Thread: "Я русский бы выучил только за то...", что это язык Владимира Высoцкого

В.Высоцкий: новый памятник, Харьков-2013.

Published on Oct 11, 2013



Сколько лет, сколько лет -
Все одно и то же:
Денег нет, женщин нет,
Да и быть не может.

Сколько лет воровал,
Столько лет старался,-
Мне б скопить капитал -
Ну а я спивался.

Ни кола ни двора
И ни рожи с кожей,
И друзей - ни хрена,
Да и быть не может.

Только - водка на троих,
Только - пика с червой,-
Комом - все блины мои,
А не только первый.


1962

Мельница

Баллада о борьбе

"Ну, погоди !"

"Вы возьмите меня в море, моряки..."

Published on Nov 8, 2013 by YurchenkoElena


Клип-шутка. Высоцкий ( 2 куплета песни)

"Всем делам моим на суше вопреки
И назло моим заботам на земле
Вы возьмите меня в море, моряки,
Я все вахты отстою на корабле..."

Товарищи учёные...

Ольга КОРМУХИНА

Я не люблю

Сергей Черепахин «В тот вечер я не пил, не пел»

Здесь лапы у елей дрожат на весу...

На иврите М Голдовский

Вершина

Uploaded on Nov 14, 2011 by otshelniza
Клип на фильм "Вертикальный предел"

Песня о Земле

На итальянском Н Вигильд

Сам я вятский уроженец...

Published on Nov 8, 2013 by rogovanova60

Запись на дому у фотографа Королёва 02 октября - 1970 года.

Сам я вятский уроженец,
Много горького видал,
Всю Россию я объехал,
Даже в Турции бывал.

В Турции народу много,
Много турок, русских нет,
И скажу я вам по чести,
Жил я, словно Магомет.

Много турок околпачил
На дорогах, боже мой,
Кошельков по триста на день
Доставал одной рукой.

Турки думали, гадали,
Но догадаться, видно, не могли,
Собралися всем шаламом,
К шаху с жалобой пошли.

Шах им дал совет хороший:
Чтобы целы кошельки,
Запирайте вы карманы
Да на висячие замки.

Но и тут я не промазал,
Нигде промаха не дал,
Долото достал большое,
Долотом замки сшибал.

Сам я вятский уроженец,
Много горького видал,
Всю Россию я объехал,
Даже в Турции бывал.

"Я все вопросы освещу сполна..."

Published on Nov 1, 2013 by Александр Сухановский


Я все вопросы освещу сполна -
Дам любопытству удовлетворенье!
Да, у меня француженка жена -
Но русского она происхожденья.

Нет, у меня сейчас любовниц нет.
А будут ли? Пока что не намерен.
Не пью примерно около двух лет.
Запью ли вновь? Не знаю, не уверен.

Да нет, живу не возле "Сокола"...
В Париж пока что не проник.
Да что вы все вокруг да около -
Да спрашивайте напрямик!

Я все вопросы освещу сполна -
Как на духу попу в исповедальне!
В блокноты ваши капает слюна -
Вопросы будут, видимо, о спальне...

Да, так и есть! Вот густо покраснел
Интервьюер: "Вы изменяли женам?" -
Как будто за портьеру подсмотрел
Иль под кровать залег с магнитофоном.

Да нет, живу не возле "Сокола"...
В Париж пока что не проник.
Да что вы все вокруг да около -
Да спрашивайте напрямик!

Теперь я к основному перейду.
Один, стоявший скромно в уголочке,
Спросил: "А что имели вы в виду
В такой-то песне и в такой-то строчке?"

Ответ: во мне Эзоп не воскресал,
В кармане фиги нет - не суетитесь,-
А что имел в виду - то написал,-
Вот - вывернул карманы - убедитесь!

Да нет, живу не возле "Сокола"...
В Париж пока что не проник.
Да что вы все вокруг да около -
Да спрашивайте напрямик!

http://www.russkiymir.ru/russkiymir/...ticle0241.html


SERGEI ROY: VYSOTSKY AS WE KNEW HIM
FEB 17, 2012

Sergei Roy

The recently released film “Vysotsky: Thanks for Being Alive” (that’s a literal translation; I’d rather render it as “Thank God He’s Alive”) has produced at least one positive effect: it has started a fresh wave of the Vysotsky craze, even if with obvious commercial consequences. The film is a big box-office hit. Collections of Vysotsky’s songs are swept off the shelves of bookshops as soon as new print-runs come out; ditto for albums of his songs, pirated or not.
TV and radio naturally add their strident voices to the hullabaloo.(1)

The most noticeable positive feature of this commercial success is that it engulfs not just Vysotsky’s contemporaries, men and women on whose lives he left an indelible imprint, but mostly the young. That’s great, you know. It tells us something of the quality of Vysotsky’s work, which survives the toughest test of all, the test of time. It also tells us something of the quality of Russia’s young people who prove receptive to real artistic merit, and that too warms the cockles of aging hearts worried about this land’s precarious future.

