Pop it into babelfish, people.

Маргарита Фулда
30-ого юлия 2005
SILP русского языка

Есть-ли в поп-музыке социальная ценность?


Перед тем как я начинаю говорить на теме поп-музыки, надо немного объяснить себя. Когда я начала работать над этим докладом, я думала, что будет о ужасах поп-музыки, как нет жанра потому что музыканты не поют своих песни, и так далее. Когда я сново работала над проектом, прочитала несколько статей, медленно я изменила немного свою мнению. Поп-музыка мне не нравится часто слушать, но мое отвращение её не значит,что нет музыки.

Поп-музыка как слова не могла я опеределить. Нельзя измерять что в каждой эпохе становится популярной. Нельзя делать. В этой время поп-музыка является жанром музыки, с несколькими качествами. В популярных песнях всегда привлекательные мелодии, которые очень лёгко петь. В каждых популярных песнях ещё крычок. Когда я говорю крычок то имею в виду очень привлекательный музыкальный узор или темк. Каждый раз как вы услушите его, уже неможете его забыть. Эти песни очень простые. Если услишите одную такую писню,уже можете предсказывать как идёт каждые другие. Обычно, поп-музыканты очень обшая личность, даже стереотипичная личность.

Так вопрос уже есть: за что стоит этой музыкой? Есть жанр музыки? Есть искусство, когда нам большое важно личность музыкантов чем музыка? Что в нем хорошего? Поп-музыка очень простая, и очень основная. Человек не надо заниматься музыкой или политике чтобы ценить эту музыку. Поп-музыка всемирная. Использует познаваемые темы, например любовь, чтобы все можно придумать, что писни только для себя и о себе. Поп-музыка просто поднимает настроение у всех слушателей. Кроме того, популярны писны становятся знаком нашей эпоха. Когда услушите писню припоминаете момент когда вы с первого раза послушали писню, с кем вы ходили, что вы делали, и что вам в этом время было важно.

У меня ещё много аргументов против жанра поп-музыки. Делают слишком сыльное ударение на внешние появлении. Как музыканты ведут себя большое важно чем музыка которая они делают. Многие поп музыкантов совсем не учились музыки. Они несоздают свои песни, иногда даже на сцене не поют. Индустрия решает как исполнят музыканты, как они ведут себя, и пишут песни для их. Бизнесмени в индустрии создают человека чтобы много денег зарабатовают. Причина всему – деньги. Также интересно как поп-музыка может становится пропагандой. Часто было так в бывшем СССР, и даже самый здесь. Видно это в песнах которые становились популярними после террористическегл действия в Нею Юорке, все только удачно у них ли патриотических темах.

К выводу, говорю что надо уважать исcкуства, не надо нравиться всех произведения. Я не против эту музыки, я против комерции в индустрии музыки. Есть ужасные песны, и есть замечательные песны в всех жанрах музыки. Плохая песня не значит плохой женр, и самое правыльно то, что хорошая песня ещё не значит что целый жанр будет хороший. Аргумент дело в том, что значит искусство? Что мы считаем музыку? Если мы что-небудь не считаем искусством, значит-ли это что нет произведения? Но, искусство не зависет от наших препрчитаниях.

Keep on Keeping On

Still lobster-ified. Still downing aleve ever three hours. Still cant sleep on my stomach, bring myself to wear a bra, or bathe.

Leave it to me to change my thesis for my final russian report a full two days before its due. Horray.

I'm attempting to provoke an argument about what is music (said argument started out as the demerits of pop music). In perusing the internet today I found this off an Aussie web site. Got a kick out of it, plus don't really want to copy the whole quote out to keep working from home.

*curses internet gods profusely*


"This rather long and unstructured rant is nearly over, so I’d like to send out a final message to the different kinds of music fans I mentioned above.

Scary Devout Teenage Pop Lovers - I hope that at some point you will learn that death threats are not the best way to defend your idol’s reputation on various websites, and I also hope you will open your minds and ears to the wonderful, diverse world of music out there.

