They're pounding for peace again, the guns at the front
We thought there was respite but now we're taking the brunt
Taking the brunt of all that they throw
All that they throw in this nightmare of woe
They're pounding for peace again, 'war on the march',
War on the poplar, war on the larch
War on the cuckoo-flower that grows by the stream;
War on the home where once I did dream
Oh, they're pounding for peace again
Those guns at the front
They're pounding for peace again
So we're taking the brunt
Dreaming as a child of blue distant lands
Of colonies and outposts and bright glittering sands
Where a young man could make his fortune or name
Through deeds dashly daring, without conscience or shame
Dreaming of sultans and emirs and princes and kings,
Who would bestow upon me riches, barbed without stings
I dreamt of blushing damsels, rose-red in white silk;
I dreamt of my sweetheart, uncloth’d, bathing in milk.
Oh, they're pounding for peace again
Those guns at the front
They're pounding for peace again
So we're taking the brunt
I dreamt of a century thwacked out at Trent Bridge and Lords;
I dreamt of boundaries and sixes applauded by hoardes
Today I started dreaming beneath a late swooning sun
But then woke nerve-struck when they started pounding their guns
Yes, they're pounding for peace again, on the blasted front line
Pounding for nothing, pounding for all time
Pounding for pounding's sake, pounding till late,
Spurred on by little except bitterness and hate.
Oh, they're pounding for peace again
Those guns at the front
They're pounding for peace again
So we're taking the brunt
We thought there was respite but now we're taking the brunt
Taking the brunt of all that they throw
All that they throw in this nightmare of woe
They're pounding for peace again, 'war on the march',
War on the poplar, war on the larch
War on the cuckoo-flower that grows by the stream;
War on the home where once I did dream
Oh, they're pounding for peace again
Those guns at the front
They're pounding for peace again
So we're taking the brunt
Dreaming as a child of blue distant lands
Of colonies and outposts and bright glittering sands
Where a young man could make his fortune or name
Through deeds dashly daring, without conscience or shame
Dreaming of sultans and emirs and princes and kings,
Who would bestow upon me riches, barbed without stings
I dreamt of blushing damsels, rose-red in white silk;
I dreamt of my sweetheart, uncloth’d, bathing in milk.
Oh, they're pounding for peace again
Those guns at the front
They're pounding for peace again
So we're taking the brunt
I dreamt of a century thwacked out at Trent Bridge and Lords;
I dreamt of boundaries and sixes applauded by hoardes
Today I started dreaming beneath a late swooning sun
But then woke nerve-struck when they started pounding their guns
Yes, they're pounding for peace again, on the blasted front line
Pounding for nothing, pounding for all time
Pounding for pounding's sake, pounding till late,
Spurred on by little except bitterness and hate.
Oh, they're pounding for peace again
Those guns at the front
They're pounding for peace again
So we're taking the brunt
Contributed by Dq82 - 2018/12/5 - 15:51
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The Fall and Rise of Edgar Bourchier And the Horrors of War
La premessa è sufficiente a sgomberare il campo da ogni dubbio circa la levatura artistica di un musicista che, nonostante le notevoli prove d’autore fornite anche con la sua carriera solistica, è riuscito a rimanere, suo malgrado, sempre un po’ fuori dal circuito mainstream, in un’aura di marginalità nobile e per certi versi salvifica, che gli ha consentito di fare scelte creative talvolta ardite. Ne è la riprova questo suo ultimo, temerario lavoro, scritto a quattro mani con lo scrittore Christopher Richard Barker, per il quale ha musicato e interpretato le testimonianze immaginarie di un personaggio romanzato, il poeta di trincea Edgar Bourchier, che racconta in un variegato registro narrativo le efferatezze e le brutalità sul campo di battaglia della Prima Guerra Mondiale.
The Fall and Rise of Edgar Bourchier And the Horrors of War esce in occasione del centenario dell’Armistizio, e contiene in sé uno storytelling dall’approccio onnicomprensivo, che raccoglie frammenti multiformi di memorie immaginate, in cui entrano in gioco la paura, la giovinezza, la rabbia, la nostalgia, il senso d’inutilità. Dal punto di vista compositivo, è interessante constatare l’ambiziosa carrellata dei generi attraversati: dal folk tradizionale, che richiama un tempo perduto evocando strumenti antichi come le fisarmoniche, oltre all’inevitabile corredo di piani e chitarre acustiche (Pounding for Peace, The Poetic Clown), al post punk in pieno stile Birthday Party (Poor Por Surgeon Tim, The Expressionist #2, Corpse 564), sino alla dark wave vera e propria, con i sussurri di I Am The Messenger o The Lost Bastard Son of War, il cui riff pare emulare dichiaratamente She’s Lost Control dei Joy Division. Interessante anche l’esperimento di The Expressionist #1, dove una marcia militare e i cori che la scandiscono, sembrano voler diventare un ritmo punk.
In questo riuscito progetto atemporale, in cui sia la storia narrata che gli stili musicali richiamano il passato con un chiaro e costante riferimento al presente e una sapiente lettura contemporanea, troviamo il condensato di quello che dovrebbe essere un disco autoriale: una buona storia e un credibile incedere narrativo. Il messaggio è chiaro in tutto il suo ineluttabile pathos, eppure l’atmosfera in cui quel messaggio aleggia non appare mai enfatica e greve. Rischiava di essere un lavoro pretenzioso, è riuscito a non esserlo.
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