#seress rezső

[konyvboritok]

[scholarofgloom]

[connectparanormal]

Haunted Music

Haunted music, a unique and unsettling concept, blends the paranormal with the arts of sound. This idea includes tunes, melodies, and musical compositions thought to have supernatural properties that bring about odd happenings, undesirable luck, or even paranormal activity. The concept of haunted music is common in literature, popular culture, and folklore because it appeals to our innate curiosity and anxieties about the unknown.

The Sirens of ancient Greece have the first recorded haunted music. Their voice could lure ships and sailors to their doom. There song could not be resisted by those who heard it. The story of Gloomy Sunday, a 1933 Hungarian song written by Rezső Seress, is one of the most well-known instances of haunted music. Often referred to as the Hungarian Suicide Song, it is believed to induce profound sadness in listeners and inspire several suicide attempts. Despite the dubious validity of these claims, the story endures, adding a spooky touch to the depressing tune.

The Curse of the Ninth, a myth among classical composers that a ninth symphony will be their final, is another well-known composition frequently associated with eerie feelings. The demise of composers such as Beethoven, Schubert, and Dvořák, who all went away before finishing their ninth symphonies, is the source of this idea. This might just be a coincidence, but in the world of classical music, it has helped to create a mythology and cult surrounding the number nine. Not only are there specific compositions, but there are also stories about haunted instruments. A well-known tale concerns the Busby Stoop Chair, an unremarkable chair with a reputed curse from its owner, Thomas Busby, who was hanged in 1702 for murder. Folklore states that whoever sits in the chair will pass away soon after. The chair, currently housed in a museum, hangs from the ceiling to keep people from sitting in it. The tale frequently touches on stories of haunted instruments, like cursed violins or pianos that play by themselves, even though it is not specifically musical in nature. Haunted music is also a common theme in movies and books. In stories, protagonists may hear a phantom song that guides them to discover secrets or see a spectral piano playing in an abandoned home. These stories frequently use haunted music to symbolize unresolved feelings, guilt, or the influence of the past on the present. For instance, Gaston Leroux's novel The Phantom of the Opera centers on a shadowy, hooded entity that terrorizes and manipulates the people living in the Paris Opera House through music. Some real-life musicians and composers have told of weird experiences they had while working on specific pieces. These reports cover a wide range of topics, from mysterious technical issues to experiences of an invisible presence in the recording studio. Even if these encounters are sometimes the result of psychological issues or external circumstances, they nevertheless add to the eerie aura around haunted music.

The power of haunting music to arouse intense emotions and foster a sense of mystery and suspense is what makes it so appealing. Whether or not one believes in the paranormal, the myths and stories surrounding haunted music demonstrate the profound psychological impact that songs can have. The fact that music can convey deeper meanings and relationships than are initially obvious further supports the argument. To sum up, haunted music is an intriguing fusion of creative expression, superstition, and mythology. It continues to pique people's interest and tells a diverse spectrum of tales, from haunted instruments to cursed songs. These stories serve as powerful reminders of the profound emotional and even paranormal effects that music can have on us.

[eightfourone]

Ősz van és peregnek a sárgult levelek

It is autumn and the leaves are falling

Meghalt a földön az emberi szeretet

All love has died on earth

Bánatos könnyekkel zokog az öszi szél

The wind is weeping with sorrowful tears

Szívem már új tavaszt nem vár és nem remél

My heart will never hope for a new spring again

Hiába sírok és hiába szenvedek

My tears and my sorrows are all in vain

Szívtelen rosszak és kapzsik az emberek...

People are heartless, greedy and wicked...

Meghalt a szeretet!

Love has died!

Vége a világnak, vége a reménynek

The world has come to its end, hope has ceased to have a meaning

Városok pusztulnak, srapnelek zenélnek

Cities are being wiped out, shrapnel is making music

Emberek vérétől piros a tarka rét

Meadows are coloured red with human blood

Halottak fekszenek az úton szerteszét

There are dead people on the streets everywhere

Még egyszer elmondom csendben az imámat:

I will say another quiet prayer:

Uram, az emberek gyarlók és hibáznak...

People are sinners, Lord, they make mistakes...

Vége a világnak!

The world has ended!

ca. 1933 by Rezső Seress. (3 November 1899 - 11 January 1968)

[helsinkiaznyugate]

Seress Rezső synthwave-retrowave! Gyönyörű

[fovarosiblog]

KEVÉSBÉ NÉPSZERŰ VÁROSI SÉTA ÖTLETEK:

- Seress Rezső Budapestje: a Szomorú Vasárnap szerzőjének munkássága mentén teljesen lejövünk az életről, a végén már ön is öngyilkos akar majd lenni.

- Séta az Üllői úton: ne tudjon meg semmit Budapestről, miközben a túravezető hiába próbálja meg túlkiabálni az állandó autóforgalmat. Maszk viselése ajánlott.

