Tramp the dirt down, Elvis Costello (1989)


Agora que o povo inglês deu mais uma maioria absoluta ao Partido Conservador, vale a pena ouvir, reouvir e meditar em Tramp the dirt down. Canção de protesto, de raiva, de sentimento de impotência. Escrita por Elvis Costello, um dos grandes autores do último quartel do século XX. A história é simples: trata-se de uma carta a Margaret Thatcher, então (1989), tal como agora com Cameron, líder e primeiro-ministro. E após dissecar os traços de personalidade da "Dama de Ferro" e os modos de dizimar a união entre os trabalhadores, diz esperar continuar vivo até que ela morra, para assim poder colocar-se em cima da campa dela e com os seus pés calcar a terra.    
A versão original é uma balada com flautas irlandesas (o verdadeiro nome de Elvis é Declan MacManus, e a sua família é originária da Ilha Verde), uma provocação mais numa época em que o IRA tentava activamente assassinar Thatcher. A voz, brilhante de nuances, destila ódio, desprezo, vergonha pelo que o seu país admitiu. E tem versos tão cortantes como "try telling him the subtle difference between justice and contempt" ou "because you've only got the symptoms, you haven't got the whole disease". Costello prometeu que continuaria a cantar Tramp the dirt down enquanto Thatcher não morresse, o que finalmente aconteceu a 8 de Abril de 2013.
Em tempos de vergonha, pela falta de solidariedade e egoísmo desenfreado demonstrados pela (falta de) classe política, que se ouça e se pense. E.M.

Tramp the dirt down, Elvis Costello (1989)

"Tramp The Dirt Down"

I saw a newspaper picture from the political campaign

A woman was kissing a child, who was obviously in pain

She spills with compassion, as that young child's face in her hands she grips

Can you imagine all that greed and avarice coming down on that child's lips

Well I hope I don't die too soon

I pray the Lord my soul to save

Oh I'll be a good boy, I'm trying so hard to behave

Because there's one thing I know, I'd like to live long enough to savour

That's when they finally put you in the ground

I'll stand on your grave and tramp the dirt down

When England was the whore of the world Margeret was her madam

And the future looked as bright and as clear as the black tarmacadam

Well I hope that she sleeps well at night, isn't haunted by every tiny detail

'Cos when she held that lovely face in her hands all she thought of was betrayal

And now the cynical ones say that it all ends the same in the long run

Try telling that to the desperate father who just squeezed the life from his only son

And how it's only voices in your head and dreams you never dreamt

Try telling him the subtle difference between justice and contempt

Try telling me she isn't angry with this pitiful discontent

When they flaunt it in your face as you line up for punishment

And then expect you to say "Thank you" straighten up, look proud and pleased

Because you've only got the symptoms, you haven't got the whole disease

Just like a schoolboy, whose head's like a tin-can filled up with dreams then poured down

the drain

Try telling that to the boys on both sides, being blown to bits or beaten and maimed

Who takes all the glory and none of the shame

Well I hope you live long now, I pray the Lord your soul to keep

I think I'll be going before we fold our arms and start to weep

I never thought for a moment that human life could be so cheap

'Cos when they finally put you in the ground

They'll stand there laughing and tramp the dirt down