Random operations courtesy of John Cage? Killing Joke's occultist Kabbalah? The Martian bingo of Taking the Dog for a Walk? My computer’s I?P No! This string of numbers has another explanation: today is the day on which we screen the most documentaries at this edition of Beefeater In-Edit. In addition to the 12 on the program, there’s the late night session: Foo Fighters Sonic Highways. In total: 1.128 minutes of stories, ideas and music spread over three screening rooms. Between all the sessions there are 8.694 seats (but watch out, yesterday we sold out another film). Check the programa carefully and choose your good times.
They'll be presented by the writer Kiko Amat, die-hard fan of Dexys (formerly Dexys Midnight Runners), and we'll chat with them after the screening of this documentary-concert, an impeccable occasion on which to get to know the English group better, enjoying their music and their formidable stage presence.
In collaboration with Canal+, Beefeater In-Edit will premiere the second episode of Foo Fighters Sonic Highways, the HBO documentary series that travels to t eight famous American studios where the Seattle band chose to record each of the songs for their album Sonic Highways. Last week, at the presentation of Beefeater In-Edit in Madrid, we screened the first episode (about the Cheap Trick studio in Chicago). The second episode arrives in Barcelona today, carrying us to the Inner Ear studio, in Washington. Dave Grohl, who directed the series, defines it as "a love letter to the history of American music".
The screening will take place at the Aribau Multicines Sala 5 at 24:00n. Oh, and it's free (until all seats are full).
In-Edit is the only network of documentary film festivals specialized in music on the planet. It’s 11 years of history, more than 400 films shown, hundreds of thousands of spectators congregating in our well consolidated editions in Barcelona (the largest event exclusively dedicated to the genre), Chile, Brasil, Colombia, Greece and soon Mexico, Poland and several other countries… And we toast them all. But taking the cue from Can’s kraut-disco classic from 1976 “We want more!”. We want our passion for music documentaries to reach all over the world all year round.
And here is where In-Edit Beat comes in [Read more]
Stop! Red light!
So we believe it was Kerouac that showed us the road. But there were many roads (and there still are) and Ellington showed us his, beautiful and sophisticated. Ellington was a dandy in the time of junkies. The jazz room was his thing, the sensual, seductive dance, the white ladies and gentlemen in their smoking jackets, the America of Reader's Digest and cocktail bars, of Mad Men or Masters of Sex. Palmolive and nights in White satin. And also, independent jazz, nontransferable and advanced. Ellington always walked miles ahead of the rest.
Being black in the America of the '40s, '50s and '60s meant you were totally fucked. However you want to look at it, it must have been hell for those that didn't form part of the dominant clan, handsome, clean and white, nuclear white. To rise from the gutter you had to have talent, lots of talent. Ellington and many of the jazz musicians of his generation and later had it; by the boatload. Only those with overwhelming genius were saved, those who were treated like dogs (1), that had to shit and piss in the colored only bathrooms, even though the white world needed them, in the dancehalls or in the jazz caves. The world needed their madness and clairvoyance, the enormous music they vomited night after night, while their health got shipwrecked at the bottom of a bottle or a syringe. Nights of variable cloudiness, which unraveled in blues emitted from broken hearts and troubled souls.
Duke was the King of the Jazz Republic in which nobody reigned, in which life was squeezed between the fingers and melodies took root in the soul and memory, in the future, the present of those that today cry with emotion at such musical outpouring. It was a white world, made up of prudish, distrustful twits that uncorked bottles of champagne and petrol pumps believing themselves to own the universe. The world was and would be theirs, but the truth was elsewhere and the emotion uncorked and uncorked in little dives, dens of complicity in which it was heard and felt. In those recording studios that would leave proof of the genius, the emotion and the talent, for all time.
Duke Ellington spent his entire life on the road "...the road was his home..." (2); the train cars were hotels on wheels, the hotels, homes without wheels in which to write and stop the world for a moment before returning to life. And life? Life was, perhaps the perfect song, to which to dance until death, in which to love until sorrow, or in which to hear the beating of the heart and the echo of the soul. The suite in which to throw oneself into the valley of tears, the song in which to condense all desire. Life was the song that everyone wanted to write but very few came close to completing. Ellington was, perhaps one of these few.
Let's go! It's green!
(1) CHARLES MINGUS. Less Than a Dog. Mondadori. Vintage. 1991.
(2) GEOFF DYER. But Beautiful: A Book About Jazz. Picador. 2009.