RUSSIAN BARDS
The voice and guitar is mightier than the sword.

by George Selinsky

From the earliest years of the USSR, all art and literature was under control of a strict state censorship: publishers, television, radio, and record companies were state owned. Only those materials that conformed politically to the communist party's current orientation were sanctioned for public consumption. The first to fight against state censorship were writers such as Alexander Solzhenitsin, who's novels about life in Soviet concentration camps were secretly distributed between readers via samizdat, or "self publication". Readers would create duplicates using various home brewed duplication methods and in some cases, manually rewriting the novel by hand. The process was very risky, possessing a samizdat copy of "Gulag Arhipelago" could give you a first hand experience of the same.

When Nikita Khrushchev came to power and denounced Stalin at the 20th conference of the communist party, there was an ottepel', or warming up period, where the censorship became slightly more liberal. This, coupled with the proliferation of affordable audio tape recorders, gave birth to a new form of art called the bardovskaya or avtorskaya pesnya.

"Bard songs" are performed by one singer accompanying himself alone on a guitar, and usually it is he or she wrote the song (hence the name avtorskaya pesnya or "author's song"). The songs are focused primarily on the lyrics, chord progressions tend to be very simple and similar from song to song, without instrumental solos.

At the same time as rock and roll was being used by some as a medium for promoting sociopolitical liberalism in America and western Europe, bard songs became the Russian's rebellion against communism and its hypocrisy. Russian bards used snappy poetry, a sharp sense of humor, and double meanings in order to give their audience a chance to laugh at Soviet society and secretly vent their frustrations at a system that didn't permit criticism. Bard songs covered a wide variety of subjects, from the life of outlaws to life on the front, romance, nature, and day to day life.

Performances of bard songs had an intimate character to them, the bards would consider their performances as "conversations" with the audience, as Vysotski said once to his audience: ".. it's a manner of me talking to people, and just as for me people are necessary, perhaps more than I am for you, because I have a chance to share with such a large amount of people those things that worry and disturb me at the moment, and not everyone is given such a chance, I'm lucky that way...for you, I'm convinced that not just the effect but the ideas behind these things come across much stronger this way [when performing live - ed.] than when you listen to records"

The Soviet government didn't approve of bard music. Even those many songs that didn't carry any discernible double meanings were a challenge to the false cheeriness of Soviet propaganda, bringing forward criticism and a sense of independence. As a result, bard songs made their way around Russia via magnitizdat: tapes of live recordings made in small clubs or private homes would be passed around and listeners would make their own copies. The system worked very quickly, in one noted instance a tape released in one city made it over several time zones and back in under 3 months.

The quality of a magnitizdat tape sounds degraded due to the repeated copying, but this didn't bother the fans (it also pays to note that for technical reasons, voice and acoustic guitar do not suffer such a dramatic lowering of quality during repeated copying as compared to other musical instruments and sounds). Possessing a magnitizdat tape could land you into trouble, although the Soviet government under Khrushchev didn't launch any massive repression campaigns to wipe out the magnitizdat and bard music.People played these tapes in the company of friends, often sitting late at night around a kitchen table and drinking tea or something stronger. Many would buy themselves guitars and start learning bard songs by heart, performing them everywhere - at parties, on hiking trips, in army barracks.

Writing and performing bard songs was purely a labor of love, and in some cases an act of high risk. Rarely would bards ever profit from their public performances. Due to the nature of the magnitizdat, they wouldn't make any income from 'recording royalties', unlike other recording artists. Consequently, there was never any pressure for bards to write 'commercial' music. Having already placed themselves in disfavor of the Soviet sanctioned art, their main criteria of judgement and reward was how quickly and widely their songs became known and sung by the public.

Realizing that bard music was outside of its control, the Soviet government tried to embrace the "author's song" movement. Contests for "author's songs" were held, and several recordings were released, nonetheless there would always be a pressure to produce upbeat lyrical songs instead of songs that depicted the often unpleasant realities of daily Soviet life.

Since the late 50's, there have been many bards in Russia and other Soviet/eastern-block countries. However, there are three pioneers that deserve note. Two of these three pioneers had a background in theater and film, and only one of them was ethnically a Russian.

