107
   

WA2K Radio is now on the air

 
 
Walter Hinteler
 
  1  
Reply Sun 11 Dec, 2005 12:40 pm
I'm back from Holland by now. :wink:


Autobahn by Kraftwerk

Wir fahr'n fahr'n fahr'n auf der Autobahn

Vor uns liegt ein weites Tal
Die Sonne scheint mit Glitzerstrahl

Die Fahrbahn ist ein graues Band
Weisse Streifen, grüner Rand

Jetzt schalten wir ja das Radio an
Aus dem Lautsprecher klingt es dann:
Wir fahr'n auf der Autobahn...

[Translation:

We are driving on the Autobahn

In front of us is a wide valley
The sun is shining with glittering rays

The driving strip is a grey track
White stripes, green edge

Now we're switching the radio on
From the speaker it sounds:
We are driving on the Autobahn.]
0 Replies
 
Letty
 
  1  
Reply Sun 11 Dec, 2005 01:01 pm
Hey, dys and dj. Great songs.

There's our Walter back and on the autobahn. Thanks, Germany.

Wonder where the rest of Europe is? Working? <smile>

Chain Gang
Sam Cooke

[Words and Music by Sam Cooke and Charles Cooke]


I hear somethin' sayin'

(Hooh! aah!) (hooh! aah!)
(Hooh! aah!) (hooh! aah!)

(Well, don't you know)
That's the sound of the men working on the chain ga-a-ang
That's the sound of the men working on the chain gang

All day long they're singin'
(Hooh! aah!) (hooh! aah!)
(Hooh! aah!) (hooh! aah!)

(Well, don't you know)
That's the sound of the men working on the chain ga-a-ang
That's the sound of the men working on the chain gang

All day long they work so hard
Till the sun is goin' down
Working on the highways and byways
And wearing, wearing a frown
You hear them moanin' their lives away
Then you hear somebody sa-ay

That's the sound of the men working on the chain ga-a-ang
That's the sound of the men working on the chain gang

Can't ya hear them singin'
Mm, I'm goin' home one of these days
I'm goin' home see my woman
Whom I love so dear
But meanwhile I got to work right he-ere

(Well, don't you know)
That's the sound of the men working on the chain ga-a-ang
That's the sound of the men working on the chain gang

All day long they're singin', mm
My, my, my, my, my, my, my, my, my work is so hard
Give me water, I'm thirsty
My work is so hard
0 Replies
 
Lord Ellpus
 
  1  
Reply Sun 11 Dec, 2005 04:03 pm
What with the day we've had here in London, I thought this song would be quite suitable.

What should have been a clear blue sky, turned out to be a black plume of smoke, blocking out the sun and bringing gloom down on everything.

.....and what with a particularly strange sunset, it seemed like the end of the world....

"London Calling" (The Clash)

London calling to the faraway towns
Now war is declared, and battle come down
London calling to the underworld
Come out of the cupboard, you boys and girls
London calling, now don't look to us
Phoney Beatlemania has bitten the dust
London calling, see we ain't got no swing
'Cept for the ring of that truncheon thing

The ice age is coming, the sun's zooming in
Meltdown expected, the wheat is growing thin
Engines stop running, but I have no fear
'Cause London is drowning, and I live by the river

London calling to the imitation zone
Forget it, brother, you can go it alone
London calling to the zombies of death
Quit holding out, and draw another breath
London calling, and I don't wanna shout
But when we were talking, I saw you nodding out
London calling, see we ain't got no high
Except for that one with the yellowy eyes

The ice age is coming, the sun's zooming in
Engines stop running, the wheat is growing thin
A nuclear era, but I have no fear
'Cause London is drowning, and I live by the river

Now get this

London calling, yes, I was there, too
An' you know what they said? Well, some of it was true!
London calling at the top of the dial
After all this, won't you give me a smile?
London calling

