i did this a while ago now. There’s an old folk song called ‘silver dagger’ - Loads and loads of covers of it- anyway I decided to cover it myself! the song is really about over-procective mothers, but i wanted to do a different take x
i hope it looks okay. it’s very traditionally done, but i don’t know how the quality comes across as a result.. anyway enjoy!
Fată Verde is an old romanian folk-rock song (the song here) about a “Green Girl” with “forest hair”. The night weaves her a “ie” (romanian traditional blouse) for the Flyer’s visit.
Zburător / Flyer is a romanian folklore roving spirit who makes love to maidens by night. He appears as a ghost,
as a shooting star, sometimes winged, coming down in the shape of an incredible handsome man and, sometimes, in the shape of the man the girl loves, although he cannot be seen by other people. He is actually the personification of the intense feelings of erotic desire and longing for a man. They met and consume their love in the world of dreams but everything is so intense, almost real that the young woman becomes exhausted and obsessively in love. Some old books even tell stories about young girls haunted by this mysterious man, becoming so desperately in love that they started acting like lunatics, walking almost undressed and untidy, obviously exhausted and sometimes semi conscious.
The “zburător” or “sburător” can also refer to a demon that takes the shape of a young handsome man, visiting women in their sleep: incubus.
That one who sings in the shower. Maybe they forgot the Rules or maybe they think that running water will keep them safe.
The ones that sing old lullabies and folk songs are usually Taken, but those who sing hymns or country are always left alone.
Sometimes, if the singer is returned, they continue their shower serenades, but with the ability to sing duets by themselves, or they sing in an unknown language that makes you want to sing along. Those that do end up biting off their tongues.
When he heard you singing, he was quick to get his phone to record some of it. You finished singing and put the baby in her crib, unaware that you were being watched.
Later on, when you went to bed, you heard a familiar sound coming from Minseok’s phone.
“Is that…?” You hopped into bed and peeked over his shoulder to find the video he’d taken earlier. “You recorded that? I didn’t even hear you!“
“I wanted to save it forever,” Minseok said, pulling you closer and putting his phone on the nightstand. Just as he was about to pull back the covers, the baby began crying again in the next room.
You sighed, but he grinned. “Now I can get another live show.”
This was the highlight of his week. Maybe his year. He didn’t know whether to keep out of the nursery or approach you and be part of the moment, maybe join in.
Ultimately he decided to watch for a bit, then joined in, which made you stop. You’d always told him his voice was just right for singing to your little one, but Junmyeon frowned when you stopped. You started again quietly and he harmonized with you.
“Why don’t you sing more often?” he asked once you’d left the baby to sleep.
“I don’t know… I only do it for the baby.” You were usually shy about singing, but saw it as a necessity for parenting.
“You know I love your voice… Next date night is at the norebang!” he declared, and you reluctantly agreed, only since you knew it’d make him happy.
Yixing burst into tears outside of the room when he heard you singing one of his melodies to the baby. The sudden outcry startled you, which startled the baby, and then there were two crying boys in the house!
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Baobei, shh, shh,” he said quietly, taking the baby from your arms. He continued where you had left off, sniffling, tears still sliding down his cheeks. The sight made you want to cry as well, but you held back and listened as Yixing’s soothing voice calmed your son.
When the baby was finally asleep in the crib, Yixing wiped his face, turned on the baby monitor, and led you out of the nursery. All he wanted to do now was hold you and tell you how happy you had made him, not just at that moment, but overall in his life.
Fourteen repeats later, you finally got the baby to calm down and fall asleep.
“Why don’t you ever sing for me like that?” Baekhyun asked, not trying to hide that he’d been listening to you. You hadn’t noticed him standing in the doorway.
“Because you’re not a baby, and I don’t have that kind of energy, Baek.”
“Waaaaaa!” he faux-cried.
“Shh, shh, you’re going to wake her!”
“Sing more, then I’ll be quiet! Waaaaaa!”
You shook your head and quickly began singing one of the lullabies, pushing him away from the nursery so he wouldn’t cause the baby to wake up.
For the one song you sang to him, he massaged your back, your hands, and your feet, admitting that your voice had calmed his nerves after a stressful day, and he had really needed it.
He kissed your cheek. “Thank you, my love~”
As you rocked your daughter and sang a lullaby, she began to close her eyes. From the other side of the closed door, you heard a second voice chime in. You and Jongdae had agreed that he sounded better at full volume, but it was too loud for the baby, so he would join in sometimes from the hallway.
Once she had fallen asleep, you exited the room and found yourself in Jongdae’s arms being bombarded with kisses all over your face.
You laughed quietly to yourself and then and heard him sing,
“Every day I’m so lucky 숨겨왔던 내 맘을 고백 할래 너를 사랑해 ~”
You loved that song and pressed him to sing more downstairs, away from the nursery so he could sing with his whole heart.
