Yamaha Quotes

When Reiko left, I stretched out on the sofa and closed my eyes. I lay there steeping myself into silence when, out of nowhere, I thought of the time Kizuki and I took a motorcycle trip. That had been autumn too, I realized. Autumn how many years ago? Yes, four years ago. I recalled the small of Kizuki's leather jacket and the racket made by that red Yamaha 125cc bike. We went to a spot far down the coast, and came back the same evening, exhausted. Nothing special happened on that trip, but I remembered it well. the sharp autumn wind moaned in my ears, and looking up at the sky, my hands clutching Kizuki's jacket, I felt as if I might be swept into outer space.

Motorbike - Poem by Malay Roy Choudhury I am on motorbike yezdi yamaha when flanked by horizon gallop backwards through sand blizzard tinsel clouds explode at my feet without helmet and speed-split air at eighty in midsummer simoon each sound-cart recedes onrushing lorries flee in a flash No time to brood but Yes accident expected anytime may even turn into a junkheap in a drought-nursed field. Translation of Bengali original 'Motor Cycle

On a smoggy spring day, the midday sun baked two California Highway Patrolmen in dark blue uniforms and a bearded dirt biker astride his Yamaha. They stood on a dirt road between the San Andreas barren earthquake faulted hills crisscrossed with biker’s trails. The sergeant stood next to the still body of Eduardo Sanchez, a thirteen-year-old boy clad in a t-shirt and oversized shorts, lying on his back with three bullet wounds and powder burns tattooed on his forehead. An astonished look captured his small immature cold face.

Terima kasih tak terhingga untuk para pemain organ tunggal dimana pun anda berada, serta para biduan dan biduanitanya, salam Yamaha elektun!" - Raskal 1 (Sabari)

Two recent attempts at industrial espionage right under Bob’s nose were a portent that synths were on Japanese radar: in 1970, Nippon Gakki (later to be called the Yamaha Corporation) had ordered modules from Trumansburg, and in late 1971, two Minimoogs were purchased by the Yamaha Music Center. At the moment, an entrepreneurial Japanese inventor, Ikutaro Kakehashi, also had his eyes on the synth prize.

Before Julian left, Yoko offered both him and Sean one of John’s guitars. Julian asked for one he had always loved, a black Yamaha inlaid with a pearl dragon. He remembered John playing Sean songs on it. Yoko told him he couldn’t have that one and gave him two others instead, which, sadly, he didn’t recognise and which therefore had no meaning for him. These were the only possessions of John’s Julian was ever given, yet when he returned to the Dakota building on another occasion he saw that Sean had the full use of all John’s musical equipment, including the guitar Julian had wanted.

Yamaha

Three Little Pigs circa 2015 The deer huffed and puffed but it wasn't enough to outrun technology. For in all of nature there ain't nothing more deadly than three rifle-toting drunken redneck pigs on a Yamaha 4×4 ATV.

Udah Atnam walked at a brisk but steady pace through the kitchens. In the driveway, the chauffeurs were still smoking and talking among themselves. He passed them and walked through the gates, where he climbed onto a parked Yamaha motorcycle. It was a job well done, he thought, and he had repaid the debt. He placed his helmet on his head, fastened the strap, and turned the key in the ignition.

Out of nowhere, our problem was solved. We had a stringer in New York whose life was spent collecting awful things for us off the cable channels: biker astrologists, transvestite psychics, body-building sexologists, stuff like that. He lived in a cold-water flat somewhere on the Upper West Side dodging cockroaches the size of rats while he survived on pizza. One night he was watching a cable channel unbelievably called Channel 69. Exercising their rights under the First Amendment, anyone at all could pay ten dollars and go on Channel 69 to do a number, because in America everyone is entitled to self-expression: it’s in the Constitution. Our stringer was halfway though a five-cheese pizza with extra cheese when he was suddenly face to face with an Hispanic woman in a green feather boa singing the Lionel Ritchie hit ‘Hello’ while she pounded away at a Yamaha portable piano. He had never seen anything like her in his life and for a while he thought there might be something wrong with the pizza, but when he recovered his mind he sent me a video by courier. The video had the artist’s name handwritten on the label. It was Margarita Pracatan.

Matt’s Creation Room was a wide, colorful space dedicated to music. The walls were splashed with bright orange paint, green sofas, and cushions, which contrasted with the serious, dark upright Yamaha piano in the center of the room. There were other instruments in the room: several guitars, a violin, several drums, a bass guitar. The walls were like a private Hall of Fame covered with posters and even relics of famous singers. One wall was covered with pictures of Matt and his three platinum albums Matt, Superstar, and Moving On. The room was bathed in light entering through the wide windows. It was Matt’s Creation Room and he had obviously decorated the room according to his own tastes. After finishing her scales while waiting for Matt, she posted herself next to the windows to practice her audition song for La Cenerentola that Saturday evening. It was a beautiful, sorrowful song that Cinderella sang in the first scene about a king who looked for true love not in splendor and beauty, but in innocence and goodness.

montó en su Yamaha y abrió gas. Le gustaba conducir al atardecer, en dirección sur y rozando los límites de velocidad permitidos, con el faro delantero iluminando las rayas blancas de la carretera hasta convertirlas en una única línea continua.

I saw an even more egregious example of this a few years later. I had moved to Edmonton to finish my undergraduate degree. I took an apartment with my sister, who was studying to be a nurse. She was also an up-and-out-of-there person. (Not too many years later she would plant strawberries in Norway and run safaris through Africa and smuggle trucks across the Tuareg-menaced Sahara Desert, and babysit orphan gorillas in the Congo.) We had a nice place in a new high-rise, overlooking the broad valley of the North Saskatchewan River. We had a view of the city skyline in the background. I bought a beautiful new Yamaha upright piano, in a fit of enthusiasm. The place looked good

Sega had worked with Yamaha to create an advanced audio processor capable of FM synthesis,

ferrying high-dollar real estate clients around Arizona. The motorcyclist’s blue riding clothes matched his sleek Yamaha. The snug fit of his clothes suggested a lean and muscled young man. He paused by the sidewalk, at the front of the lane where we parked, and