Tomtom Quotes

You don’t know where west is?” Sarah asked with disbelief. I wasn’t going to drop her to the ground. I was going to throw her. “Do I look like I have a compass on me?” Sarah waved a hand at the sky. “Can’t you use the stars to navigate?” “I ’m twenty-nine years old, not two hundred and twenty-nine. I navigate by GPS, MapQuest, or TomTom. Not the fucking stars, ’k?

Only poetry or madness could do justice to the noises heard by Legrasse’s men as they ploughed on through the black morass toward the red glare and the muffled tom-toms. There are vocal qualities peculiar to men, and vocal qualities peculiar to beasts; and it is terrible to hear the one when the source should yield the other.

The price of order,” I muttered. I tried to run the dog off. It wouldn’t budge. “The cost of chaos,” Tom-Tom countered. Thump on his drum. “Not quite the same thing, Croaker.

You are not stuck in traffic. You ARE traffic.

It's--my God--like you stretched a tarp across a stadium to turn it into a giant tom-tom and crashed a 747 into it.

That night, the sky poured out such torrents that the city was a drum set, every surface a source of rhythms, pavements and windows and canvas awnings, street signs and parked cars, Dumpsters throbbing like tom-toms, garbage-can lids swishing as the wind swirled bursts of rain in imitation of a drummer brush-stroking the batter head of a snare.

But then we are old and have been to the wars and value our fast-diminishing freedoms unlike those jingoes now beating their tom-toms in Times Square in favor of all-out war for other Americans to fight.

Everything is dark and cold, except for those patches of light, where authority stands. There is on the air, perpetually, the memory of fists against the metal, a dull booming tom-tom possibility, like the possibility of madness.

We younger Negro artists who create now intend to express our individual dark-skinned selves without fear or shame. If white people are pleased we are glad. If they are not, it doesn’t matter. We know we are beautiful. And ugly too. The tom-tom cries and the tom-tom laughs. If colored people are pleased we are glad. If they are not, their displeasure doesn’t matter either. We build our temples for tomorrow, strong as we know how, and we stand on top of the mountain, free within ourselves.

I skanked deep on Wolt's pipe an' four days march from our free Windward to Kona Leeward seemed like four mil'yun, yay, babbybies o' blissweed cradled me that night, then the drummin' started up, see ev'ry tribe had its own drums. Foday o' Lotus Pond Dwellin' an' two-three Valleysmen played goatskin'n'pingwood tom-toms, an' Hilo beardies thumped their flumfy-flumfy drums an' a Honokaa fam'ly beat their sash-krrangers an' Honomu folk got their shell-shakers an' this whoah feastin' o' drums twanged the young uns' joystrings an' mine too, yay, an' blissweed'll lead you b'tween the whack-crack an' boom-doom an' pan-pin-pon till we dancers was hoofs thuddin' an' blood pumpin' an' years passin' an' ev'ry drumbeat one more life shedded off me, yay, I glimpsed all the lifes my soul ever was till far-far back b'fore the Fall, yay, glimpsed from a gallopin' horse in a hurrycane, but I cudn't describe 'em 'cos there ain't the words no more but well I mem'ry that dark Kolekole girl with her tribe's tattoo, yay, she was a saplin' bendin' an' I was that hurrycane, I blowed her she bent, I blowed harder she bent harder an' closer, then I was Crow's wings beatin' an' she was the flames lickin' an' when the Kolekole saplin' wrapped her willowy fingers around my neck, her eyes was quartzin' and she murmed in my ear, Yay, I will, again, an' yay, we will, again.

Alla fine è così che funziona l'amore: alzi la testa e vedi la persona della tua vita, lì davanti a te che ti sorride, e la vedi per la prima volta anche se c'è sempre stata, e non devi strapparla alle grinfie della rivale o cercare di cambiarla, perché è lì pronta per te e completamente resettata come un telefonino nuovo. E non ci sono dubbi, ripensamenti, equivoci, problemi di connessione o lingua, perché tutto fila liscio come dovrebbe, almeno fino al prossimo aggiornamento. E allora, di grazia, dov'è la mia persona? Si è persa per strada? Non ce l'ha una mappa, una bussola, un TomTom?