Bulat Okudzhava
(1924-1997)

A Georgian-Armenian, Bulat Okudzhava was the child of two ideologically dedicated communists. His father was executed during the great purge of 1937, falsely accused of being a German spy. That same year his mother got an 18 year labor camp sentence.

Okudzhava served in the Red Army during the second world war. Upon returning from the front he was no longer permitted to live in Moscow in his apartment on the Arbat, as he was considered the son of 'enemies of the people'. Okudzhava became a teacher, then began working for a poetry journal. When Khrushchev condemned the crimes of Stalin, Okudzhava joined the communist party to support Khrushchev's ottepel' but was soon frustrated that in spite of the warming period, much remained the same.

Okudzhava began writing lyrics and setting them to music, even though he had no formal musical training and knew only three simple guitar chords. He began performing for small groups of friends who would record his performances and pass them into the magnitizdat. Soon afterwards, he began performing publicly. At his first public performance in Leningrad (now St. Petersburg) he was received poorly by the public, which had never previously encountered such personal music. Okudzhava was also subject to mass derision from guitarists, composers, and singers alike, until it was explained to them that Okudzhava's songs were merely 'another way of presenting poetry'. Okudzhava's popularity began to rise, the magnitizdat was brimming with his songs. A great amount of people had heard Okudzhava but had not seen him. Some even believed he was a woman.

Okudzhava is widely recognized as the father of the Russian bard song. His songs were fairly simple musically, but his deep lyrics, pleasant voice, and good sense of melody quickly made him popular. The lyrics spanned many subjects, from romance to war. While not the most overtly political, several of his numbers are unquestionably critical of the Soviet system such as "Pesenka pro Chornogo Kota" ("A Song about a Black Cat") - a parody of Stalin - and "Pesenka o Durakah" ("A Song about Idiots"). Many of his songs also spoke of a spiritual search, identifying with the desire for a spiritual life which was suppressed in the Soviet Union. Okudzhava's poetry was published abroad via tamizdat ( meaning "published there", as in abroad) by the Russian anti-Communist publishing house Posev. His music was also used in several films, such as the antiwar oriented "Belorusskiy Vokzal" ("Byelorussian Train Station"). Not forgetting his roots, Okudzhava wrote a few Georgian themed songs such as "Gruzinskaya Pesnia" ("The Georgian Song").

Bulat Okudzhava lived to see the fall of the USSR and remained a prolific writer/performer up to his death. Shortly before his death, Okudzhava decided to become baptized as "Ivan" in the Orthodox Church. He died in Paris on the 12th of June (Russian Independence Day) and was buried in Moscow. There is a statue in Okudzhava's memory on Arbat street in Moscow, a street where he had lived and which had served as a muse for many of his songs.

Vladimir Vysotski
(1938-1980)

Perhaps the best known Russian bard, Vladimir Vysotski was a well known actor in the Soviet Cinema. He began writing poems in his spare time and then started putting them to music, at first performing them for friends. His popularity caught on quickly and within a short amount of time he was playing to larger groups of people. His songs - many of them under two minutes long - spoke of the realities of life, touching upon the fear, desperation, anger, and sadness many felt deep inside. At the same time, his social commentary was laden with witty humor, leaving his listeners with a sense of comic relief and sympathy.

Most of Vysotski's songs were written in a traditional Russian minor key, but usually performed at a very energetic pace. The trademark Vysotski sound became rapid-fire, animated singing with an intentionally rough voice accompanied by a sharply strummed, jumpy, and slightly out of tune guitar. This combination gave Vysotski's music an unusually high level of energy, comparable with that of a rock band.

Vysotski began by singing blatnie pesni, songs about the lives of outlaws. While many of his blatnie pesni were about criminals being chased and prosecuted by the MUR (Moskovskiy Ugolovniy Rozisk, or Moscow Criminal Investigation office), they were at the same time subtle (and at times not such subtle) jabs at the Soviet justice system. They allowed people to feel the horrors of life in a concentration camp, a topic that the Soviets wanted to keep hidden from the public.

The song "ZeKa Vasiliev i Petrov ZeKa" ("Convict Vasiliev and Petrov, convict") tells of how two concentration camp inmates try to escape a Gulag after being propositioned by their doctor and victimized by various criminals interred with them [to hear the songs, click on the "Аудио / Audio" link in the upper left hand corner]. "Vsye pozadi, i KPZ i sud" ("It's all behind, the KPZ and trial") sings of a man who was sentenced to concentration camp internment and is with his grieving mother, wondering which camp he will be interred at.

