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Post by Lori on Jul 30, 2003 23:18:40 GMT
[there are no actual lyrics to this song]
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Post by Al Truest on Sept 14, 2003 15:43:07 GMT
Can anyone elaborate on the use of 'human voice' samples that were programmed on the fairlight here?
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Post by strabley on May 27, 2004 20:41:00 GMT
I don't know how the voices were done, but I wanted to point out what I believe to be a haunting and perhaps not coicidental similarity to Fredrick Delius' "To be Sung of a Summer Night on the Water" Sto has mentioned that this song seems to work well with Blow Away I think, which I do agree with, but there seems to be an intense link to Delius as well. Just a thought.
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Iago
Reaching Out
Stepping out off the page.....
Posts: 367
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Post by Iago on May 27, 2004 21:53:46 GMT
I don't know how the voices were done, but I wanted to point out what I believe to be a haunting and perhaps not coincidental similarity to Fredrick Delius' "To be Sung of a Summer Night on the Water"....there seems to be an intense link to Delius. Oh course there is a similarity. A documentary on the composer Delius, that Kate saw growing up, was the inspiration for the piece.
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stev0
Moving
He's an utter creep and he drives me 'round the bend
Posts: 517
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Post by stev0 on Aug 19, 2005 2:19:52 GMT
OK, everyone on this board comes up with interpretations for Kate's songs I would never have thought of in a million years (which is one of the reasons I love this board).
So, what's the meaning behind this one?
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Scott
Reaching Out
Get out of my house
Posts: 266
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Post by Scott on Aug 19, 2005 3:44:11 GMT
Stevo, If you get a chance to wander into an english garden AT NIGHT..it has to be at night...Stock releases its fragrance at night........it is also whats called a moon plant, cuz it lights up when the moon hits it.....very english...a traditional herbaceous perennial..white white white....you'll ew and ah just like Kate did on that track........a real summer experience.... I bet Kate has some amazing perennial borders.... Stand your ground about the religion thing Stevo...people love fairy tales....
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stev0
Moving
He's an utter creep and he drives me 'round the bend
Posts: 517
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Post by stev0 on Aug 19, 2005 7:12:46 GMT
I don't believe I've ever smelled night scented stock, but I have smelled flowers that only release their fragrance at night, and it is a wonderful experience.
However, I was hoping for a less literal explanation. I mean, anyone can say "There Goes a Tenner" is about a bank robbery, but someone will come along and point out how it's actually an allegory about the crisis in the Mid-East in such a way that it makes sense. I may not agree with their interpretation, but it forces me to look at her work in a new way (which, with such a long gap between albums, is most welcome).
I picked this one here because since it has no words per say, it is the one most open to alternative interpretations.
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Post by tannis on Sept 24, 2009 19:27:09 GMT
Maybe the Night Scented Stock poems throw light on why KaTe wrote (or titled) her piece: "Not like them this Stock, that only / Seems to wake when sunbeams sleep". KaTe wrote Wuthering Heights to a full moon, and it is known that she does (or did) a lot of her writing at night. So I guess she identified with the night-scented stock and its fragrant perfume. I especially like Night-Scented Stock by Katherine Mansfield: "The music stopped and there was nothing left of them / But the moon dancing over the tree" ...
THE NIGHT-SCENTED STOCK. by Edward Quillinan (1791-1851)
OTHER flowers are not content, Vestal-like, to live and die, Prodigal of hue or scent, They must bloom for passers-by.
Bright-eyed triflers kindly scattering Smiles for all, in vain display ; Or with incense sweetly flattering Good or bad that cross their way !
Not like them this Stock, that only Seems to wake when sunbeams sleep ; (Skill'd in close reserve, and lonely, All its balm till night to keep).
Then its subtle sense unsheathing, With it pierces to the brain Of the lonely poet, breathing To the stars his midnight strain.
THE NIGHT SCENTED STOCK. by Margaret Richardson, 1839
How sweet thy perfume, modest flow'r, With gently bending stem ; Thou lov'st to greet the evening hour, When sparkles many a gem.
Loaded with flowers, you sweetly bend, With Cynthia for thy guide; "Wisdom's pale lamp,'' and Virtue's friend, In beams upon thee glide.
For thou art not a morning flower, Thy beauties to impart; 'Tis night, when sorrow's saddest hour, Calls forth thy powerful art.
Thou wert not sent to please the gay, Nor gratify the proud ; Thy virtues shine not in the day, When smiles the giddy crowd.
When evening drops in dewy tears, Thy balmy breath is given ; Diffus'd amid the glitt'ring spheres, Which gild the vault of heaven.
Modest and sweet thy simple dress, To suit the coming blast ; Thy form is one of easy grace, With fragrance scarce surpast.
'Tis only modesty and worth Adorns the fairest brow ; These are the gems, kind Heav'n sends forth, To gild our path below.
Dost thou thy perfume sweet inhale, (When evening veils the light;) From vapours sent along the gale? As tributes to the night.
Or from those rays of burnish'd gold, Which skirt the crimson West? And on thy leaves seem to unfold The glories of the blest!
Or from a God of majesty! Of wisdom, might, and power? To shew his wonders, e'en in thee, Thou little simple flower
Night-Scented Stock by Katherine Mansfield (1917)
White, white in the milky night The moon danced over a tree. "Wouldn't it be lovely to swim in the lake!" Someone whispered to me.
"Oh, do-do-do!" cooed someone else, And clasped her hands to her chin. "I should so love to see the white bodies-- All the white bodies jump in!"
The big dark house hid secretly Behind the magnolia and the spreading pear-tree; But there was a sound of music--music rippled and ran Like a lady laughing behind her fan, Laughing and mocking and running away... "Come into the garden--it's as light as day!"
"I can't dance to that Hungarian stuff, The rhythm in it is not passionate enough," Said somebody. "I absolutely refuse...." But he took off his socks and his shoes And round he spun. "It's like Hungarian fruit dishes Hard and bright--a mechanical blue!" His white feet flicked in the grass like fishes... Someone cried: "I want to dance, too!"
But one with a queer Russian ballet head Curled up on a blue wooden bench instead. And another, shadowy--shadowy and tall-- Walked in the shadow of the dark house wall, Someone beside her. It shone in the gloom, His round grey hat, like a wet mushroom.
"Don't you think perhaps..." piped someone's flute. "How sweet the flowers smell!" I heard the other say. Somebody picked a wet, wet pink, Smelled it and threw it away. "Is the moon a virgin or is she a harlot?" Asked somebody. Nobody would tell. The faces and the hands moved in a pattern As the music rose and fell, In a dancing, mysterious, moon-bright pattern Like flowers nodding under the sea...
The music stopped and there was nothing left of them But the moon dancing over the tree.
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