I never felt so much alike alike alike alike.........
0 Replies
 
Amigo
 
  1  
Reply Sun 11 Dec, 2005 04:09 pm
Too cool Ellpuss, Too cool man.
0 Replies
 
Letty
 
  1  
Reply Sun 11 Dec, 2005 04:44 pm
Hey, L.E. Fantastic. You're calling and we're answering:

Pogues Blue Heaven Lyrics


Blue Heaven - Pogues
Alligators snap at your ankles
And branches snap at your brain
If I ever get through this swamp alive
I'll nevermore pray for rain

This must be the place, and still
Somehow it don't seem right
That something in the moon
Could change these endless days
To lonely nights

I take a stroll down by the sea
And walk along the pier
Then I slip and hit my head
Now's the time to fear

See the surface, see the rocks
See my past fly swiftly by
I feel the water in my lungs
And wake up screaming for my life

In my blue heaven
There's a bottle of pontchetrain
Chalmette by moonlight
To take away the pain

Card sharks and blue harps
And dolphins who can leap
In my blue heaven
Where I can laugh
And I can weep

Black shapes zip into corners
The big lads start to crawl
To holes of their own making
In the cracks within the wall

Snakes and rats and spiders
I know that they're still there
I pray to God that I may sleep
Without a hope, without a care

In my blue heaven
There's a bottle of pontchetrain
Chalmette by moonlight
To take away the pain

Felines and sea lions
And rain on the beach
In my blue heaven
With angels who are out of reach

In my blue heaven
There's a bottle of pontchetrain
Chalmette by moonlight
To take away the pain

Nightingales sing
And the bells they will ring
In my blue heaven
The bells of hell
Go ding-a-ling-a-ling
0 Replies
 
Letty
 
  1  
Reply Sun 11 Dec, 2005 05:05 pm
Welcome back, Amigo, and for you:

Here's a song written in London:

as performed by Albert Hammond

Got on board a westbound seven-forty-seven
Didn't think before deciding what to do
All that talk of opportunities
TV breaks and movies
Rang true, sure rang true

Seems it never rains in Southern California
Seems I've often heard that kind of talk before
It never rains in California
But, girl, don't they warn ya
It pours, man, it pours

Out of work, I'm out of my head
Out of self-respect, I'm out of bread
I'm underloved, I'm underfed
I wanna go home

It never rains in California
But, girl, don't they warn ya
It pours, man, it pours

Will you tell the folks back home I nearly made it
Had offers but don't know which one to take
Please, don't tell them how you found me
Don't tell them how you found me
Gimme a break, gimme a break

Seems it never rains in Southern California
Seems I've often heard that kind of talk before
It never rains in California
But, girl, don't they warn ya
It pours, man, it pours
0 Replies
 
ossobuco
 
  1  
Reply Sun 11 Dec, 2005 07:01 pm
News Flash: Two threads here by me -

one, on my move, which many have seen already, http://www.able2know.com/forums/viewtopic.php?t=64987

and this bit of obscure delights, which I won't add to for a while. but others are welcome to...
http://www.able2know.com/forums/viewtopic.php?t=62403
0 Replies
 
Letty
 
  1  
Reply Sun 11 Dec, 2005 07:06 pm
Ah, Osso, so you and paco are packin' up.

We all want to look at your theads, honey, but first a little poetry for you and the other snowed in folks:



The sun that brief December day
Rose cheerless over hills of gray,
And, darkly circled, gave at noon
A sadder light than waning moon.
Slow tracing down the thickening sky
Its mute and ominous prophecy,
A portent seeming less than threat,
It sank from sight before it set.
A chill no coat, however stout,
Of homespun stuff could quite shut out,
A hard, dull bitterness of cold,
That checked, mid-vein, the circling race
Of life-blood in the sharpened face,
The coming of the snow-storm told.
The wind blew east; we heard the roar
Of Ocean on his wintry shore,
And felt the strong pulse throbbing there
Beat with low rhythm our inland air.
Meanwhile we did our nightly chores,
Brought in the wood from out the doors,
Littered the stalls, and from the mows
Raked down the herd's-grass for the cows;
Heard the horse whinnying for his corn;
And, sharply clashing horn on horn,
Impatient down the stanchion rows
The cattle shake their walnut bows;
While, peering from his early perch
Upon the scaffold's pole of birch,
The cock his crested helmet bent
And down his querulous challenge sent

