Dragi Nashi,
Dok čekamo da počnu naše omiljene emisije Poljoprivredna emisija i More kako i svake nedije slušamo country (klik). Iz tega se može zaključit da smo Min djevojka sa sela, da je Naše selo kraj mora, dok je naša duhovna domovina prerija.
Ovo maglovito jutro odgovara Nan Sunday Mornin' Comin' Down. Malo smo kopali po internetu i doznali da je pjesmu napisa Kris Kristofferson. U to vrime on se probija u svitu muzike, živi u Nashvilleu u nikoj rupi i čisti u jednom glazbenom studiju. S tim da su mu izričito zabranili da daje svoje pjesme glazbenicima inače će dobit otkaz. Ali Kris Kristofferson je privuka pažnju Johhnyja Casha kad mu je helikopterom sleti u vrtal i da ovu pjesmu. Kris Kristofferson Nan je uvik bi faca, ali on i ije faca. Dite vojnega lica, magistrira je englesku književnost na Oxfordu, a u vojsci je nauči vozit helikopter, bi je vojni i komercijalni pilot, ponudili su mu da predaje književnost na West Pointu, a on je sve ostavi i iša u Nashville. Boguhvala.
Vashi
Although we're coming from a Mediterranean island our spiritual homeland is the prairie. That is why we like country music and it exceptionally suits us on Sundays (click).
This foggy Sunday we are enjoying in Sunday Mornin' Comin' Down. We dug a bit through the internet and find out that this song was written by Kriss Kristofferson. In that days he was struggling to succeed in the world of music, lived in a shithole in Nashwill and swept floors in a studio. Where he was was told if he was caught pitching songs to any artists he would be fired. But Kris Kristofferson caught Johnny Cash's attention when he landed his helicopter in Cashs's front yard. We always thought Kris Kristofferson is cool, but he really is cool. A military brat, with MA in English Literature from Oxford, he became a helicopter pilot while in army, he was both a military and commercial pilot, he was offered a position as a professor of English Literature at West Point, but he left everything and left to Nashville. Thanksgod.
Yours.
Well I woke up Sunday morning,
With no way to hold my head that didn't hurt.
And the beer I had for breakfast wasn't bad,
So I had one more for dessert.
Then I fumbled through my closet for my clothes,
And found my cleanest dirty shirt.
An' I shaved my face and combed my hair,
An' stumbled down the stairs to meet the day.
I'd smoked my brain the night before,
On cigarettes and songs I'd been pickin'.
But I lit my first and watched a small kid,
Cussin' at a can that he was kicking.
Then I crossed the empty street,
'n caught the Sunday smell of someone fryin' chicken.
And it took me back to somethin',
That I'd lost somehow, somewhere along the way.
On the Sunday morning sidewalk,
Wishing, Lord, that I was stoned.
'Cos there's something in a Sunday,
Makes a body feel alone.
And there's nothin' short of dyin',
Half as lonesome as the sound,
On the sleepin' city sidewalks:
Sunday mornin' comin' down.
In the park I saw a daddy,
With a laughin' little girl who he was swingin'.
And I stopped beside a Sunday school,
And listened to the song they were singin'.
Then I headed back for home,
And somewhere far away a lonely bell was ringin'.
And it echoed through the canyons,
Like the disappearing dreams of yesterday.
On the Sunday morning sidewalk,
Wishing, Lord, that I was stoned.
'Cos there's something in a Sunday,
Makes a body feel alone.
And there's nothin' short of dyin',
Half as lonesome as the sound,
On the sleepin' city sidewalks:
Sunday mornin' comin' down.