Those same old hearts, though, cannot but bleed at the sight of all the commercialization, especially in that damn film. I’ll save all the language I might use about that product; still, I have to say this. Vladimir Vysotsky of the film is a very distant relation of the man and artist we of his generation knew, a colossal figure that loomed vast on the Soviet scene. After all, there was that joke about future historians describing Leonid Brezhnev as a minor politician of the Vysotsky era in Russia’s history.

In the film (script by Vladimir Vysotsky’s son Nikita) he comes across as a hophead who just happens to be a popular singer, an underground star caught in a web of intrigue woven by a couple of slimy KGB colonels, one from Moscow, one from Bokhara, by slimy KGB stooges; by his true friends, treacherous friends, his women, etc.etc. Add to this the story of Vladimir’s paramour who heroically flies out to Uzbekistan with 40 ampoules of morphine to save the drug addict from clinical death but is nearly raped on the way by a slimy taxi driver and is saved in the nick of time by one of those slimy KGB colonels who then proceeds to beat up the slimy driver, and much more in the same vein – add it all up and you get imitation Hollywood that is barely saved by the high professionalism of the actors, especially of the lead – if he is the lead.

Well, that Vysotsky is not the hero of our times, of us his contemporaries. From the mid-1960s to his death in 1980 and beyond, our Vysotsky was above all a figurehead of nonconformism, a politico-moral-aesthetic phenomenon, in fact, without the tiniest smear of commercialism.

What follows is an attempt to show, if only in brief outline, what Vysotsky really was to millions of us in what then was the Soviet Union.

***

In the turbulent years that followed Vysotsky’s death, and soon after the collapse of the Soviet Union, his fame somewhat waned, most likely because people were too busy surviving to care much about singer-songwriters, however great. In the mid 1990s, talking to an American intern at a Russian-English magazine I then ran, I happened to mention Vysotsky’s name in the same breath as that of the Russian rock star Boris Grebenshchikov, of whom she was an ardent fan.

“Who’s this Vladimir Whatsisname?” she innocently asked.I just stared blankly.

To someone of my generation, it was like asking, “Who are these Beatles?” in, say, the mid 1960s. But then I remembered that this wasn’t the 1960s, nor even the 1970s or ‘80s, and replied flippantly:

“Oh, just a Russian Hamlet with a guitar.”

In fact, the answer wasn’t all that flippant – it was the title of a book of Vysotsky’s songs and poems and memoirs devoted to him that I had translated into English and which was published in 1990 for the tenth anniversary of his death.(2)

About his death, now. He died in July 1980, presumably of a heart attack, at the age of forty-two. The only official notice of that event was a tiny announcement in a Moscow evening newspaper, placed there by the Taganka theater company after a great deal of string-pulling. The Soviet officialdom, always less than warmly disposed toward the singer-songwriter, was at that time busy celebrating the Moscow Olympics and didn’t want anything to mar the beauty of that triumph of Soviet sports.

The powers that be ignored Vysotsky in death as they had done their best to ignore him during his lifetime. That stance was stupid to the point of idiocy. The people learned of their idol’s death by a sort of subterranean telegraph, in the same way Vysotsky’s songs had miraculously spread overnight all over this vast, chaotic country – totally without help from radio or TV or the printed media. They learned of it, and they turned out to pay their last respects in their hundreds of thousands or millions – who knows? No one counted the multitudes, everybody was busy grieving. Take away the beautiful organization and the reserve of the British public during Lady Diana’s funeral, add about a sea of spontaneous, crazed emotion, and you’ll get a pale idea of what it was like on that day in July, 1980, at Taganka Square and all the way to Vagankovo Cemetery.

“Flowers hit against the glass of the hearse like clumps of earth. They came flying from every side, thrown by thousands of hands. The car could not start -- not only because the whole square was packed with people, but because the driver could not see the road. The flowers covered the whole of the windshield. It became dark inside. Sitting next to Volodya’s coffin, I felt as if I was being buried alive together with him. The thuds against the glass and the roof of the hearse were endless. The human wall stood solid before the funeral procession. Police cars, with their sirens shrieking, could not clear a path for it. The square and all the streets adjoining it were flooded by a human sea. People stood on roofs of houses, even on the roof of the Underground station—

“ That was how Vadim Tumanov, one of Vysotsky’s close friends and the hero of one of his best songs about life and death in the Stalin labor camps, described the scene.

Another friend, the writer Yuri Trifonov, mused: “How is one to die, after Vysotsky?” And the whole country kept repeating the poet Andrei Voznesensky’s apt phrase about the bard: “a chansonnier of All Russia.” It doesn’t sound quite good in English, as “of All Russia” in the original is in Old Church Slavonic, like part of the title of His Holiness the Patriarch of All Russia. Very blasphemous, I’m sure – but very true. For quite a long time Vladimir Vysotsky was the purest, if quite raucous, expression of the Russian soul and absolutely the most loved person in the whole land.I mean it.