Who wrote it?
0 Replies
 
djjd62
 
  1  
Reply Sun 11 Dec, 2005 07:13 pm
continuing in my attempt to chronicle the alphabet by band, i give you "W"

The Whole Of The Moon
The Waterboys

I pictured a rainbow
you held in your hands
I had flashes
but you saw then plan
I wondered out in the world for years
while you just stayed in your room
I saw the crescent
you saw the whole of the moon!
The whole of the moon!

You were there at the turnstiles
with the wind at your heels
You stretched for the stars
and you know how it feels
To reach too high
too far
Too soon
you saw the whole of the moon!

I was grounded
while you filled the skies
I was dumbfounded by truths
you cut through lies
I saw the rain-dirty valley
you saw Brigadoon
I saw the crescent
you saw the whole of the moon!

I spoke about wings
you just flew
I wondered, I guessed, and I tried
you just knew
I sighed
but you swooned
I saw the crescent
you saw the whole of the moon!
The whole of the moon!

With a torch in your pocket
and the wind at your heels
You climbed on the ladder
and you know how it feels
To GET too high
too far
Too soon
you saw the whole of the moon!
The whole of the moon!

Unicorns and cannonballs,
palaces and piers,
Trumpets, towers, and tenements,
wide oceans full of tears,
Flag, rags, ferry boats,
scimitars and scarves,
Every precious dream and vision
underneath the stars

You climbed on the ladder
with the wind in your sails
You came like a comet
blazing your trail
Too high
too far
Too soon
you saw the whole of the moon!


Red-Eyed And Blue
Wilco

We've got solid state technology
Tapes on the floor
Some songs we can't afford to play
When we came here today
All I wanted to say was how much I miss you
Alcohol and cotton balls
And some drugs we can't afford on the way
When we came here today
We all felt something true
Now I'm red-eyed and blue


Invitation to the Blues
Tom Waits

Well she's up against the register
with an apron and a spatula
with yesterday's deliveries,
and the tickets for the bachelors
she's a moving violation
from her conk down to her shoes
but it's just an invitation to the blues

and you feel just like Cagney
looks like Rita Hayworth
at the counter of the Schwab's drug store
you wonder if she might be single
she's a loner likes to mingle
got to be patient and pick up a clue

she says howyougonnalikem
over medium or scrambled
anyway's the only way
be careful not to gamble
on a guy with a suitcase
and a ticket gettin out of here
it's a tired bus station
and an old pair of shoes
but it ain't nothing but an
invitation to the blues

but you can't take your eyes off her
get another cup of java
and it's just the way she pours it for you
joking with the customers
and it's mercy mercy Mr. Percy
there ain't nothin back in Jersey
but a broken-down jalopy of a
man I left behind
and a dream that I was chasin
and a battle with booze
and an open invitation to the blues

but she's had a sugar daddy
and a candy apple Caddy
and a bank account and everything
accustom to the finer things
he probably left her for a socialite
and he didn't love her 'cept at night
and then he's drunk and never
even told her that he cared
so they took the registration
and the car-keys and her shoes
And left her with an invitation
to the blues

'Cause there's a Continental Trailways leaving
local bus tonight, good evening
you can have my seat
I'm stickin round here for a while
get me a room at the Squire
the filling station's hiring
I can eat here every night
what the hell have I got to lose
got a crazy sensation,
go or stay and I've got to choose
and I'll accept your invitation to the blues
0 Replies
 
Letty
 
  1  
Reply Sun 11 Dec, 2005 07:28 pm
Ah, dj. I really like the Tom Waits song, Canada, and here's an answer from Odetta:

Odetta Lyrics - Waterboy Lyrics

Waterboy, where are you hiding
If you don't come right here
Gonna tell your pa on you
There ain't no hammer
That's on a this mountain
That ring like mine boy
That ring like mine

