on life, music etc beyond mainstream

2021 24 Feb

The World Is A Beautiful Place

von: Lajla Nizinski Filed under: Blog | TB | 2 Comments

Meistens steht sie in der zweiten Reihe, meistens ist sie spärlicher gekleidet, als ihre Schwester Allison Moorer oder Lucinda Williams. Sie steht auch schon mal auf gleicher Höhe mit Willie Nelson. Aber dann, wenn sie alleine performed, wenn sie ganz das Rodeogirl rauslassen kann, dann twangt sie umwerfend stark, schleudert ihr linkes Bein von sich wie ein wildes Pferd, dann ist sie auf 1000PS. Shelby Lynne singt Kris Kristofferson zu Ehren „Me and Bobby McGee“ fantastisch. Shelby takes us back into a time, we were young, we were wild, we strolled around in North Beach, buying small books of underground poets in the city lights bookstore. Now our last hero is gone:


„I am waiting for my case to come up

and I am waiting

for a rebirth of wonder

and I am waiting

for some to really discover America …“


Laurence Ferlinghetti died yesterday at the age of 101.

(Brian, come along with „Me and Bobby McGee“ – and isn’t San Francisco a beautiful place?)

This entry was posted on Mittwoch, 24. Februar 2021 and is filed under "Blog". You can follow any responses to this entry with RSS 2.0. Both comments and pings are currently closed.


  1. Michael Engelbrecht:

    Lajla is not speaking to Brian Eno of course who was not a fan of the Beat Geneatation poets, he was more into Ernst Jandl, Schwitters, Hugo Ball of course (listen to I Zimbra!), but to Brian Whistler who‘s back in our circle, and left a short personal moving note recently in the comment section of Harold Budd‘s passing away.

    I liked both, Jandl and Ferlinghetti, at least some of the beat poet‘s poems, i didn‘t know that much. Amd Lajla has a story with San Francisco:)

  2. Michael Engelbrecht:

    One of my favourite LF poems / in the original he is spreading the lines across the space avoiding regularities / conventions (making them look more fleeting, flying …)

    In woods where many rivers run
    among the unbent hills
    and fields or our childhood
    where ricks and rainbows mix in memory
    although our ‘fields’ were streets
    I see again those myriad mornings rise
    when every living thing
    cast its shadow in eternity
    and all day long the light
    like early morning
    with its sharp shadows shadowing
    a paradise
    that I had hardly dreamed of
    nor hardly knew to think
    of this unshaved today
    with its derisive rooks
    that rise above dry trees
    and caw and cry
    and question every other
    spring and thing

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