Procol Harum, inclusief de net-niet-juiste Latijnse naam, stond mij met hun Bachpersiflage A whiter shade of pale van begin af aan nogal tegen.
Nadat ik bij Keith Skues heb gelezen hoe dit nummer vanaf een zendschip in woelig water overkwam (en daar is het “gemaakt”) ben ik er iets anders over gaan denken.
En in ieder geval, thema zomer ’68 nog steeds, deze kon wel mijn goedkeuring wegdragen. Ook al is de tekst ook nog steeds quasi-diepzinnig esoterisch.
For you whose eyes were opened wide
Whilst mine refused to see
I’m sore in need of saving grace
Be kind and humour me
I’m lost amidst a sea of wheat
Where people speak but seldom meet
And grief and laughter, strange but true
Although they die, they seldom cry
An ode by any other name, yeah
I know might read more sweet
Perhaps the sun will never shine
Upon my field of wheat
But still in closing, let me say
For those too sick, yeah, too sick to see
Though not it shows, yes, someone knows
I wish that one was me
Yeah!
An ode by any other name, yeah
I know might read more sweet
Perhaps the sun will never shine
Upon my field of wheat
But still in closing, let me say
Yeah, for those too sick, too sick to see
Though not it shows, yes, someone knows
I wish that one was me
Though not it shows, yes, someone knows
I wish that one was me
Though not it shows, yes, someone knows
I wish that someone was me
Quite rightly so, Procol Harum