Even the Party bastards he ridiculed in his songs treasured endless kilometers of his tapes. A high official at the Ministry of Culture, one of those who suppressed Vysotsky’s attempts to record his songs at Soviet studios, asked Vladimir for a record of his songs produced in France, but when the singer said no, the culture boss walked to his safe and took out that same record, which he had gotten through his own channels and at great pains. The Party bosses, mercilessly guyed in Vysotsky’s satirical skits, vied with each other trying to lure him to their sumptuous dachas for an evening’s soul-searching in truly Russian style.

As for the people, the whole of the people – intellectuals, working stiffs, homeless wanderers, prison inmates, cosmonauts, geologists, housewives, youngsters, war veterans, literally everybody – they totally identified with him and saw him as an intimate friend, even if they happened to see him once in their lives from afar. Vladimir himself took this adulation with a wry grin.

“So I’m sitting in a corner of this restaurant having lunch,” he once told a few friends. “Now this guy comes to my table – young, good-looking, built like a safe. He looks at me suspiciously, then bingo! He gives me one big bear hug, lifts me in the air, chair and all, practically, and kisses me most warmly: ‘Volodechka, old man, isn’t it great, meeting you like this…’ So we sit down and talk awhile, and then I pluck up enough courage to say, ‘Look, buddy, I can’t remember for the moment, just where was it that we first met?’ The guy is honestly amazed: ‘How could you forget? You came to Kemerovo, right? You gave a concert at the House of Culture, remember?’ ‘Well, yes, I do--.’ ‘So who was it in the third row, next to the aisle? Me, that’s who… I clapped louder than anyone else!…

’”There were untold millions of these fellows who “clapped louder than anyone else” or happened to drop a maudlin tear in their glass of vodka as they listened to the cracked, soul-squeezing voice telling them what they felt to be the real truth about life, the meaning of life and death, and about themselves. I remember a song of Vysotsky’s played on the BBC, and the DJ saying at the end, “What a baritone!” It seemed curiously irrelevant. Sure, the voice was “divine,” as someone remarked, but the main thing was what the voice said to your inmost self, not the tricks of singing.

From the rise of his star in about 1965 to the time of his death and a few years after, Vysotsky remained a sort of underground singer, the voice of the people, totally rejecting the System and the aesthetics of the System, singing of life in this country as it was, not of the lying picture the System made it out to be. All these years Vysotsky was taboo, but, in the schizoid frame of things of those times, a taboo broken even by those who imposed it.

Then, as perestroika came into its own, somewhere around Vysotsky’s fiftieth anniversary in January 1988, the dam burst, and there came a flood of total recognition: articles in practically all papers and magazines – local, regional, and national; TV serials; films; meetings of Vysotsky fan clubs; scholarly conferences; books; festivals; and I don’t know what else – a veritable craze.

It was against that background that I received an offer from Progress Publishers to translate some fifty songs and longer poems of Vysotsky, and also some of his interviews and other materials for the volume I mentioned before. I definitely think I paled at the news. I had by that time translated miles of poetry, mostly mediocre Soviet stuff but also some really worthwhile verse by, say, Anna Akhmatova or Boris Pasternak, to name but two – and still, Vysotsky was something special. In language, style, and content, Vysotsky’s songs were of a piece with Soviet realities of his time, and as such seemed virtually untranslatable into any other linguistic or cultural medium.

Then I took a look at some of the translations of Vysotsky that were then available – sloppy, wretched doggerel that had nothing to do with the bard except the name on top, full of mistranslations of the simplest passages – and decided, What the hell. I at least would know what I would be reaching at, even if it would be like reaching for the moon.

So I packed a few books and tapes and Xeroxed, home-made collections of Vysotsky’s texts (no other kind were then available) and headed for the Caucasus, where I had first heard his songs some twenty years before. There, at the foot of Mount Beshtau, I read a bit about Vysotsky – not much, just enough to learn a few more or less hard facts and not to spoil my own fond picture of what Vysotsky was or should have been if he had been me or I, him. You see, I, too, was a bit like that guy who “clapped louder than anyone else.” By that time, Vysotsky was firmly embedded in the nation’s soul as a myth and a legend, and I wanted to stick to a legend all my own.

The facts on which the legend rested were fairly simple, or rather they were familiar, recognizable, and easily identifiable with events and circumstances of one’s own life.

Born in Moscow in 1938 (just two years my junior), his very first childish memories must have been of war (like my own). His mother tells of a curious episode from 1941, when Germans started bombing Moscow. As a tiny tot, Volodya loved reciting poems, of which he knew quite a few, so whenever they went down to the air-raid shelter, he would climb on a stool or something and recite those poems, loudly and with great expression. On one such occasion a middle-aged gentleman came up to his mother and said, “Thank you for your son,” and kissed her hand. It’s the easiest thing to read a prophetic significance into an episode like that.

While his father fought at the front, his mother took Volodya out of wartime Moscow to the foothills of the Urals. After the war, the boy spent a few years with his father in Germany, then returned to Moscow and lived with his mother again in a tiny cubicle in a communal flat, which he later described in his “The Ballad of Childhood”:Here, everyone lived modestly,

In comfort somewhat dubious:
There was just one amenity –
One loo to forty cubicles.Teeth chattering, we’d curse the frost,
The kids would be too cold to bawl,
And here I learned how much it cost
To make two loose ends meet at all.

