Title: Revista Guitar Player Brasil - Lições
Subtitle: Licks de Steve Morse
Artist: Everton Waldman
Album: Revista Guitar Player Brasil, janeiro de 1.998, edição 24
Author: Everton Waldman
Copyright: Revista Guitar Player Brasil, janeiro de 1.998, edição 24
Tabled by: Transcrito para o Guitar Pro 3 em 23/07/2.002
Instructions:
Notices: Fenômeno, Rei do cromatismo. Rei do bom gosto. Rei
das fusões maior-menor. Rei. Rei. Rei. Se todos nós
conseguíssemos a posição de príncipe, já estaríamos
satisfeitos.
Dono de uma palhetada mundialmente invejada,
Steve Morse se destaca com personalidade apurada.
Misturando rock com country, palhetada alternada
com chicken picking, aliado à velocidade, Morse
chega a resultados impressionantes. Não é nada fácil
acompanhá-lo tocando com o disco. Existem músicas
que são, literalmente, impossíveis de tocar. Sem
contar que tem material do Morse de dez anos atrás, e
o homem já era um absurdo.
Pincelei aqui frases de Road Expense (ex. 1), Twings
Approved (exs. 2 e 3), Pride O' The Farm (ex. 4), On
The Pipe (ex. 7) e de um show pirata. Vale a pena se
aprofundar no trabalho deste virtuoso! Um abraço!

Tempo: 120 BPM
Tracks: 1
Instruments:
Bars: 24

Lyric

The pupil is twelve, attractive, withdrawn
In a midnight blue school uniform
Lips just a little too full for her face
Distant eyes full of space
In her posture no trace of coquette
No defiance

She fingers the frets looking forlorn
Crossing her legs where her tights have been torn
Starts as her mother comes into the room
And the afternoon grows still
And her mother feels chill
Shivers and buttons her coat

I gently correct the curve of her back
And open her book in the now-empty flat
At the classical piece I've had her prepare
And her arms are bare as she plays
And I draw back behind her ear
A few strands of hair gone astray

She shows me her bracelet, the lesson is done
I turn it around between finger and thumb
We sit face to face and it seems to me that
Her face is the face of a cat
And touching the place where her breasts will be
I press my hand flat

She comes into my lap, I turn her around
Her hands clasp my neck and her feet skim the ground
Her skirt travels up under my palm
But the pupil sits looking so calm
As if listening to the distant sound
Of a burglar alarm

What happened next it's hard to recall
The guitar lesson left no traces at all
Now, from afar, it seems to resemble
A strange composition in oil
Of a man, a guitar, and an innocent little girl