I'm gonna bust this rock boy
From here to the Macon
All the way to the jail boy
All the way to the jail

You Jack o diamond
Jack o diamond
Know you of old boy
I know you're of old
You rob-a my pocket
Rob my pocket
Silver and gold boy
Of silver and gold
There ain't no sweat boy
That's on a this mountain
That run like mine boy
That run like mine
0 Replies
 
djjd62
 
  1  
Reply Sun 11 Dec, 2005 07:31 pm
tom writes a fine tune, nice odetta song
0 Replies
 
Letty
 
  1  
Reply Sun 11 Dec, 2005 07:41 pm
You know, Canada. There are so many fine writers and performers from yesterday, today, and tomorrow.

What is it, listeners, about people's proclivity to undo creativity?

I love this song by Kenny Rodgers.


Mary Did You Know

Mary, did you know
that your baby boy will one day walk on water?

Mary, did you know
that your baby boy will save our sons and daughters?

Did you know,
that your baby boy has come to make you new?
This child that you've delivered,
will soon deliver you.

Mary, did you know
that your baby boy will give sight to a blind man?

Mary, did you know
your baby boy will calm a storm with his hand?

Did you know,
that your baby boy has walked where angels trod?
When you kiss your little baby,
you've kissed the face of God.

The blind will see
The deaf will hear
The dead will live again.
The lame will leap
The dumb will speak
The praises of The Lamb.

Mary, did you know
that your baby boy is Lord of all creation?

Mary, did you know
that your baby boy will one day rule the nations?

Did you know,
that your baby boy is heaven's perfect lamb?
This sleeping child you're holding, is the great I AM.
0 Replies
 
djjd62
 
  1  
Reply Sun 11 Dec, 2005 07:50 pm
i don't know why but reading that song brought this one to mind

In The Ghetto
Elvis Presley

As the snow flies
On a cold and gray chicago mornin'
A poor little baby child is born
In the ghetto
And his mama cries
'cause if there's one thing that she don't need
It's another hungry mouth to feed
In the ghetto

People, don't you understand
The child needs a helping hand
Or he'll grow to be an angry young man some day
Take a look at you and me,
Are we too blind to see,
Do we simply turn our heads
And look the other way

Well the world turns
And a hungry little boy with a runny nose
Plays in the street as the cold wind blows
In the ghetto

And his hunger burns
So he starts to roam the streets at night
And he learns how to steal
And he learns how to fight
In the ghetto

Then one night in desperation
A young man breaks away
He buys a gun, steals a car,
Tries to run, but he don't get far
And his mama cries

As a crowd gathers 'round an angry young man
Face down on the street with a gun in his hand
In the ghetto

As her young man dies,
On a cold and gray chicago mornin',
Another little baby child is born
In the ghetto
0 Replies
 
Letty
 
  1  
Reply Sun 11 Dec, 2005 07:59 pm
Ah, dj. I had forgotten that song, Canada. Very sad.

Here's an answer to your question, however:

Why do robins sing in december?

Long before the springtime is due?

And even though its snowing, violets are growing

I know why and so do you

Why do breezes sigh evry evning

Whispering your name as they do?

And why have I the feeling stars are on my ceiling?

I know why and so do you

When you smile at me

I hear gypsy violins

When you dance with me

Im in heaven when the music begins

I can see the sun when its raining

Hiding evry cloud from my view

And why do I see rainbows when youre in my arms?

I know why and so do you

I know why and so do you
0 Replies
 
djjd62
 
  1  
Reply Sun 11 Dec, 2005 08:08 pm
you know what

you're probably right

i believe the carpenters wrote the companion to that song

Why do birds suddenly appear
Every time you are near?
Just like me, they long to be
Close to you.

Why do stars fall down from the sky
Every time you walk by?
Just like me, they long to be
Close to you.

On the day that you were born
The angels got together
And decided to create a dream come true
So they sprinkled moon dust in your hair of gold
And starlight in your eyes of blue.