Frank, hunched against a bastard wind knifing in off the Irish Sea, isn’t sure at first where the sound is coming from. It’s barely light and a soft insistent hiss sits below the whining gale, like white-noise feedback at song’s end. He leans a little closer and realises the source is sand rattling against the charred skin stretched tom-tom tight across the dead man’s face.

The savage tom-tom of her activity was proceeding at an incredible tempo when it came to an abrupt halt: Ken winced visibly at the sound of sheets being ripped violently from the carriage and dropped into the wastebasket. In rapid succession he considered and rejected the possibilities of: (1) urging Miss Todd to accomplish her task at a less tempestuous and disastrous pace, (2) paging Jane at Bonwit Teller's, (3) leaving banking for a less nerve-wracking profession and (4) committing suicide.

Something hurtful to my pride, disagreeable, rose at the sight of these lower forms of life. Their existence struck a servile reflection upon our human kind: the style in which a God would look on us; and to make use of them, to lie under an avoidable obligation to them, seemed to me shameful. It was as with the negroes, tom-tom playing themselves to red madness each night under the ridge. Their faces, being clearly different from our own, were tolerable; but it hurt that they should possess exact counterparts of all our bodies.

A this moment the entire group of people broke into a deep, slow rhythmical chant of 'B-B!...B-B!...B-B!' over and over again, very slowly with a long pause between the first 'B' and the second - a heavy, murmurous sound, somehow curiously savage, in the background of which one seemed to hear the stamp of naked feet and the throbbing of tom-toms. For perhaps thirty seconds they kept it up. It was refrain that was often heard in moments of overwhelming emotion. Partly it was a sort of hymn to the wisdom and majesty of Big Brother, but still more it was an act of self-hynosis, a deliberate drowning of consciousness by means of rhythmic noise. Winston's entrails seemed to grow cold. In the Two Minutes Hate he could not help sharing in the general delirium, but this subhuman chanting of 'B-B!...B-B' always filled him with horror. Of course he chanted with the rest: it was impossible to do otherwise. to dissemble your feelings, to control your face, to do what everyone else was doing, was an instinctive reaction. But there was a space of a couple of seconds during which the expression in his eyes might conceivably have betrayed him.

Her heartbeat went from fear-frantic to lust-induced, manic tom-tom in a tenth of a second. “Sebastian.” A frisson ran from her temple to her toes and the tight place inside her chest unfurled as she breathed his name. “Are you real?” In response he plunged his fingers into her wet hair. Gripping her head in a hard palm, he took her mouth in a rough, carnal kiss that left nothing to the imagination. She knew precisely what he wanted because ever since that night, she’d been wanting it, too. She responded with equal passion, snaking her hand around to the back of his neck and holding him in place as she thoroughly enjoyed her first real-world kiss in way, way too long. His mouth left hers, and she whimpered in protest. “Come back; I wasn’t done.” “Patience is a virtue.” He nibbled her earlobe, making her shudder, then swirled his hot, wet tongue in her ear until she arched her neck with a thick moan. His mouth, tongue, and teeth made her forget where she was for just a little while. Made her forget where she was and what was about to transpire. Sebastian shifted his head the few inches required to plunder her mouth again. She saw fireworks behind her closed lids as he dragged his firm mouth back and forth across hers before plunging his tongue back to duel with hers. Dizzy with lust and longing, heart about to burst out of her chest, Michaela couldn’t—forgot to—draw a breath and ripped her lips from his to drag in lifesaving oxygen. “You’re t-torturing me—” “Breathing is highly overrated.

I Turn My Camera On" I turn my camera on I cut my fingers on the way The way I'm slipping away I turn my feelings off Y'made me untouchable for life And you wasn't polite It hit me like a tom You hit me like a tom On on and on When I turn my feelings on I turn my feelings on inside Feel like I'm gonna ignite I saw them stars go off I saw them stars go off at night And they're looking alright Keep on blowin up Keep on blowin em off Get up roll it out Keep on showin em out Y'hit me like a tom It hit me like a tom On and on a tom I turn my camera on I cut my fingers on the way I feel me slippin away I wipe my feelings off Y'made me untouchable for life Yeah and you wasn't polite Y'hit me like atom I don't know where it's from It hit me like a tom-tom Here comes the flan