To all the More-Alternative-Than-Thou group out there - I beg of you, take the time to actually listen to songs instead of instantly dismissing them because they don’t fit your ideal of clichéd “proper” music. Pop is your friend - nay, it´s more than a friend. It’s the drunken vapid floozy you go out with now and again when you want a cheap, dirty night of fun. Resisting her lusty charms in order to stay at home constantly with your lovable but often stern wife (indie\rock\metal\etc, for those of you not digging my metaphor) means you’re missing out. ausculture.com encourages your musical infidelity!

Finally, to the I Like Music, Full Stop bunch of music fans - to you, I simply say keep on keepin’ on. The meek may inherit the earth, but who cares? You’ll be heading straight to musical heaven to form a band with Jimi Hendrix, Britney Spears, John Bonham and Cher - or something."
Posted by Jess at August 10, 2004 03:33 PM

Hee.

Comment, damn it, I'll run out of ideas between here and thursday. Well, no. I'll run out of ideas which I can properlly elucidate in Russian.

T-28 days, just by the way. But who is counting?

Will anyone take my bike in P-land for the semester? Pullllllllllleeeeeeeease??

Its Electric na na na na ne ne nah na ne...

Guess who scored book two and three of the Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants finally from the podunk library here in town...EEEEEEEEEE

Guess who baked herself (see, we do have reflexives en anglais) this weekend, and now walk all straight as to not bend at all...

Guess who will be parading sans bra for about two weeks. See above.

Guess who gets to go to work in an hour up at the base. See above.

Must find aloe. Must find beautiful trilingual serviceman to maz mne.

I just want you to know who I am

Oy vey, I wrote this this morning on my way to school in Russian, and half I don't remember well, the other half doesn't translate well, but screw all of you damn it, I've had 6 hours of lessons today and one more coming, so humor me.

So I'm walking down the street about half way between my house and the Institute downtown. I happen to glance across the street where three 20-something guys are standing, drinking coffee, and oogling a car in front of them. I'm on the other side of the street, mind you, so I don't really hear what they're saying, though it was most definitely foreign-ish. They must have caught my glance, half smile, and chuckle, because one of them calls out "Hey pretty lady" (insert pelvic thrusts here). I just laugh, and keep walking. Then another one tries a bad, "You speak-a my language?" looking all hopeful and shit as I motor another block down. Since they were relatively dark looking, I just assumed they were Spanish speakers (bad assumption, ass-like, yes I know) so I answered, "Que idioma?" Never mind that properly I should have said "Qual idioma?", but fuck, Russian has summarily executed most of my command of Spanish. This obviously didn't penetrate very far, but it did succeed in striking them dumbfound for an extra minute or two. Then they keep talking at me, in perhaps Arabic, and I get all flustered and just start chattering in Russian until I get all the way up to my class room.

Oy vey, such linguistic conundrums. I think my brain was just meant to combust, that's really the answer.

Mad bonus points to any and all who can successfully explain to me the difference between a verbal adverb and a participle. Curses, I knew that whole English grammar thing would come in handy someday...

So true:
"Do you know a cure for me? Why yes, he said, I know a cure for everything. Salt water. Salt water? I asked him. Yes, he said, in one form or another, sweat, tears or the salt sea. "- Isak Dinesen

Please call if you need, I'm concerned. I promise I won't even gloat (existuje takoe anglicko slovo? es palabra en ingles?)

Ay dios mio. Oy vey. Time for tea.

Glory

I saw the sun rise twice today. And potentially possible penguins. There are large quantities of espresso and revolution afoot today. What a charmed existence I persue...

Dear Peggy: Please stop journaling after reading Bulgakov

Conclusion number one: much of my ranting is probably PMS. Conclusion number two: ocean is good for me. Nail polish is not. I've been having that Star dream again lately, the one where I wake up with the surf crashing in my ears, the smell of salt and fog horns still so present. To my surprise, being by the ocean only exacerbates that longing, not at all dulling any of the desire to back on the island. California beaches only seem to mock the cold spiritualism and strength of the island-you have to work to be struck blind by its rocky intensity. Here you more like fall into the coastline, not at all conscious that at this very moment your life is changing. Beaches here at times strike me as lifeless and vapid, the complete opposite of the careful cajoling and release that I'm craving. I wish I knew what it is that I'm holding back, keeping separate to pour forth while perched on East Rock watching the sunrise...I haven't a clue.

