Vox Pop Quotes

Saying something to your child and then realizing that you sound like one of your own parents: deja vieux, mamamorphosis, mnemomic, patterfamilias, vox pop, nagativism, parentriloquism.

But this is not where the true corruption lies. The secret vice, already pointed out by Umberto Eco, lies in the way the media become self-referring and speak only among themselves. The multimedium is becoming the intermedium. This already problematic situation is aggravated when it is a single hypermedium — television — eyeing itself. All the more so as this tele-centrism is combined with a very severe implicit moral and political judgement: it implies that the masses basically neither need nor desire meaning or information — that all they ask for is signs and images. Television provides them with these in great quantities, returning to the real world, with utter - though well-cammouflaged — contempt , in the form of'reality shows' or vox-pops — that is to say, in the form of universal self-commentary and mocked-up scenarios, where both the questions and the answers are 'fixed'.

Cochise Jones always liked to play against your expectations of a song, to light the gloomy heart of a ballad with a Latin tempo and a sheen of vibrato, root out the hidden mournfulness, the ache of longing, in an up-tempo pop tune. Cochise’s six-minute outing on the opening track of Redbonin’ was a classic exercise in B-3 revisionism, turning a song inside out. It opened with big Gary King playing a fat, choogling bass line, sounding like the funky intro to some ghetto-themed sitcom of the seventies, and then Cochise Jones came in, the first four drawbars pulled all the way out, giving the Lloyd Webber melody a treatment that was not cheery so much as jittery, playing up the anxiety inherent in the song’s title, there being so many thousand possible ways to Love Him, so little time to choose among them. Cochise’s fingers skipped and darted as if the keys of the organ were the wicks of candles and he was trying to light all of them with a single match. Then, as Idris Muhammad settled into a rolling burlesque-hall bump and grind, and King fell into step beside him, Cochise began his vandalism in earnest, snapping off bright bunches of the melody and scattering it in handfuls, packing it with extra notes in giddy runs. He was ruining the song, rifling it, mocking it with an antic edge of joy. You might have thought, some critics felt, that the meaning or spirit of the original song meant no more to Cochise Jones than a poem means to a shark that is eating the poet. But somewhere around the three-minute mark, Cochise began to build, in ragged layers, out of a few repeated notes on top of a left-hand walking blues, a solo at once dense and rudimentary, hammering at it, the organ taking on a raw, vox humana hoarseness, the tune getting bluer and harder and nastier. Inside the perfectly miked Leslie amplifier, the treble horn whirled, and the drivers fired, and you heard the song as the admission of failure it truly was, a confession of ignorance and helplessness. And then in the last measures of the song, without warning, the patented Creed Taylor strings came in, mannered and restrained but not quite tasteful. A hint of syrup, a throb of the pathetic, in the face of which the drums and bass fell silent, so that in the end it was Cochise Jones and some rented violins, half a dozen mournful studio Jews, and then the strings fell silent, too, and it was just Mr. Jones, fading away, ending the track with the startling revelation that the song was an apology, an expression, such as only the blues could ever tender, of limitless regret.

A flutter of bright green drew Deanna's focus out of the turbulent realm of her head and onto the flame-damaged storage shed. From the hold below the scorched eaves she saw the male paloma emerge and take flight. A few seconds later the drab brown female popped out. She soared after her mate. Deanna gasped in shock, amazed that any creature could have survived.

rather, one of the NME Boys did the ‘proper’ review and I had to do the annoying bit, the ‘vox pop’ section, i.e. talk to the punters, report from the frontline of The Vibes and then write it up immediately afterwards. While pished, or on drugs, at the time.

Un artículo de la revista Vox181 que revisa varios estudios estadísticos sobre denuncias y falsas denuncias muestra que las denuncias falsas están entre el 2 y el 8% de todas las denuncias. Es decir, cuando le creemos a la víctima, tenemos una probabilidad entre el 92 y el 98% de estar en el lado correcto.

When Solzhenitsyn asked himself what had given rise to the catastrophic brutalities of the twentieth century, his conclusion was that men had forgotten God. In a speech given in 1983, he repeated: 'If I were called upon to identify briefly the principal trait of the entire twentieth century, here too, I would be unable to find anything more precise and pithy than to repeat once again; men have forgotten God.' More than this, a positive 'hatred of God', he thought was the principal driving force behind the philosophy and psychology of Marxism-Leninism: 'militant atheism is not merely incidental or marginal to Communist policy; it is not a side effect, but the central pivot. The hatred of God is indeed a fascinating phenomenon, one more and more evident in out time - and not just in political philosophies, but in the vox pop of media scientists. Lucifer - 'the Bright' - cannot bear the imputation of anything higher than he.