Fernando Garcín nos sorprende con Untitled Love (Amor sin título)

 

      Fernando Garcín no te deja indiferente, no solo por sus letras o su música si no también por su voz que te arrastra a su mundo, un mundo que ves pasar pero en el que te quedas. Su poesía ve los árboles del bosque y así nos descubre un bosque múltiple, único e individual, que aúna una mirada que ama cada hoja. Fernando escribe poemas que rozan el tiempo con un guante de seda, poemas para montarse sobre su ritmo y ver el paisaje pasar.

 

Poesía y música, canción hablada, poetemas del poetante, imágenes y... Fernando Garcín.

 

Y en este 2011, desintegrador, de pestilencias y mierdas al descubierto, ¡gracias a los cielos y a las lluvias! nos regala otro álbum: Amor sin título (Untitled Love).

 

Y dice carpe diemtante el poema de Barbara Decesare que da título al álbum: “Un amor anónimo, callejero y vagabundo, todos lo serán, humeante vapor de patinadores en el cemento de unos días sin nombre ni mérito. Solamente el brillo...”

 

Todas las canciones han sido escritas por Fernando Garcín excepto “Untitled Love”, que es un poema de Barbara Decesare. En el Amor sin título han participado músicos como: Javier García Sevilla, Héctor Cebrián, Carlos Carrasco, Sebastian Weisman, Jesús García Roldán, Clara Smeaton y Juan Carlos Sanjuán, más Jordi Sanjuan y Néstor Mir.

 

Comienza:

Airport Song

 

I didn’t notice how much

you slipped in my pocket

I didn’t notice how much

my heart was beating

There’s an airport close to every house

Always

There’s a plane that lands or flies

close to your home or mine

I didn’t hear what you told me

about the rainy days

I didn’t feel your fingers

touching my face of glass

There’s an airport close to every house

Always

there’s a plane that lands or flies

close to your home or mine

I was not there

when you opened your eyes and looked around

I was living the night

when you opened your wings

at dawn

 

 

Y cierra con:

 

Crimson King (Rey Escarlata)

 

Tonight there are no States nor things

Tonight there are no scooters except oranges

Tonight life crashes the cymbals of the empire

Angels and frogs wake fish up from lethargy

There are no objects, lady, because there are no subjects

There are no behaviour analyses nor eternal passports

There are no scientists no popes

Nobody loves anything, just lovers and clowns

In the court of the Crimson King

Tonight the rubbish bags dance waltzes

Tonight the factory products are delirious

Tonight there are no guards nor alarms

Plate-spinners stroke Mozart with baby fingers

Limousines driven by teenagers of yesteryear

There are no plastic paradises, nor masters of napalm

Spinoza’s guffaws, baby blue’s whimpers

Not any dream saved, just deep advice

In the court of the Crimson King

Tonight there are no unemployment queues nor full piggybanks

Tonight there are no little sisters of mercy nor lice

Tonight the warriors skate in the parks

Young maids serve dinner in public toilets

There are no rubber elephants, lady, there are no kangaroos

Barflies administrate borders with broken mirrors

Cinderella frees butterflies from the judges’ robes

Bottichelli organizes orgies on the beaches of God

Tonight there are no promised lands

Tonight there is no remorse,

No reasons nor guilt

Tonight forgetfulness breaks down laws in the basement

Goodbye cruel world

Welcome, playtime

Without concepts or homelands, just fair-lights

The Three Kings give Elvis back his lost Cadillac

No hungry heart will stop beating tonight

In the court of the Crimson King

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