The Legendary Russian Singer Vladimir Vysotsky
A Legendary Russian Singer, Vladimir Vysotsky, was Woody Guthrie, Johnny Cash, Bob Dylan and Tom Waits Combined in one Person.
His songs, whimsical and witty, merged, rather seamlessly, social and political protest with satire and patriotism.
Provincial Brezhnev regime, could not handle him as it could not handle anything that was slightly unusual, not fitting the mold of an obedient slave that it cultivated and enforced.
Some of his songs were allowed officially, but many were transmitted through so called, magnitizdat: self-publishing through tapes. People just copied the tapes of his concerts performed at the margins of the empire.
Below is my translation of one of his political songs, that I find eerie reminiscent of the current cultural scene in the west. It is a song of microphone that got tired transmitting lies, which various bullshitters pour into it. If instead of a microphone, you imagine modern media and journalism, you'll see why this song, written in Russia sometime in 1970s, is so current. The link to the performance is in the comments.
I am deaf from the sound of clapping,
I am blinded by the singers’ smiles.
For years I’ve been putting up with symphonies,
Or humored the birds imitators.
It is through me, as through the purifier,
The sound would enter your souls,
Wait: here he is, whom I need,
For whom I tolerate all this pain.
(Refrain): How many times they would whisper about the moon,
Someone had cheerfully screamed about silence,
One was playing on a saw, as if cutting off my neck,
Yet, I kept on amplifying, and amplifying.
So he sings, all tense from an effort,
He is tired, as a soldier in training,
While I, stretch my rubbery neck
Toward his face all covered in sweat.
And suddenly, I: Hey, man, wake up
You are tired, just take a breather.
These molasses, these sweet poison.
Audience, please tell him to stop.
How many times they would whisper about the moon,
Someone had cheerfully screamed about silence,
One was playing on a saw, as if cutting off my neck,
Yet, I kept on amplifying, and amplifying.
All in vain, there are no miracles,
I am shaking, I am barely standing,
Yet, he keeps on pouring his poison,
Into my microphone throat, as if was a drink.
You can blame me for anything,
But one can’t go against oneself.
By my profession I am amplifier,
So I suffered, yet kept on amplifying lies.
Refrain.
Still, I began to groan, and the speakers began to howl,
So he grabbed my throat with his hand,
They turned me off the cartridge, and killed me.
And replaced me with another one.
That other one, it will put up with everything,
So they screwed it upon my neck:
We are always replaced by others,
When we begin resisting lies.
After the concert, we were all stored together,
Me, the cartridge, and another mike.
And they told me, laughingly, how happy the singer got,
When finally they replaced me.
Я оглох от ударов ладоней,
Я ослеп от улыбок певиц,
Сколько лет я страдал от симфоний,
Потакал подражателям птиц!
Сквозь меня, многократно просеясь,
Чистый звук в ваши души летел.
Стоп! Вот тот, на кого я надеюсь.
Для кого я все муки стерпел.
Сколько раз в меня шептали про луну,
Кто-то весело орал про тишину,
На пиле один играл, шею спиливал,
А я усиливал, усиливал, усиливал!...
Он поет задыхаясь, с натугой,
Он устал, как солдат на плацу.
Я тянусь своей шеей упругой
К золотому от пота лицу.
Только вдруг... Человече, опомнись,
Что поешь, отдохни, ты устал!
Эта патока, сладкая горечь
Зал, скажи, чтобы он перестал.
Сколько раз в меня шептали про луну,
Кто-то весело орал про тишину,
На пиле один играл, шею спиливал,
А я усиливал, усиливал, усиливал!...
Все напрасно, чудес не бывает,
Я качаюсь, я еле стою.
Он бальзамом мне горечь вливает
В микрофонную глотку мою.
В чем угодно меня обвините,
Только против себя не пойдешь.
По профессии я - усилитель.
Я страдал, но усиливал ложь.
Сколько раз в меня шептали про луну,
Кто-то весело орал про тишину,
На пиле один играл, шею спиливал,
А я усиливал, усиливал, усиливал!...
Застонал я, динамики взвыли,
Он сдавил мое горло рукой.
Отвернули меня, умертвили,
Заменили меня на другой.
Тот, другой, он все стерпит и примет.
Он навинчен на шею мою.
Нас всегда заменяют другими,
Чтобы мы не мешали вранью.
Мы в чехле очень тесно лежали:
Я, штатив и другой микрофон,
И они мне, смеясь рассказали,
Как он рад был, что я заменен.
