segunda-feira, 15 de janeiro de 2007
There is always a wicked secret
This is my statement: este No Promises de Carla Bruni é um álbum extraordinário. Muito bom MESMO. O single «Those dancing days are gone» é excelente, sem dúvida, mas eu confesso que estou mesmo in love (em repeat mode) com a faixa «Al last the secret is out» (poema de Wystan Hugh Auden). Por isso, decidi pôr esta canção na grafonola (o single pode sempre continuar a ser ouvido no site oficial).
Nesta faixa, a voz de Bruni chega a ser inaudível. Tem uma rouquidão simultaneamente rude e meiga, amarga e doce, viril e feminina. Eu, que raramente elogio as vozes femininas que por aí andam a editar discos, afirmo: estou absolutamente rendida.
At last the secret is out,
as it always must come in the end,
the delicious story is ripe to tell
to tell to the intimate friend;
over the tea-cups and into the square
the tongues has its desire;
still waters run deep, my dear,
there's never smoke without fire.
Behind the corpse in the reservoir,
behind the ghost on the links,
behind the lady who dances
and the man who madly drinks,
under the look of fatigue
the attack of migraine and the sigh
there is always another story,
there is more than meets the eye.
For the clear voice suddenly singing,
high up in the convent wall,
the scent of the elder bushes,
the sporting prints in the hall,
the croquet matches in summer,
the handshake, the cough, the kiss,
there is always a wicked secret,
a private reason for this.
Nesta faixa, a voz de Bruni chega a ser inaudível. Tem uma rouquidão simultaneamente rude e meiga, amarga e doce, viril e feminina. Eu, que raramente elogio as vozes femininas que por aí andam a editar discos, afirmo: estou absolutamente rendida.
At last the secret is out,
as it always must come in the end,
the delicious story is ripe to tell
to tell to the intimate friend;
over the tea-cups and into the square
the tongues has its desire;
still waters run deep, my dear,
there's never smoke without fire.
Behind the corpse in the reservoir,
behind the ghost on the links,
behind the lady who dances
and the man who madly drinks,
under the look of fatigue
the attack of migraine and the sigh
there is always another story,
there is more than meets the eye.
For the clear voice suddenly singing,
high up in the convent wall,
the scent of the elder bushes,
the sporting prints in the hall,
the croquet matches in summer,
the handshake, the cough, the kiss,
there is always a wicked secret,
a private reason for this.
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