Categorie archief: English

The World Of Dust – Womb Realm

  
It’s October and the weather has turned cold. I’m taking my nightly stroll, walking the day off to get some peace of mind. This night I’m accompanied The World Of Dust, music to emphasise the coming of Autumn. 
Womb Realm is the second solo album of Stefan Breuer -producer, bass player of I Am Oak, guitarist in Lost Bear, all round musician and the main man behind The World Of Dust – and it is a small mystical gem. Eight slow, short and fragile songs, basically build around a soft fingerpicked acoustic guitar. 
Dreamy, layered songs that make my stroll in the yellowish street lightning cinematic, as if I’m the somewhat lost protagonist in a movie about loneliness in big city life. That cinematic feel has been created by Todd Tobias, who has added synths to the small and personal songs of Breuer. Additions that feel like the wind, bringing in extra intimacy into the soul searching sketches of The World Of Dust; a wonderful combination that makes the songs intriguing little strolls on their own. Eight short walks through the life of Breuer, strolls in which he sometimes is accompanied by Thijs Kuijken of I Am Oak or Julien Pras of Mars Red Sky but are always his strolls. And tonight I walk along, enjoying harvest, enjoying Hyenas, and finding peace of mind with The World Of Dust warming my heart twenty-one minutes long.  

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Assignment 3 with World War I – Letters from the Frontline

In WWI life at the frontline was a life of hardship. Soldiers lived in the trenches under constant bombing and other enemy fire. Each day, each hour could be the last one. Feet cloacked in the mud, rifle clung in the hands, waiting for the captain to blow the whistle for the next offensive. And when he’d blow the whistle soldiers, without protest, ran in to No Man’s land. Left and right they’d see soldiers, their mates that they had just been playing cards with, fall in the line of fire. Shouting they’d been hit, the lucky ones immediatly laying silently, face down in the mud. And then back after the offensive, back in the trenches, losses were counted. The surviving soldiers, no time for mourning their fellows, were fighting over the space and the food in the bunkers with the rats and lice. Sometimes a soldier suffering from shell-shock would suddenly start shouting out of nothing into nothing, traumatized by the war, ready for the asylum. If one had the guts to look out of the trenches into No Man’s land, they ‘d only see ravage, the same as yesterday, and sometimes some dead or dying soldier hanging in the barbed wire or the legs sticking out of a crater.

Two weeks the soldiers would spend at the front, before they’d have some days of leave, sometimes even longer. Two weeks in the mud, two weeks of whisteling bombs, dying mates, gas attacks.

 

Mostly life in the trenches was a day to day hell, dying the ultimate escape. But still soldiers tried to make the best of it, keeping hope they would win and be home soon. Some shot themselves in the feet, or mutilated themselves in another way, hoping for a longer leave far from the frontline. But if you were caught doing that, you’d be killed.

 

Sometimes special things happened, friendship between the rivalling soldiers. For days your enemy would be the only other human you’d see. With Christmas and New Years’ Eve war was pauzed, and the enemies would celebrate together at some places on the frontline. To kill each other the next day, without remorse. No hard feelings, that was war.

 

And in the moments of relative peace, many of the soldiers tried to find a place where they could get some silence to write. Write letters of comfort to the girlfriends at home, write in the notebooks, write in their dairies or make sketches of the world that the saw. And many of those papers are left and give us a very accurate picture of the life in the trenches.

 

The assignment

 

In this hand out, there are some thirty sources, pictures and eye-witness accounts. Before doing anything you are going to read them and look at them to form an idea of life in the trenches. After doing so, you are going to write a letter from the frontline to your family/lover as a soldier at the Western Front in the year 1916.

From your letter it must be clear:

  • What life in the trenches was like,
  • How offensives took place,
  • What you do in the blank time between the attacks,
  • What the world around you looks like,
  • Your basic day to day life,
  • Your rank,
  • Anything else you can think of.