[jeanclamence]

La Mortification d'un Insomniaque

The Mortification of an Insomniac

Original Monologue by Jean Clamence (me)

I cannot sleep. Why sleep, anyway? The night holds wonders far more splendid than the day. I love him with all my heart. I can inhale stars, walk along icy quarters, lay on rigid concrete, and spin around in the pitch black, the void which embraces me and engulfs me into a sweet hysteria of turmoil. I will bang my head against my bed frame and my surroundings will swirl dizzily, laugh about it, then go outside, bump into streetlights with an eclipse of moths circling above my head that yearning for the light. From a stale, flaccid, pink worm, I twist and turn among the lepidoptera, growing their wings and taking flight, possessing their bewitching colour and gaining their curious allure. When day breaks, I will find my body broken beyond repair, that my metamorphosis has come undone and I've regressed to an ugly worm, my soul torn apart with each bit of purity dismembered, and my mind lost in the vastness of a region squashed between heaven and hell. I become aware of the meek fragility of my existence---in matter and in memory---and along with it the utter meaninglessness of everything. Hours will pass, twilight will start, and I will retreat into the night. Then, crimson puddles may dry up on my teeth, turn them brown, rot them to excess, fine dust, and my eyes may swell with tears, begging for the end, spread wide with eyelids parallel under the shade of fifty strands of fried hair, but I don't notice them. I cannot move for myself, but for the thought that seduces me and takes advantage of my blindness: 'What is so hazardous about a tiny cut, a small scratch, a little wound with a few miniscule drops of blood? There is no distinction between an arm lost and a healing bruise. Both will return to me a hundred times over to collect me at my doorstep, abrupt as the appearance of goodness and love, as simply developed and intricate as the act of sin, on an evening when silver skies weep and too, shout with brute force. Both will end me, and in the end my ending is nothingness, for the end is nothingness because the world is nothingness after days abundant of sin and beauty and will'. And so I continue, but the problem that troubles the lover of the after hours is that he is awake, he exists in the present as undoubtedly as the cold, hard wall which he peppers with rims of ash from the cigarette bums he presses onto it. More times than not it will occur to him: the thought that the promise of night is forfeit, for there is a plausibility in the possibility that it will only grant the ephemeral thought of eternal slumber, not the eternal slumber of ephemeral thought, and instead will lock him away, conscious of the reality that he has taken millions of breaths since death was promised to him. When he has alas had enough, all the peer insomniacs scream in unison with him, once again, after the vigor of life, when everybody has dozed off and children have been tucked in their beds with the comforting plumpness of soft, silk pillows and stuffed animals. And they cannot stop, for where else could they grieve but the night? Where else should they grieve but the night? The day cannot free any prisoners. Distraught, it is fully aware of the truth that it is also a problem.

I am striding along elliptically around the base of an oak tree, waiting for day: waiting for it's demands, it's responsibilities, it's shedding light on the actuality of being, the wild unpredictability of a day, an hour, a minute, a second, a glimpse. I know I do not want it now, but I wait for it. The time will come when I kneel, assure it's superiority and beg, for I will feel and think 'I need it'. I frown at the slight appearance of the matter in my consciousness, at it's reoccurring routine, the never-ending pattern of night and day. I can never shut my eyes in the night, nor rest with my eyes open in day; I want to change the world at midnight, but four hours later dawn will come and everything, motionless and locomotive, will show me the short extent to which I can carry out my superficial aspirations. They are different, but they become one in the common torture they bring to me. They merged into one behind my back, under my ears, and I hitherto have been completely clueless; C'est la vie. And la vie est une maladie, a  malady that hides itself in plain sight and sense. It is a killer with excellent skill and strategy, being able to run on it's tip-toes and not make a sound. Nobody died that has not lived. Joy is living. This endless suffering is living. Attachment is living. War is living. It will kill us all because of the pointlessness of it all. I know what I must do now. I pray for neither night nor day. (It's like being given only two horrid politicians to vote for, and asking 'Which one of them has committed a lighter crime: the perpetrator of the genocide of children or the one who kills a child every month? Not only is the question foolish nonsense adorned with perfume made from cow dung, I deserve better.) I only await eternal slumber with no consciousness, only a comfortable hopelessness. Only then---when my remains will most likely lie in a coffin or in a marble jar---can I be free.

[angelgrigori]

Não é nada

"Meu pulsos têm marcas, tenho olheiras fartas, choro escondida no banheiro, ligo o chuveiro pra ver se o som abafa.

 O que você tem?

- Não é nada.

Não consigo estudar, eu acho que já tive talentos algum dia, tudo que eu toco desaba.

O que você tem?

- Não é nada.

Emagreço, engordo e adoeço, uma repetição constante que nunca acaba.

O que você tem?

- Não é nada.