A classic from this series is "Moi droog uehal v Magadan" ("My friend has left for Magadan"), a seemingly innocent song about Vysotski's friend who visited Magadan: a city that was a major transit point for concentration camp inmates. As far as the Soviets were concerned, "Magadan" was a secret place that only those unfortunate enough to be interred would learn about. Even more daring was Vysotski's "Pis'mo iz sumashedshego doma" ("A letter from a lunatic asylum"). This was a rather open attack on the Soviet government's policy of interring political prisoners and clergy into lunatic asylums where they would be systematically drugged and tortured. Vysotski also enjoyed poking fun at the KGB's control over Soviet citizens travelling abroad in songs such as "Pered viezdom v zagranku" ("Before leaving abroad") and "Instruktsiya pered viyezdom zagranitsu" ("Instructions before leaving abroad").

Vysotski wrote hundreds of songs (according to his account, up to 800) touching upon the most diverse subjects, all while continuing his acting career. Amidst them are an amusing series of anti-skazki or "anti-stories", reworked classic Russian fairy tales such as "Lukomoriye bol'she net" and "Pesnya pro nechist'". He also penned an excellent series of songs about the second world war. "Zvyezdi" ("Stars") sings of the tragedy of a simple soldier who died in battle, while his commander was awarded for bravery. "Shtrafnie batalioni" ("Penal Batallions") describes the penal batallions, combat units of soldiers who were punished (often for political reasons) and given very difficult and dangerous assignments while suffering inhuman treatment at the hands of their commanders. "Pro Seryozhu Fomina" ("About Serezha Fomin") is about a boy who was well connected to the Soviet system and was exempt from having to fight. Vysotski's war songs were so realistic that he received letters from war veterans who believed sincerely that he was their battle mate (his name is fairly common in Russia), although Vysotski was in fact a little child during this time. Vysotski also exhibited a sense of patriotism and a searching for God, well evidenced in his song "Kupola, Pesnya o Rossii" ("The Church Domes, A Song about Russia").

Vladimir Vysotski was able to escape trouble from the Soviet authorities for his "politically incorrect" songs thanks to his wife, Marina Vlady, a high profile French-Russian actress and communist. But despite Vysotski's popularity and his wife's influence, the Soviet controlled record companies refused to record and release Vysotski's music, an exception being made for those songs he recorded for films. As a result, Vysotski's music was almost exclusively distributed via magnitizdat. As Vysotski said in a letter to the Soviet authorities petitioning for his music to be officially distributed and recognized, "It is easier to find a tape recorder in the country that plays the songs of Vladimir Vysotski than one that doesn't." Vysotski nonetheless did not considered himself a proper songwriter, preferring to call himself a "writer of verses to music".

Vysotski died of a heart attack in 1980, a result of excessive drinking which became a habit after every private concert he gave, coupled with drug use. The impending sense of his coming death and increasing acceptance of a divine power was revealed in his very last poem, written to his wife Marina Vlady just weeks before he died:

An estimated one million people attended Vladimir Vysotski's funeral. A statue was erected in his memory by his grave in Moscow's Vagankovsky cemetery, depicting Vysotski emerging from a straight jacket. Fans regularly gather there every 25th of July in order to mark his death.

Alexander Galich
(1918 - 1977)

Alexander Galich, born as Alexander Ginsburg to Jewish parents, was a successful Soviet screenwriter, dramatist, and lyricist. He had also acted in theater and film. By the late fifties, he began writing poems and setting them to music. Galich took a "no prisoners" approach to his song writing, being more forward than Okudzhava and even Vysotski in his anti-Soviet sentiment. Songs such as "Oblaka" ("Clouds") drew much sympathy to concentration camp inmates, and his cycle of songs written around the fictitious "Klim Petrovich" were a sharp slap in the face to the Soviet system and a favorite of the public. As with the two other Bards, Galich also discussed spiritual themes in his songs, describing his search for "the nice God" as per his song "Psalom" ("Psalm"). He also wrote some semi-blatniye tunes such as "Razmishlenie o tom kak pit' na troih" ("Ideas of how to share a bottle for three").

