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Quote by Daniel Amory

“That night, there was a sliver of a moon over the des Michels farm. Jean put his horse in the stable after the trip back and made his way through the white moonlight to the mas. As he entered the front door, there was first a sound of a violin and then a cello.”

Quote by Daniel Amory

Book:Le Scapegoat
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Le Scapegoat

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Daniel Amory

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“By Sami Abouzid I have never been to music school. I went to the Sami Abouzid School—the best school in life. I taught myself everything I needed to know to create symphonies, compose soundtracks, and produce hits in many languages. I am the best teacher I ever had. No one in this life will ever teach you something truly powerful for your soul. The majority in this field chase money, business, and ego—no emotions, no artistic vision, no eternal goals. In music, jealousy runs deep. When you create something amazing, they don’t say, “Well done.” They look away. I’ve never met a musician who reached out with genuine happiness for me. Years ago, singers walked into my family store, heard my music, and left in shock when they learned it was mine. That’s why I have no friends in music—I am my own best friend. And I’m lucky for that. This month, on my birthday, I will reward myself by releasing 10 albums worldwide in one shot—to show every person who said, “You can’t,” that I can. I came to America with one song. Now I have 1,000 songs, 10,000 versions, and 672 soundtracks—created my way, not theirs. God bless America. Thanks to Allah, I conquered my dreams.”

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Author:Sami abouzid
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“Cuando Becker les conto a varios músicos contemporáneos sobre las semanas de cuarenta y dos horas que trabajaba en el escenario del Club 504 en 1950, esperaba que respondieran compadeciéndolo por haber tenido que trabajar tanto, pero en cambio le dijeron con envidia: "Caramba, nosotros nunca hemos llegado a tocar tanto". Sentían envidia porque esas largas horas de trabajo le dieron la oportunidad de practicar temas una y otra vez, de entrenar sus respuestas físicas y mentales en la armonía y los patrones estándar, de acostumbrarse a hacer lo que exigían de el sin tener que pensarlo. Lo que Becker y otros de su generación aprendían en el trabajo, los músicos contemporáneos lo aprenden practicando en su casa o tocando ocasionalmente en sesiones que nadie les paga.”

Music
Book:El jazz en acción: La dinámica de los músicos sobre el escenario
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“Psychiatrist Stanislav Grof's Holotropic Breathwork, born from 1970s psychedelic restrictions, uses rapid breathing, music, and bodywork for unconscious exploration and trauma healing, echoing ancient Yogic Pranayama (Rig Veda ~1700-1100 BCE, Upanishads ~800-500 BCE) and Sufi Dhikr ceremonies (from the 12th century).”

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Book:Crossing the Forbidden Highway: The Untold Story of Orgone, Body Therapy, and Suppressed Emotion
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“Eventually he would came to learn that there was a technique in music that felt a lot like this, called ‘tempo rubato’. It involved speeding or slowing the traditional tempo of a song to invoke new feeling, as beautiful representation of freedom that relied completely on the discretion of the musician. If done incorrectly the technique could effectively butcher a thing of beauty—but if done right, it could award complete and utter freedom over the most expressive art known to man. That rubato was the thing one heard when an orchestra conductor briefly slowed a key moment in a classical piece. It was that breath at the end of a love ballad where your very heart felt as though it was shattering. It was responsible for every moment of emotion felt by conscious beings capable of hearing a music note played aloud. Tempo rubato meant ‘robbed time’. That was the name humans gave to the concept. Like a word, time could not be captured, so people did the only thing they could, they attempted to defy it. They used surgeries to fix the physical flaws that came with age, and took photographs to help them remember a moment otherwise lost. People defied time by naming it. They called the past ‘memories’ and the future ‘what’s yet to pass’. They called hopelessness ‘rubato’, and in doing so, they granted themselves the illusion of controlling time. At least, that's how he'd described it whenever someone cared enough to ask. But still, it remained a comforting thought. If someone could speed up or slow down something as uncapturable as music—as pure emotion—then maybe time really was within their control. But everyone knew it wasn't possible. Not really. Whether as a conscious realisation or an inherent knowing, the answer was clear; time passed with or without people. With or without photographs or tempo. It always did, and it was easy to look back and desperately want to cling to it. Natural even, because what was behind was clear—it'd already been lived. It was the unknown ahead that scared people. At sixteen Remus couldn’t have told anyone what a ‘tempo rubato’ was, but he’d been unknowingly experiencing it all his life. Being at school felt like the traditional, fast-moving tempo of the piece, and those few precious moments in the flat were his rubato. There he couldn’t play or make music, he could only listen and live. Conversations were without any real goal, the days blurred into one another, and the nights felt endless but not hopeless. There was very little action or adventure and that was how he liked it. The flat was rubato, one he’d never find anywhere else. There would be others, yes, but none the same. If he’d known then maybe he would’ve taken more pictures and less drugs so he could better commit them to memory. But that’s the thing about memories—in the moment they’re not memories at all. They’re not even time. They’re just life.”

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Book:The Cadence of Part-time Poets
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