Arno and Spinvis will be Zita Swoon’s guests at their 3rd 15+ gig at the AB.

After this concert there’s a late night party at the AB Club. DJ Carlo (Tune Up, Antwerpen) will bring a trunk full of really good, hand picked party tunes.

ah, Arno!!!

une chanson géniale pour remonter le morale!!!

énorme, énorme.

bien @ vous,

nicogé

ah, quelle chanson.

et Arno: la classe.

dont voici la version originale… bien aussi!!!

bien @ vous,

nicogé

Lunedì 16 novembre alle ore 21, presso la sala consiliare «Sandro Pertini» a Campi Bisenzio, si terrà il consiglio comunale monotematico su: «Bacino del Fiume Arno, 1966 – 1991. La messa in sicurezza e le opere di bonifica per limitare il rischio idraulico». Prevista la presenza di Gaia Checcucci, segretario generale dell’Autorità di bacino del fiume Arno, e di Marco Bottino, presidente del Consorzio di bonifica dell’area fiorentina.
«A 18 anni di distanza dall’alluvione del 1991, la tematica della messa in sicurezza del bacino del fiume Arno e la sicurezza idraulica, rappresentano un tema ancora attuale, che desta interesse nella comunità campigiana», commenta il presidente del consiglio comunale, Alessandro Tesi.
Che aggiunge: «Mi preme ricordare come questo consiglio si sia già occupato lo scorso anno di questo argomento in occasione di un altro consiglio comunale monotematico. Parlando di messa in sicurezza del bacino non si può fare a meno, poi, di ricordare il procedimento in corso di risarcimento dei danni provocati dall’alluvione del 1991 che, mentre per i privati ha già visto l’erogazione della prima tranche di contributi, per le attività economiche è ancora in corso di perfezionamento, ma vedrà presto la sua conclusione».

Scena 1 [Pisa, esterno notte]

Riccardo esce dalla redazione del Tirreno e si accende una sigaretta. L’aria della sera promette dolcezze notturne ma nasconde un retrogusto amaro.

“Stronzi” sussurra lui aspirando la camel. Non lo pagano da quasi due mesi e intanto gli hanno commissionato un altro articolo per il giorno dopo. Non ne può più di lavorare per la gloria. Meno male che c’è la casa editrice a pagargli i conti: meglio passare le notti a rovinarsi gli occhi sulle ambizioni di gloria di qualche idiota che tornare a Massarosa con la coda tra le gambe.

Il cellulare suona e Riccardo reprime una bestemmia.

“Sì Lauro sono io, dimmi. Tremila battute, ho capito. Sì lo so dov’è, ci sono già stato l’anno scorso, non ti ricordi? Sì, tranquillo, buonanotte”

Riccardo respira profondamente e scorre la rubrica del telefonino.

“Vale ciao, che fai? Sei a casa? Ci vediamo tra cinque minuti”

I pensieri si affastellano come polvere sotto il divano e Riccardo si concentra sulle cosce di Valentina. Sono bianchissime e sode, ma non troppo magre. Da donna, anche se lei è solo una ragazzina. Ma lo adora e lui si è invaghito di quest’adorazione, ne è ormai dipendente.

“Dovrei mollare tutto e andare a Roma da Gianni” pensa Riccardo mentre percorre in trance le strade di Pisa. Si conosce: non riuscirà mai a mollare questa città e le sue sicurezze precarie, ma sapere di poterlo fare lo consola.

Si sporge dalle spallette dell’Arno e guarda la cicca volare giù lentamente.

Le facciate dei palazzi colorano l’acqua di luci e da lontano – come un miraggio – spunta l’odore del mare.

Riccardo stringe i pugni dentro la giacca di velluto e immagina le labbra di Valentina. Non lo eccitano neppure un po’: è solo l’idea di un pompino fatto per bene a risvegliare i suoi sensi.

Un uomo deve pure tenersi stretto quello che ha, anche se sono solo fantasie da porno amatoriale.

Scena 2 [Massarosa, interno giorno]

“Ma ancora stai dietro alle cazzate che ti racconta?”

