливками, та, что и на клипе, просто прелесть (надо отметить, что и без клипа это – прелесть). Звук – везде: и по кругу, и внутри. Причем инструменты иногда ставят непосредственно почти перед вами, звучат при этом почти сверху. На Клубнике, бубен начал спереди сверху стучать, я подумал, что по крыше (кино-концертно-спортивного гаража) птичка так скачет. Туба - хороша, редкая для джаза, забавно. Ребята без тромбона играют, но с английским рожком и чело со смычком. Отчего звучание малиновый оттенок имеет.
Музыка – 8 (это личные пристрастия, по исполнении – 10) Запись – 10 Многоканальность – 10
PS А в буклете – рассказа про танцовщицу из Самарканда. В духе Мериме.
PPS Это все Алексей: давай возьмем, давай возьмем.
Из: Ukraine : 150 : 7
Цитата(Elephantus @ 26/10/2009, 00:04)
Вы ничего не путаете. У the альбома только две реинкорнации: CD и DVDA, просто DVD вроде как не бывает. Может у вас DVD-audio плеер не читает (или сам по себе или у этого диска).
Ну я не настолько чайник, чтобы не отличить двд от двд-аудио. У меня действительно обычный двд. и трек лист на две вещи короче. Внутри издания указано, что также альбом существует на СД и ДВД-аудио версии. А вот микс очень активный и красивый как для обычного двд-видео. Вот ссылка http://www.cduniverse.com/productinfo.asp?pid=5755323
Алексей, это когда я тебе из своей деревни отправлял заминок не было (или Диме передал, не помню уже), а до этого были: нам вместо ДВДА прислали СД, я с ними списывался, отправлял назад, потом уже получил что надо. А объяснили они, что ДВДА редко кто заказывает. А еще заминка произошла потом, тем кто очень хотел, теперь даже послушать недосуг.
А, вспомнил, точно! Значит только С Андреем заминок не бывает))) Послушать сейчас, каки последние пару-тройку месяцев, времени не хватает. Положение измениться к НГ... Совственно, заглядывая сюда, не один я такой. Все!.. К сожалению.