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

do battle to the beat of hip-slung drum and mixing desk for the glory glory
hallelujah of leading all Birimbao Hill on Fat Tuesday.

Yelping and blowing football whistles, his brother LionsтАЩaтАЩJudah had
carried him shoulder high down the precipitous paths of the favela, this boy
from nowhere who had swept the wing play-offs with his glass guitar. Have
you not heard? Tonight tonight tonight the red gold and green of Judah will
smash the pink and green of the Lobos.

As the rival guitarristos were borne into the sambadrome, the batteria
had struck up, those aristocrats of rhythm, drumming up an avalanche of
sound that seemed to sweep all Birimbao down before it into the valley.
And the remixados in their baseball caps with the correct corporate logos
and their hi-tops and cycle shorts had spun and scratched and sweated and
mixed and mastered. And the sambaderos in their Famous Names
sportswear, the sambaderas in their leos and body-paint had spilled onto
the floor, shaking it strut-ting it slapping it stuffing it shrieking it ai ai ai ai.

He had been good, the Blood WolvesтАЩ guitarristo. Had he not been,
he might have lived. But as the guitars up on their speaker towers clashed
and tangled in fugues and counter-points, he had felt a spirit awaken in the
glass guitar, that same spirit that had called to him that morning when this
Annunciato, sixth son of a sixth son, glimpsed that gleam of glass in a
Birimbao trash heap, a spirit growing stronger, stronger than Annunciato
could hold, something that fed on the sweat and the stink and the shatter of
drums and one by one the dancers and the remixados and even the
batteria stopped to watch and the only sound beneath the sambadromeтАЩs
corrugated iron roof was the unbearable feedback howl of the glass guitar
on and on and on and on and on and on and on like the scream of every
child that was ever born in the street and the scream of every soul that ever
fell to a blade in a caba├▒a alley and the scream of every sambadera in the
ear of her sambadero as she gave it away in the rear seat of a hot-wired
Nissan in the back rank of the drive-in and the music seized the LobosтАЩ
guitarristo and burned his soul away to nothing and he toppled from the
speaker tower with smoke coming from his eyes and then they all
screamed with one voice and heart and soul.

One chord. That is all the difference there is between hero and
monster.

****

Blue Monday
Sambada por mujeros.

Everything is crucially dependent on the T and A zones. Yah, you got
it. Tits and Ass.

The T Zone. You got a mirror? Then get a mirror. Strip off. Yes,
everything. All you going to be wearing come Fat Tuesday is gloves and