 

You type the letter in point 12, TimesItalic, at least one A4. No more then two A4!

 

Godspeed

T. van Erve

Source with assignment World War 1

 

 

GOOD COURAGE

 

 

 

Good courage in the July drive


That’s why I did not die,


Whilst the fighting in the trenches
The first day of July.

 

In No Man’s land I took my stand
Where some bullets pierced my thigh,
And left me there a cripple
On the battlefield to die.

 

Where hundreds of our soldier boys
Lay dead upon the ground,
And no one there to say a prayer
As I gazed and looked around.

 

After seventy-three long hours
In a shell-hole where I lay,
The blood ran down like water
”Twas the horror of the day.

 

When down beneath the shell-hole
I could not rise my head,
And on top of my legs and body
Some soldiers lay there dead.

 

Whilst shells were flying all around
My puttees caught on fire,
But for the clay and mud that day
My frame began to tire.

 

For sixty-two long hours
The hun did blast away,
And ten thousand of our soldier lads
On the battle field did lay.

 

Oh! The bitter morning; I heard that day
From the whistling of the mortar,
And all the rats that roamed that day
Took part amongst the slaughter.

 

We were the 29th Division or the S.S. Brigade
As we advanced over No Man’s land,
”The penalty was great.” they said
But looking back over the past that’s gone
No more will I fight to die,
Way out there on Flander’s Fields
As sure as I am Kilfoy.

 

I am one of the lucky five hundred
Though my limbs are shattered and torn,
I will not forget that July Drive
Or those who are left to mourn.
Of glory to their memory
Where on the battle field they lie,
Down in those terrible trenches
Where they were left to die.

 

It was then I spied a soldier lad
Who wore a Red Cross band,
As he travelled alone that day
Out there on No Man’s Land.

 

Then he pulled the dead bodies of me
And lay them by my side,
Then wrapped me up in bandages
Where most men would have died.

 

Then he took me on his shoulders
Oh! What courage this man must find,
And he brought me to a dressing station
One mile down the line.

 

My boot and foot, part of my leg
Were left out there in the mud,
Which made his burden lighter
But his clothes were soaked with blood.

 

I do not know that good man’s name
As my strength was all but gone,
God will defend such courage
Is a prayer that guides us on.

 

It was my last time on that battle field
And no more will I want to see,
The horrors of a brutal war
No place on earth should be.

 

And as I look back on my memories
When we were in the prime of life,
Not thinking that this day would come
For me to have a wife.

 

Yes, today after forty long years
I have a good and faithful wife,
And am blessed with a family
To guide my crippled life.

 

My prayers have all been answered
And to the past, I’ll say good-bye.
Where we fought and died like soldiers
The first day of July.

 

 

By: W.S. Reardon For Private Soldier Leo Kilfoy, Soldier of War World One.

 

VERDUN

 

Three hundred thousand men, but not enough


To break this township on a winding stream;

More yet must fall, and more, ere the red stuff


That built a nation’s manhood may redeem


The Master’s hopes and realize his dream.

 

They pave the way to Verdun; on their dust


The Hohenzollerns mount and, hand in hand,
Gaze haggard south; for yet another thrust 
And higher hills must heap, ere they may stand 
To feed their eyes upon the promised land.

One barrow, borne of women, lifts them high,
Built up of many a thousand human dead.
Nursed on their mothers’ bosoms, now they lie –
A Golgotha, all shattered, torn and sped,
A mountain for these royal feet to thread.

A Golgotha, upon whose carrion clay
Justice of myriad men still in the womb
Shall heave two crosses; crucify and fray
The memories accurs’d; then in the tomb
World-wide execration give them room.

Verdun! a clarion thy name shall ring
Adown the ages and the Nations see
Thy monuments of glory. Now we bring
Thank-offering and bend the reverent knee,
Thou star upon the crown of Liberty!