“Che ne sai tu di come campa Riccardo…”

“Oh se lo so! Fanno tutti i letterati del cazzo, questa è la verità, ma nessuno si mantiene da solo, fidati. Uffici stampa, correzione di bozze, collaborazioni con giornali, se mettono insieme 400 euro al mese è oro che cola. E il resto lo sgancia il papi!”

“Allora è meglio vivere come facciamo noi, secondo te?”

“Non è meglio né peggio: è necessario e basta. I miei non vogliono aiutarmi, i tuoi non possono. Punto. Non è questo il problema. Lavorare non mi ha mai pesato”

“Allora cos’è? Dai ammettilo Manuele, sei invidioso”

“No cazzo, non è invidia. È la loro spocchia che non sopporto. Maledetti figli di puttana. Io voglio un po’ di rispetto. E poi parlano di precariato! Con il loro precariato intellettuale mi ci pulisco il culo. Non lo sanno che tu fai le pulizie con una cooperativa e che sei assunta con l’interinale? Mi fanno schifo”

Mara scuote la testa e si versa un altro bicchiere di birra. La domenica è agli sgoccioli e la sua pazienza pure.

Manuele ha ragione ma non può capirla. Quello che a lei manca, quello che invidia a Riccardo, è solo la capacità di coltivare un sogno.

Ilaria Giannini

New image in the reflections photography contest

There are no words to describe Flornce and no picture can equal what you can see with your eyes …
Sunset on the Arno river photography picture

Some of my fresh music mix to dance in kitchen!

AfroDubCore VI

Afrobeat, Afro Funk, Tribal
Arno – 2009 – AfroDubCore VI

AfroDubCore VII

Dub, Dub Poetry, Dub Techno
Arno – 2009 – AfroDubCore VII

AfroDubCore VIII

Raggacore, Breakcore, Dancehall, Hardcore, Jungle, Noise, Reggae
Arno – 2009 – AfroDubCore VIII

soundcloud.com/djarno

Though we are a blog focusing on our travels at hand and the atmosphere of the “Far East,” we have gotten a lot of traffic and encouragement for a previous post about Italy. Since I have a wealth of other tips and photos to show off and encourage travel in all its forms and destinations, I will please the people with more.

Though overshadowed some by Florence’s other worshiped attractions, Santa Croce has gotten it’s share of exposure: any guide book on the shelf will have an entry about it and thanks to E.M Forester’s “A Room With a View,” it’s even a bit of a household name. But, the press is unfairly reserved (especially now that every destination is the most beautiful, every church the most spectacular). “Lonely Planet” didn’t think it deserved 5 stars and Forster describes it as a “cold barn.”

The Basilica is fantastic. It is cold, but wonderfully so. The frigidity hardens and makes more spectacular the building’s marble floors and facade, especially in the wet heat of a Tuscan June. The wood rafters that cross the ceiling may be barn-like, but uniquely so. It seems every other church in Italy has a Brunelleschi inspired waffled dome worth mentioning, or amazing frescoes covering its ceiling (Florence’s own Duomo has both)  so any departure from the norm is refreshing. Especially when the dark, warm wood is a striking contrast to that previously mentioned ice cold marble.

Strolling around the main hall, you’re constantly surrounded by fantastic monuments and art. Many of the statues are funerary pieces, as Santa Croce is basically Italy’s Dominican version of Westminster Abbey in London. Resting at Santa Croce along side the standard stable of Saints and religious figures are Cultural celebrities like Dante, Bartolini, Bruni, Galileo, Machiavelli, Michelangelo, Raffaello, and Ghiberti. Each plot seems more fantastic than the next. As you approach Michelangelo’s tomb, your astonished to find that the flanking columns, draping curtain, and supporting Cheribum you have been observing from afar are all frescoes. His coffin is a beautiful purple marble that doesn’t seem like a natural product of the earth and that glows off its pure white mount. Galileo’s tomb is not covered in planetary and pagan symbols as you may suspect (thanks Dan Brown) and is instead austere and majestic in its simplicity.  Galileo’s coffin may be the most impressive at the site- it is serious, a contrast of gold and black marble befit for a funerary marker. Surrounding the coffin is a bust of the great Astronomer himself (top) and two beautiful flanking female sculptures worthy of (and probably carved by) on of Santa Croce’s master sculptors. My favorite sculpture, Dante, stands outside greeting visitors with a defiant stance and fearsome gaze befitting a man who has been to hell and back. again.