Galich's voice was plain and rough, full of drama, anger, and irony - very suited to his heavy, satirical lyrics which would feature occasional swear words. He can easily be seen as the stylistic opposite of Bulat Okudzhava.

Galich's head on approach landed him into trouble, he was thrown out of the Soviet Writer's Union in 1972. Soon after, Galich was excluded from the Cinematographer's Union, leaving him without any opportunity to earn a living. That same year he was baptized as an Orthodox Christian. The bard began descending into poverty, and was able to earn a meager living by charging for small group concerts. A year later, Galich was forced to emigrate. Upon leaving he said "I leave the Soviet Union but not Russia. My Russia will stay with me".

While abroad, Galich continued to write and perform songs: at first in Norway, then in Germany and finally, Paris. In Germany he joined the Russian anti-Communist organization NTS.

Galich died a tragic death in 1977 via accidental electrocution, which his weak heart could not survive (some have speculated it was a KGB staged assassination). He was buried in the San Genevieve de Bua cemetery in France, where many well known Russian white emigres rest. In 1988, Galich was posthumously reinstated into the Writers and Cinematographers Unions. In 2003, the first memorial plaque for Galich was put up on a building in Novosibirsk where he performed in 1968.

It is thanks to the magnitizdat that Russian bard music made it to the west, where it was distributed primarily via bootleg records. Both Vysotski and Okudzhava were lucky enough to be permitted to tour abroad. Before they arrived, their audiences would already be familiar with their songs. Translations of their poetry were published in English and many other foreign languages.

The new open "glanost" era in the USSR in the late 80's gave birth to many bards who began writing patriotic and Orthodox songs. Jeanna Bichevski, a popular Russian folk singer heavily influenced by Okudzhava, began writing songs about the royal martyrs and the white movement, topics which were highly taboo in the Soviet period. She recorded several Orthodox themed songs which were co-authored with the monk Fr. Roman (Matiyushin), himself a songwriter and performer. This helped pave the way for other patriotic, pro-white bards such as Kirill Revel.

The late eighties also saw the emergence of Igor Talkov, a rock musician with a strong Orthodox, patriotic orientation. While Talkov was not a bard per sey (although he did several acoustic bard style performances), his music set a new precident in Russian rock by adopting the boldness of political bard songs. His songs cut through the corruption of the Soviet system as well as the new Yeltsin government, insisting there was little difference between the two. Talkov used Russia's pre-revolutionary heritage as his key source of inspiration and called for justice against the communist apparatus. Unlike his predecessors whom managed to avoid the firing squad, Talkov became the victim of a murder that is strongly suspected of being politically motivated.

Bard music has definitely become a permanent staple of Russian culture. This marriage of inventive, bold, and witty poetry, a simple musical arrangement free of gimmickry, and a very personal, intimate delivery is unique. Russian bards have encapsulated the experience of the Soviet era in their songs while continuing to touch upon universal human themes. Perhaps the bard song will not be easy to appreciate for those who primarily listen to "top 40" music, but anyone who lends it a patient ear will perhaps discover a sense of intimacy and depth that is nearly impossible to feel anywhere else.

Vladimir Vysotski ended his Toronto concert in 1979 with the following words: "I'm very happy that there is an interest in these songs, and it will be even greater I assure you, not only in ties to my presence here, and not only because of nostalgia, but its a foundation that exists here - even if it's not that well understood here because of the language - this communication through the author's song, I think this is a story and a doing that won't fall but on the contrary, will keep rising and rising, both here and there."

EXAMPLES OF RUSSIAN BARDS

The best way to describe bard music is to allow the songs speak for themselves. Several songs from these three groundbreaking bards are presented below for listening along with lyrics in both Russian and English.

• Bulat Okudzhava: Song about a Blue Balloon, Song about a Black Cat, A Song for Georgia.
• Vladimir Vysotski: My Friend has Left for Magadan, Dialog in front of the TV, The Tattoo, Song from an Insane Asylum, Kupola - a Song about Russia.
• Alexander Galich: Nothing's On Time, Psalm (no audio).
• Igor Talkov: My Motherland.
• How to play guitar Russian style: Popular techniques, how to play Russian songs on a six string guitar, seven string open G chords, about acquiring seven string guitars and modifying existing guitars.

