Word: bleedingly
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...KNOW I don't think the full Significance of Let it Bleed has dawned yet on any of us. The album was released about four months ago; we got it green and appetizing, it ripened quickly into prime yellow and as it moved through time, acquired the characteristic rich brown brocade textures of old age. But collected experiences usually start to smell of rot in due time. Except that it doesn't seem to be happening at all with Let it Bleed does it? The experience of playing it on the trusty Gramophone is still amazingly (by turns) uplifting...
...Bleed is such a theatrical album. The Stones striking these exaggerated, as always, postures but this time around it's really momentous, important that they do. "Live with Me" so much more to the point than "Parachute Woman, land on me..." given our times, and "Let it Bleed" over "Jigsaw Puzzle" any day, given our days...
...really useful (nothing to complain about, as some have) to think of Let it Bleed as a re-done version of Beggar's Banquet . Track by track the songs from each correspond but in the later album they are all operating at a distinctly higher level of stagecraft and awareness, making it as transcendentally mellow as the first was strung-out and earthbound. Not that I'm putting down Beggar's Banquet in the slightest . It's just that having once lavished its spiritual miseries upon us the Stones had no graceful direction left to go but up. The next...
...Often he is right. M.A.S.H. begins where other antiwar films end-after the shells have exploded. Only two shots are fired in the movie, and both come from a referee's starting gun during a hilariously corrupt intraservice football game. Instead, there are the results of bullets; men bleed on-camera in great arterial gushes. The wounded are flown in on helicopters and stain their sheets as they die silently. The film's two main characters retain their sanity the way men have always done in the shadow of death, with a gallows humoresque...
...hysteria at the Biennale de Paris, which proclaims itself the "manifestation of the young artists," meaning those under 35. The preoccupation this year was style, for its own sake. Noted in a random walk: a Parisian who signs himself Sibaja has sculpted two prizefighters out of red ice who bleed slowly into buckets under their boxing ring while a tape recorder plays crowd screams. They take a week to die. Minimal sculpture everywhere, reaching even into the Portuguese delegation. Pushbutton and wind-up sculptures break down in a matter of hours. Slides flicker against every flat surface until the bulbs...