While anyone would be crazy not to see the Duomo, David, The Uffizi, or any other of Florence’s worshiped sights, make sure that if you do go, Santa Croce is not left off the list. Perhaps it will end up your favorite diversion as well, a break from the crowded superstars, of guided tours and explanations, a place where, like Forster’s Lucy, you forget the “Baedeker,” “Rough Guide,” or “Lonely Plant” and let the “pernicious charm of Italy work,” where you forget about acquiring information and “begin to be happy.”

Archive. La semaine prochaine débute la 19e édition des Oreilles en pointe (dont le programme est sur le site du festival), à côté de Saint-Étienne, à deux pas de chez moi. Je vous en entretiendrai… Occasion s’il en est de se plonger dans le passé récent de ces Oreilles toutes dressées, à l’affût d’une chanson pour le moins engageante. Ainsi en 2004, salle Daquin à La Ricamarie, la prestation d’Arno, superbe concert, entre rock frénétique et spleens étrangement amoureux…

"Dans les yeux de ma mère / Il y a toujours une lumière…" (photo Danny Willems)

«Chui chanteur de charme / J’veux êt’ mince comme un pneu de vélo / J’veux que tout l’monde m’aime / Même les clodos». Clope entre les doigts, balançant d’une pogne l’autre le pied de micro, titubant ce qu’il faut, Arno aime à se donner l’allure d’un clodo aux atours d’un chanteur de charme. Disons de Cloclo et ça f’ra la rime. C’est voix grave, râpée, rugueuse à l’extrême, presque négligée, nicotinée c’est sûr, gorge chaude qui pétrit des mots sans calcul, hors l’émotion. Car l’homme qui tantôt se trépigne tantôt est assis, selon le tempo, est un bouleversant condensé de ce qui se résumerait vite fait bien fait à la vie, la mort et tout «l’bazaaaard». Arno, c’est ça, masse pas forcément légère qui vit l’ivresse du moment tant dans le calme de textes prenants, voluptueux et poisseux, que dans la démesure d’un rock envoûtant, limite tribal. Question musiciens, Arno tape dans les bons : un quart accordéon dont on sent une complicité qui remonte à l’aube de l’amitié, trois-quarts jeunes dont la valeur n’attend visiblement pas le nombre des années. Tout juste s’il y a peu, ils ne tétaient Les Yeux de ma mère. Tiens, la v’là, elle : grand classique d’Arno et chanson de géant ! Celle-là et quelques-unes encore qui nous feraient penser, par ce belge, à un autre et fameux… Pas tant d’ailleurs parce qu’Arno reprend Le Bon Dieu, non… : c’est une posture, un trop plein d’émotion, un truc d’en-dedans qui vous dit que cet artiste ne triche pas. Même quand il se la joue Bukowski (« Lola c’est pour toi / Que je me lave sous les bras »), rôle qu’il s’est assigné et joue bien, bien crade, façon de nous brusquer. « Quand on est con et malheureux / On a toujours besoin du bon Dieu »… Comme en fatigue, comme en souffrance, c’est assis qu’Arno nous livre le meilleur de lui, nous fait littéralement vaciller. Et là, on n’est pas loin de Brel, de Jef. Sauf qu’Arno ne chante pas le désespoir mais cette vie qui, selon lui, est une partouze. Qu’il flonflonne en de lourdes orchestrations du côté des Filles du bord de mer, qu’il pochtronne Chic et pas cher : c’est une plongée en un drôle d’univers aux personnages singuliers et attachants, d’une profondeur humaine sans beaucoup d’égales, dramaturgie onctueuse qui suinte la souffrance. Le meilleur chanteur ne peut donner que ce qu’il a. Lui, la tête dans le brouillard, les œufs pochés, les yeux hagards (« Regarde les traces de mes larmes / Faire pleurer c’est mon jeu »), a tout de grand et de généreux, qu’il donne en entier et plus encore. A la définition de bête de scène, inscrivez Arno. Et allez le voir en scène pour comprendre en quoi. C’est de l’inestimable !