At school, he was lucky in his friends – some of the school friendships lasted his whole life. His classmate, the poet Igor Kokhanovsky, recalls that in their final year at school Vladimir and himself developed a serious enthusiasm for literature, particularly for poetry, studying the work of Velimir Khlebnikov, Igor Severyanin, Nikolai Gumilyov, Anna Akhmatova, Marina Tsvetayeva, Boris Pasternak, Sasha Chorny, and others. There’s one feature common to all these authors, despite considerable differences between them – they were all either forbidden or regarded as suspect by the Soviet authorities. So the list attests to at least two things about Vladimir – a clear tendency for nonconformism and excellent literary taste (probably not his own, to start with).

After school and a single term at a Civil Engineering Institute, Vladimir resolutely kicked over the traces, so to speak, and decided to follow a path in life of his own choosing. Over his parents’ protests, he joined the Moscow Art Theater drama school and put his whole heart in learning his profession. Curiously, his first success did not come with the first bit parts in the theater or films but at a Riga restaurant, where he asked the maitre d’s permission to “strum the piano” and sing a bit.

Volodya’s singing at the time was of a rather curious nature: He didn’t know a word of English yet managed to imitate Louis Armstrong, producing an impression of someone singing in English – the sort of English where you couldn’t make out a single word. He did that almost every night during the time he and his friends vacationed in Riga, to the audience’s wild delight.

Apart from these sound-imitations, Volodya sang, in the circle of his friends, a lot of street or “gutter” songs, underworld songs – anything but the official mumbo-jumbo. He wasn’t alone in that. Russia seems to be a unique country in this respect: With millions of innocent people doing time in labor camps under Stalin, and the rest more or less sympathizing with them, prison folklore had an immense impact on the songs sung and poetry composed outside the prisons.

It was therefore more or less natural that, when Vladimir began writing his own songs in the autumn of 1961, they were in this vein. He did the imitations so well that there were thugs who swore they knew people who had done time together with Vysotsky at such and such a camp in Siberia.

It may well be that Vysotsky was simply swimming with the current, doing what his friends liked and encouraged him to do, but in this he also responded to the dimly felt need for nonconformist songs that would replace the nauseatingly cheerful bravura noises coming over the radio what seemed like twenty-four hours a day.

This phase lasted until about 1965. By that time Vysotsky had already graduated from the Art Theater school and found his true career with Lyubimov’s Taganka theater, then newly opened. It soon became a sort of rallying point of the capital’s cultural life, with writers, artists and scientists often gathering there during rehearsals and backstage after performances. Distinctly dissident in flavor, the theater fought an endless war against Soviet officialdom that did its best to emasculate its productions or ban them altogether. No wonder people, especially young people, spent endless hours, sometimes whole nights, in lines, waiting for a chance to get a ticket.

Vysotsky played the title roles in two of the most popular productions, Brecht’s Galileo and Shakespeare’s Hamlet, and also acted in The Fallen and the Living, a play on the theme of the war. For the latter, he wrote a few “war songs,” and these became part of a whole cycle – Vysotsky’s tribute to his father’s generation. Again, he did it so remarkably well that war veterans found it hard to believe that he hadn’t been, say, a fighter pilot during the war. I had never been in a dog fight, either, but I distinctly felt my flesh creep as I translated this:

Spring is here at long last, royal blue is the sky.
I called out, without thinking, most likely:
“Buddy, give us a light!” Not a sound in reply.
He was shot down in yesterday’s fighting.

Vysotsky worked feverishly on his songs, mostly writing at night and sometimes producing a new one every week or so, as if he knew that he wouldn’t have all that much time to pour out in song all that was burning inside him. It wasn’t all deadly serious, though. There was quite a lot of light-hearted, uproarious stuff, especially his so-called fairy-tale songs. Come to think of it, the first Vysotsky song I heard was precisely of this sort, “Song About a Wild Boar,” and that was quite a rounded experience in itself.

That must have been 1968 or thereabouts. I lived down south, in Pyatigorsk, at the time. One day a friend came back from Moscow, all bubbling with enthusiasm about a new singer-songwriter doing absolute wonders with guitar, lyrics, and an incredible, Louis Armstrong-type voice. The guy was supposed to be even better than Okudzhava -- something I flatly refused to believe until the friend performed for my benefit “The Wild Boar.”

The chap had neither voice nor ear, and he even couldn’t remember the words right, but the magnetism of the piece and the songsmith’s skill of handling the words, the intonations, the accents were so easily recognizable that we simply had to go and have a few drinks, congratulating each other and anyone who would listen on the birth of yet another Russian immortal.

The song is all about a terrible monster (“could be aurochs, could be bison, could be boar”) that kept eating “chicken and women,” the king, and “the king’s best shooter, now in disgrace,” living in terrible debauchery:

On the floor lay skins, old buddies and strumpets
Singing songs and drinking mead and what not.
There was suddenly a flourish of trumpets,
And the shooter was dragged straight to the court.