That is why all the girls in town
Follow you all around.
Just like me, they long to be
Close to you.

On the day that you were born
The angels got together
And decided to create a dream come true
So they sprinkled moon dust in your hair of gold
And starlight in your eyes of blue.

That is why all the girls in town
Follow you all around.
Just like me, they long to be
Close to you.
Just like me (Just like me)
They long to be
Close to you.

Wahhhhhhhhhhh, close to you.
Wahhhhhhhhhhh, close to you.
Hahhhhhhhhhhh, close to you.
Lahhhhhhhhhhh, close to you.
0 Replies
 
Letty
 
  1  
Reply Sun 11 Dec, 2005 08:22 pm
ah, that song goes back a long way, dj.

It's time for me to say goodnight, listeners, so I'll do it with a Carpenter song:


If I were a carpenter
and you were a lady,
Would you marry me anyway?
Would you have my baby?

If a tinker were my trade
would you still find me,
carrin' the pots I made,
followin' behind me.

Save my love through loneliness,
Save my love for sorrow,
I'm given you my onliness,
Come give your tomorrow.

If I worked my hands in wood,
Would you still love me?
Answer me babe, "Yes I would,
I'll put you above me."

If I were a miller
at a mill wheel grinding,
would you miss your color box,
and your soft shoe shining?

If I were a carpenter
and you were a lady,
Would you marry me anyway?
Would you have my baby?
Would you marry anyway?
Would you have my baby?

From Letty with love
0 Replies
 
bobsmythhawk
 
  1  
Reply Mon 12 Dec, 2005 06:08 am
Gustave Flaubert
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia.


Gustave Flaubert (December 12, 1821 - May 8, 1880) was a French novelist who is counted among the greatest Western novelists. He is known especially for his first published novel Madame Bovary and for his scrupulous devotion to his art and style, best exemplified by his endless search for le mot juste ("the precise word"). He was born in Rouen, Seine-Maritime, in the Haute-Normandie Region of France.

Note: the usual English pronunciation of his name is goo-STAHVE floh-BEHR.


Life

Flaubert's father, who serves as a model for the character Dr. Larivière in Madame Bovary, was a surgeon in practice at Rouen; his mother was connected with some of the oldest Norman families. He was educated in his native city and did not leave it until 1840, when he went to Paris to study law. He is said to have been idle at school, but to have been occupied with literature from the age of eleven. Flaubert in his youth was full of vigour and a certain shy grace, enthusiastic, intensely individual, and apparently without a trace of ambition. He loved the country and Paris was extremely distasteful to him. He made the acquaintance of Victor Hugo, and towards the close of 1840 he travelled in the Pyrenees and Corsica. Returning to Paris, he wasted his time daydreaming, living on his patrimony. In 1846, Flaubert abandoned Paris and the study of the law and returned to Croisset, close to Rouen, where he lived with his mother. This estate, a house in a pleasant piece of ground which ran down to the Seine, became Flaubert's home for the remainder of his life. From 1846 to 1854 he had an affair with the poet Louise Colet; his letters to her have been preserved, and according to Émile Faguet, their affair was the only sentimental episode of any importance in the life of Flaubert, who never married. His principal friend at this time was Maxime du Camp, with whom he travelled in Brittany in 1846 and to Greece and Egypt in 1849. This trip made a profound impression upon the imagination of Flaubert. From this time forth, save for occasional visits to Paris, he did not stir from Croisset.

On returning from the East, in 1850, he began writing Madame Bovary. He had previously written a novel, The Temptation of St. Anthony, but was unhappy with the result. It took him six years to write Madame Bovary. The novel was serialized in the Revue de Paris in 1857. The government brought an action against the publisher and against the author on the charge of immorality, but both were acquitted. When Madame Bovary appeared in book form it met with a very warm reception. Flaubert paid a visit to Carthage in 1858 in order to gather material for his next novel, Salammbô, which was not finished until 1862 in spite of the author's ceaseless labors.

