Gadjama tuffm i zimzalla binban gligla wowolimai bin beri ban Gadji beri bin blassa glassala laula lonni cadorsu sassala bim

Gadjama gramma berida bimbala glandri galassassa laulitalomini Gadji beri bimba glandridi laula lonni cadori And who could blame you? It was so beautiful: And in your giddiness, you may have gone out and started a local Dada sub-committee and cut tin-man outfits from refrigerator cardboard and started doing readings from the Dada Manifesto at your local Vet’s hall. The rhythms told you to assume that.Īt some point, you realized that the strange-but-beautiful lyrics were not in fact African at all, but the words to a poem by turn-of-last-century European Dada poet Hugo Ball. If you’re like most people (not saying that you are, but if you are), you may have assumed that the lyrics were a lifted tribal chant, cribbed from somewhere deep in the bowels of the Serengeti. But on the first track - I Zimbra - the African stuff did something sneaky to your brain: It set you up for deception.

And underneath it all, something strange and wonderful and unlike anything you had heard before. Beneath all that deep African funk was something very American – iconic portrait/bursts on simple themes: Drugs, Paper, Heaven, Animals, Cities. Fear of Music-generated sweat had a darker scent: More earthy, with an undercarriage of oak and peat moss. Not quite as aromatic as the sweat that oozed from Remain in Light, nor quite as pungent as the sweat that squirted from the somewhat more ragged 77. Remember ingesting the Talking Heads’ 1979 Fear of Music for the first time? You may have come away with your brain drenched in a hybrid African / New Wave alchemical sweat.

Stuck with you lyrics voltaire