Todo relacionamento meu dá errado, eu sou o mal de tudo, a raiz do problema, em tudo sou fraca.

O que você tem?

- Não é nada.

Quando eu partir e perguntarem o que eu tinha?

- Nunca fui ou tive, absolutamente nada."..

Salve meu blog nos seus favoritos, visite:

caminhosemrumo.blogspot.com

[scholarofgloom]

[oldnihilistboy]

Szomorú Vasárnap

Rezső Seress é genuinamente o responsável pela descoberta significável dos Domingos. 

[iamkenlee-blog]

"Loreena Mckennitt - Gloomy Sunday"

2024년 8월 31일에 놀러 간 밀롱가(=Monday G Mil)에서 AM 중 하나로 '네펠리의 탱고'가 나오길래. 이거는 땅고 추는 사람이 아니더라도 잘 아는 익숙한 곡일 것 같다.

그리스 렘베티카 가수인 하리스 알렉씨우(Haris Alexiou) 씨가 불렀다. 그리스어로는 'Το Tango της Νεφέλης'라 쓰고, 영어로는 'Nefeli's tango'다. "네펠리스 탱고"라고 읽다가 왠지 허전했는지 한국에선 "네펠리스의 탱고"로 와전됐다. '돼지족'이 '돼지족발' 된 거와 비슷한 경우.

위키백과는 네펠리를 '네펠레'라고 표기했던데, 그리스 신화에 나오는 구름의 님프이고 익시온이란 악당에게 겁탈당해 켄타우로스를 낳았다. (긴 얘기는 생략, 구글 참조)

그리고 원곡이 따로 있다. 로리나 매캐닛(Loreena Mckennitt)이란 캐나다 가수가 1991년 발매한 '방문(=The Visit)'이란 음반에 수록한 '에보라로의 탱고(=Tango to Evora)'. 난 당연히 음반 전체를 들어봤고 켈트풍 음악 하시는 분이구나 앎. 내 귀에는 지나치게 감상적이라 잘 맞지는 않았다.

유튜브에 '우울한 일요일(=Gloomy Sunday)' 노래한 게 있던데 여기저기 찾아봤지만 음반 수록곡은 아닌 듯하고, 아마도 싱글 발매? 암튼 이분 음색에는 이런 우울한 노래가 잘 어울리는 거 같다.

1933년 셰레시 레죄(Seress Rezső)라는 헝가리 사람 작곡. 처음 레코드 발매 후 8주 만에 헝가리에서만 이 노래를 듣고 187명이 자살을 해 '죽음의 송가'라는 별칭을 갖게 됐단 얘기가 널리 퍼져있지만 정황상 도시 전설인 걸로.

작곡자 본인이 1968년 고층 아파트에서 투신자살했다곤 하던데, 어쩌면 이게 확대된 소문일지도 모르고.

[aresrttd]

Nie jestem regularnym pisarzem i trudno mi tworzyć regularnie, ale wiem, że to, co tworzę jest wyjątkowe mój własny świat, gdzie mogę pobyć bez bólu bez zmartwień bez natłoku pytań, które męczą moją głowę, jestem tu sam ze sobą, chociaż ciężko tu być, bo czuje jak moja autodestrukcyjna osobowość mnie przytłacza, ale przynajmniej te kilka chwil mogę spędzić w spokoju

Ares

[la--mort]

10-24-23

In 1941 Billie Holiday released a song titled Gloomy Sunday, by Hungarian composer and pianist Rezső Seress. This song has been linked to at least 19 suicides in both Hungary and America, and eventually was banned for a time from radio. Below is a portion of the songs lyrics:

My hours are slumberless,

Dearest the shadows

I live with are numberless

Little white flowers will

never awaken you

Not where the black coach

of sorrow has taken you

Angels have no thought of

ever returning you

Would they be angry

if I thought of joining you

Gloomy Sunday.

Gloomy is sunday

with shadows I spend it all

My heart and I have

decided to end it all

Soon there'll be candels

and prayers that are sad,

I know, let them not weep,

let then know

that I'm glad to go

Death is no dream,

for in death I'm caressing you

With the last breath of my

soul I'll be blessing you

[europaaesthetic]

Deutsche Prominenz

• Musik •

Komponisten:

Bach, Johann Sebastian

von Bingen, Hildegard

Brahms, Johannes

van Beethoven, Ludwig

Bruckner, Anton

Edlerawer, Hermann

Händel, Georg Friedrich

Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus

Paumann, Conrad

Schubert, Franz

Schumann, Clara

Schumann, Robert

Spitzer, Rudolf (Rezső Seress)

Strauss, Johann

von der Vogelweide, Walther

Wagner, Richard

von Wolkenstein, Oswald

Zimmer, Hans

[udv-wilson]

Seress Rezső likes this.

Vendég, 1925. augusztus 15. 

via EPA