The baby just wouldn’t fall asleep, no matter how much you rocked, so you had finally resorted to singing an old folk song from your own childhood. It seemed to be working, so you continued.
You were surprised when you heard a quiet strumming behind you and Chanyeol came into the room holding one of his guitars. He smiled as you continued to sing and matched chords with the song. This worked like a charm, and your baby boy was fast asleep within minutes.
“I can’t believe how well that worked… I wonder if it’ll work every time!”
“We should form a band!” Chanyeol suggested with a laugh. “And we only give V.I.P. performances to our little guy.”
You laughed and agreed you’d call yourselves the Lullaby Duo until Chanyeol came up with a cooler name.
“Kyungsoo? Were you listening to me? Do you always do this?”
“…It’s not the first time,” was all he said back to you.
This wasn’t the first time he’d listened to you singing to your baby. Every time he heard you from the baby monitor, he would drop whatever he was doing to listen to you sing. This was just the first time you’d caught him doing it.
“Well, I have a confession too,” you said. “I do the same thing to you! Only it makes sense for me, because your voice sounds like it was imported directly from heaven’s top shelf.”
He smiled sheepishly.
“Seriously, Soo. I don’t know why you don’t do 100% of the lullaby singing.”
“Because I want to hear you sometimes,” he said, beckoning you to sit on the couch next to him, where you cuddled until the baby needed your attention again.
“…How about we sing together?” Kyungsoo suggested shyly.
You nodded and walked to the nursery hand in hand with him.
“Waa…” you heard behind you when you had finished singing and were about to put your daughter in her crib. You turned around and found Jongin in his bathrobe, hair wet, a big grin on his face.
“Waa…” he said again, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he’d just seen.
“It was just a lullaby,” you said.
“It wasn’t though. It was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard! I’m glad I didn’t take a long shower so I could hear.”
“More beautiful than Kyungsoo’s voice?” you challenged with a laugh.
It took him a moment to decide, but eventually he admitted that it was different with Kyungsoo’s voice, which was usually meant for a crowd, and he liked that yours was just for him and your daughter.
“I love you so much, Jagi! Will you sing for me now?”
He was such a distraction! You were trying to get your twins to sleep quickly, but there was Sehun, standing in the doorway, waving his arms in time with the lullaby like he was at a concert. It was making you laugh, which would mean it would take a longer time for the babies to fall asleep.
“How do you have so much energy?” you asked him, nearly giving up on rocking them to sleep. You were more exhausted than you’d ever been trying to take care of the two little ones.
“We can do it, Jagi!” he cheered in a whisper before taking one of the twins from your arms and rocking her while you continued to sing.
In a few minutes, they were both asleep, and in a few more minutes, you were on the couch in Sehun’s lap, also falling asleep while he rubbed your side.
There’s this old British folk song I really want to sing ‘cause I get it stuck in my head all the time, but the English version is vastly inferior to the Scottish. I just… I don’t think I can pronounce the Scottish version.
A small, quickly-written, un-beta’d little thing for @leiascully‘s ‘Lists’ challenge. From an idea/prompt born in the rewatch chat a few weeks ago by the lovely @defnotmeyo <3 —
1993. She hates his scruff. She’s angry that he can get away with looking like he’s just rolled out of bed at work, when she has to look utterly professional at all times, not one hair out of place, for anyone to even look her in the eye when she’s speaking.
She hates it, because it reminds her of their first case, of falling asleep in his motel room after talking through the night, of how she walked in on him shaving in the bathroom in nothing but a towel the next morning. She couldn’t get the image out of her head for weeks.
She hates it, because he looks better wolfing down diner food after a night in the drunk tank than Ethan does in a three-piece suit.
1994. She hates his scruff. It’s a sure sign that he’s worn out, tired, that he’s stayed at the office all night poring over old casefiles. Trying to find someone to blame for her abduction. Trying to make someone pay. She loves his passion, admires his dedication, but wonders what he’d be like if he’d just give himself some time off now and then.
She hates his scruff, because it reminds her of their time in quarantine after Mount Avalon - about how, near the end, he’d curled up behind her in her bed and recited Hamlet from memory to pass the time. He’d leaned forward, whispered into her ear - “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy” - and the way his stubble dragged along her neck made her gush in her hospital-issue panties.
1996. She hates his scruff. Hates how it darkens his face after hard cases, after Robert Patrick Modell and John Lee Roche, after Russian gulags and confessions of everlasting love from a stranger who claims their souls are tied together. You delusional bitch, get away from him, she’d thought then, but now she’s trying not to let herself think ill of the dead.
She hates his scruff when he keeps a broken all-night vigil at her hospital bedside, his cheeks stained and rough, his eyes red and tired. It reminds her that he’s not going to just let her die peacefully, that he’ll fight for her, that it’s a gift and a curse to be loved by him - yes, she knows for sure now that he loves her. But it’s complicated.
