Emmylou Harris - Wrecking Ball tekst lyrics | Tekstovi Pesama
Meet me at the Wrecking ball. Wrecking Ball, I'll wear something pretty and white. And we'll go dancing tonight. Meet me at the Wrecking Ball Wrecking Ball, I'll. For me, Wrecking Ball was a watershed, if that's the right word. I was having a meeting with Daniel, and we just decided to make a record. Full and accurate LYRICS for "Wrecking Ball" from "Emmylou Harris": Meet me at the Wrecking ball, Wrecking Ball I'll wear something pretty and white, And.
I was just going through a lot of changes.
I had met [singer-songwriter] Gillian Welch. It evoked something in me. At our first meeting, Dan gave me a huge book of Dylan songs. It feels like a hungry ghost record. In the songs, there are so many hauntings, suicides, meetings that are never going to happen again. I came in and sang on something, and he dropped the finished record in my mailbox.
I think Dan understands how certain things that seem really simple are actually incredibly important to the emotional impact of the song. So Dan brought Steve in to play on that. I think we raised it up, and it made the song even more vulnerable. With other writers, it could become bathos. She dodges that bullet every single time. She goes to that place that every good writer aims for: You know, the F-word. Before she died, I did a few shows with her.
The range is astonishing. But I wondered how you would describe the quality that you bring to these collaborations. Whenever I hear you do something or collaborate with people, the song is transformed. What do you think you bring to these duets and reinterpretations?
You have the voice that you have. In duet singing, you have every note available to you, except for the lead. So, to me, the voice is always just another melody. Although sometimes when you listen to the radio, it makes you wonder. But in its purest form, the human voice—no one really sounds alike.
Singing harmony with him, and singing country, makes you do a very pure allegiance to the melody. Do you feel you still have to explain that? I inhaled the hell out of country music. What quality in country do you think you inhaled particularly?
That simplicity and that loyalty to the melody. Simplicity can intensify the emotion. I never think that any of these people are you, but somehow you must feel close to them to express them with so much heart.
A good song deals with the human condition, and the truth of the human condition. But I can be touched as a human being. I left the road, which was very unusual for me.
Wrecking Ball Lyrics Neil Young ※ catchsomeair.us Mojim Lyrics
I left the record company, I left my management. A Tribute to Gram Parsons . But Red Dirt Girl  was the result of that different path. Why do you like to tour so much?
I get a lot of sleep on the bus. I bring two dogs with me, who keep me grounded. I have this amazing audience of fans who have been listening to me, some of them since Some of them are new, I think probably starting from Wrecking Ball.
I need the money. I do have a working dog rescue, which is not a money-making activity. In a strange way, it completes me. Next is Steve Earle's "Goodbye". Mullen arrives for this one, and Earle himself shows up to play guitar. Tony Hall plays bass and adds a crucial shaker part, and recording engineer Malcolm Burn, who evidently had a hard time staying behind the console during sessions, plays piano. The glue for all this is the washes of Lanois' electric guitar, turning what, in the original song, must have been bluesy twang, into a sort of translation into music of the breaths and heartbeats of the narrator and the lover being addressed.
"Wrecking Ball" lyrics
Emmylou's voice at one moment has the reverent tones of a Christmas hymn, and the next catches and cracks with a bit of country edge. The hollow thwack of Mullen's snare, and its carefully timed echoes, are perfectly matched to the mood of the song. In its original form, I believe this is a sad song. The way Emmylou sings it, though, I start to think that the question isn't just whether the goodbye was said, but whether the parting even really happened.
She turns it into less an apology than an assertion of the lingering bond, and raises the possibility that the two aren't really through, at all.
As written the apology is a closed-ended statement, to which the only responses are "Thank you" or silence. As sung, though, the song turns into a question.
Did we stop loving each other? I'm no longer sure; are you? Reading its lyrics only after hearing it many times, I'm surprised to find out that it's a Christian song, and probably a particularly cloying one in other hands.
Its usual habitat is the glossy repertoire of an over-cosmeticked country evangeliste whose rhinestones and devotion sparkle with similarly artificial exuberance. I can see her singing through a pasted-on smile in my mind, a smile that would crack her make-up if she hadn't been grinning like a doped idiot during its application, as well.
She'll be buried that way, eventually, the smile fixed in place for her introduction to the Lord by a combination of extreme piety and a very well-paid embalmer. Harris and Lanois render this devout mess totally unrecognizable. Emmylou begins the process by glossing over most of the worst lines. Daryl Johnson then adds a sinister, elastic keyboard-bass part that sounds like something borrowed from Peter Gabriel, a pseudo-gospel harmony vocal, and some almost African chanting.
Lanois helps with the chant, and adds conventional bass, mandolin and electric guitar to Emmylou's own acoustic, and Malcolm adds a few touches of admirably understated piano. Emmylou's singing is strained and captivating, playing off the harmony and chants nicely. The result is a strangely spooky piece whose focal points are all sonic, but which ends up being powerfully spiritual in a way that the original, if it was done anything like I imagine, could not have approached.
The next transformation goes in the other direction. Apropos of the song's pivotal offer of dancing, this version emphasizes steady rhythm, almost to the exclusion of the music. Mullen's drumming sticks to toms, setting up a persistent rumble instead of a predictable groove. Burn plays tambourine, Lanois adds more percussion, and Sam O'Sullivan operates a roto wheel, whatever that is. The spare musical elements are provided by a little haunting piano, some light-handed Lanois guitar, Tony Hall's quiet bass, and some subtle vibes.
