Best 184 quotes in «songs quotes» category

A bunch of bad songs, make an awful whine.

Abba songs, as anyone who knows knows, are constructed, technically and harmonically, so as to physically imprint the human brain as if biting it with acid, to ensure we will never, ever, ever, be able to forget them.

88% of what we call good songs aren’t really good. They merely remind us of a good time we once had.

All I'd ever done was sing songs that were dead straight and expressed powerful new realities. I had very little in common with and knew even less about a generation that I was supposed to be the voice of.

Add some Melody to the Lyrics of Words, Add some Music to each Life's Situation.. Let there be a Song! Beautiful, Hip-Hop, Romantic, Rap.. Let there be a Moment where one day, we can Sing-Along- Life, Of Where we Belong.

After a while Luce curled up with her head leaning on a rock, wondering why she wasn't consumed with despair. Instead she felt an inexplicable sense of peace. She was cradled in music. The rocks around her chanted like slow, growling bells, and each curl of the water stroked her fins with silky notes. She'd been so afraid of leaving her tribe, but she understood that she never would have heard the music resonating out of every crook of the world if she hadn't taken so many risks. She'd opened her heart to the music of solitude, and it had come to her.

A good song should life your heart, warm the soul and make you feel good.

All my friends are bums. We all gather round our camp-fire (in a can) and sing songs of togetherness as we cuddle, to preserve our warmth...

All of the songs we have ever heard and all we will ever hear are made of twelve simple notes. Complexity comes when these notes are put together in an infinite number of combinations and then played slower or faster, repeated or not. Music is highly organized sound. It is a language we learn without even realizing it. We hear our first song and decipher its repetitions, its orderliness. The song teaches us what to expect and when to expect it. We learn to associate low notes with sadness and high ones with pep. Soon, we hear a brand-new song and its notes collide with our memories of past times. We have expectations for this new song. Even if we don’t entirely know what is coming next, our instincts tell us where the song might take us, and what memories it might unearth.

All of the creatures were staring fixedly at Boots. She was standing on the back of her loyal cockroach friend, Temp, smack in the middle of the octagon, singing "The Itsy-Bisty Spider" at the top of her lungs. The green spider, to whom the song principially was directed, seemed to be cringing. Boots was somewhat off-key, but Gregor was pretty sure it was the loudness that was making the arachnid hunch down and contract. "She has been going on like this for hours," whispered Nerissa. "Days more like it," said Ripred in disgust. "Next I will sing one for you!" announced Boots, pointing at the bat, who actually flinched.

...and all the people said 'What a shame that he's dead, but wasn't he a most peculiar man?

Almost no one reads poems, almost everyone listens to songs. And if songs were, nowadays, a way to get people to poetry and poetry to people?

alone, drinking coffee, listening to the playlist that include the songs that remember you with the best and bad moments of your life. what a hard emotional moment !!

..And songs, to me, were more important than just light entertainment. They were my preceptor and guide into some altered consciousness of reality, some different republic, some liberated republic.

And mostly all I have to say about these songs is that I love them, and want to sing along to them, and force other people to listen to them, and get cross when these other people don't like them as much as I do.

and I'm trying so hard, with all my heart and mind, to make your life as good as you've made mine...

And she learned that you couldn’t stockpile anything that mattered, really. Feelings, people, songs, sex, fireworks: they existed only in time, and when it was over, so were they.

Be sure that your praise songs are numbered higher than your sorrowful dirges and your utmost hope, firmer than your woeful regrets. Be positive.

A place for the newly weds and nearly deads I'm counting the stones I hope you know I love you. Got a lot of friends 6 feet under us. Counting down the days till we join the party. Thoughts of your nightmare projected through mine... Breathing in these lies is no surprise These evil things are all we know Lets take these lives where we want to go. The future is our prize, when the stars align. Ghouls and ghosts will haunt my soul but they will never take me. Before I go, I want to show that we can make a difference. We've got some dumb perceptions. But I've got the death connection... All the hate that you have... Just throw it away Life is meant for more, But we're too distracted.. Too caught up in the anger and judgment.. Caught up in the web of lies I've heard these things keep our blood boiling, Keeps us alive, and moving forward... If that's the case I was born a dead man. And I'm forever a ghost. Hatred is something that we're brought up to see. Now everybody's looking at me I hope they know... They won't get their satisfaction.

