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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aCASEsxUwPA
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XAyzV9LpI_k
http://youtube.com/watch?v=nT0LPT2O-qA
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YURbvZJX5dM
http://bard.ru/cgi-bin/mp3.cgi?id=418.19
http://bard.ru/cgi-bin/mp3.cgi?id=980.03
http://bard.ru/cgi-bin/mp3.cgi?id=1061.15
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http://bard.ru/cgi-bin/mp3.cgi?id=1348.14
http://bard.ru/cgi-bin/mp3.cgi?id=1674.33
http://vv.nexus.org/vv/15/vv15_03.mp3
http://vv.nexus.org/vv/18/vv18_10.mp3
http://kulichki.com/vv/audio/ram/ya-ves-v-svetu.ram
http://vysotsky.russian.ru/songs/m3u.php?play=71031
Песня у микрофона
Я весь в свету, доступен всем глазам,-
Я приступил к привычной процедуре:
Я к микрофону встал как к образам...
Нет-нет, сегодня - точно к амбразуре.
И микрофону я не по нутру -
Да, голос мой любому опостылит,-
Уверен, если где-то я совру -
Он ложь мою безжалостно усилит.
Бьют лучи от рампы мне под ребра,
Светят фонари в лицо недобро,
И слепят с боков прожектора,
И - жара!.. Жара!.. Жара!
Он, бестия, потоньше острия -
Слух безотказен, слышит фальшь до йоты.
Ему плевать, что не в ударе я,-
Но пусть! Я верно выпеваю ноты!
Сегодня я особенно хриплю,
Но изменить тональность не рискую,-
Ведь если я душою покривлю -
Он ни за что не выправит кривую.
Бьют лучи от рампы мне под ребра,
Светят фонари в лицо недобро,
И слепят с боков прожектора,
И - жара!.. Жара!.. Жара!
На шее гибкой этот микрофон
Своей змеиной головою вертит.
Лишь только замолчу - ужалит он,-
Я должен петь - до одури, до смерти.
Не шевелись, не двигайся, не смей!
Я видел жало - ты змея, я знаю!
И я сегодня - заклинатель змей:
Я не пою - я кобру заклинаю!
Бьют лучи от рампы мне под рёбра,
Светят фонари в лицо недобро,
И слепят с боков прожектора,
И - жара!.. Жара!.. Жара!
Прожорлив он, и с жадностью птенца
Он изо рта выхватывает звуки,
Он в лоб мне влепит девять грамм свинца,-
Рук не поднять - гитара вяжет руки!
Опять! Не будет этому конца!
Что есть мой микрофон - кто мне ответит?
Теперь он - как лампада у лица,
Но я не свят, и микрофон не светит.
Мелодии мои попроще гамм,
Но лишь сбиваюсь с искреннего тона -
Мне сразу больно хлещет по щекам
Недвижимая тень от микрофона.
Бьют лучи от рампы мне под рёбра,
Светят фонари в лицо недобро,
И слепят с боков прожектора,
И - жара!.. Жара!.. Жара!
--------------------------------------------
Translation by Ilya Shambat
I'm in the light, open to every eye -
I do as I do often; like an icon
I come up to a microphone; today
It's more like I'm approaching a cannon.
And I will not rub against the microphone
Yes, my voice is loathsome to any
Yes, I know, if a lie comes on
It will augment it surely without pity.
Rays beneath the lamp on ribs do beat me
Lamps shimmer into the face unkindly
And projectors blind from every side
And the heat! The heat! Is blind!
Today I rant again without control,
But in the tone I don't risk making change -
For if I make a turn inside the soul
It will correct the curve with rage.
The beast, than a blade it is more thin -
The flawless hearing, it hears lies till the iota -
It does not care that in beat I don't fit in
But that I more completely sing the notes!
Rays beneath the lamp on ribs do beat me
Lamps shimmer into the face unkindly
And projectors blind from every side
And the heat! The heat! Is blind!
Upon the supple neck this microphone
Is rolling with its snake head;
If I get silent - it will sting
I have to sing - till stupor, till the end.