The end result pulses, inviting a shapeless dance that is as much an emotional state as any sort of exercise. This is music for dancing for togetherness' sake, not music for dancing for show. Whether or not that's the case, the performance turns it into a sincere offer with tragic poignancy, a desperate resolution to dance and feel special despite the collapse of things in general into ruins.
In this context the pretty dress is a touch of breathtakingly fragile determination, a willful denial of impossibility, and just singing the song is almost a psychological victory in itself. This is the one that, the first couple times, I thought was saying "Goin' Back to Harlem".
It's a bizarre and affecting song as "Harlem". The musings about sycamores, riverbanks, the bells of Rhymney seem otherworldly, as if the narrator can't be sure that a blissful trip to the country wasn't somehow a dream. The return to Harlem, then, is done in a teary daze, as if the narrator can't quite believe that she is returning to such a place, even as she knows that she must.
The bit in the chorus about rocking the gallows is provocative, and appropriate, but enigmatic. When I realized that she was singing Harlan, not Harlem, the song became all the more moving to me, as it seemed that the narrator, who had been so afraid of returning to an urban slum, was suddenly rescued from that fate, and allowed to go back to some peaceful rural paradise after all.
This twist is so effective that now I'm wondering whether the CD really did say Harlem the first couple times, intentionally. Ironically, it's the least country-ish song on the album.
Her voice is processed with a wax-papery buzz to it, and echoed for an unsettling, spacey effect. The music is angular and throbbing, and by the middle of the song has built up into an almost techno-like electro-pulse. The song isn't as explicitly industrial as Melissa Etheridge's "", but the effect is somewhat similar.
Emmylou's vocal part drops into very low registers in the chorus, nearly devolving to conversation. It never becomes a rap, but there's just a wisp of a threat that it might, which makes the song that much weirder.
Emmylou's double-tracked voice and Mullen's martial drums are once again the centerpieces here, with Malcolm's organ and Tony's bass adding basic ambience, and Lanois, Earle and Emmylou's acoustic guitars staying surprisingly well out of the way for there being three of them. The combination of the organ and the scriptural grandness of Dylan's lyrics "the flower of indulgence", "the pain of idleness and the memory of decay", "the doorway of temptation's angry flame", as well as the recurrent resolution to "like every grain of sand" combine to give this song the quality of a hymn, and to make me think that routine church services could be improved considerably with the addition of a drummer.
And Emmylou in the congregation. Though now that I've said that, it seems pretty obvious, doesn't it? Lucinda herself plays guitar on it, as does Steve Earle again. Richard Bennet contributes tremolo guitar, Burn plays slide and piano, Lanois operates his usual arsenal of instruments, and Neil Young is back to sing harmony again, and play a little harmonica.
I guess this is my least favorite moment on the album, as meaningless a metric as that is, because while the song is beautiful, it seems beautiful in a more conventional way than most of the others. Perhaps it's just contrast, though, because the next song is Jimi Hendrix's "May This Be Love", transmogrified into a thick atmospheric roar whose guitar part is almost entirely ambient resonance, not distinct notes. The repetition carries over into "Orphan Girl", a prayerful Gillian Welch song whose lyrics consist of little other than an orphan girl's wish to be with her parents again.
The percussion track here is again flawless beyond words, with Malcolm playing tambourine, Larry on hand drum, and Tony on stick drum. Lanois' mandolin and dulcimer, and Emmylou's guitar, provide the musical framework, and she and Daryl Johnson duet on the cycling vocal line.
As on "All My Tears", the sound of the song tends to swallow up the literal meaning, to the extent that "I am an orphan girl" could be "I am a northern girl", at which point the song becomes a universal plea for deliverance, or even a vote of confidence that deliverance will come.
And if deliverance can come in song form, it arrives immediately. The ancillary players are all out at lunch or something, so Lanois, Burn and Emmylou assemble this one all by themselves. A moving requiem to younger selves, this expansive anthem casts the younger selves as mythic figures, and the contrast between their vague identities and such corporeal details as the bookstore on St.
Clair she works in, the punch clock, and the "strong arms of the union", is vivid. When the man "slips down into the blast furnace", it's left exquisitely unclear whether he has literally fallen into the furnace and been killed, or whether it's that in his devotion to his numbing labor he's stayed alive physically, but died in spirit.
Verb tenses are ambiguous; I can't tell what the narrator's current situation is. This, too, is fitting, as the departures of Blackhawk and the White Winged Dove are tragic no matter how literal or metaphorical.
I could probably listen to this song for a month. If songs could launch ships, the oceans would be full by the end of this one. The album concludes, finally, sadly, with another of Emmylou's own songs, the melancholy "Waltz Across Texas Tonight". Mullen settles into an imperturbable drum gait, Burn, Lanois and Hall set up the scaffolding, and Emmylou gets vocal backing from Kate and Anna McGarrigle.
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The tune, especially with the harmony parts, has the timeless elegance of an ancient folk song, or what the medieval inhabitants of Texas might have produced to compete with Loreena McKennitt's Celtic excavations, if only Texas' modern culture could be retroactively extended backwards in time a few hundred extra years. I know I'm going through a nostalgic phase in my personal life, in which references to Texas are bound to earn some extra sympathy, but I don't think I'm imagining this song's agelessness.
You hear it, too, don't you? If you don't hear it, please don't tell me. Maybe you'll hate this album, or it will bore you, or something equally incomprehensible to me, but just don't tell me. Leave me to the momentary illusion that quality and appeal are universal, and that this album is a masterpiece for everybody. Leave me to the fleeting delusion that these songs will drift across the earth, strewing self-awareness, wonder and good will in their wake, transforming a chaotic, squabbling world into something harmonious, kind, rewardingly complex, and achingly beautiful.