Artists make normal songs. Then Radio stations, TV and DJ’s turn those normal songs into hits

As long as music survives, poetry will never die.

Anna's voice wasn't a beautiful voice - rough edged and sorrowful, a bit used, somehow male and female at once. Yet it had more vibrancy to it than most Danish voices, which were often thin and white and too pretty to trigger a shiver. Anna's voice had the heat of the south; it warmed Einar, as if her throat were read with coals.

Cemeteries are full of unfulfilled dreams... countless echoes of 'could have' and 'should have'… countless books unwritten… countless songs unsung... I want to live my life in such a way that when my body is laid to rest, it will be a well needed rest from a life well lived, a song well sung, a book well written, opportunities well explored, and a love well expressed.

Call me crazy, but there is something terribly wrong with this city.

From the moment I could talk, I was ordered to listen. —Tea for the Tillerman

Classic of '43. Don't knock it. A Vintage year.

Deana Carter sings about it. Lady Antebellum sings about it. Eric Church. Gosh, not just country artists. Katy Perry. Everybody has a song about it because everybody's been through it. You find that person at eighteen and you lose yourself. And the tragedy is, it's the person who's completely opposed to everything you've ever wanted. You bond with that person, and that person breaks your heart. I'm that tragedy for you, and you're mine.

Did Bach ever eat pancakes at midnight?

Don't listen to her listen through her.

Do we not each dream of dreams? Do we not dance on the notes of lost memories? Then are we not each dreamers of tomorrow and yesterday, since dreams play when time is askew? Are we not all adrift in the constant sea of trial and when all is done, do we not all yearn for ships to carry us home?

For everyone out there, who is watching your loved ones dancing with someone else, for the songs that you had written for them. Remember this. Not everyone can come up with beautiful compositions. It takes a heart that knows no boundaries, and a soul that shines with a light, that can make even the gods go blind. They took away your song, but not your soul. Start writing the new ones, and you will eventually find someone who will sing every song written by you, beautifully, and only for you.

....Dragons live forever, not so little girls...

Free-form jigging, communal shapes in the air; Dancing was easy!...YMCA! YMCA! Arms in the air, mimicking the letters - what a marvelous idea! Who knew that dancing could be so logical? ...From my limited exposure to popular music, people did seem to sing about umbrellas and firstarting and Emily Bronte novels, so, I supposed, why not a gender-and faith-based youth organization?

Get up, stand up, stand up for your rights.

Halt glared at his friend as the whistling continued. 'I had hoped that your new sense of responsibly would put an end to that painful shrieking noise you make between your lips' he said. Crowley smiled. It was a beautiful day and he was feeling at peace with the world. And that meant he was more than ready to tease Halt 'It's a jaunty song' 'What's jaunty about it?' Halt asked, grim faced. Crowley made an uncertain gesture as he sought for an answer to that question. 'I suppose it's the subject matter' he said eventually. 'It's a very cheerful song. Would you like me to sing it for you?' 'N-' Halt began but he was too late, as Crowley began to sing. He had a pleasant tenor voice, in fact, and his rendering of the song was quite good. But to Halt it was as attractive as a rusty barn door squeaking. 'A blacksmith from Palladio, he met a lovely lady-o' 'Whoa! Whoa!' Halt said 'He met a lovely lady-o?' Halt repeated sarcastically 'What in the name of all that's holy is a lady-o?' 'It's a lady' Crowley told him patiently. 'Then why not sing 'he met a lovely lady'?' Halt wanted to know. Crowley frowned as if the answer was blatantly obvious. "Because he's from Palladio, as the song says. It's a city on the continent, in the southern part of Toscana.' 'And people there have lady-o's, instead of ladies?' Asked Halt 'No. They have ladies, like everyone else. But 'lady' doesn't rhyme with Palladio, does it? I could hardly sing, 'A blacksmith from Palladio, he met his lovely lady', could I?' 'It would make more sense if you did' Halt insisted 'But it wouldn't rhyme' Crowley told him. 'Would that be so bad?' 'Yes! A song has to rhyme or it isn't a proper song. It has to be lady-o. It's called poetic license.' 'It's poetic license to make up a word that doesn't exist and which, by the way, sound extremely silly?' Halt asked. Crowley shook his head 'No. It's poetic license to make sure that the two lines rhyme with each other' Halt thought for a few seconds, his eyes knitted close together. Then inspiration struck him. 'Well then couldn't you sing 'A blacksmith from Palladio, he met a lovely lady, so...'?' 'So what?' Crowley challenged Halt made and uncertain gesture with his hands as he sought more inspiration. Then he replied. 'He met a lovely lady, so...he asked her for her hand and gave her a leg of lamb.' 'A leg of lamb? Why would she want a leg of lamb?' Crowley demanded Halt shrugged 'Maybe she was hungry