A noter qu’un best-off Arno de 3 CD est sorti en bac en début de ce mois d’octobre 2009.

Firenze.

L’Arno visto da Ponte Vecchio.

-

Gostei da ação feita pela Arno como Merchandising no programa “Toma Lá da Cá”, ao contrário de todos os outros merchans que se camuflam, eles escracharam o merchan deixando com a cara do programa, confiram abaixo:

An overview:
Paris (dec 8): Christophe Miossec, John Parish & Arno
Brussels (dec 9 & 10): John Parish, Arno & Tom Barman
Amsterdam (dec 16): Spinvis & Tom Barman

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Share your opinion at the ZS-forum

by Tuppence Stone, Director/ Producer, Grasslands and Deserts team

On location in Namibia

 The enthusiasm of the first dawn was tangible. We rebuilt the grass hide, destroyed by elephants the night before, and I saw our cameraman Toby Strong plus camera and the two Bushmen hunters, Nao and Kun, creep inside. Their view of the waterhole was good and there were fresh kudu, oryx and ostrich tracks around.   Arno, our guide, and I withdrew to observe as safety cover and I set up to film second camera – concentrating on the wildlife shoots, to complement Toby’s main action.

 I spent hours crouched on a sloping grass-topped earth bank, craning my neck to see anything that might come into the waterhole without giving myself away. The sun was hot and I was shrouded by a camouflage string scarf which allowed me to see, but broke up my outline. Silence and stillness stretched through the hours. Parts of my body went to sleep, then pins and needles poked me alert again.

It is impossible to remain totally focused when there is precious little to focus on.  I found my eyes wandering as I noticed the tiny action going on around my hiding place. Termites in their hundreds were crawling through the grass around me, nipping the stems into tiny lengths and posting it down the holes. Given long enough they would expose me..

A bull elephant gets dangerously close to the hide (on the right)

 It was great to have a role, but I knew I couldn’t jeopardise the crucial shot. If my actions spooked the wildlife, the hunters would not get a chance at their shot, then our story wouldn’t begin.  Straining to see ostrich through the camouflage, I froze as they looked in my direction.  The camera was recording, though it was above my head and the angle I had to twist to see the screen quickly became painful. I fought the aches, until the giant birds lumbered away.

 The first day passed into sunset, without success. By Day Three the enthusiasm had passed, pessimism was rife and the wind had changed. The heat of the first day had been superseded by a blustery wind which carried our smell across the waterhole. This unseasonable weather was not what we needed. When the kudu approached they were edgy, and fewer came because the cooler air reduced their desire to drink.

 Yet, slowly they came in, stepping, looking – again I froze. Again the mud bank crumbled under my inclined boots, again I strained to see the screen. With the bright light I couldn’t be sure they were in focus.  I cursed and ever so slowly slipped my hand up under the scarf to adjust the camera. It’s tiring on the eyes to look through so many layers of focus: the weave of the scarf, the near grasses masking my face, then the middle distant brush and beyond that the approaching kudu. The concentration is intense.   The kudu came closer. But then they stepped into the invisible zone where our smell tainted the air. They stamped, reeled round and were gone. No shot fired. No images today. 

Toby, Nao and Kun in the hide

Day Three did bring a real surprise though. A leopard came into the waterhole at mid day, and it was intrigued by the hide. Slowly, slowly it approached the mound of grass, probably because it saw the potential of this cover as a good place to lie in wait. But the bushmen certainly didn’t want a leopard in the hide with them. Toby, sitting behind then, noticed their buttocks quivering alarmingly. As it wandered to within 20ft they lost their cool, shouted and crawled out of the hide to scare it – Kun pushed the younger Nao out in front of him, then clung to him as they saw off the predator. They didn’t seem such fearless hunters at that moment.

