EL TEMA D’AVUI – MARILLION – FUGAZI

Fugazi és el segón disc de Marillion, i segurament el més complex instrumentalment i també en els textes, encara que segurament és el menys popular, eclipsat per el brillant debut amb Script for a Jester’s Tear, i per el fantàstic tercer, Misplaced Childhood, no obstant, en la meva opinió, és un disc que guanya amb els anys i cada vegada que el tornes a escoltar trobes nous matissos, especialment en temes com el que dóna nom al disc, un mig-temps, que després d’un inici lent i de recital casi poètic, va “in crescendo” fins el final, un dels més treballats i preciosistes del rock simfònic dels 80’s.

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Fugazi es el segundo disco de Marillion, y seguramente el más complejo instrumentalmente y también en los textos, aunque seguramente es el menos popular, eclipsado por el brillante debut con Script for a Jester’s Tear, y por el fantástico tercero, Misplaced Childhood, no obstante, en mi opinión, es un disco que gana con los años y con las repetidas escuchas, donde puedes ir encontrando nuevos matices, especialmente en temas como el que da nombre al disco, un medio tiempo, que después de un inicio lento y de recital casi poético, va “in crescendo” hasta el final, uno de los más trabajados y preciosistas del rock sinfónico de los 80’s.

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Fugazi est le deuxième disque de Marillion, et sûrement le plus complexe au niveau instrumental et même dans les textes, mais il est peut-être le moins populaire, eclipsé par le brillant début avec Script for a Jester’s Tear, et par le fantastique trosième, Misplaced Childhood, mais, à mon avis, c’est un disque qui gagne avec le temps et, à chaque nouvelle écoute, on peut trouver des nouvelles nuances, espéciallement dans des thèmes comme celui qui donne son nom au disque, un démi-temps, qui, après un début lent et de récital presque poéthique, suit “in crescendo” jusqu’à la fin, une des plus travaillées et préciosistes du rock symphonique des 80’s.

 

Vodka intimate, an affair with isolation in a blackheath cell,
Extinguishing the fires in a private hell,
Provoking the heartache to renew the license.
Of a bleeding heart poet in a fragile capsule,
Propping up the crust of the glitter conscience.
Wrappped in the christening shard of a hangover,
baptized in tears from the real, tears from the real…

Drowning in the liquid seas on the picadilly line, rat-race,
scuttling through the damp electric labyrinth.

(Caress Ophelia’s hand with breaststroke ambition,
The albatross courtship marrytime tradition.)

Sheathed with the walkman wear the halo of distortion,
aural contraceptive aborting pregnant conversation.

(But she turned the harpoon and it pierced my heart,
she hung herself around my neck.)

>From the Time-Life guardians in their conscience bubbles,
safe and dry in my sea of troubles.
Nine to Fives, with suitable ties,
While I’m cast adrift as their sideshow, (sideshow),
peepshow, (peepshow), stereo hero,
becalm, bestill, bewitch, drowning, drowning in the real…

The thief of Bagdad hides in Islington now,
praying deportation for his sacred cow.
A legacy of romance from a twilight world,
the dowry of a relative mystery girl.

A Vietnamese flower, a dockland union,
a mistress of release from a magazine’s thighs.

This magdalene contracts more than favours,
the feeding hands of western promise hold her by the throat

A son of the swastika of 45,’ parading a peroxide standard.
Graffitti disciples conjure testaments of hatred.
Aerosol wands whisper where the searchlights trim the barbed wire hedges.
This is Brixton chess,

A knight for embankments – folds his newspaper castle,
a creature of habit, begs the boatman’s coin,
He’ll fade with old soldiers – in the grease stained roll call,
linger with the heartburn of good friday’s last supper.

Son watches father scan obituary columns,
in search of absent school friends.
While his generation digests high-fiber ignorance,
cowering behind curtains and the taped up, painted windows.
Decriminalized genocide, provided door to door Belsens.
Pandora’s box of holocausts,
gracefully cruising satellite infested heavens,
Waiting, wait..waiting the season of the button,
the penultimate migration,
Radioactive perfumes for the fashionably,
for the terminally insane … insane
Do do do do do do you realize,
Do do do do do do you realize,
Do do do do do do you realize,
This world is totally fugazi!

Where are the prophets, where are the visionaries,
where are the poets, to breach the dawn of the sentimental mercenary.

Where are the prophets, where are the visionaries,
where are the poets, to breach the dawn of the sentimental mercenary.

Where are the prophets, where are the visionaries,
where are the poets, to breach the dawn of the sentimental mercenary.