The king bids his disgraced soldier to shoot the monster and promises to give him his daughter the princess for a wife, but the soldier scorns such an offer, insisting that he would “do it for a bucket of port.” So they scream and bawl at each other, but in the end

The shooter got what he ought to,
Shot the monster and skipped off to his place.
Thus he put to shame the king and his daughter –
Once the king’s best shooter, now in disgrace.

There were so many people wanting to put to shame the country’s kingpins of those times, if only in their imagination – no wonder songs like that travelled trough the country like wild fire.

Then there were the films, most notably The Vertical Line, a film about rock-climbers. Here my memory falters a bit: I can’t honestly recall whether I heard Vysotsky’s songs from that cycle at a rock-climbers’ camp (these were always hotbeds of unofficial or rather anti-official art) or at the cinema, but anyway it didn’t matter because the whole country was soon singing “If a chum begins acting rum…” and suchlike stuff, people who’d never been near a mountain, for goodness sake. It somehow didn’t seem fair to rock-climbing folks like myself.

Also about that time there appeared dozens of Vysotsky imitators, some singing his songs almost as well as Vysotsky himself, but none better. And that signalled the beginning of the Vysotsky craze that continued, unabated, for two solid decades. From time to time one heard fantastic stories about the way people expressed their adoration for Vysotsky, but, knowing something of the Russian soul, these stories were only too easy to believe.

In one city where he came for a concert with a group of other actors, the populace, consisting almost entirely of factory workers, could not think of anything better than picking up Vysotsky’s bus and carrying it bodily to the local hotel on their hands.

In another place where Vysotsky came on tour, all the windows in town flew open, and he was treated to a megaconcert of his own songs from thousands of tape-recorders on window-sills.(3)

Somewhere in Siberia, airliner crew and passengers alike refused to take off because Vysotsky was giving a concert in the city stadium, and they just couldn’t miss it, and to hell with flight schedules.

There was the darker side to his life, too: He drank. After his demise, there was talk that he’d drunk himself to death, not without help from some bastards calling themselves his friends who provided the liquor when he was not fit to take a single drop, with his bad heart. If we are to believe his wife, the French actress Marina Vlady (and why shouldn’t we?), toward the end of his life Vladimir was also a morphine addict. This country, though, which may yet be ruined by its drinking habits, found it easiest to forgive its idol this weakness, if weakness it was.

I’ve heard many people explaining that weakness away as a necessary relief from the incredible strain under which Vysotsky wrote and performed his songs, and I found that explanation all too easy to accept. After all, Vladimir did not exactly sing his songs as complacent tenors are prone to do, admiring their own voice. He rather acted them out in the true tradition of the Russian theater. In that tradition, if a character in a play is supposed to have hysterics, you may rest assured that the actress will have authentic, 100 percent genuine hysterics onstage. I’ve seen it, and it was scary.

And Vladimir Vysotsky sang his tragic songs as if he could spill his guts any moment now – the intensity of emotion seemed at times to be beyond the humanly possible. Surely he drank. And surely he knew he would not be able to live much longer at that pitch of intensity. But he found it in him to write a poem about it for his wife, a few days before his death. It ended like this:I’m half my age – a little way past forty.
I’m living thanks to God and you, my wife.

I have a lot to sing to the Almighty.
I have my songs to justify my life.

Sergei Roy
Journalist, writer, translator
www.sergeiroysbooks.de

Notes
1) Earlier versions of this article were previously published in Russian Life magazine, The Best of Russian Life (Vol. 2), both edited by Paul Richardson, and on Johnson's Russia List.

(2) See: Vladimir Vysotsky: Hamlet with a Guitar. Translated from the Russian> by Sergei Roy. Progress Publishers, Moscow, 1990, 422 pp. Price, 2 rubles 80 kopeks. The original Russian title of the book was typically Soviet-idiotic: Vladimir Vysotsky. Chelovek. Poet. Aktyor. (Vladimir Vysotsky. Man. Poet. Actor). I took a bit of liberty with it, as I assumed that anyone interested in Vysotsky (and who wasn't?) knew that he was a Taganka theater actor and his star role there was that of Hamlet in a Yuri Lyubimov production. Apart from the translations, I also wrote a sort of Preface to the volume.

(3) That was the way Vysotsky's songs travelled all over the country in those days, on tapes mostly recorded during his live, semi-official or underground concerts at Academy institutes, plants, factories, "palaces of culture," stadiums, and such. There was not a word breathed then of infringement of the author's rights. Vysotsky was the property of the people, and anything he produced was in the public domain in the best sense of the word. In fact, the phenomenon was a continuation of the tradition of uncensored poetry that existed since at least the early 19th century in myriad spiski, handwritten copies of verse travelling from one person's album to the next. In the Soviet Union, the practice was known as samizdat or self-publishing, typewritten copies of banned works travelling unstoppably from hand to hand. Curiously, the practice continues in this new, materialistic age. Say, my own translations of Vysotsky's songs wander all over the internet, and I am grateful if the poetry buffs so much as mention my name. They are also sung by various groups (as by some Swedish bunch a few years ago, at Taganka), and I have not seen a red cent in royalties, nor am I likely to, and that is right and proper, as I once told Paul Richardson, publisher of the Russian Life magazine where an earlier version of this essay appeared. Actually, I plan to publish my "singable translations," as an American student of Vysotsky's work called them, on a free website run for me by a German friend,

www.sergeiroysbooks.de .