Il est dit et même consigné dans l'histoire de la musique encyclopédie de la pléiade mais aussi à cluj-napoca au numéro dix de la rue vasile alecsandri mon ami dr rudi schuller se fera une joie de traduire en hongrois allemand ou roumain pour ceux qui ne parlent pas français le passage sur les grands voyageurs qui prétendaient que les habitants des plus lointaines civilisations qui étaient totalement indifférents aux tam-tams des tribus voisines ne tendent l'oreille qu'à l'écoute de la musique de mozart [It is said and even recorded in the histoire de la musique encyclopédie de la pléiade but also in kolozsvár at number ten vasile alecsandri street my friend dr. rudi schuller will happily translate into hungarian german or romanian for those who don't speak french the part about the grand travelers les grands voyageurs who claimed that the inhabitants of the most godforsaken les plus lointaines civilizations who were totally indifferent to the tom-toms of neighboring tribes would perk up their ears only on hearing mozart's music] (p. 101, "All Souls' Days in Vienna")

The savage tom-tom of her activity was proceeding at an incredible tempo when it came to an abrupt halt: Ken winced visibly at the sound of sheets being ripped violently from the carriage and dropped into the wastebasket. I nrapid succession he considered and rejected the possibilities of: (1) urging Miss Todd to accomplish her task at a less tempestuous and disastrous pace, (2) paging Jane at Bonwit Teller's, (3) leaving banking for a less new\rve-wracking profession and (4) committing suicide.

tamtam pl tam-tams nm 1. (tambour) tomtom 2. (tapage) hype (familier) • faire du ~ autour de qch | to make a lot of fuss about sth

He said that some nights he heard the tom-tom beat of his passion, but he didn't know for sure whether it was really the beat of his passion or of his youth slipping through his fingers, maybe, he added, it's just the beat of poetry, the beat that comes to us all without exception at some mysterious hour, easily missed but absolutely free.

Black innovators were the force behind a burst of cultural creativity, from the poetry of Langston Hughes and the Harlem Renaissance to the crossover dance craze of the Charleston to jazz, the soundtrack of the age—“the tom-tom of joy and laughter, and pain swallowed in a smile,” as Hughes called it.

Show business and politics, being run by practical, cigar-smoking businessmen, manufacture personalities on an assembly line. Baseball, fighting for its life, has been stifling them as fast as they appear. What makes it so sad is that the athlete has a role in our society that reaches even beyond showmanship. The athlete is one of the last symbols of that superfluity of our society, the physical man. The average man finds that although the instincts of his primitive forebears may beat a tomtom in his blood, his own daily conflict has been reduced to the drive downtown, the paper work in the office, the return trip. The conflict is undefined, the enemy is indistinct, the battle remains permanently unsettled. He doesn't really know whether he has won or lost; there is only the vague feeling that he is somehow losing.

THE DOORYARD OF NAIROBI falls into the Athi Plains. One night I stood there and watched an aeroplane invade the stronghold of the stars. It flew high; it blotted some of them out; it trembled their flames like a hand swept over a company of candles. The drumming of the engines was as far away as the drumming of a tom-tom. Unlike a tom-tom, it changed its sound; it came closer until it filled the sky with a boastful song. There

Was he to bray this in profoundest brass Arointing his dreams with fugal requiems? Was he to company vastest things defunct With a blubber of tom-toms harrowing the sky? Scrawl a tragedian's testament? Prolong His active force in an inactive dirge, Which, let the tall musicians call and call, Should merely call him dead? Pronounce amen Through choirs infolded to the outmost clouds? Because he built a cabin who once planned Loquacious columns by the ructive sea? Because he turned to salad-beds again?

composition in dissarythm, the new quarter-tone dance music in which chorded woodwinds provided background patterns for the mad melodies pounded on tuned tomtoms. Between each number and the next a frenetic announcer extolled the virtues of a product. Munching a sandwich, Roger listened appreciatively to the dissarhythm and managed not to hear the commercials. Most intelligent people of the nineties had developed a type of radio deafness which enabled them not to hear a human voice coming from a loudspeaker, although they could hear and enjoy the then-infrequent intervals of music between announcements. In an age when advertising competition was so keen that there was scarcely a bare wall or an unbillboarded lot within miles of a population center, discriminating people could retain normal outlooks on life only by carefully-cultivated partial blindness and partial deafness which enabled them to ignore the bulk of that concerted assault upon their senses. For that reason a good part of the newscast which followed the dissarhythm program went, as it were, into one of Roger’s ears and out the other before it occurred to him that he was not listening to a panegyric on patent breakfast foods. He thought he recognized the voice, and after a sentence or two he was sure that it was that of Milton Hale, the eminent physicist whose new theory on the principle of indeterminacy had recently occasioned so much scientific controversy. Apparently, Dr.