He then took up again the study of contemporary manners, and, making use of many recollections of his youth and childhood, wrote L'Éducation sentimentale (Sentimental Education), the composition of which occupied him for seven years. It was published in 1869. Up to this time Flaubert's sequestered and laborious life had been comparatively happy, but soon suffered a series of misfortunes. During the war of 1870, Prussian soldiers occupied his house. He began to suffer from nervous maladies.

His best friends were taken from him by death or by misunderstanding; in 1872 he lost his mother, and his circumstances became greatly reduced. He was very tenderly guarded by his niece, Caroline Commanville; he enjoyed a rare intimacy of friendship with George Sand, with whom he carried on a correspondence of immense artistic interest, and occasionally he saw his Parisian acquaintances, Zola, Alphonse Daudet, Turgenev, and Edmond and Jules de Goncourt; but nothing prevented the close of Flaubert's life from being desolate and melancholy. He did not cease, however, to work with the same intensity and thoroughness. La Tentation de Saint-Antoine, of which fragments had been published as early as 1857, was at length completed and sent to press in 1874. In that year he was subjected to a disappointment by the failure of his drama Le Candidat. In 1877 Flaubert published in one volume entitled Trois contes (Three Tales), Un Cœur simple, La Légende de Saint-Julien l'Hospitalier and Hérodias. He spent the remainder of his life toiling at a vast satire on the futility of human knowledge and the ubiquity of mediocrity, which he left unfinished. This is the depressing and bewildering Bouvard et Pécuchet (posthumously printed, 1881), which he believed to be his masterpiece.

Flaubert had aged rapidly since 1870, and he seemed quite an old man when he was carried off by apoplexy at the age of only 58 in 1880. He died at Croisset but was buried in the family vault in the cemetery of Rouen. A beautiful monument to him by Henri Chapu was unveiled at the museum of Rouen in 1890.

The personal character of Flaubert offered various peculiarities. He was shy, and yet extremely sensitive and arrogant; he passed from silence to an indignant and noisy flow of language. The same inconsistencies marked his physical nature; he had the build of a guardsman with a Viking head, but his health was uncertain from childhood, and he was neurotic to the last degree. This ruddy giant was secretly gnawed by misanthropy and disgust of life. His hatred of the bourgeois began in his childhood and developed into a kind of monomania. He despised his fellow-men, their habits, their lack of intelligence, their contempt for beauty, with a passionate scorn which has been compared to that of an ascetic monk.


Work and legacy

Flaubert's curious modes of composition favored and were emphasized by these peculiarities. He worked in sullen solitude, sometimes occupying a week in the completion of one page, never satisfied with what he had composed, violently tormenting his brain for the best turn of a phrase, the most absolutely final adjective. It cannot be said that his incessant labors were not rewarded. His private letters show that he was not one of those to whom easy and correct language is naturally given; he gained his extraordinary perfection with the unceasing sweat of his brow. One of the most severe of academic critics admits that in all his works, and in every page of his works, Flaubert may be considered a model of style.

That he was one of the greatest writers who ever lived in France is now commonly admitted, and his greatness principally depends upon the extraordinary vigour and exactitude of his style. Less perhaps than any other writer, not of France, but of modern Europe, Flaubert yields admission to the inexact, the abstract, the vaguely inapt expression which is the bane of ordinary methods of composition. He never allowed a cliché to pass him, never indulgently or wearily went on, leaving behind him a phrase which almost expressed his meaning. Being, as he is, a mixture in almost equal parts of the romanticist and the realist, the marvellous propriety of his style has been helpful to later writers of both schools, of every school. The absolute exactitude with which he adapts his expression to his purpose is seen in all parts of his work, but particularly in the portraits he draws of the figures in his principal romances. The degree and manner in which, since his death, the fame of Flaubert has extended, form an interesting chapter of literary history.

