一直不明白, 林笛这张<<迷路新娘>>为什么会翻译成BRIDE IN LEGEND. 整张专辑讲的是一个有些淡然悲伤的故事.  感觉和LEGEND这个词气质上差别太大了

一个人在屋里时, 重新把这张专辑好好听了一遍. 录音室作品和现场确实差别很大. 林笛的唱功不够专业, 却有强劲的爆发力. 这个身型娇小的上海女人身体里不知蕴涵了多少能量. 第一次看冷酷仙境的现场是和SOSILENT, SLOWFADE, 李晨一起去的. 记得林笛那首等待告别现场驾驭力十足, 带着高能的杀伤力, 让听者心脉大乱. SLOWFADE话不多, 李晨是死硬METALHEAD, 我和SOSILENT是话痨. 无论如何, 大家一致公认 "这首歌已经非常成熟". 可惜后来在专辑里听到这首歌时, 现场的激情被精致的制作与严谨的混音一扫而空

迷路新娘里有好几首有趣的歌. 通常来说容易让人第一印象深刻的应该是阿加,亚莱与慕拉沙贝大战. 但事实上慕拉沙贝大战是冷酷仙境乐团而非林笛个人的作品, 不应该拿到专辑内讨论.

上一首阿加,亚莱

http://massam.castpost.com/338015.html

歌词:

Aja Lia Layla, Aja Lia Layla, Aja Lia Layla, Aja Lia Layla

Aja Lia Layla, Aja Lia Layla, Aja Lia Layla, Aja Lia Layla

Aja Lia Layla Jalia Layla Aja Lia, Aja Lia Layla Jalia Layla Aja Lia

Aja Lia Layla Jalia Layla Aja Lia, Aja Lia Layla Jalia Layla Aja Lia

以前在水草问过林笛, 这样的歌词很明显是自己创造的语言. 那么这样的语言是否有一定的体系和标准. 是否也分为句,词,字并存在一定的结构和含义. 林笛说那些并不存在. 这样的语言重于通过发音来表达涵义. 也就是说, 歌词的乐趣在于运用嘴型和气息通过吐字来传达音乐本身的意图. 这样的说法以前听过. 民族音乐里经常在唱词里加上一些辅助的音节. 并无实际意义, 但听起来很顺畅. 通常你可以把它想象为任何含义. 类似TU, KU, HEI, YA, DA, LA这样的发音最为常用. 不过林笛认为光是这样的结构可以形成一种臆想里的语言, 也许有些草率了.

近期生活: 很好, 好得不知所措. 人变瘦了, 只剩下想法臃肿而已

近期推荐: PLUMZ, HONEY AND KLOVERZ, 李煌老师

Hurts so bad that you know it's not sinning. The funny thing is it's just beginning to feel good. And downstairs all your friends are waiting, they're talking low and filling their stories with angels, and they imagine intervening in true crime photos and placing meaning within them - from blue to red to black-and-white. Don't look too long, you'll be up all night among them, the sudden dead. The last thing he said was "You should have been here before the camera arrived, maybe I wouldn't have to die. But just live out this long life jangling, and as old men you could watch my hand dangling, cold and white." Baby, don't worry tonight; I know it's too ugly to hold yourself upright. So fill a clean glass, cold and smooth. Take the reds, then take the blues. Away, you can hear a voice that's singing "angels could come but you wouldn't believe them, and those that believe still can't see them anyway." And The Suicide slides out of his skin and he climbs inside of the bed you're in and touches your face. He says "what right had I to die when all these little cells just tried to keep me alive? What right had I to leave the human race behind? Do you really think you're better, with your shotgun and your suicide letter? Do you think you're right? Well baby, don't worry tonight, I know it's too ugly to hold yourself upright. There's a light from the front room as it's filling with all of your friends. It doesn't get much better than this, and then it ends."

If you stay sober, I'll put the kettle on. And you can come over, drink tea, and watch the lawn, and I'll lay you down. I'll lay you down as the lights come on in town when day is over. I wanted to die for two days in '95. I stood by the lakeside and waited for the mood to be right. With leaves all turning brown, I listened to the sounds starting to announce October. I'll lay you down, you can empty out your mouth, and I'll arrange the room again when everything is over.

Oh Angelina, aren't we lucky to live in this odd little world? Aren't we lucky to stand in this funeral line? And if we marry, I'll kiss every tear from her eyes, if we marry, I'll love every word from her lovely young mouth, and we'll drive past the violent blooms of the opulent south...We walked past the cathedrals, and the lampposts all humming, and I told her that though I can't bend back the barbs of these wires, aren't we lucky to live in this world full of fire, and I told her about how you would sing for your life as a child, and I showed her azaleas and books of pressed flowers you pulled wild, and I told her how lucky was all that I ever have been, and will you marry me, Kimberly Anne?