Eden Philpotts

 

 

 

GOOD COURAGE

 

 

 

Good courage in the July drive


That’s why I did not die,


Whilst the fighting in the trenches
The first day of July.

 

In No Man’s land I took my stand
Where some bullets pierced my thigh,
And left me there a cripple
On the battlefield to die.

 

Where hundreds of our soldier boys
Lay dead upon the ground,
And no one there to say a prayer
As I gazed and looked around.

 

After seventy-three long hours
In a shell-hole where I lay,
The blood ran down like water
”Twas the horror of the day.

 

When down beneath the shell-hole
I could not rise my head,
And on top of my legs and body
Some soldiers lay there dead.

 

Whilst shells were flying all around
My puttees caught on fire,
But for the clay and mud that day
My frame began to tire.

 

For sixty-two long hours
The hun did blast away,
And ten thousand of our soldier lads
On the battle field did lay.

 

Oh! The bitter morning; I heard that day
From the whistling of the mortar,
And all the rats that roamed that day
Took part amongst the slaughter.

 

We were the 29th Division or the S.S. Brigade
As we advanced over No Man’s land,
”The penalty was great.” they said
But looking back over the past that’s gone
No more will I fight to die,
Way out there on Flander’s Fields
As sure as I am Kilfoy.

 

I am one of the lucky five hundred
Though my limbs are shattered and torn,
I will not forget that July Drive
Or those who are left to mourn.
Of glory to their memory
Where on the battle field they lie,
Down in those terrible trenches
Where they were left to die.

 

It was then I spied a soldier lad
Who wore a Red Cross band,
As he travelled alone that day
Out there on No Man’s Land.

 

Then he pulled the dead bodies of me
And lay them by my side,
Then wrapped me up in bandages
Where most men would have died.

 

Then he took me on his shoulders
Oh! What courage this man must find,
And he brought me to a dressing station
One mile down the line.

 

My boot and foot, part of my leg
Were left out there in the mud,
Which made his burden lighter
But his clothes were soaked with blood.

 

I do not know that good man’s name
As my strength was all but gone,
God will defend such courage
Is a prayer that guides us on.

 

It was my last time on that battle field
And no more will I want to see,
The horrors of a brutal war
No place on earth should be.

 

And as I look back on my memories
When we were in the prime of life,
Not thinking that this day would come
For me to have a wife.

 

Yes, today after forty long years
I have a good and faithful wife,
And am blessed with a family
To guide my crippled life.

 

My prayers have all been answered
And to the past, I’ll say good-bye.
Where we fought and died like soldiers
The first day of July.

 

 

By: W.S. Reardon For Private Soldier Leo Kilfoy, Soldier of War World One.

 

VERDUN

 

Three hundred thousand men, but not enough


To break this township on a winding stream;

More yet must fall, and more, ere the red stuff


That built a nation’s manhood may redeem


The Master’s hopes and realize his dream.

 

They pave the way to Verdun; on their dust


The Hohenzollerns mount and, hand in hand,
Gaze haggard south; for yet another thrust 
And higher hills must heap, ere they may stand 
To feed their eyes upon the promised land.

One barrow, borne of women, lifts them high,
Built up of many a thousand human dead.
Nursed on their mothers’ bosoms, now they lie –
A Golgotha, all shattered, torn and sped,
A mountain for these royal feet to thread.

A Golgotha, upon whose carrion clay
Justice of myriad men still in the womb
Shall heave two crosses; crucify and fray
The memories accurs’d; then in the tomb
World-wide execration give them room.

Verdun! a clarion thy name shall ring
Adown the ages and the Nations see
Thy monuments of glory. Now we bring
Thank-offering and bend the reverent knee,
Thou star upon the crown of Liberty!