Don't move, don't touch, don't dare!
I saw the sting - you are a snake, I know!
And I am like a charmer of a snake
I do not sing, I'm putting spell upon a cobra!
Rays beneath the lamp on ribs do beat me
Lamps shimmer into the face unkindly
And projectors blind from every side
And the heat! The heat! Is blind!
It wants to eat, and with a birdling's greed
It takes the sounds out of the mouth,
In forehead it will put nine grams of lead
I won't raise the hands - the guitar binds them!
Again it will not reach the end!
What is this microphone - who will respond!
Today it is like lamp against the face,
But I'm not holy, and there's no light from the microphone.
My melodies are simpler than the scales
But barely beating from a sure tone -
I am sickly beaten on the face
By an immobile shade of microphone
Rays beneath the lamp on ribs do beat me
Lamps shimmer into the face unkindly
And projectors blind from every side
And the heat! The heat! Is blind!
______________________________________
A Singer at the Microphone
I’m bathed in light, before the crowd, alone;
I’m here to give my darling public pleasure.
It’s like an icon-stand, this microphone...
But - no! Tonight, it’s more like an embrasure.
This microphone seems to dislike, my voice -
Indeed, there’s quite a few who find it trying,
I’m sure if I make one, just one false noise -
It’ll mercilessly amplify my lying.
Footlights beat me fiercely from below,
In the darkness, evil lanterns glow.
Spotlights blind me - I am in a spot -
And it’s hot! It’s hot! It’s hot! It’s hot!
Tonight my voice sounds more than ever hoarse,
But I can’t change the key - I do not dare,
I know that if I slip, if I sound false,
The mike will not put right my slightest error.
The beast is like a well-honed razor sharp.
Pitch absolute - it hears the least false quarter.
I’m not in voice - it does not give a crap:
I am onstage, I must sing as I ought to!
Footlights beat me fiercely from below.
In the darkness, evil lanterns glow,
Spotlights blind me - I am in a spot -
And it’s hot! It’s hot! It’s hot! It’s hot!
The snakehead writhes, keeping time with my song,
It’s rearing like a cobra before stinging.
The moment I fall silent, I am gone -
Till I drop dead, I’ll have to go on singing.
Don’t stir, don’t move, you snake, do not you dare!
I’ve seen your tongue - you are a deadly viper!
Me, I’m a charmer, I do not sing airs.
I’m charming snakes - a latterday Pied Piper!
Footlights beat me fiercely from below,
In the darkness, evil lanterns glow,
Spotlights blind me - I am in a spot -
And it’s hot! It’s hot! It’s hot! It’s hot!
It’s greedy like a nestling, it will strain
To snatch voraciously at every sound.
It’s sure to put a bullet through my brain:
My hands hold the guitar, my hands are bound!
Again!.. There is no end to this disgrace!
To what can I the microphone liken?
It’s like an icon-lamp now near my face,
But I am not a saint - and it’s no icon!
My melodies are simpler than the scales,
But if I wander from the truthful tone,
I get a stinging smart slap in the face
From that slick shadow of the microphone!
Footlights beat me fiercely from below,
In the darkness, evil lanterns glow.
Spotlights blind me - I am in a spot -
And it’s hot! It’s hot!
© Sergei Roy. Translation, 1990
_________________________________
A singer in front of the microphone
I’m on the stage - this brightly lighted space,
To start to sing on it myself I’m bracing;
A mike is like an icon that I face,
But no! It is a cannon that I’m facing!
This mike and I - we hardly get along,
It doesn’t like my singing, no wonder!
If in the song I slip or go wrong,
This microphone will amplify my blunder!
Blinding lamps around the stage are flashing,
At my ribs their beams are lashing, lashing,
And the footlights piercing my feet -
And the heat... the heat... the heat...
Today my voice is very gruff and hoarse
But I can’t change the key, whatsoever...
If what I sing is insincere and false -
The mike will not correct my failed endeavor!