Good morning to the frozen street: I'm like a dresser full of leaves, my eyes as dry as dust. There is a curtain in my mouth, it opens and a song comes out. I've sung the loneliest words into your listening stones. Moss curled and songs have twirled their tunes around your bones. Good morning Uncle with your pen, the furniture was born again at night while you slept in. The room it wrapped around your body, double pillows held your head. I watched your shrinking skin, and all the lines that fill your face in were falling into space. There is a light that is so dim and a hand that pulls you in when you can't swim anymore. The freezing water fills your lungs, the weight of waves surrounds your skin, and the outside comes all the way in. Your heart is held inside this box and we've got to turn it off, so please don't be afraid. The love you gave us will go on, we'll hold your memory when you're gone, your self just can't be saved. So shut your eyes and I'll switch off your heart. Watch the sick room fall apart. Watch this machine's counter restart. Uncle, if I could hold your open, never-broken heart, I would have held it from the start.

He's got a little locket picture of the maids' commission. With bees blowing through the bushes, he makes the first incision, and these dolls race through the garden. A chef on boneless roses opens the bandages, and this empty house discloses what the guest's dreams are hiding, as he rests above the arbor with little flowers crying for all their heads he's harbored. And the then midnight market stalls fill with up chloroform, the face within his locket mouths "take off your uniform." They kiss him before parting, then melt into his pockets. He's trampling through the garden and he's got a little locket.

The river runs swollen with the spring rains. How will you pay for it? In your tinfoil armor, coming up singing as you were born again. Washed in muddy water, will you recover from the stain when they call you by that unfamiliar name? In the flat land of west Texas, telephone poles and the evening train. I saw you at the station, waiting for the slow release again. Washed my hands of diesel, but it burns my eyes like smoke to see you standing in your military clothes.

A pretty one-eyed girl from the state of Maine can't see the church: it's on the left side of her brain. But it's clothed in browning leaves and it wants to take her in, and there's a Parson's robe inside that wants to feel her skin. And the sleeves of warm, black cloth are hungry for her wrists, and the pages of the Holy Book are hungry for her kiss. She'll go home all alone on the right hand of the interstate and the church upon the hill it will sit in crumbling leaves and it will wait for her, wait to be together. But she won't want it, ever. It's like a dream I had: this girl I went to see (and I can't sing her name, she might be listening to me), in a room of missing tiles we felt ourselves entwine, and she bit my tongue and shouted as I crawled into her mind. It was full of singing mouths and apples in the air, a soft, warm little room that was surrounded by her hair. And, alone, when we awoke, we stretched our legs and spoke to the people we were sleeping with in voices not our own, in the cool of our beds with the words just dissipating in the empty air ahead, and this other world just waiting until we're dead.

Mulholland

Georgeanna, the berylline hummingbirds are back in California. We've been frozen here in Dakota, and I'm thinking the sun could warm you. And I've been talked to, and I've been talking, too...You stopped coughing. You lay in my lap while the headlights lit the almond trees of some state park. You lay there so still, I was afraid I might have lost you. And I've been talking to you. I wish you'd talk, too. Mulholland, each little light's a soul outside of Bakersfield. You shut your saltwater eyes while the radio played soft and clear. And I was talking to you, I was talking to you.

Ella is the first rider. Margaret is the last. The night is as black as a miner. Stars are spun like glass. Elephants and birds, tattooed beneath her shirt. Relics from her time in Asia Minor. Ella is the first rider, cold and pale as chalk. The bones of her face are aligning underneath the oaks. She sees men as skin and bones, with hearts in the shape of stones, perpetrators of some terrible vision. Ella is the first rider. Her mouth is so severe. The fierce little jaws of a lizard are dangling from her ear. And her every freezing breath is drawn from the mouth of death. And her every little whisper is a murder.

This house is so clean; glass tables spread with new magazines. Can I stay for a week? You can kick me out when I break something. From the guest room I see your garden stretch out, it's like oceans of green. The maid calls me for tea and the tiles depict Mediterranean scenes. And it's all been added up, laid so a life can lean on it, so please don't bring that up. No one wants to hear that shit. Every night in my dreams I lift glass figurines from a shelf in the hall. Each delicate piece, when I pick it up it just can't help but fall. I can't hold anything, all machines, clothes and cars they just crumble and break when they touch my hand, cause I feel like I'm holding the hand that made them that way. But this house is beautiful you cold live long lives in it. Please don't be so dutiful. No one wants to hear that shit.

Amy Jeanne, you're in my dream. Your eyes they seem like stars and all this seems like scaffolding to lift up who you are. The hospital, the long ride home, your hands as new as snow. You lie asleep in the backseat and I can feel you glow.

This is the film of my death. I am the only one left. Let it all come down. Let it all come down. I'm stumbling over the blocks in this confiscated house, my associates. Let this be my testament. Carry the work we have done. Carry the plans we have laid. I tried my best, but there's so little left...Someday the crows will couple in our ruins. Someday the milkweed will bloom in profusion. Please forgive what you can and remember the rest. When I'm slept with the clover and tarragon, slumbering under the lawn, in one world less, in one world less.

YOV KNOW WHAT I AM TALKING ABOUT

YOV KNOW WHAT THEZE WORDZ MEAN

YOV KNOW IT IZ THE ZHEARWATER

YOV KNOW I LIKE IT

YOV KNOW WHO YOV ARE

ZTOP BEING CONFUZED. ENJOY IT OR LEAVE.