Nom de Plume

CalexicoCalexico 

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Calexico

Calexico is a Tucson, Arizona-based Americana / Tex-Mex / indie rock band. The band's two main members, Joey Burns and John Convertino, first played together in Los Angeles as part of the group Giant Sand. They have recorded a number of albums on Quarterstick Records, while their 2005 EP In the Reins recorded with Iron & Wine has reached the Billboard 200 album charts. Their musical style is influenced by traditional Latin sounds of mariachi / conjunto / cumbia / Tejano music and also the Southwestern United States country music as well as '50s-'60s jazz and '90s-'00s post-rock, and they have been described by some as "desert noir" or indie rock. The band is named for the border town of Calexico, California. more »

Year:

2006

3:19

85 Views

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Le corbeau s'approche
Atterit sur l'épaule de celui qui écrit
Reviens lui picorer le cou
Les veines sortent des chairs
Le sang se répand sur la page
Il crit ses dernières lignes
Et s'endort

novembre et son manteau d'hiver 
Revers sombres
Chemise blanche comme la neige
Manchettes noires
Plane sur la ville
S'agrippe aux murs, détruit les rues

les lances de corne ac'are'es
Plongent dans les yeux et les coeurs des courtiers
Les enfants s'enfuient dans les rues des quartiers
Les voitures quittent la route, avalées par la mer

les périls de l'hiver
Les photographes, les barrillets ouverts
La poudre à canon et les éclairs aveuglants

etouffés par les fumées
Les cendres des usines
Livres de comptes déchirés
Sem's comme des miettes pour les sortir
Des tunnels, loin des murs de la vieille ville
Avant d'être enfouis sous l'ordure nouvelle.

le corbeau se fatigue
Les corbeaux se multiplient
Le ciel noircit à chaque nouveau cadavre
Les champs s'enflamment
L'hystérie les chasse des villes vers les cavernes
Et les collines assombries

vers les hauts plateaux
Vers les hauts plateaux

vers les hauts refuges
Vers les hauts refuges

vers les hautes plaines
Vers les hautes plaines

vers les collines
Vers les collines

vers les hauts terre
Vers les hauts terre

the raven flies down to the writer's desk
Landing on his shoulder, pecking at his neck
Veins popping out, spilling on the page
Makes a little note, falls to sleep.

November's coat with black lapels
Dressed in a snow white shirt, ready for the grave
Prepares to flee, from the city's gates
Tear down the walls ripping up the streets

spearheaded horns stick into the hearts
Of the ticker tape market trades
Watch them all crash
While the children flee from the suburb streets
The cars veer off the road, swallowed by the sea

and the writer's peril, the photographers,
The open dusty barrels
Gun powder and white lightning

choking on the fumes, buried 'neath the watse
Receipts from the factories torn up in haste
Used as breadcrumbs to lead them away
Out through the tunnels while the city crumbles and
Breaks

the raven grows weary
The raven grows in numbers
Sky darkens with each kill
Corn fields burn, break on the farmers' heads
For the high country
For the high country

hide in some hills
Deep dark caves
Return to the caverns
Rebar skeletons
Spell twisted, cryptic words
In the high country

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