Eden Philpotts

 

 

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Opgeslagen onder Achtergrond, English

Verdwaald in Ponoka, a Dutch-Canadian Lost in Translation

Teach your children well, their parents hell will slowly go by

A book rests on my table, Verdwaald In Ponoka, the accompanying cd has found its way to the player. Memories of an immigrant youth in another world captured in word, image and music. In 1985 the family De Gier decided to challenge their luck and start a new life in Canada, back to farming as the De Giers’ had done for generations back. An adventure that they should’ve started, according to father De Gier near the end of his life. Or at least, so the book sleeve says.

But it is this adventure that gave birth to Verdwaald In Ponoka, a book that reads like a follow up on the famous Dutch real life show Ik Vertrek. A show that follows families that try to start a new life abroad, hopeful and full of dreams when they leave. But to all viewers it’s apparent that the dream is soon to perish when the economic and cultural reality kicks in. In Verdwaald In Ponoka reality did kick in, and hard. Hard enough for the family De Gier to return to the Netherlands, done farming.
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Hall Of Fame – Little Berlin in Tilburg

Here we are, Hall Of Fame; a youth centre, a hide out for the subversive, a skatepark – mostly a skatepark – and a small stage. Dogs wander in and out the old factory hall based on the defunct marshalling yard of the NS – still the biggest railroad company of the Netherlands – whilst skaters manoeuvre through them and their – mostly older – owners. Signs on the wall saying “Do Not Skate Here” are considered wall decoration to be ignored, as are the symbols telling you you have entered a non-smoking zone. Personnel, considered misfits, drop-outs or too subversive in other places, kindly remind the youngsters of the rules, which they then silently oblige even though you see the boys (and occasional rolling girl) think; Why walk, when you’ve learned how to ride?.
There is a hint of freedom in the air, like in those old cultural squatting centres. That feeling that any second something can, no will happen, almost an autonomous zone. A feeling cultivated by the architecture, which mostly left the old factory in tact, with the tow bridge still – dysfunctional, I guess – still floating in the air. A perfect hang out for adolescents to grow in to young adults that’ll make the changes in a later stage of the life. And a perfect backdrop for your better independent rock, away from the hassle in a place where pints of beer are still reasonably priced. “Berlin……, I heard people whisper during Incubate, with little sparks of love in their eyes. But this is Tilburg, a city which cultural life is typified by its citizens initiative. A city where top down is distrusted, not out of ideology but by nature.
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Broeder Dieleman – Klein Zieltje

“Wow!”
That was my first reaction when I place the needle in the new 10″ of Broeder Dieleman, Klein Zieltje. Four new songs that draw a totally different approach than on his debut Alles Is IJdelheid.
It’s weird how much the sound of an artist can change between one recording and the next. Over the course of slightly less than a year, Broeder Dieleman moved from intimate folk to a threatening slow neo folk close to the mysterious and disruptive sound of Fever Ray, morphed and disfigured childlike voice included.

Lets stand up to change speed on my record player from 33 to 45 rpm.
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Earth MK. II – Music For Mammals

I stood there and wept. Last week saturday The Twilight Sad played at Incubate. A stripped down set, without drummer nor bass player, leaving everything I thought elementary to the sound of Glaswegian band away. What remained were the songs and these songs blew me away. Bare naked, performed from their toes, especially with the singer, they proved that it is not the sound that makes the band, it’s the songs. And with The Twilight Sad these songs breath, live, kick and hurt, no matter what the form.

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Those Foreign Kids – Zero Gravity Somersaulting Craze

Horrified. Its ears in the neck, every muscle in its tiny body tensed, ready to jump and its eyes spurred wide open, searching for the easiest but mostly the quickest escape route. The same reaction every time, my cat dislikes Those Foreign Kids, hates them and each moment that I started playing Zero Gravity Somersaulting Craze it leaves, no, flees the living room.

The high pitched distorted guitars, the piercing, ferocious drums and the constant volume explosions that noise rock duo Those Foreign Kids offers on their debut longplayer must be an auditive hell for the poor feline. Torment to the little tiger’s ears but a sweet sour blessing to mine, sweet sour with a touch of hot chili peppers sauce.
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