This bloody mike is sensitive like hell,
It hears even when I’m erring slightly,
It cares not that I’m tonight unwell -
I have to sing these hellish notes rightly!
Blinding lamps around the stage are flashing,
At my ribs their beams are lashing, lashing,
And the footlights piercing my feet -
And the heat... the heat... the heat...
Its snake-like head is turning left and right,
Its pliant neck before my mouth tenses,
And if I stop my singing it can bite! -
I have to sing until I lose my senses!
It’s not a mike - I saw its deadly sting,
It is a snake, its moves are so alarming;
I have to sing but - no! - I can’t sing!
Instead, a cobra on the stage I’m charming!
Blinding lamps around the stage are flashing,
At my ribs their beams are lashing, lashing,
And the footlights piercing my feet -
And the heat... the heat... the heat...
This mike’s a chick whose hunger’s never gone,
From me it snatches sounds, a starving bully,
Perhaps, it’s not a chick but it’s a gun -
From it one day, I guess, I’ll catch a bullet!
Again I stand against this little scamp,
What is my mike? Who can explain the matter?
It’s burning now as an icon-lamp,
Though I’m no saint - the mike is no better!
Blinding lamps around the stage are flashing,
At my ribs their beams are lashing, lashing,
And the footlights piercing my feet -
And the heat... the heat... the heat...
My melodies are simple, but in case
I start to lie or lose my honest tone,
A shadow will slap me in the face -
A long thin shadow of a silent microphone.
Blinding lamps around the stage are flashing,
At my ribs their beams are lashing, lashing,
And the footlights piercing my feet -
And the heat... the heat... the heat...
© George Tokarev. Translation, 2001
Edited by Robert Titterton
______________________________________
Before the mike
I’m all in light and open to all eyes,
I’m setting to the regular procedure -
Before the mike as if the icons wise ...
But not, today more likely - the besieger.
The microphone’s not over fond of me -
To my voice anyone can grow hateful, -
When off the truth I can somewhere be
It amplifies my lies to them made full.
Shoots the tracing lighting with a blind ray,
Lamping up my face in an unkind way,
On two sides projectors dazzling beat,
And - the heat!.. the heat!.. the heat!
Today extremely hoarse I have to wheeze,
To change the tone, however, wouldn’t dare, -
You know, if I once my conscience twist -
It won’t straighten up the curve, for fair.
Much keener than a knife, a crafty rogue, -
A perfect pitch, can hear false iota, -
It doesn’t care I’ve lost my stroke, -
But should correct be singing out note!
Shoots the tracing lighting with a blind ray,
Lamping up my face in an unkind way,
On two sides projectors dazzling beat,
And - the heat!.. the heat!.. the heat!
This microphone on the adapting neck
Can listen to my uttering and bless it -
As soon as fall I silent - biting back, -
I have to sing to torpor, to a death fit.
Stop wavering, manoeuvring you, damn!
I saw a sting - you are a snake, I know!
A cobra-charmer certainly I am:
I don’t sing - with charms a snake endow!
Shoots the tracing lighting with a blind ray,
Lamping up my face in an unkind way,
On two sides projectors dazzling beat,
And - the heat!.. the heat!.. the heat!
A nestling like, insatiate enough
It hangs around pecking out a sound,
Will put in me nine grams of leaden stuff, -
Arms can’t be raised - with a guitar they’re bound!
The situation lasting over days!
What is my mike? - I’d like my mind to brighten,
An icon-lamp it is before my face, -
Not holy I’m, the mike can neither lighten.
Shoots the tracing lighting with a blind ray,
Lamping up my face in an unkind way,
On two sides projectors dazzling beat,
And - the heat!.. the heat!.. the heat!
My melodies are simpler than a scale,
But whenever I lose a candid tone -
My cheeks slapping badly doesn’t fail
A shadow immobile ’f microphone.
Shoots the tracing lighting with a blind ray,
Lamping up my face in an unkind way,
On two sides projectors dazzling beat,
And - the heat!.. the heat!.. the heat!
© Natalie Golightly. Translation, 2000
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