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> Blue Chamber Quartet "Children's Songs", SACD

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post 12/02/2010, 19:59
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Blue Chamber Quartet"Children's Songs" SACD

Blue Chamber Quartet "Children's Songs" , SACD

Гибридный SACD 5.1

Genre: Jazz, Classical

Children's Songs composed for piano solo by Chick Corea

Julia Bartha, piano
Angelika Siman, concert harp
Thomas Schindl, vibraphone
Holger Michalski, double bass

Guest musician:
Sven von Samson, ocean drums, shakers, cajón,
hi-hat, cymbals, chimes, udu, tamborim, pandeiro,
triangle, congas, tang-tang, cocoa bean rattle,
tubular bell, snaredrum, doumbek, framedrum,
salad bowls, water

Cathrin Kahlweit children's stories
  1. No. 1 - 3:28
  2. No. 2 - 1:32
  3. No. 3 - 1:46
  4. No. 4 - 3:13
  5. No. 5 - 3:33
  6. No. 6 - 2:08
  7. No. 7 - 1:58
  8. No. 8 - 1:45
  9. No. 9 - 1:55
  10. No. 10 - 1:55
  11. No. 11 - 1:28
  12. No. 12 - 2:19
  13. No. 13 - 1:35
  14. No. 14 - 2:27
  15. No. 15 - 1:45
  16. No. 16 - 1:38
  17. No. 17 - 1:30
  18. No. 18 - 1:46
  19. No. 19 - 2:47
  20. No. 20 - 2:50
Total time: 43:26

Produced by Günter Pauler
Recording, Surround-Mix, -Mastering and CD-PreMastering by Günter Pauler and Hans-Jörg Maucksch at Pauler

Stockfisch Records (SFR 357.4067.2, 4 013357 406728), 2009
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post 12/02/2010, 21:34
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Цитата( Буклет)
Chick Corea's Children's Songs -"a day around the world"

Staying in bed would be nice. Listening to the birds, that would be nice. Listening to the rain that falls through the leaves of the avocado tree - I would like that too. But that won't happen. It's six a.m. Mom is gone since five, cleaning, Dad's on the field. And if I don't clean up, cook the beans, wash and feed the goats before school, I will be in trouble. Peruan punishment for a peruan child, my Dad always says. Sometimes he just laughs - and sometimes he beats me. The rain sounds as if it wasn't able to beat a child. The children of the rain, the little drops, I envy them.

Okay, do I have everything? Mascara, clean underwear. Clean? Yes, smells good. Perfume. And what if he doesn't like perfume? Shit: isn't it strange to pack the bag with my sleeping stuff in the morning, even though I don't even know if I am going to sleep over at some guy's house? Maybe he doesn't even want me? Maybe he wants to get out of town, alone, out of Stockholm, no girl, no fun? Well, he won't - after he smelled this perfume. Did I pack the pill? Okay, I've got everything. I'll get him.

Nine hours left. Only two hours done. Stitch and stitch and stitch and stitch. My hands are bleeding. The last ball I sew has an askew seam. The headman won't pay me for that one. Stitch and stitch and stitch and stitch. Eight hours and 55 minutes left. How do I know that without a watch? Stitch and stitch, ball and ball, hour and hour. When I get out tonight it's almost dark here in Jacarta. It's always dark. There he comes, the headman. Head down. Stitch and blood and stitch.

They're almost here to dress me up. Will he like me? Mom says I will be the apple of his eye. Mom says I will make my family happy because I will be his wife. Mom says we can be proud that he payed so many Rupies for me. Mom says I am not allowed to contradict what he says. Will he be good to me? Hopefully he doesn't have hard hands. An old man like him, he has to have hard hands. I am afraid, but not allowed to cry.

There, they're fighting again. They always fight, even now that we're on vacation, when the sun shines, they fight when I lie in bed and read comics, when the sea outside whooshes and a dog barks, when I want Croissants or to sit outside on the swing. Then they fight. About money. About me. About Mom buying the wrong bread. Even about the wrong bread! I want to leave this summer cottage. I want to go home to Matthieu street, back to Jeanne. Jeanne's parents never fight. Stop it !!!