Песня В. Мигули на стихи Андрея Дементьева.
Исполнитель: Мигуля Владимир

Черный лебедь (В. Высоцкому)


Ещё одной звезды не стало, и свет погас.
Возьму упавшую гитару, спою для вас.
Слова грустны, мотив невесел, в одну струну.
Но жизнь, расставшуюся с песней, я помяну.

Припев:
И снова слышен хриплый голос, он в нас поёт.
Немало судеб укололось о голос тот.
И над душой, что в синем небе, невластна смерть.
Ах, чёрный лебедь, хриплый лебедь, мне так не спеть.

Восходят ленты к нам и снимки, грустит мотив
На чёрном озере пластинки, вновь лебедь жив.
Слова грустны мотив невесел, в одну струну.
Но жизнь, расставшуюся с песней, я помяну.

Припев:
И снова слышен хриплый голос, он в нас поёт.
Немало судеб укололось о голос тот.
И над душой, что в синем небе, невластна смерть.
Ах, чёрный лебедь, хриплый лебедь, мне так не спеть.


Припев:
И снова слышен хриплый голос, он в нас поёт.
Немало судеб укололось о голос тот.
И над душой, что в синем небе, невластна смерть.
Ах, чёрный лебедь, хриплый лебедь, мне так не спеть.


И снова слышен хриплый голос, грустит мотив
На чёрном озере пластинки, вновь лебедь жив
Лебедь жив, лебедь жив, лебедь жив….!!!

ПРЕРВАННЫЙ ПОЛЁТ

Рыбин и Королёва - Диалог в цирке 1998

За меня невеста отрыдает честно...


Published on Dec 4, 2013 by rogovanova60


Итальянское радио запись 9 июля 1979 года.
В клипе были использованы, видео и фото от 25.07. 2013 г.
Присутствовали : Маня Райнова, Татьяна Гурджиан, Маританна Шидукова, Александр Рябчий, Наталия Рогованова и другие.


За меня невеста отрыдает честно,
За меня ребята отдадут долги,
За меня другие отпоют все песни,
И, быть может, выпьют за меня враги.

Не дают мне больше интересных книжек,
И моя гитара - без струны,
И нельзя мне выше, и нельзя мне ниже,
И нельзя мне солнца, и нельзя луны.

Мне нельзя на волю - не имею права,
Можно лишь от двери - до стены,
Мне нельзя налево, мне нельзя направо,
Можно только неба кусок, можно только сны.

Сны про то, как выйду, как замок мой снимут,
Как мою гитару отдадут.
Кто меня там встретит, как меня обнимут
И какие песни мне споют?


1963

Проект музыкального светодинамического фонтана "Высоцкий"

Может быть выпив поллитру...



Published on Nov 21, 2013 by rogovanova60


Запись на дому у Льва Делюсина - 30 сентября 1969 г.

ПРО ЛЮБОВЬ В ЭПОХУ ВОЗРОЖДЕНИЯ

Может быть, выпив поллитру,
Некий художник от бед
Встретил чужую палитру
И посторонний мольберт.

Дело теперь за немногим -
Нужно натуры живой,-
Глядь - симпатичные ноги
С гордой идут головой.

Он подбегает к Венере:
"Знаешь ли ты, говорят -
Данте к своей Алигьери
Запросто шастает в ад!

Ада с тобой нам не надо -
Холодно в царстве теней...
Кличут меня Леонардо.
Так раздевайся скорей!

Я тебя - даже нагую -
Действием не оскорблю,-
Дай я тебя нарисую
Или из глины слеплю!"

Но отвечала сестричка:
"Как же вам не ай-яй-яй!
Честная я католичка -
И не согласная я!

Вот испохабились нынче -
Так и таскают в постель!
Ишь - Леонардо да Винчи -
Тоже какой Рафаэль!

Я не привыкла без чувства -
Не соглашуся ни в жисть!
Мало что ты - для искусства,-
Сперва давай-ка женись!

Там и разденемся в спальной -
Как у людей повелось...
Мало что ты - гениальный! -
Мы не глупее небось!"

"Так у меня ж - вдохновенье, -
Можно сказать, что экстаз!" -
Крикнул художник в волненье...
Свадьбу сыграли на раз.

...Женщину с самого низа
Встретил я раз в темноте, -
Это была Монна Лиза -
В точности как на холсте.

Бывшим подругам в Сорренто
Хвасталась эта змея:
"Ловко я интеллигента
Заполучила в мужья!.."

Вкалывал он больше года -
Весь этот длительный срок
Все ухмылялась Джоконда:
Мол, дурачок, дурачок!

...В песне разгадка дается
Тайны улыбки, а в ней -
Женское племя смеется
Над простодушьем мужей!


1969г.
Портрет Микеланджело Буаноротти.