The publication of Madame Bovary in 1857 had been followed by more scandal than admiration; it was not understood at first that this novel was the beginning of something new, the scrupulously truthful portraiture of life. Gradually this aspect of his genius was accepted, and began to crowd out all others. At the time of his death he was famous as a realist, pure and simple. Under this aspect Flaubert exercised an extraordinary influence over Edmond de Goncourt, Alphonse Daudet and Zola. But even after the decline of the realistic school Flaubert did not lose prestige; other facets of his genius caught the light. It has been perceived that he was not merely realistic, but real; that his clairvoyance was almost boundless; that he saw certain phenomena more clearly than the best of observers had done. Flaubert is a writer who must always appeal more to other authors than to the world at large, because the art of writing, the indefatigable pursuit of perfect expression, were always before him, and because he hated the lax felicities of improvisation as a disloyalty to the most sacred procedures of the literary artist.

He can be said to have made cynicism into an art-form, as evinced by this observation from 1846:

To be stupid, and selfish, and to have good health are the three requirements for happiness; though if stupidity is lacking, the others are useless.

His Œuvres Complètes (8 vols., 1885) were printed from the original manuscripts, and included, besides the works mentioned already, the two plays, Le Candidat and Le Château des cœurs. Another edition (10 vols.) appeared in 1873-1885. Flaubert's correspondence with George Sand was published in 1884 with an introduction by Guy de Maupassant.

He has been admired or written about by almost every major literary personality of the 20th century, including philosophers such as Pierre Bourdieu. Georges Perec named Sentimental Education as one of his favourite novels. The Peruvian novelist Mario Vargas Llosa is another great admirer of Flaubert. Apart from Perpetual Orgy, which is solely devoted to Flaubert's art, one can find lucid discussions in Llosa's recently published Letters to a Young Novelist.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gustave_Flaubert
0 Replies
 
bobsmythhawk
 
  1  
Reply Mon 12 Dec, 2005 06:11 am
Edward G. Robinson
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia.

Edward G. Robinson (December 12, 1893 - January 26, 1973) was a American actor of stage and film.


Born Emanuel Goldenberg to a Jewish family in Bucharest, he emigrated with his family to New York in 1903. He attended Townsend Harris High School and then City College of New York, but an interest in acting led to him winning an American Academy of Dramatic Arts scholarship, where he changed his name to Edward G. Robinson (the G. signifying his real name). He began his acting career in 1913 and made his Broadway debut in 1915. He made his film debut in a very minor and uncredited role in 1916; in 1923 he made his named debut as E. G. Robinson in The Bright Shawl. One of many actors who saw his career flourish in the new sound film era rather than falter, he made only three films prior to 1930 but left his stage career that year and made fourteen films in 1930-32. He married the actress Gladys Lloyd in 1927.

A sensational performance as the gangster Rico Bandello in Little Caesar (1931) led to him being typecast as a 'tough' for much of his early career in works such as Five Star Final (1931), Tiger Shark (1932), Kid Galahad (1937), and A Slight Case of Murder (1938). In the 1940s, after a good performance in Dr. Ehrlich's Magic Bullet (1940), he expanded into edgy psychological dramas including Double Indemnity (1944), The Woman in the Window (1945) and Scarlet Street (1945); but he continued to accept gangster roles such as that of Johnny Rocco in the classic Key Largo (1948), one of five films he made with Humphrey Bogart. He was a popular box-office draw and was able to avoid flops over a career of over 90 films.

In the 1950s he was called to testify in front of the House Un-American Activities Committee, where he was cleared of all suspicion. In 1956 he had to sell off most of his large art collection for $3.25 million as part of his divorce settlement with Lloyd. That same year he returned to Broadway in Middle of the Night.

Never nominated for an Academy Award, in 1973 he was awarded an honorary Oscar in recognition that he had "achieved greatness as a player, a patron of the arts, and a dedicated citizen ... in sum, a Renaissance man"; sadly, he died from cancer at the age of 79 two months prior to the award ceremony.

He is interred at Beth El Cemetery in Brooklyn, New York. His last role was in the cult classic Soylent Green (1973).

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edward_G._Robinson
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Connie Francis
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia.