Maybe we'll arrive tonight. I am thirsty. The coast, Marakesh, I can't see it anymore. This Italy has to be close, this has to go faster. Faster, or I'll dry out. So much water, so much heat, we've been drifting since the morning now. Children are crying, the woman next to me is unconcious. No land in sight. No Italy. No home. The wrong water. No drinking water, salty instead. There, a boat. Police? Police? Our saviours? They are passing us. As if we didn't exist. Maybe we don't exist?

Shadows, there are shadows everywhere. Now that I'm sitting in my room at noon, I only see shadows. This wall is killing me, it's like a enormous prison, like a long and dark hallway. When I'm older I will bomb a hole into it. When I'm older I will build a humongous catapult, like the crusaders did in the middle ages, and I will cut a swath of destruction into it. When I am older, I'll show the Israelis who I am. Then I will be the hero of Gaza: I will invent a magical substance that can melt stone. I will melt down this wall with it, and the settlements, and West Jerusalem. Right below the Dome of the Rock though, right in front oft the Wailing Wall, I will stop - because if I melted that the Dome of Rocks would tumble down.

When will they be coming? When will they be here? When will they be here? Grandma says it could be any minute. But she also says whoever waits a whole year for their parents can wait a couple of minutes more. If only the train wasn't late and if only they could stay longer, just once, just once stay longer than a week. I miss them so much. Migrant workers are supposed to be migrating, Grandma says. And my Mom sends me money so that I can go to school. Will I recognize them? I don't want to go to school. I would like to have parents that are at home. Oh, there's the train!

Lemon icecream? Vanilla icecream? Chocolate icecream? Raspberry icecream? Blackberry icecream? Yogurt icecream? Straciatella icecream? Pistachio icecream? Lime icecream? Icecream, icecrea, icecrea! Icecre! Icecr! Icec! Ice! Yummy! Y! Yu! Yum! Yumm! Yummy! Caramel Ice? I think I'll take one ball of each, and then I'll sit down on the Spanish Steps and eat until I burst. P. Pe. Per. Perf. Perfe. Perfec. Perfect!

Yes!!! Chocolate cake! With 5 big candles. It's my birthday. Finally. Birthday-ay-ay-ay! I even found the presents. Under my little sister's bed. Mom always hides them there. Does she think I'm stupid? Just because I was four until yesterday? Every child that looks for its presents can find them. The new blouse from the children's shop in the Kärntner Strasse I even tried on. And: It fits. Birthday is when you are really looking forward to it because you know that you will get everything you want and even more.

Shoot! This jerk slept. Why does this jerk sleep? Why did Schenja sleep who was supposed to look out for people coming? Fuck, now the militia is coming! Damn it! We need to leave! Everything was planned too well though. Open the lock, go inside, everyone grabs a flat screen, leave. Through the backyards. Oleg says this guard would make it easy. He'd be already drunk in the afternoon. Ha, it turned out to be different. Where am I supposed to get the money from now? There isn't any at home. Dad and mom only drink. Both. Constantly. My nice little brother's locked up. And me? I am galloping like a mad man along the Garden King. Shoot! The next job I will do on my own, if they don't get me now. Faster, towarischtsch.

I can't lie still anymore. Since the morning I am lying behind this sand dune and hear them: Dschanschawid. They're on horses, screaming, shooting. We must not move. Must not look. If we did, we'd be dead. I have to pee. I am scared, so scared. And I'm thirsty. The fear makes it hard to breathe. When can I go home? It smells like fire, and the air's full of screams. I hate the Dschanschawid. Hate, hate, hate them!

Why can't it always be summer? Light, so light? So soft, so softly green? It's melting, and the meltwater is filling a big puddle behind the house, like a lake in the sky. It's thawing and the defrost water is flowing down the hill to the sea like a river in a big desert. The sky is red, green and yellow in the middle of steel blue. Everyone is outside, nobody is sleeping. Who would want to sleep in a summer which only lasts a couple of days? During the winter I am the son of the Ice-Moon. During the summer I am the daughter of the Polar-Sun.

Come on, quick, get out of the school uniform, into the new jeans. Mom's new friend is almost here. Yes, yes, I am coming! What will he be like? Cooler than the last one, hopefully. Down there, in front of the house, that's his car. Good enough, at least, an Aston Martin. Mom says he's a banker in the City, and he knows Prince Charles. So what? If he could introduce me to Harry, I'd be impressed. Charles is almost dead, who would want to know that guy? But Mom is impressed by any guy, no matter how stupid. Well, let's have a look at him. If only he is one of those Super-rich-even-though-we-got-a-financial-crisis-guys, he may stay. Who ever has money, they can stay.

