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ISSN 1409-6900 | UDK 82+7     Blesok no. 103-104 | volume  | December, 2015



                     Peer-reviewed journal
Blesok no. 103-104December, 2015
Sound Reviews

CAT POWER: Chan Marshall Blues

p. 1
Mehmed Begić


Slow Down the Images

Translated by: Elizabeta Bakovska

I watched again that movie to remember you. To be able to write again. Every time I finish what I write feels like the last one, like I would not be able to do it again. To be able to write about Chan, I had to remember you.
    It's probably like that because I had fallen in love with Chan while I loved you. She had already changed her name to Cat Power and she had conquered American cities, madness, death, roads, relationship with Callahan behind her, and it was yet to be survived. I am sure even now which one of that was madder those days, nor whose music I like more.
    And yet I learned that you cannot bid farewell to those who mean something in your life. But you can leave. Turn around and leave. As we all had to do it at least once in our lives. As it has been done to has.

At that moment one is not aware that there is no choice, and the pain is unbearable, just as the illusion of the twenty-year old dreams is endless. And we have all wanted to be famous for something. Our greatness would be immeasurable, and our dreams firmly pressed in our palms, so that they do not escape.

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I am no longer sure whom I would rather write a letter… to you or Cat Power? To you whom I haven't known for a long time? How could I write to her at all? To her former her which I could hardly relate to her today's her. But that's the way it should be, my current myself hardly remembers my former me.
    How would that look at all?
    Like the poems I wrote long ago and I don't remember how. Like a cup of necessary coffee that we have drunk and we don't remember we have… You made me love Cat Power, I discovered her to you, Chan Marschall connects us against her will. Chan has become a chain. As if she had not had enough of herself, her dead past and everything that is not her song, that is not the Silvertone guitar which she had bought when she was sixteen and which lied for two years in the corner of her room before she took it in her

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