Uploaded on Jan 30, 2011
Домашняя запись у М.Дубровина. Москва, май 1965,

Твердил он нам: "Моя она!",
"Да ты смеешься, друг, да ты смеешься!
Уйди, пацан,- ты очень пьян,-
А то нарвешься, друг, гляди, нарвешься!"

А он кричал: "Теперь мне все одно!
Садись в такси - поехали кататься!
Пусть счетчик щелкает, пусть,- все равно
В конце пути придется рассчитаться".

Не жалко мне таких парней.
"Ты от греха уйди!" - твержу я снова,
А он - ко мне, и все - о ней...
"А ну - ни слова, ГАД, гляди, ни слова!"

Ударила в виски мне кровь с вином -
И, так же продолжая улыбаться,
Ему сказал я тихо: "Все равно
В конце пути придется рассчитаться!"

К слезам я глух и к просьбам глух -
В охоту драка мне, ох, как в охоту!
И хочешь, друг, не хочешь, друг,-
Плати по счету, друг, плати по счету!..

А жизнь мелькает, как в немом кино,-
Мне хорошо, мне хочется смеяться,-
А счетчик - щелк да щелк,- да все равно
В конце пути придется рассчитаться...

1964.





https://www.facebook.com/notes/vysot...82909331734011

Заметки о песнях Высоцкого: "Счетчик"

November 10, 2013 at 4:36pm

Счетчик Щелкает («Твердил он нам...»)


Написана в 1964 году. Первая сохранившаяся запись – 1965 год, у Л. Кочаряна. Тоже исполнялась только в небольших компаниях, за исключением концерта в ИВМС АН СССР в 1965 году. Поначалу Высоцкий её очень любил и часто играл, но потом она уступила место новым работам и в 70е годы прозвучала только дважды: в 1973 году дома у Высоцкого для коллекции К. Мустафиди и в 1978 году в Париже у М. Шемякина. Как сам Высоцкий говорил со сцены в 1971 году:

Были у меня какие-то вольные песни, шутливые песни, пародийные, лет десять тому назад. Так называемые "блатные" песни. Я их уже не помню.


Многие блатные песни поэт потом благополучно вспомнил и записал в относительно хороших условиях.

«Счетчик» представляет собой скетч ситуации, похожей на описанную в «Тот Кто Раньше с Нею Был»: спор из-за бабы, на этот раз происходящий в такси. Ревнует уже сам рассказчик, причём не к незнакомцу, а к своему приятелю, с которым он вместе катается в такси. Оба пьяны. Поначалу приятель не подозревает ничего дурного и лишь хвастается своей победой, пока у героя в душе нарастает злоба. Потом наступает момент прозрения: герой шепотом угрожает приятелю, и тот понимает, что влип. Причем он скорее всего слабее героя и осознает это. Но герой «к слезам и просьбам глух», рвётся в драку, и хорошо, если дело не закончится трагедией (скорее всего дружки разнимут). Счетчик такси в данном случае становится символом истекающего терпения героя.

На мой взгляд, это одна из лучших песен блатного цикла Высоцкого. В отличие от «Тот Кто Раньше» и многих других, она не столько описывает происходящее действие, сколько чувства рассказчика, причем в крайне сжатых, рубленых фразах. Слушателю предлагается обо всем догадаться самому, что, хоть и нетрудно, но все же нехарактерно для «шансонного» жанра. Это роднит «Счетчик» с более поздней песней «Рядовой Борисов» (1969). В обеих песнях главный герой – несимпатичный, ревнивый, без стеснения пускающий в ход кулаки, нож, а то и огнестрельное оружие, и не испытывающий никаких угрызений совести («Мне хорошо, мне хочется смеяться» и «Я долг свой выполнял»). Предмет ревности упоминается мимоходом. В «Борисове» она появляется в одной фразе: «оставь ее», в «Счетчике» – в двух: «моя она» и «а он ко мне, и все – о ней». В «Борисове» песня разбавлена некоторым словоблудием рассказчика («Был дождь, туман, по небу плыли тучи») до пяти куплетов, в то время как «Счетчик» предельно сжат.

Ударными в песне являются две последние строчки припева: «Пусть счетчик щелкает, да все равно – в конце пути придется рассчитаться». Тема «возмездия в конце пути» – нередкий гость в блатных песнях Высоцкого, причем речь не обязательно идет о возмездии человеческом. С одной стороны: «мне до боли, до кома в горле нужно встретить того попутчика», «я попрошу, когда придет расплата», и вышеупомянутая «того кто раньше с нею был, я повстречаю». С другой стороны, песни с определенным философским подтекстом: «в конце пути придется рассчитаться», «вот такая смерть шальная всех нас ждет потом», «все ерунда, кроме суда, самого страшного», и, уже в следующем песенном цикле, «в конце дороги той – плаха с топорами». Верил ли он в догмат «каждому воздастся по заслугам»? Вряд ли, особенно на первом этапе своего творчества, но возмездие – любимая тема остросюжетных книг и фильмов, и остросюжетные песни Высоцкого конечно же не могли не опираться на нее.