The door is closed. For today no one will come anymore. Alone. Waiting and waiting, until they open. They never come before dawn, these nuns, no matter how loud you scream. I will not cry. Even when they hear it they don't listen. Nobody here is being heard when they cry. When we scream we're evil. Only when we pray we're good children. God never sends new parents for those children who cry too much. Those among us who behave really well, they get white parents from Cape Town. I was never nice enough.

Running, passing, kicking, winning. Cheering. The masses are cheering for me. I take the ball out of the air, run past Kaka and Ronaldo and Ronaldinho. I win against all of them. The fans are going crazy. I run left, fake right, take the ball with my head and kick it with my heel. I am the greatest! FC Barcelona is offering 100 Million Dollars for me. I am more famous than Beckham. Little Jorge from the Favelas of Rio on the way to be a superstar. Jorge, that's me. Dear Soccer god, don't forget me. Meu deus, I got to sleep. Or else I'll be too tired for training tomorrow. The trainer would be pissed.

From my bed I can see the Fuji. I wonder whether Sasuke can see it too? I wonder whether he is awake and thinks about me? He sure does, after what happened today. He smiled at me and I smiled back. He smiled, that means, he realised me. He really saw me, looked right inside of me. He saw that I like him. That he smiled means he likes me too. When I'm a woman I will marry Sasuke. Right below the Fuji.

They're coming, I can hear them. This woman with the knife is coming, Mom is coming. They are talking in front of the hut; they think I don't know what's coming, Mariam said it doesn't hurt. But she lied, I saw it in her eyes. They took her into the bush. I heard how she cried when she came back. She cried a lot since then. I am so scared. Mom, no!!! Mariam, help me!

When the moon is shining, like now, I can't sleep. The moon always shines stories into my head, little white stories, like Marshmellows that drip into the fire, when Dad and I are barbecueing. Like the white light that shines through the holes in the pumpkin when we light candles on Thanksgiving. Like the stories that Dad tells when we swim in the lake and never want to go back to the bank. When I can't sleep, the full moon is like a white haze above my head. Just like Dad's white hand when he puts it on my eyes so that I can sleep. To make me feel that he is there.

Good evening, good night,
Secured by walls,
covered by downs
I'm lying under my blanket.
Tomorrow morning, if I want
I'll discover life anew,
Tonight I'll lie still
And dream myself away.

Классика или джаз. Чик Кориа взялся за подготовку этого фортепианного цикла в начале 70-х, а 84 – издает(!) эти Детские песни. Романтический набор, в продолжение Чайковского, Дебюсси, Шостаковича. Чик, не имея специального образования, тем ни менее не равнодушен к классике. И вот ансамбль из музыкантов классического стиля (джазовый опыт только у Томаса Шиндла, а это его инструментовка, и приглашенного перкуссиониста, Свен фон Самсона) исполняют стилистически классическое произведение, изначально написанное джазовым музыкантом. И записывает, ну совсем не «классический» лейбл, причем не в стиле «лайв», без совершенно ненужного эхо, сохраняя романтичность инструментов (арфа, вибрафон, множество перкуссий) и самого произведения. Отводя рояль вглубь впереди, виброфон и арфа подтягиваются ближе к слушателю и расширяется, бас фронту, а перкуссии появляются, но не скачут, почти везде в рамках полукольца. Только пришитая к буклету проза (якобы программная) г-жи Катрин Калвайт выглядит претенциозно, надуманно и совершенно не уместно. Чик предполагал, что исполнять цикл можно и по отдельным пьесам, и пьесам вроде ни какой программности не добавлял. Только в этих миниатюрных пьесах не сложно услышать игры и поведение детей. Дождь за окном, На лошадке, Слон, Игра в солдатики, Поезд и т.д. Здесь бы добавить талант Инессы Ковалевской, и появился бы еще один цикл умных детских мультяшек. А все эти страны, кому с милиционером, кому с мороженным ну совсем ни к чему.

Музыка – 10
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Многоканальность – 10
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