The subliminal song of subliminal songs coming all the way from 1933, Ein Lied Von Lieber und Tod.
S Hungan song writer composed it, better known as ‘Gloomy Sunday’ has caused scores of suicides when it came out. it has been banned by some governments. Written by Rezso Szerez.
I listened to it last night, no in deed , it is very disturbing.
Inane because you have a shortsighted sense of humor.
I think the moral import of the song, its outrageousness aside, is to try to be less sensitive about failed romantic relationships. Cheer up. Get over it. This isn’t so bad. Don’t be an asshole. So on and so forth.
By framing a real, serious social problem in a comical way- the habits and behaviors of lonely, single people and culture in society- a cynical perspective and awareness of the problem in its caricatured form creates a parody, hopefully suspending that seriousness for a moment and putting into scrutiny those feelings, habits and behaviors. Catharsis. This is what you do. This is what you are. You are this asshole. So on and so forth. This is the purpose of Broken Hearts Are For Assholes.
Bathos in the comical form can be tonic and elevating. But it doesn’t always work in the form of romance parody; loss of love in drama is very difficult to work with other than in the tragic mode. You lose the sense of pure tragedy when there are comical elements there. Tragicomedy lightens the catharsis experienced whenever there is tragic dissonance, but heightens the catharsis experienced in the ironic (and tonic) relief of that dissonance; no longer taking serious… and to be strong enough to not need to take serious. Some believe this halcyon feeling is more lofty, gregarious, and invigorating than any other.
Against the assault of laughter, nothing can stand. Twain, I think.
Is that Kazuya, PR? Hah, and I thought you don’t play video games!
Another one of these songs, you know the type: You hear it once, accidentally, but it doesn’t catch your attention at first. Then you think about it later, and realize it’s somewhat catchy. You go back, listen to it, and continue listening until you’ve played it for about 50 times. Then you can’t hear it anymore for some time.
A somewhat guilty pleasure, not usually my type of music…
Let us remember the dirt beneath their rollers. The secret smut and the lost metal money. Remember the author of all tucks and damask piping. The chrome dinette, and the eggs of all persuasion. On this Sunday morning we pay homage…