2000. She loves his scruff. She loves the sandpapery drag of it against her breasts, between her legs. She loves the sight of him shirtless, in jeans, attempting scrambled eggs in her kitchen, looking roguish and rakish with a second-day beard. She loves that he lets it go a little on the weekends - it helps her separate Mulder, her lover, from Mulder, her partner.
2001. She misses his scruff. He’s dead, and she’s pregnant with his child. There’s no softer way to say it. It’s obscenely poetic, almost gratuitous, like something out of a tragic old Irish folk song her grandfather might sing. She has a feeling that the baby is a boy - and wonders if he’ll have his father’s thick, tenacious beard when he’s an adult. If he’ll have red hair or brown. If he’ll have blue eyes or hazel.
2003. She loves his scruff. She loves this version of him - the laugh lines around his eyes, the barely-noticeable chip in his left lateral incisor, the five or six grey hairs in his beard when he lets it go for a few days. He wears the ravages of life well. One night, he makes savage love to her under a sky full of stars, scraping her skin raw with teeth and nails and stubble. And although they’re running, although they’re grieving, the searing pain of it makes her feel clean and free and new.
2011. She hates his scruff. Sometimes he doesn’t shave or shower for days, just sits slack-jawed and pale in front of the computer screen, thinning, fading, silent, shadowy. She tries to encourage hobbies, buys him countless books, comes home with fishing rods and heirloom seeds and power tools, but he just ignores her. She feels like an unwelcome visitor in her own home.
2025. She loves his scruff. It’s completely grey now, because he’s 64, and she loves that number - never in her wildest dreams did she think he’d see it. It’s been nine years since William came back into their lives, and she was right - he’s got the same rough-hewn face that his father does, cheeks that are dark by four in the afternoon.
He comes over for dinner now and then, when he’s not away at university. One night, after a particularly masterful pork roast, she leans on the porch railing and watches her husband and her son in profile, shooting rifles into old soda cans, whooping like wolves. Her wild men. They both need a shave. They both remind her of 1993.
It’s a hard thing to explain to someone. Love, that is. It’s even harder to explain Love to one who hasn’t and harder still to one who Is Not You because not everyone Loves the same.
The hardest is describing unrequited Love. Love of an old flame that has since ceased to shine for them but still gives you paltry candlelight to read by. Love of an Old House, yours or someone else’s for it’s age, it’s floor’s scuffs speaking of families and life lived.
Love of things you may never see the whole of, the sea, the sky, the stars.
So many things can be Loved.
You chose the Sea. Like a Dreamer. Like a Fool. Like a Sailor.
It is unrequited. You Care for the Sea. Love her even. And it’s a pity and a shame that you can never tell someone in words how you Love her. They can’t fathom that.
So you ran. Or drove, rather.
Far from the cold coast in the East with it’s green water and old lighthouses.
Farther still from the warmer, bluer waters in the west, making war with high cliffs and desert sand
And farthest of all from the warmest waters in the south, where oil is found, dolphins male their homes and families revel in the sun baking them on white sand.
In your running from all this compass points, West, East, and South you went North. Then North-East, North-West and all the points between.
You found a college in all that time running. Your just as wise as the sophomores and some juniors. In time you enrolled in classes and found Love for other things. Practical things. Cooking classes, art, carving, dance. So many choices. A scholar would be drunk upon the knowledge in this place. Some did. Most never leave.
You were a fool twice for never reading the pamphlets and not heeding your RA when they told you to not go wandering alone. Not paying heed to the lack of students in campus when the sun was too low on the horizon. Dawn and Dusk reeking of Magic. Of things older than any boat you’ve seen or sailed.
And like a fool thrice, you followed that smell.
A footpath turned deer trail that had faded to a long thin trail that swallowed light as much as unwary fools.
You came to a field with a table before you, the sky above had shifted from high noon to dusk and the food and drink smelled better than any galley, diner or your mother’s kitchen ever could. The hosts and guests seemed delighted, joyful and… Wrong.
A man turns to usher you to a table but his hand stops short of your jacket. The one you wore all last sailing season. His lips curl into a snarl as teeth like a wolves jut from his gums.
He spits the word like poison as you take a step away and he closes the distance and reaches for your neck and closes like a vise.
The pressure lasts seconds, squeezing your windpipe like plastic straw before you smell… Burnt meat?
His pale hand yanks from your neck and you see blisters and scorch marks in the shape of the anchor you wore so close to your neck to keep it with you aloft.
You scrabble through jacket pockets for your knife, digging past bits of tarred rope and when you grasp something cold and… Steel!
You brandish it forward, shoulders set only to find a heavy spike of cold, old patinaed iron in your hands. The Not Man snarls as do the other guests as you slowly back towards the forest’s edge and make haste back to campus grounds. Clutching your anchor and marlinspike like your life depended on it. This time it did.