Bitje schastliva u spokojna mne nyzhna cvoboda. To be happy I need freedom. This trip this weekend brought back so many memories, it threw me for a while. In a lot of ways I felt just like all the times I'd run, fleeing Kostelec, to the cushy cosmopolitan mecca of Prague. I got that same lurking dread on the return trip, that same retroactive euphoria by being in the city, under my own power. San Francisco is less mine than Prague ever was, but in that moment I was right back there. Even hauling ass to some far off bus station smelling like piss, crowding onto the rattling antique of a bus, and settling happy into the cocoon of a trip absurdly long in time but not in distance. I had that same notion of resigning myself to the rank and file of days, the same resentment of normalcy that always strikes me after traveling. It always seems to take from me a bit of my rhinoceros skin, I need a few days to bounce back to my impervious optimistic let everything run off self.

I've also decided the next place that I live will be warm and sunny. Croatia, or say, Bulgaria. I think my years of cold and wet are numbered-once shown the light I'll fight before being forced back to cold and dark. This week here in Monterey is supposed to break records. Highs are right around 70 degrees. Yeah, I'm not laughing. Enough is enough.

Where does this restlessness come from? How can one be both happy staring out at the travails of a comorant for hours, half hid by fog, and yet, feet scalding by extended contact with earth? Can I really be present in the moment, while peering beyond the horizon out of the corner of my eyes? What kind of sight is that really then, perpetual motion nowhere quick and everywhere slowly. This is why I both crave and fear inactivity. Reflection lifts the best of me to the surface, dissuades me of all possible second bests, which undoubtedly puts me open the road again. I sense this is a battle I'll continue to face, but the rectifying of both parts both eludes and baffles me.

But no more nailpolish. Most definitely not my scene.

Took the Chevy to the levy 'till the levy run dry...

So much deja vus, you could drown in it, swimming and still clothed. Great artsy, sloppy, very tipsy weekend in cosmopolitania, wish it could go longer wandering wondering through the up and down mystique of San Francisco, mayhap my hypercolor toenails think otherwise. Old lady pink and biker dude thighs, where is this going?

Can I flee from fleeing? Would I jump that gun? Oh for happily oblivious to mediocre desires...I thought I had everthing all upturned, organized just enough is the short way of saying happily awaiting revelation, or screwed in eight languages, all in cardboard hobo script-will work for englightenment.

I remember knowing knowing.

Wooooooooot.

Just finished totally disposing of my first "semester"exam here in rainy old cold Monterey. For once not freaking out and not studying at all close to adequately did not sneak back to bite me in the ass. All of the five some pages we were actually supposed to do analysis questions based on the texts, all answers in English. Well, I was bored, and pissed, so I answered them all in Russian. Farely well, if I might add in my humble oppinion. In my own words with my own version of the grammar, not totally just parrot-ing what was written in the actual reading portion.

Now homeward for some serious catch up after my weekend away. Like groceries. And library. And Blockbuster, praying I incorrectly infact remembered my due dates. No late fees my ass. Then sleep. 'Cause leaving San Jose this morning involved getting up at 6 and a minor car accident that may or may not have been my fault.

But hey man, I ran a 4.5 mile race for the 4th with the family in San Jose and totally owned. I was first girl in my age, and third among the guys. It was sweet after not running in like, a month and a half, and not racing in years. I owe all my success to that damn hill and my bicycle. Nothing beats smoking an Ex-Marine 20 some odd years your senior at his own game :-D

Lordy, lordy. Where did my summer go??

Addendum:
On this day a full two years ago I arrived home from the Czech Republic. Chybi mne tu stranu, chybi mne to zivot. Bylo skoda, co jsem si neuvedomila drive. No, ted'ka reknu Dekuju mockrat, diky za tvoreni mne, u za otvereni moje oci.