"Ian McDonald - Fat Tuesday" - читать интересную книгу автора (McDonald Ian)

down, way down low, whole damn city is built on a can of film a hundred
kilometres across.тАЩ

тАШMerda,тАЩ says RosтАЩaтАЩJericho. тАШIs city built on rockтАЩnтАЩroll. Bossanova.
Blues. Soul. Samba. Sambada. Is electric guitar is way down low, down
deep deep deep. Great guitar hundred kilometres long, and when great
guitar finally plays, world ends, everything remixed and remade.тАЩ

тАШYo yo, rockтАЩnтАЩroll,тАЩ says La Baiana, belching gently.
 ****

Fat Tuesday
Sambada por gringos.

Tragic. You see them, these fat women in shades and hi-thi leotards,
these Japanese boys with all the correct corpor-ate logos and hood
ornaments you know they have bought at the airport and these norte
intellectuals down by the planeload from Vancouver and Medicine Hat
because the carnival is the Last Great Celebration of Folk Culture, trying to
shake it shake it shake it to the drums and the deck and, I tell you, it makes
me want to cry. Like watching something crawled from under a stone
running away from the light. Sambada for gringos? Forget it. You do not
have the street.

Please God, donтАЩt let it rain today.

In every caba├▒a, in every slum and favela, on every hill, they have
been up since dawn, those who have been to bed (their own, anyone
elseтАЩs) perming hair waxing bikini lines slipping/wedging into feathery
flowery leathery rubbery silvery goldy costumes checking the T and A
zones in front of the mirror worrying about lip gloss powder paint running in
heels through the shit and mud for the bus to take them to the assembly
point where directors high as comsats on dexxies mescalin and nervous
energy marshal floats, batterias, vast mobile sound stages for the
guitarristos and remixados like launch platforms for interstellar expeditions,
regiments of bare-cheeked sambaderas bitching about the cellulite levels
of their opponentsтАЩ gleaming rumps; phal-anxes of hung-over,
battle-scarred sambaderos in shell-suits and baseball caps of the requisite
colours into some semblance of a procession.

Down on the freeway at the foot of Tres Milagros, La Baiana, dressed
in lace tutu and Herman Goering white with campy upswept bikerтАЩs cap,
issues orders through a loud-hailer from the back of El BatadorтАЩs pick-up.

Primero: a dancing wing of two hundred teevees.

Segundo: four floats each bearing the glass-fibre likenesses of the
Tucuromb├й: La Miranda first, with body-painted acolytes throwing real fruit
to the audience; then Ogun D├й with his bodyguard of Tres Milagros bloods
in black spiked rubber demon suits, then San BuriSan on a videowall of one