i was very miserable and fighting hard on my 21st b'day, too. people booed me on the stage, and i was staying in someone else's house and i was scared. it's been a long road since then, but pressure never ends in this life. 'perforation problems' by the way means to me also the holes that will always exist in any story we try to make of our lives. so hang on, my love, and grow big and strong and take your hits and keep going. ~ Iggy Pop to Laurence (a fan) , 1995
***
En 1950 Fallen Angels (comédie autour du sujet épineux - a l'époque - de l'adultère) fut un blockbuster de la scène théâtrale londonienne. Les rôles principaux furent interprétés par Hermione Gingold et Hermione Baddeley. Les actrices reçoivent une lettre de menace, signée A.Friend (Une Amie):
April, 1950
Dear Madam,
Unless something is done at once about your disgusting exhibition in the filthy play you appear in every night, I and several of my friends will do something very unpleasant about it.
What you and your co-partner Hermione Baddeley do nightly in public is a slur on English womanhood. "Fallen Angels" is disgusting as a play, but your performance in it makes it loathsome. How the powers that be could permit such an exhibition is past the understanding of a God-fearing woman who supports the present Government--and thanks God for them.
I give you fair warning to leave the play, or it will be the worse for you. Our wrath will strike at you in your home, or maybe during a performance at the theatre.
A. Friend
La réponse de l'actrice Hermione Gingold, publié en 1952 dans son livre My Own Unaided Work:
Ambassadors Theatre
W.C.2.
Dear Friend,
How clever and capricious you are, cloaking yourself in anonymity, and I must confess I cannot for the life of me guess which of my many friends you can be. You have sent my head spinning and my imagination whirling. Could you be found among my dear friends, intimate friends, close friends, childhood friends, pen friends, family friends, friends of a friend, friends in distress, friends who are closer than a brother, friends in need, or school friends?
Your letter quite clearly shows that you are not illiterate, and therefore we can rule out my school friends.
Your masterly command of the language banishes the thought that you could be found among my friends from overseas.
Your witty criticism of my performance makes me think that I might find you among my nearest and dearest "bosom friends," that is if you did not choose to address me as "Dear Madam"--a clever move this, and one that reduces my last thought to mere stupidity and you to a casual acquaintance, and yet I must banish the thought "casual acquaintance." for how many people are there in London today who realise that my "co-partner," as you wittily dub her, is none other than Hermione Baddeley, and by the way, she wants me to thank you for the facsimile letter you sent her, and say that she is getting on in years and feeble, and is not able to attend to her correspondence as she would wish, and so she cannot answer your letter personally.
An awful thought has dawned. It is all a joke, and you aren't really my friend at all. I must try to dismiss this thought. It depresses me. To lose a friend like you in a few words, oh no.
So, dear anonymous friend, if this should chance to meet your eye, please keep your promise and come round one night--yes, and bring your friends, too, for I know intuitively that your friends will be my friends.
Cordially yours,
Hermione Gingold
P.S. If you wish to strike at me with your wrath in my home, I am always in between ten-thirty and twelve in the morning, excluding Tuesday, which is a bad day, as a lot of tiresome tradespeople call for the same reason. You will easily recognize my apartment, for, apart from the number "85" marked in plain figures on the door, over the knocker there is a notice, "strike twice and wait, bell out of order."
Hey lucky people, North and South
This is your leader, I'm called "the mouth"
We're gonna play a game that's funny
Get the, get the, get the money
Money, money, money, money, money
Money, money
Walking on the beach, all disenchanted
Blackness in my heart
Anything they want now, they can't stop me, energy goes dead.
Riviera buildings, high, depressing
Look like cookie boxes
In my heart a hurricane is blowing
In my head a clock ticks.
Tic-tack
Get the money, Mr. Potato
Get the money, pay the Eskimo
Money, money, money, money, money
ABC
Schoolboys, schoolgirls, don't make funny
Take a deep breath, get the money
Money, money, money, money, money
A lot of neighborhood, concrete and windows
Up here on the mountain
I wonder if somebody sees me walking
I could hide in that fountain.
Pretty little girl, I like to know her, coming this way
Back in school, I can't believe that I could not obey
Get the money, Mr. Potato
Get the money, pay the Eskimo
Money, money, money, money, money
Crawl on your belly, bust your skull
There's the money, real as hell
William Tell
Money, money, money, money, money
Money, money
I met an actor, river speed boat
He made crabby movies
Robin Maxwell had a yacht
But it didn't die so groovy
Me, I confess, I like to swim and
watch the telly, my news
I've been hanging 'round the beach
But the money pays my kwanos
Get the money, Mr. Potato
Get the money, pay the Eskimo
Money, money, money, money, money,
It's kind of like a fortress, it's kind of like a tomb
Sitting with your money in a near dark room
Feels like a discharge, feels like a death
Feels like a taste of dying breath
Feels like a toad, feels like a frog
Feels like a serpent, all night long
Written by Goran Bregovic, James Newell Jr. Osterberg • Copyright © Universal Music Publishing Group, BMG Rights Management US, LLC
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