I loved the sound he could get on tape for my drums. In rock music, getting this right is still one of the great tests for any engineer. Since the drum's original use was to spur on troops to warfare, rather than winning over a maiden's fair heart, it is hardly surprising that many a battle has been fought over the drum sound. The kit - virtually the only remaining acoustic instrument in a standard rock context - consists of a number of different constituent parts which insist on vibrating and rattling through a remarkable range of sounds and surfaces. Worse, hitting one element will set up a chain vibration in the others. In the days of four-track recording, the engineer needed to capture, but keep separate, the firm impact of the bass drum and the hi-hat for marking the time, the full fat sound of the snare drum, the tuned tones of the tom-toms and the sizzle or splash of the cymbals. Setting up the mikes to capture this is one of the black arts of the business, and is a pretty good way of detecting the best practitioners of them. Alan's full range of engieering skills were self-evident as we began to piece the record together.

Penelope Balangie’s tom-toms. For a minute or two I thought my magic twanger was shifting into overdrive.

Raising capital. Organisations like Rio Tinto, TomTom and GKN have all raised significant sums through the equity markets. Refinancing debt. Some companies, like Yell and Schaeffler, have rolled over billions in bank finance. However, many businesses are still finding banks reluctant to lend and have turned to bond issuance as an alternative. Divestment. Companies can sell off valuable assets, such as Barclays did with Barclays Global Investors, and it is always better to do so before a crisis; otherwise it will be seen for the fire sale it is and the price will be a fire-sale price. Furthermore, any sell-off that weakens a firm’s core capability or its long-term competitive position may also shorten its life. Cut costs but not capability The managing uncertainty survey revealed that the most common action that companies took when the financial crisis struck was to cut costs. Some 82% of respondents cut costs. When asked about their future responses to uncertainty, 76% indicated they would continue to focus on cost reduction.

Music plays a very important part in the life of the American Indian. From the time he is born until he dies, his life is marked by dancing, and the drum is the keynote of it all. There are three major types of drums—the small hand drum, usually with one head, commonly called the tom-tom and shown here. Other types (not shown) are the larger two-headed drum made from a hollowed-out log or keg, and the water drum, with a single removable head. The drum heads are usually of rawhide, made from calf or deerskin. The drums are usually decorated with painted symbols and designs having religious or protective meanings. The American Indian never plays the drum by tapping it with his fist or hand—this is an African method. A drumstick is always used.

I got them voodoo blues, Them evil hoo-doo blues. Petro Loa won’t leave me alone; Every night I hear the zombies moan. Lord, I got them mean ol’ voodoo blues. Zu-Zu was a mambo, she loved a hungan man; Messin’ with Erzuli wasn’t part of her plan. The spell of the tom-tom turned her into a slave, And now Baron Samedi’s dancin’ on her grave. Yeah, she’s got them voodoo blues, Them bad ol’ hoo-doo blues … When

The voice is a precious instrument, an emotional instrument. There is nothing between you and your audience. There is no guitar plank to hide behind, no giant stack of keyboards, no battery of tom-toms. There is nothing and no one to blame except yourself, and an audience will murder you and dance on your grave in a heartbeat if you let them.

realise that I, Arabella Beatrice Hemming, am the reason for it. My impulse is to go out and say sorry, but then you know me, always the first to hurry to the kitchen the moment Mum started her tom-tom anger signal by clattering pans. The journalist moves away. I can’t hear her words but I listen to her tone, appeasing, a little defensive, treading delicately. Her voice suddenly changes. She must be talking to her child. Her tone seeps through

The entire run is preserved in fine quality on tape. Huxley gave an ominous opening, warning that “if I were writing today, I would date my story not 600 years in the future, but at the most 200.” Then came the sounds of the brave new world, “of test tube and decanter,” where humans were artificially bred and cultivated. The sound was just 30 seconds long, but it had taken three sound effects men and an engineer more than five hours to create. To a ticking metronome was added the beat of a tom-tom (heartbeats), bubbling water, an air hose, the mooing of a cow, a couple of “boings,” and three different wine glasses clinking against each other.