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Песенка о Голубом Шарике/ Song about a Blue Balloon Булат Окуджава / Bulat Okudzhava Play MP-3 An example of Okudzhava's ability to be brief and meaningful, as well as his melodic, heartfelt delivery.
Девочка плачет: шарик улетел. Ее утешают, а шарик летит. Девушка плачет: жениха все нет. Ее утешают, а шарик летит. Женщина плачет: муж ушел к другой. Ее утешают, а шарик летит. Плачет старушка: мало пожила... А шарик вернулся, а он голубой.	A little girl's crying: her air-balloon is gone. People console her, the balloon flies on. A young maid's crying: no boy-friend as yet. People console her, the balloon flies on. A woman is crying: her husband has left. People console her, the balloon flies on. An old woman's crying: life's been so short. The balloon has come back, a blue balloon it is.

Песенка про Черного Кота / Song about a Black Cat Булат Окуджава / Bulat Okudzhava Play MP-3 Although Okudzhava didn't admit it when asked by Soviet journalists, this song was his parody of Stalin.

Со двора - подъезд известный под названьем "черный ход". В том подъезде, как в поместье, проживает Черный Кот. Он в усы усмешку прячет, темнота ему - как щит. Все коты поют и плачут - этот Черный Кот молчит. Он давно мышей не ловит, усмехается в усы, ловит нас на честном слове, на кусочке колбасы. Он не требует, не просит, желтый глаз его горит. Каждый сам ему выносит и "спасибо" говорит. Он и звука не проронит - только ест и только пьет. Грязный пол когтями тронет - как по горлу проскребет. Оттого-то, знать, невесел дом, в котором мы живем. Надо б лампочку повесить... Денег все не соберем.

We've a doorway with a staircase, Also known as a "back door". In that place as in a palace A black cat has set up store. There's a smirk beneath his whiskers, Darkness fits him like a glove. Other cats are coy or frisky, This black cat won't make a move. As his leer gets only bolder, He does not catch mice or steal. Somehow we are all beholden, Running briskly with his meals. As the yellow cat eyes glower, He does not demand or cadge. Every one of us forks over, Grateful for the privilege. This cat doesn't issue orders, He just sits and drinks and eats. When he claws the dirty floor it's Like he's clawing at our throats. Must be that's why we're in chaos, And the scowling never ends. One small lightbulb might have saved us... But we just can't raise the funds.

Грузинская Песьня/ A Song for Georgia Булат Окуджава / Bulat Okudzhava Play MP-3 A salute to Okudzhava's native Georgia.

Виноградную косточку в теплую землю зарою, и лозу поцелую, и спелые гроздья сорву, и друзей созову, на любовь свое сердце настрою. А иначе зачем на земле этой вечной живу? Собирайтесь-ка, гости мои, на мое угощенье, говорите мне прямо в лицо, кем пред вами слыву, Царь небесный пошлет мне прощенье за прегрешенья. А иначе зачем на земле этой вечной живу? В темно-красном своем будет петь для меня моя Дали, в черно-белом своем преклоню перед нею главу, и заслушаюсь я, и умру от любви и печали... А иначе зачем на земле этой вечной живу? И когда заклубится закат, по углам залетая, пусть опять и опять предо мною плывут наяву синий буйвол, и белый орел, и форель золотая... А иначе зачем на земле этой вечной живу?

I shall bury a grape stone in the warm fertile soil by my house, and I’ll kiss the vine twig and gather sweet grapes, my reward, and I’ll call all my friends to the feast, and love in my heart I will rouse... Otherwise, what’s the purpose of living in this lasting world? Dear guests, come to table, I extend you my kind invitation, tell me straight in my face the opinion of me that you hold, God almighty will send me forgiveness for my transgression. Otherwise, what’s the purpose of living in this lasting world? Dressed in purple, my charming Dali for me will be singing, dressed in black, I’ll sit bending my head without saying a word, I’ll be listening enchanted and I’ll die from deep love and sad feeling... Otherwise, what’s the purpose of living in this lasting world? When the sunset starts swirling and searching the corners around, May the images float, as if real, again, may them swirl right in front of my eyes: a blue ox, a white eagle, a trout... Otherwise, what’s the purpose of living at all in this world?

