The revolution will not be blogged

The revolution is here, decía Common cuando contestaba a the revolution will not be televised, dicho por Gill Scott-Heron en su LP de mismo título como respuesta también de otra célebre canción de Last Poets titulada When the revolution comes en su LP The Last Poets of the revolution.

La frase The revolution will not be televised ha saltado a la actualidad en distintas manifestaciones culturales latinoamericanas, como una canción del grupo mexicano Molotov y también en una película sobre la la revolución bolivariana de Chaves en Venezuela, pero esas son otras historia que no vamos a contar.

Volviendo al principio, lo que más me gusta es la narración o diálogo que empieza con Last Poets, continúa con Gil Scott-Heron y termina con Common. Veamos las letras, una por una:

Last Poets dicen que cuando la revolución venga algunos de nosotros la veremos en TV mientras comemos pollo frito, y sabremos que es una revolución porque no tendrá publicidad entre medias del programa

When the revolution comes
some of us will catch it on TV
with chicken hanging from our mouths
you'll know it's revolution
because there won't be no commercials
when the revolution comes

A lo cual Gil Scott-Heron responde: que no te puedes quedar en casa hermano, no puedes encender la televisión (...) Seguiremos

You will not be able to stay home, brother.
You will not be able to plug in, turn on and cop out.
You will not be able to lose yourself on skag and skip,
Skip out for beer during commercials,
Because the revolution will not be televised.

The revolution will not be televised.
The revolution will not be brought to you by Xerox
In 4 parts without commercial interruptions.
The revolution will not show you pictures of Nixon
blowing a bugle and leading a charge by John
Mitchell, General Abrams and Spiro Agnew to eat
hog maws confiscated from a Harlem sanctuary.
The revolution will not be televised.

The revolution will not be brought to you by the
Schaefer Award Theatre and will not star Natalie
Woods and Steve McQueen or Bullwinkle and Julia.
The revolution will not give your mouth sex appeal.
The revolution will not get rid of the nubs.
The revolution will not make you look five pounds
thinner, because the revolution will not be televised, Brother.

There will be no pictures of you and Willie May
pushing that shopping cart down the block on the dead run,
or trying to slide that color television into a stolen ambulance.
NBC will not be able predict the winner at 8:32
or report from 29 districts.
The revolution will not be televised.

There will be no pictures of pigs shooting down
brothers in the instant replay.
There will be no pictures of pigs shooting down
brothers in the instant replay.
There will be no pictures of Whitney Young being
run out of Harlem on a rail with a brand new process.
There will be no slow motion or still life of Roy
Wilkens strolling through Watts in a Red, Black and
Green liberation jumpsuit that he had been saving
For just the proper occasion.

Green Acres, The Beverly Hillbillies, and Hooterville
Junction will no longer be so damned relevant, and
women will not care if Dick finally gets down with
Jane on Search for Tomorrow because Black people
will be in the street looking for a brighter day.
The revolution will not be televised.

There will be no highlights on the eleven o'clock
news and no pictures of hairy armed women
liberationists and Jackie Onassis blowing her nose.
The theme song will not be written by Jim Webb,
Francis Scott Key, nor sung by Glen Campbell, Tom
Jones, Johnny Cash, Englebert Humperdink, or the Rare Earth.
The revolution will not be televised.

The revolution will not be right back after a message
bbout a white tornado, white lightning, or white people.
You will not have to worry about a dove in your
bedroom, a tiger in your tank, or the giant in your toilet bowl.
The revolution will not go better with Coke.
The revolution will not fight the germs that may cause bad breath.
The revolution will put you in the driver's seat.

The revolution will not be televised, will not be televised,
will not be televised, will not be televised.
The revolution will be no re-run brothers;
The revolution will be live.

Por último, Common contesta:

The revolution will not be televised
The revolution is here
Yeah, it's Common Sense, with DJ Premier
We gonna help y'all see clear
It's real hip-hop music, from the soul, y'all
Yeah, check it, yo

The perseverence of a rebel I drop heavier levels
It's unseen or heard, a king with words
Can't knock the hustle, but I've seen street dreams deferred
Dark spots in my mind where the scene occured
Some say I'm too deep, I'm in too deep to sleep
Through me, Muhammed will forever speak
Greet brothers with handshakes in ghetto landscapes
Where a man is determined by how much a man make
Cop Cognacs and spit old raps with young cats
with cigarettes in their ear, niggerish they appear
Under the Fubu is a guru, that's untapped
Want to be in the rap race but ain't ran one lap
Ran so far from the streets that you can't come back
You tripping with nowhere to unpack, forgot that

Chorus: (Scratched by DJ Premier with variations):

"This is rap for real, something you feel"
"And you know, yes you know"
"Rap for the black people"
"Heeeeyyyy, heeeeeyyyy"

In front of two-inch glass and Arabs I order fries
Inspiration when I write, I see my daughter's eyes
I'm the truth, across the table from corporate lies
Immortilized by the realness I bring to it
If revolution had a movie I'd be theme music
My music, you either fight, fuck, or dream to it
My life is one big rhyme, I try to scheme through it
Through my shell, never knew what the divine would bring to it
I'd be lying if I said I didn't want millions
More than money saved, I wanna save children
Dealing with alcoholism and afrocentricity
A complex man drawn off of simplicity
Reality is frisking me
This industry will make you lose intensity
The Common Sense in me remembers the basement
I'm Morpheus in this hip-hop Matrix, exposing fake shit

Chorus

Somedays I take the L to gel with the real world
Got on at 87th, stopped by this little girl
She recited raps, I forgot where they was from
In 'em, she was saying how she made brothers cum
I start thinking, how many souls hip-hop has affected
How many dead folks this art resurrected
How many nations this culture connected
Who am I to judge one's perspective?
Though some of that shit y'all pop true it, I ain't relating
If I don't like it, I don't like it, that don't mean that I'm hating
I just want to innovate and stimulate minds
Travel the world and penetrate the times
Escape through rhythms in search of peace and wisdom
Raps are smoke signals letting the streets know I'm with 'em
For now I appreciate this moment in time
Ball players and actors be knowing my rhymes, it's like

Chorus til fade

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