The Other Lives Live in Luxembourg

Hailing from Stillwater, Oklahoma, the indie band "Other Lives" gave an intimate, stellar performance on the 18/06/2012 at the small Luxembourg club "Exit 7". They played for an hour and a half in front of an audience of maybe around 100 enthusiastic fans. From the first song one had the feeling that this would be a memorable night. The bond between the artists and the audience was already there from the start. How can one not fall for the beautiful voice of  Jesse Tabish as he sang “...But it feels like forever, When your mind turns to fiction...”. And it’s true. Watching the film snippets projected on the screen behind the group as they

played, one had the impression that this was the true soundtrack to Steinbeck’s Grapes of wrath. These were tunes that were once whistled in the dark, forgotten alleys of the great depression. But then the music would expand and the cello, the violin and the trumpet would spread the word and the songs would drift across vast fields of wheat, where people once worked the land and lived their decent, hard lives struggling against the forces of nature. These were, once upon a time, the other lives. 

Listen to:

Other Lives - For 12

Δύο ποιήματα του Άρη Αλεξάνδρου (1922-1978)

Το μαχαίρι
Όπως αργεί τ' ατσάλι να γίνει κοφτερό και χρήσιμο μαχαίρι
έτσι αργούν κι οι λέξεις ν' ακονιστούν σε λόγο.
Στο μεταξύ
όσο δουλεύεις στον τροχό
πρόσεχε μην παρασυρθείς
            μην ξιππαστείς
απ' τη λαμπρή αλληλουχία των σπινθήρων.
Σκοπός σου εσένα το μαχαίρι.


Ποίημα της συλλογής «Ευθύτης οδών» (1959)


Θα Επιμένεις
Όσο ψηλά κι αν ανεβείς εδώ θα παραμένεις.
Θα σκοντάφτεις και θα πέφτεις εδώ μες στα χαλάσματα

χαράζοντας γραμμές
εδώ θα επιμένεις δίχως βία
χωρίς ποτέ να καταφύγεις στη βολική απόγνωση
                                 ποτέ στην περιφρόνηση

κι ας έχουν σήμερα τη δύναμη εκείνοι που οικοδομούνε ερημώσεις
κι ας βλέπεις φάλαγγες ανθρώπων να τραβάν συντεταγμένοι
για το ξυλουργείο
να δέχονται περήφανοι
την εκτόρνευσή τους
και να τοποθετούνται στα αυστηρά τετράγωνα
                                  σαν πιόνια.

Εσύ θα επιμένεις σαν να μετράς το χρόνο με τις σειρές
                                  των πετρωμάτων
σάμπως νάσουν σίγουρος πως θαρθεί μια μέρα
όπου οι χωροφύλακες κ' οι επαγρυπνητές θα βγάλουν τις στολές
τους.

Εδώ μες στα χαλάσματα που τα σπείραν άλας
θέλεις δε θέλεις θα βαδίζεις
υπολογίζοντας την κλίση που θάχουν τα επίπεδα
θα επιμένεις πριονίζοντας τις πέτρες μοναχός σου
θέλεις δε θέλεις πρέπει ν' αποχτήσεις έναν δικό σου χώρο.


Δημοσιεύτηκε στη συγκεντρωτική έκδοση Ποιήματα «1941-1974», Εκδόσεις Ύψιλον

"4 A.M" by Kenneth Fearing (1902-1961)

"4 A.M" By Kenneth Fearing

"It is early evening, still, in Honolulu, and in London, now, it
must be well past dawn;
But here, in the Riviera Cafe, on a street that has been lost and
forgotten very long ago, as the clock moves steadily toward
closing time,
The spark of life is very low, if it burns at all.


And here we are, four lost and forgotten customers in this place
that surely will never again be found,
Sitting, at ten-foot intervals, along this lost and forgotten bar,
(Wishing the space were further still, for we are still too close
for comfort)
Knowing that the bartender, and the elk’s head, and the portrait
of F.D.R.,
(All gazing at something of interest beyond us and behind us,
but very far away)
Must somehow be aware of us, too, as we stare at the cold
interior of our lives, reflected in the mirror beneath and in 
back of them.


Hear how lonely the radio is, as its voice talks on, and on, un-
answered;
Notice how futile is the nickel dropped in the juke-box by a 
customer,
How its music proves again that one’s life is either too humdrum
or too exciting, too empty or too full, too this, too that;
Only the cat that has been sleeping in the window, now yawning
and streching and trotting to the kitchen to sleep again --
Only this living toy knows what we feel, knows what we are,
really knows what we only think we know.


Soon, too soon, it will be closing time, and the door will be locked;
Each of us will be alone, soon, with something ravaging for
a name --
(Our golden, glorious futures, perhaps).
Lock the door now and put out the lights, before some terrible
stranger enters and gives, to each of us, an answer that is
the final truth.


They say the Matterhorn at dawn, and the Northern Lights of
the Arctic, are things that should be seen;
They say, they say --------- in time, you will hear them say anything,
and everything.
What would the elk’s head, or the remote bartender say, if they
could speak?
The booth where last night’s love affair began, the spot where
last year’s homicide occurred, are empty now, and still."

When I read this powerful poem by Kenneth Fearing, the Nighthawks of Edward Hopper came flying in and the Riviera became Phillies. Kenneth Fearing was a pulp fiction writer, an editor and one of the best poets of the American Depression era. In this poem it’s getting late. These are the wee hours that the trembling voice of Junior Wells reluctantly pronounces in the opening bars of the classic blues song. But this bar is closing and the remaining customers are going to have to face the truth about themselves and their lives. Alcohol can no longer be consumed. It can no longer cloud the mind and dull the senses. The poem is straightforward and uncompromising in its depiction of that moment of lucidity between drinking bouts of which Fearing himself was no stranger. But it takes some guts to write a poem such as this one and Fearing was not scared. In 1950 during the time of the infamous communist witch hunts, he was subpoenaed by the U.S. Attorney in Washington, D.C.; when asked if he was a member of the Communist Party, he replied, "Not yet." 


Listen to:

Junior Wells (ft. Buddy Guy) - In the wee hours