Good music will make you forget all your misery.

Great songs don't grow on trees, yet lots of songs have been written on great trees

He laughs and switches lanes. "All right. So, favorite song?" "Ever?" He nods. I bite my lip and watch the just-budding trees flash by outside. "I don't think I've found it yet." His mouth twists with a smile I've never seen before. And I've seen every smile. "That's the right answer.

Heart beats fast Colors and promises How do be brave How can I love when I'm afraid To fall But watching you stand alone All of my doubt Suddenly goes away somehow One step closer I have died everyday waiting for you Darling, don't be afraid I have loved you for a Thousand years I'll love you for a Thousand more Time stands still Beauty in all she is I will be brave I will not let anything Take away What's standing in front of me Every breath, Every hour has come to this One step closer I have died everyday Waiting for you Darling, don't be afraid I have loved you for a Thousand years I'll. love you for a Thousand more

I can’t help but ask, “Do you know where you are?” She turns to me with a foreboding glare. “Do you?

He wanted the songs, the stories, to save everybody.

History doesn’t start with a tall building and a card with your name written on it, but jokes do. I think someone is taking us for suckers and is playing a mean game.

How could you be sad, when you can sing?

I close my eyes, letting the calm wash over me, and putting my bow against the cello's strings, I play.

I don't like songs about wanting things. I like songs about letting go, saying goodbye.

I do have a funny perception of mine I'd like to share. Being basically a lifetime poet. I've had many people say "I don't like poetry" But they'll listen to song after song that rhymes on the end in couplets Just a thought...

I had never killed myself before, so I had no idea what would I want to listen to when it was too late for me to skip to the next song. Like, maybe when you're dying, you actually want to hear something really upbeat.

If I knew what to do I'd do more than write a song for you

I find pieces of her In songs, book quotes, Even in the dismal corners Of macabre streets Hosting nobody except Failed men and women

I had no songs in my repertoire for commercial radio anyway. Songs about debauched bootleggers, mothers that drowned their own children, Cadillacs that only got five miles to the gallon, floods, union hall fires, darkness and cadavers at the bottom of rivers weren't for radiophiles. There was nothing easygoing about the folk songs I sang. They weren't friendly or ripe with mellowness. They didn't come gently to the shore. I guess you could say they weren't commercial. Not only that, my style was too erratic and hard to pigeonhole for the radio, and songs, to me, were more important that just light entertainment. They were my preceptor and guide into some altered consciousness of reality, some different republic, some liberated republic. Greil Marcus, the music historian, would some thirty years later call it "the invisible republic." Whatever the case, it wasn't that I was anti-popular culture or anything and I had no ambitions to stir things up. i just thought of popular culture as lame as hell and a big trick. It was like the unbroken sea of frost that lay outside the window and you had to have awkward footgear to walk on it. I didn't know what age of history we were in nor what the truth of it was. Nobody bothered with that. If you told the truth, that was all well and good and if you told the un-truth, well, that's still well and good. Folk songs taught me that.