Connie Francis (December 12, 1938 in Newark, New Jersey) is an American singer.

Born Concetta Rosa Maria Franconero in Newark's Italian Seventh Avenue neighborhood, she is considered the most prolific female rock 'n' roll hit-maker of the early rock era -- the late 1950s to the early 1960s. After an appearance on Startime, Francis was advised to change her name from Franconero to something more easily pronounceable, as well as to quit the accordion and focus on singing.

Francis' first single Freddy (1955) met with little success and she began considering a career in medicine. However, Who's Sorry Now (a cover version of a 1923 song) launched her into super-stardom worldwide. In 1957, "Who's Sorry Now" reached No. 1 on the UK Singles Chart and in 2000, was named one of the Songs of the Century. On January 1, 1958, she debuted it on Dick Clark's "American Bandstand" television show; by mid-year over a million copies were sold. This was followed by Don't Break the Heart That Loves You, Everybody's Somebody's Fool, Stupid Cupid, In the Summer of his Years (written after the assassination of John F. Kennedy) and Strangers in the Night. Both Everybody's Somebody's Fool and My Heart Has A Mind Of Its Own went to No.1 on the Billboard music charts in 1960. In 1962 she had another No.1 hit with Don't Break The Heart That Loves You.

Her signature song, Where the Boys Are, became one of the first pop songs to be recorded in foreign languages. Made into a 1960 motion picture with the same title Where The Boys Are, Francis had a role in the film and sang the title song. During the first half of the 1960s she starred in three additional films -- "Follow the Boys" (1963), "Looking for Love" (1964) and "When the Boys Meet the Girls" (1965).

She recorded her songs in nine languages and became an international star in the late 50s. In 1960 Francis became the youngest headliner to sing in Las Vegas, where she played 28 days a year for nine years. She appeared on the Ed Sullivan Show on July 1, 1962 with French singing star, Johnny Hallyday in a show that was taped at the famous Moulin Rouge nightclub in Paris, France. By 1967, she had 35 U.S. Top 40 hits, and three number ones.

During the height of the Vietnam War in 1967, she performed for U.S. troops.

She has a grown son, Joey, born in 1974, who is a flight instructor.

Her latest CD "The American Tour" contains performances from recent shows.

Francis' autobiography, "Who's Sorry Now?" was published in 1984.

Francis ended her recording career in 1969, returning in 1973 with The Answer, a song written just for her, and soon began performing again. Tragedies followed soon after. In 1974 she was sexually assaulted in a hotel following a performance in Westbury, New York. Nasal surgery to correct a sensitivity to air conditioning deprived her of her ability to sing professionally for four years. Her brother was murdered in 1981. Francis was diagnosed with bi-polar disorder but resumed her career in 1989 and has continued singing and recording since then.

The screenplay for a movie based on Francis' life, titled "Who's Sorry Now?" is done, and filming is anticipated in 2006, Gloria Estefan said in a news conference. Latin music star Gloria Estefan will produce and play the lead. Estefan said, "She [Francis] isn't in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, and yet she was the first pop star worldwide, [she] recorded in nine languages. She has done a lot of things for victims' rights since her rape in the '70s . . . There's a major story there."

In late December 2004, Francis headlined in Las Vegas for the first time since 1989.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Connie_Francis

Where the Boys Are

Artist: Connie Francis (peak Billboard position # 4 in 1961)
title song from the movie starring George Hamilton
Words and Music by Howie Greenfield and Neil Sedaka

Where the boys are, someone waits for me
A smilin' face, a warm embrace, two arms to hold me tenderly
Where the boys are, my true love will be
He's walkin' down some street in town and I know he's lookin' there for me

In the crowd of a million people I'll find my valentine
And then I'll climb to the highest steeple and tell the world he's mine

Till he holds me I wait impatiently
Where the boys are, where the boys are
Where the boys are, someone waits for me

Till he holds me I wait impatiently
Where the boys are, where the boys are
Where the boys are, someone waits for me
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