Admiration is hard to express.

Specially if you do not want to go mellow and superficial.

This is why it's taken me a while putting into words what I feel about this four.

Ok, I like many others.

I can even admit that the number is quite large.

Tom, Lou, Neil and Bob are different somehow.

And, today is the day I'm gonna tackle this.

I've considered going record by record.

No way.

I'm not an expert in that sense.

Probably I could make it with Tom and Neil.

Impossible with Lou and Bob.

So I'm going for the feelings and I'm gonna let it roll.

Back in 1987 ... or so ... I was one of those FM thirsty listeners.

Radio was not that bad those days.

The change passed me by as a r'n'r magazine.

Who the fuck was that Tom Waits?.

Piano, cigarrettes, loser stories ... damn!.

So cool.

My high school binder was patched with pictures of Sting, Gabriel and Fleetwood Mac.

Never felt ashamed about that.

But this bloody Tom Waits was so ... different.

Then, one day BIG TIME was there in my hands.

And BIG TIME shook everything around me.

Now I know that it is not exactly a masterpiece.

But then it was so dark, weird, sumptuous that I could not resist.

I fell into Tom's arms and up until now I'm still riding that wave.

BIG TIME was a good starting point that was rapidly followed by CLOSING TIME and BLUE VALENTINE.

Jesus!.

BLUE VALENTINE. I still getting goose pimples every time I hear CHRISTMAS CARD FROM A HOOKER IN MINNEAPOLIS.

A book, a poem ... a simple piece of art created by someone that deserves admiration, respect and all the bloody awards that today receives from that same industry that once tore him apart.

I know that today is kinda cool saying that you like this man.

No problem with me.

I'd like to see them dancing 16 shells from a thirty-ought six in the darkness of their bedrooms.

I'd lime to see them crying a river whilst Crystal Gayle remembers her old boyfriends.

I'd like to see them understanding the pain of Tango 'til they're sore.

There is no joy in success.

At least not when you have these records in your suitcase.

Recognition from newcomers looking for an icon that make them feel cool is bullshit.

And I like to think that Tom does not feel flattered by these midgets.

 

THE WORLD IS UPSIDE DOWN

MY POCKETS WERE FILLED UP WITH GOLD

NOW THE CLOUDS HAVE COVERED OVER

AND THE WIND IS BLOWING COLD

I DON'T NEED ANYBODY

BECAUSE I LEARNT TO BE ALONE

AND ANYWHERE I LAY MY HEAD, BOY

I WILL CALL MY HOME

 

Words run out.

See the video, please.

Cualquiera que me conozca mínimamente sabrá que no soy muy amigo de hablar de la muerte, pensar en ella y menos bromear al respecto. Es algo que no me hace ni maldita gracia y para lo que, no tengo inconveniente en reconocer, no me encuentro preparado en absoluto.

Una vez una especie de brujilla me dijo que palmaría a los 35.

Tengo 36.

¡Prueba superada!.

Por si acaso, he encontrado esta página http://morph.cs.st-andrews.ac.uk/Transformer. Así, los que no tengan (o tengamos) la oportunidad de vernos de viejos, podemos saciar nuestra curiosidad.

Abstenerse aquellos que piensen que la arruga NO es bella.

Ayer leí en algún sitio que Anthony Hopkins (sir) volvía a dirigir.

Parece que es una película independiente y con cierto regusto a David Lynch.

Me sorprende, pero el comentario hace que tenga ganas de verla.

Sin embargo, Hopkins siempre será actor.

Para muchos Hannibal.

Para mi Stevens. Su mejor interpretación sin duda alguna.

Sinceramente no creo que la supere nunca.

El papel del autocontenido y extremadamente fiel Stevens hubiese sido un desastre en manos de cualquier otro actor. Hopkins sin embargo, da una lección de credibilidad y buen gusto en una película magnífica.  

Luego ha dado muestras de lo mal que se puede elegir al hacer cine, pero eso es un mal común hoy en día.