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Мой друг уехал в Магадан / My Friend has Left for Magadan Владимир Высоцкий / Vladimir Vysotski Play MP-3 A song demonstrating Vysotski's sense of humor and talent for double meanings. This song is dedicated to Vysotski's friend, Igor Kukhanovski, who left to work as a journalist in the secret Soviet city of Magadan. Magadan was a city that was mostly full of concentration camps and convicts. Even mentioning the city's name was a dangerous thing to do in Soviet times.

Мой друг уехал в Магадан. Снимите шляпу, снимите шляпу! Уехал сам, уехал сам, Не по этапу, не по этапу. Не то чтоб другу не везло, Не чтоб кому-нибудь назло, Не для молвы, что, мол, чудак, А просто так, а просто так. Быть может кто-то скажет: - Зря! Как так - решиться всего лишиться? Ведь там сплошные лагеря, А в них убийцы, а в них убийцы! Ответит он: - Не верь молве. Их там не больше, чем в Москве.- Потом уложит чемодан - И в Магадан, и в Магадан. Не то чтоб мне не по годам,- Я б прыгнул ночью из электрички,- Но я не еду в Магадан, Забыв привычки, закрыв кавычки. Я буду петь под струнный звон Про то, что будет видеть он, Про то, что в жизни не видал,- Про Магадан, про Магадан. Мой друг поехал сам собой, С него довольно, с него довольно. Его не будет бить конвой, Он - добровольно, он - добровольно. А мне удел от бога дан... А, может, тоже в Магадан Уехать с другом заодно И лечь на дно, и лечь на дно.

Vysotsky: "And now for this dedicated song [to Igor Kukhanovskiy] 'My friend has left for Magadan'. It's specially stylized under so called blatnoy [criminal] folklore because it's Magadan, after all (laughter). The capital of the Kolymski region" My friend has left for Magadan, remove your hat, remove your hat. He left himself, he left himself, not for a reason, not for a reason. It's not that my friend was unlucky. It's not that he did it in spite. Not for rumors sake, "what a moron" But just like that. But just like that. Perhaps someone will say "What for? How could you decide to become deprived? Over there it's full of camps. In them are killers, in them are killers!" He'll answer "Don't believe the rumors, they're no more there in than in Moscow" Then he'll pack away his suitcase, to Magadan, to Magadan. It's not because of my age, I'd have jumped at night from an electric train. But I'm not going to Magadan, forgetting my habits, closing the quotes. I'll be singing to the ring of my strings, Of those things which he will see, Of that which in his life he didn't see, about Magadan, about Magadan. My friend went by himself, and that's enough, and that's enough. The convoy won't be beating him. He went voluntarily, he went voluntarily. Now I have a lot from God. Maybe I'll also go to Magadan. Leave with my friend for one. And lie on the bottom. Vysotsky: "To lie on the bottom is an expression which means for nobody to hear you, that's something from [blatnoy] folklore"

ДИАЛОГ У ТЕЛЕВИЗОРА / Dialogue in front of the TV-set Владимир Высоцкий / Vladimir Vysotski Play MP-3 A favorite comedy number, Vysotski singing the role of a housewife and her alcoholic husband watching TV together.

- Ой, Вань, гляди, какие клоуны! Рот - хоть завязочки пришей... Ой, до чего, Вань, размалеваны, И голос - как у алкашей! А тот похож - нет, правда, Вань,- На шурина - такая ж пьянь. Ну нет, ты глянь, нет-нет, ты глянь,- Я - вправду, Вань! - Послушай, Зин, не трогай шурина: Какой ни есть, а он - родня,- Сама намазана, прокурена - Гляди, дождешься у меня! А чем болтать - взяла бы, Зин, В антракт сгоняла в магазин... Что, не пойдешь? Ну, я - один,- Подвинься, Зин!.. - Ой, Вань, гляди, какие карлики! В джерси одеты, не в шевьет,- На нашей пятой швейной фабрике Такое вряд ли кто пошьет. А у тебя, ей-богу, Вань, Ну все друзья - такая рвань И пьют всегда в такую рань Такую дрянь! - Мои друзья - хоть не в болонии, Зато не тащат из семьи,- А гадость пьют - из экономии: Хоть поутру - да на свои! А у тебя самой-то, Зин, Приятель был с завода шин, Так тот - вообще хлебал бензин,- Ты вспомни, Зин!.. - Ой, Вань, гляди-кось - попугайчики! Нет, я, ей-богу, закричу!.. А это кто в короткой маечке? Я, Вань, такую же хочу. В конце квартала - правда, Вань,- Ты мне такую же сваргань... Ну что "отстань", опять "отстань", Обидно, Вань! - Уж ты б, Зин, лучше помолчала бы - Накрылась премия в квартал! Кто мне писал на службу жалобы? Не ты?! Да я же их читал! К тому же эту майку, Зин, Тебе напяль - позор один. Тебе шитья пойдет аршин - Где деньги, Зин?.. - Ой, Вань, умру от акробатиков! Гляди, как вертится, нахал! Завцеха наш - товарищ Сатиков - Недавно в клубе так скакал. А ты придешь домой, Иван, Поешь и сразу - на диван, Иль, вон, кричишь, когда не пьян.. Ты что, Иван? - Ты, Зин, на грубость нарываешься, Все, Зин, обидеть норовишь! Тут за день так накувыркаешься... Придешь домой - там ты сидишь! Ну, и меня, конечно, Зин, Все время тянет в магазин,- А там - друзья... Ведь я же, Зин, Не пью один!