К счастью, в английском идиомы «рассчитаться» и «в конце пути» (т.е. «в конце концов») означают то же самое что и в русском: “to pay up” означает «расплатиться» (деньгами и не только), и “when the ride is over” может трактоваться как «в конце маршрута», так и «рано или поздно». Иногда в живом исполнении я пою “we will get even when the ride is over”: «в конце пути мы поквитаемся». Эта фраза мне пришла в голову уже после записи этой песни, и я до сих пор не уверен, какой вариант лучше. Другой яркий момент – фраза «И хочешь, друг, не хочешь, друг, плати по счету, друг! Плати по счету!»

В третьем куплете перевода присутствует чистая «отсебятина» в виде фразы “I’m feeling high, I can’t get any lower”, который я поставил на место фразы «Мне хорошо, мне хочется смеяться». Обратный вольный перевод означает что-то вроде: «мне кайфово, и я опускаюсь ниже некуда». Парадокс, основанный на противопоставлении слов high («кайфовать» и «высоко») и low («низко»), на мой взгляд, удачен, вполне в духе песни, и подчеркивает неприглядность скорого поступка рассказчика. Иногда самый близкий перевод имеет право на подобные добавки.

В английской культуре существует особый... даже не жанр, а тип песен: “character songs”, «ролевые» песни. Этот стиль описывает большую часть песен Высоцкого: его «ролевые» песни, песни, в которых он надевал на себя маску персонажа и с блеском отыгрывал эту роль. Именно актерский гений позволил ему достичь высочайшей степени достоверности в своих песнях, больше чем сами тексты песен. Перевод и исполнение «ролевых» песен Высоцкого на английском требуют нахождения аналогичных персонажей в английской культуре или же отсылок к моментам русской культуры, которые могут быть известны англоговорящим слушателям. Персонажи песен «Тот Кто Раньше» и «Счетчик» довольно универсальны и встречаются в любой культуре. Сами тексты этих произведений не требуют особой культурной адаптации. Главное в них – простой разговорный язык. Например в переводе «Счетчика» я часто использую слово-паразит “man”, непременный гость любой непритязательной речи («чувак»). При исполнении же этих песен, да еще с моим русским акцентом, они сразу превращаются в объект мира русской иммиграции в США. Отзыв одного американца: «При прослушивании этих двух песен, сразу представляешь англоязычную городскую среду, в которой русский иммигрант рассказывает о пьяной ссоре в баре на Брайтон Бич» (повторяю: речь идет о блатных песнях). Так персонажи Высоцкого обретают новую жизнь в английской культуре, пусть и родственную старой.

«Счетчик» был записан на трех акустических гитарах. Две из них принадлежали Антону Карнауху, певцу и гитаристу, постоянному участнику американских КСП. Антон взял на себя всю аранжировку и подошел к этой песне с большой аккуратностью и тактом. Песня была тепло принята публикой и до сих пор является активным номером моего репертуара.




ПЕРЕВОД и ИСПОЛНЕНИЕ: Translations of Vladimir Vysotsky
_________________________________

The Cab Meter

"Счетчик Щелкает" (1964) Music & lyrics: Vladimir Vysotsky Translation: Vadim Astrakhan Arrangements & Production: Anton Karnaukh Additional production: Vadim Astrakhan & Polina Goudieva Vocals & acoustic guitar: Vadim Astrakhan Acoustic guitar: Anton Karnaukh Mix: Anton Karnaukh This is slightly atypical for the genre of "blatnaya" song (also sometimes refered to as "urban romance" or, lately, "Russian chanson"). This genre of criminal, or near-criminal, street tales (not unlike gangster rap, but performed on a single acoustic guitar) is enormously popular in Russia. The songs are usually very simple and to the point, but "The Cab Meter" is less direct and may take several listens to fully comprehend. For the longest time I was unsure about the arrangements, but one happy day Anton Karnaukh sent me a file with complete multi-guitar arrangement, which I immediately loved. He also mixed it. Kudos to him for the excellent job that he did. THE CAB METER He told me: “Fine. But she is mine! ”You just don’t get it, man. You just don’t get it! Just let it go. You’re drunk, you know, Or you’ll regret it, man. You will regret it! But he just yelled: “It’s all the same today! Let’s catch a cab, the night is getting colder. The meter’s ticking, but it’s OK. We’re gonna pay up when the ride is over.” I have no pity for this sort of men. “Don’t push me, man, let go of that story!” But he just talks and talks of her again! Oh, you’ll be sorry, man. You will be sorry! My blood then started boiling in my veins. Sometimes it does that, when I’m not quite sober. I told him quietly: “You know: it’s OK. You have to pay up when the ride is over!” It’s gonna end. Tonight it’s gonna end! I want to fight, I’m full of pure hatred! You want it, friend? Or you don’t, friend? You’re gonna pay for it, you’re gonna pay, friend! The life is shining in the windows of the cab… I’m feeling high, I can’t get any lower! The meter’s ticking, ticking, ticking, but it’s OK. You’ll have to pay up when the ride is over! LISTEN