You, fool, Sea Lover, she may not know of your infatuation but your obsession with her saved you this night.
Dumb luck, your RA called it.
You picked up pamphlets that night, and salt, and cream and learned more shanties and old folk songs to sing. You busied your hands with lanyards and bracelets and carvings. And learned Old Stories of your new home, Elsewhere University.
Beginners’s luck only happens once.
And you cannot wait for someone, something, to save you every time.
This is knowledge, freely given, without debt nor lien.
“Kon’” (“The Horse”) or better known as “Vyydu noch'yu v pole s konem” (“ I’ll go out at night to the field with the horse”) is a very popular Russian song. Many people believe that this is some old folk song. Surprisingly it isn’t. The text was written in 1993 by Alexander Shaganov and the music by Igor Matvienko for the Russian band “Lyube”.
In this case it’s a good example of recreating Russian traditional musical motives. I post here the performance of the Kuban Cossack choir which I like best of all but there are different versions of it (including the original).
“Red River Valley” is a folk song and cowboy music standard of uncertain origins that has gone by different names—e.g., “Cowboy Love Song”, “Bright Sherman Valley”, “Bright Laurel Valley”, “In the Bright Mohawk Valley”, and “Bright Little Valley"—depending on where it has been sung. It is listed as Roud Folk Song Index 756, and by Edith Fowke as FO 13. Edith Fowke offers anecdotal evidence that the song was known in at least five Canadian provinces before 1896. This finding led to speculation that the song was composed at the time of the 1870 Wolseley Expedition to Manitoba’s northern Red River Valley. It expresses the sorrow of a local woman (possibly a Métis) as her soldier lover prepares to return to the east. The earliest known written manuscript of the lyrics, titled "The Red River Valley”, bears the notations “Nemaha 1879” and “Harlan 1885."Nemaha and Harlan are the names of counties in Nebraska, and are also the names of towns in Iowa.The song appears in sheet music, titled "In the Bright Mohawk Valley”, printed in New York in 1896 with James J. Kerrigan as the writer. The tune and lyrics were collected and published in Carl Sandburg’s 1927 American Songbag. In 1925, Carl T. Sprague, an early singing cowboy from Texas, recorded it as “Cowboy Love Song” (Victor 20067, August 5, 1925), but it was fellow Texan Jules Verne Allen’s 1929 “Cowboy’s Love Song” (Victor 40167, March 28, 1929), that gave the song its greatest popularity. Allen himself thought the song was from Pennsylvania, perhaps brought over from Europe.
Constantin Brâncuși - “Work like a slave, command like a king, create like a god.”
Constantin Brâncuși (February 19, 1876 – March 16, 1957) was a Romanian sculptor, painter and photographer who made his career in France.
Considered a pioneer of modernism, one of the most influential sculptors of the 20th-century, Brâncuși is called the patriarch of modern sculpture.
As a child he displayed an aptitude for carving wooden farm tools. Formal studies took him first to Bucharest, then to Munich, then to the École des Beaux-Arts in Paris from 1905 to 1907.
His art emphasizes clean geometrical lines that balance forms inherent in his materials with the symbolic allusions of representational art.
Brâncuși sought inspiration in non-European cultures as a source of primitive exoticism, but other influences emerge from Romanian folk art traceable through Byzantine and Dionysian traditions.
Brâncuși always dressed in the simple ways the Romanian peasants did. His studio was reminiscent of the houses of the peasants from his native region: there was a big slab of rock as a table and a primitive fireplace, similar to those found in traditional houses in his native Oltenia, while the rest of the furniture was made by him out of wood. Brâncuși would cook his own food, traditional Romanian dishes, with which he would treat his guests.
Brâncuși held a large spectrum of interests, from science to music. He was a good violinist and he would sing old Romanian folk songs, often expressing by them his feelings of homesickness. After the installment of communism, he never considered moving back to his native Romania, but he did visit it eight times.
Brâncuși died on March 16, 1957, aged 81. He was buried in the Cimetière du Montparnasse in Paris. This cemetery also displays statues that Brâncuși carved for deceased artists.
At his death Brâncuși left 1200 photographs and 215 sculptures. He bequeathed part of his collection to the French state, after it was refused by the Romanian Communist government, on condition that his workshop be rebuilt as it was on the day he died. This reconstruction of his studio, adjacent to the Pompidou Centre, is open to the public.
Brâncuși’s works are housed in the National Museum of Art of Romania (Bucharest), the Museum of Modern Art (New York) and other museums around the world. The Philadelphia Museum of Art holds the largest collection of Brâncuși sculptures in the United States.
Representative works (as shown in the above photos): The Gate of Kiss, Mademoiselle Pogany, The Table of Silence, The Endless Column;