"Look, Vanya, honey, at the funny clowns! That one, he's got a mouth like a purse. Check out the geezer with the silly flounce. His voice is like an alcoholic's. And he looks like, no really, Vanya, My brother-in-law, the same kinda drunk. No really, just watch, no no, just watch, I'm not kidding Vanya." "Now listen, Zina, leave my in-law alone: No matter what he's like, he's kin. And look at you all made up and smoked through, Look at yourself, and just you wait! "Instead of yapping Zina, While intermission's on go to the store, No, you won't? Then I'll go myself. Move over, Zina," "Look, Vanya, at those midgets! In real jerseys too, all foreign-spun. At our Sewing Plant 5, They'd never think of sewing something like that.. "And you, I swear to God, Vanya, All your buddies wear such crap, And always drink from early on Such awful trash." "My friends may lack your fanciness, But they don't take from their families. Cheap trash they drink out of economy; And in the morning, they've got the bucks. "But you, Zina, Your buddy the tire-plant guy Drank guzzled gas, Remember, Zina!" "Hey, Vanya, check out the parrots! Oh no, I swear to God I'll scream, Who's that in pink, in the tutu, I want a little one just like it. "When bonuses are due, really Vanya,, Promise to get me one? Oh why 'leave me alone", it's always "leave me alone" That's hurtful, Vanya. "You Zina better shut up, There isn't going to be a bonus this quarter. Who wrote complaints to my boss? Not you? I read them! "As for these shirts, Zin, Put one on, it'd be a scandal. . A yard of cloth you'd need, at least. So where's the money, Zin?" "Oh Vanya, I'll die from these acrobats! Those cartwheels, wow, the son of a gun! The other day, at our factory club, Comrade Satikov jumped around like that. "But you, you just come home Vanya Eat and right away onto the sofa, Or else you yell at me when sober. What's with that, Ivan? "You're begging, Zina, for rudeness, You Zina, are trying to insult me! All day you lounge,, Come home, and you just sit there. "And as for me, of course, Zina, I feel a pull to go to the store, And there are my buddies, since I, Zina. Refuse to drink alone!"

Татуировка / The Tattoo Владимир Высоцкий / Vladimir Vysotski Play MP-3 One from Vysotski's early 'blatnie' songs, written after he saw a man with a tatoo of a woman on his chest, riding the bus.

Не делили мы тебя и не ласкали, А что любили - так это позади. Я ношу в душе твой светлый образ, Валя, А Леша выколол твой образ на груди. И в тот день, когда прощались на вокзале, Я тебя до гроба помнить обещал,- Я сказал:- Я не забуду в жизни Вали. - А я тем более,- мне Леша отвечал. А теперь реши, кому из нас с ним хуже, И кому трудней - попробуй разбери: У него твой профиль выколот снаружи, А у меня - душа исколота внутри. И когда мне так уж тошно, хоть на плаху,- Пусть слова мои тебя не оскорбят, - Я прошу, чтоб Леша расстегнул рубаху, И гляжу, гляжу часами на тебя. Но недавно мой товарищ, друг хороший, Он беду мою искусством поборол,- Он скопировал тебя с груди у Леши И на грудь мою твой профиль наколол. Знаю я, друзей своих чернить неловко, