Os Cães da contestação

Alguém nos engana, há já muito tempo. Quem? Como? Porquê? [1]

“(…) Lembro-me, como muitos outros certamente se poderão lembrar, das sensações, imagens e outras contemplações provocadas pelos acordes de toda aquela musicologia da libertação que se cultivou, sobretudo, a partir das “correntes” cortadas pela difusão dos ideais da “revolução” de Maio de 68. Tinha eu os meus 14 anos.
Quanto de nós não ficou, embalados no etéreo vácuo da inexperiência das tenras idades, sem resposta às questões que o percurso das etapas do desenvolvimento pessoal exige! (…)”.

Entre tantos outros possíveis, revisitei, esta semana, os Pink Floyd, dos meus “teen years”, tanto cá como lá fora (quando, por exemplo, vi, a 5 de Dezembro de 1972, na ‘Forêt Nationale’, em Bruxelas, a primeira apresentação continental, ao vivo, do “Dark Side of the Moon”). Mas deixo a mensagem que traz, mais tarde (1977), o ‘Dogs’ do álbum ‘Animals’ ─ vale bem a pena “espreitar”, pela tradução possível desta letra, a contestação que brota da interpretação que o autor faz da realidade a que reporta esta composição: a condição humana característica da sociedade de hoje, tal como o nosso meio nos permite apreendê-la e criticá-la.

“Dogs” (Pink Floyd – Animals)

You gotta be crazy, you gotta have a real need.

You gotta sleep on your toes, and when you're on the street,

You gotta be able to pick out the easy meat with your eyes closed.

And then moving in silently, down wind and out of sight

You gotta strike when the moment is right without thinking.

And after a while, you can work on points for style

Like the club tie, and the firm handshake,

A certain look in the eye and an easy smile.

You have to be trusted by the people that you lie to,

So that when they turn their backs on you

You'll get the chance to put the knife in.

You gotta keep one eye looking over your shoulder.

You know it's going to get harder, and harder and harder as you get older.

And in the end you'll pack up and fly down south,

Hide your head in the sand,Just another sad old man,

All alone and dying of cancer.

And when you loose control, you'll reap the harvest you have sown.

And as the fear grows, the bad blood slows and turns to stone.

And it's too late to loose the weight you used to need to throw around.

So have a good drown, as you go down, alone,

Dragged down by the Stone.

I gotta admit that I'm a little bit confused.

Sometimes it seems to me as if I'm just being used.

Gotta stay awake, gotta try and shake off this creeping malaise.

If I don't stand my own ground, how can I find my own way out of this maze ?

Deaf, dumb and blind, you just keep on pretending

That everyone's expendable and no one has a real friend.

And it seems to you the thing to do would be to isolate the winner.

And everything's done under the sun,

And you believe at heart, everyone's a killer.

Who was born in a house full of pain.

Who was trained not to spit in the fan.

Who was told what to do by the man.

Who was broken by trained personnel.

Who was fitted with collar and chain.

Who was given a seat in the stand.

Who was breaking away from the pack.

Who was only a stranger at home.

Who was ground down in the end.

Who was found dead on the phone

Who was dragged down by the stone.

[1] Retirado do nosso “Elementos Contributivos Para uma Análise Politológica da Dominação Social”.