 By Day Five we had changed our tactics. The wind had turned again, but the temperature remained low. The hunter’s hide was moved closer in and the morning doves in their hundreds didn’t mind the intrusion – but would the game be as relaxed? Arno and I had backed off further, initially to a distant hide and then the penthouse platform. So far from the action that binoculars were my only connection. But through them I willed the kudu into the waterhole. I was willing them to their death.  Was it bloodthirsty, was I hard hearted? I cherish and respect wildlife, so shouldn’t I will the game to flee?  

Nao softens the glue to repair an arrow Toby trod on

Though we had asked the bushmen to hunt in our time frame, the fact they were hunting was not unusual.  If an animal was killed it would be because of us, yet if we were not there attempting to record the hunt, a different animal would have been taken by the hunters.  Any kill is the only meat the bushmen families eat and a carcass provides a feast for the whole village as well as sinew for bow strings and twine, skins for bags and bone marrow to eat as well as knuckle bowls for preparing poison.  What Nao and Kun were aiming to do was more honest than my weekly trip to the supermarket.  Imagine how far our consumption of meat would go down if we had to sit for a week to catch that lamb or that cow, and then share it amongst our whole community! 

Capturing the sounds of the grasslands

Finally 2 male kudus with statuesque horns sauntered in. They came closer and the wind was kind.. The kudu were alert, frozen, staring at the hide for the longest time. This is your chance guys – do it! do it! I yelled in a whisper inside my head. But the males retreated, grazing close by for over an hour.

 I could relax, stretch, move around because I was so far away, but I knew in the hide they would be frozen, silent, stealing glances, easing apart the grasses to make way for a shot. After what seemed like an eternity the males came closer again. Close enough to shoot surely. I saw the kudu react, turn, run, stop and look back. A shot had been fired, but missed. Our waiting continued. 

A red headed weaver bird in its 'hide' near our platform lookout

60 hours stretched to near 70 before another opportunity. A group of females were tentative, smelling and sensing something strange, but unsure quite what the nature of the danger was.  A warthog ambled into the frame – likely to blow the hunter’s cover with its superior sense of smell. But instead of disaster, he was the perfect decoy. Drinking casually from the waterhole, he was oblivious to the hunters just feet away.

 The kudu began to drink, the tension rose as I watched but could not influence events.  Just as with the males, I saw them react and flee, but this time the walkie talkie crackled into life ‘It’s a hit, perhaps two’, said Toby, with real elation. The waiting was over.

Nao takes aim

Nao had wounded his first kudu.  His excitement was genuine and proud.  But the hunt was still far from in the can.  From here on we were no longer dependent on luck to bring the animals to us, but on the Bushmen’s skills as trackers to keep us on the trail. What we witnessed can be seen in the Grasslands programme, but needless to say – it didn’t go according to plan.

posted by SHELLEY BRUCAR

Just returned from Italy where we spent time in Florence, Sorrento and Cinque Terre.  What a beautiful country!   I get inspiration from beautiful scenery, and here are some  photos from Florence:

View from Pazzale Michelangelo, photo by Wayne

View from Pazzale Michelangelo, photo by Wayne

at the Arno, photo by Wayne

at the Arno, photo by Wayne

Arno reflections, photo by Shelley Brucar

Arno reflections, photo by Shelley Brucar

Grafitti everywhere!   Photo by Shelley Brucar

Duomo, photo by Shelley Brucar

David copy, photo by Shelley Brucar.  You find copies of David all over Florence.  The original is at Galleria Academia where the lives are quite long if you don’t make an advance reseervation.

Tourists, photo by Shelley Brucar.  Downtown Florence is overrun with tourists and very crowded.  South of the Arno is residential and much more quiet and serene.

Padlocks,  photo by Shelley Brucar.  This is an interesting tradition in Italy, for which I have found 2 meanings.  I believe, originally, closing a padlock and throwing the key into the river was a popular tradition followed by militarymen who had completed their compulsory service.  Now however, couples write their names on padlocks, attach them to a guard rail, and throw the keys into the sea, symbolizing love forever.

Italy offers everything from big city to calm and beautiful country.  More photos from Cinque Terre,  Sorrento, Capri, Pompei and Amalfi Coast to follow.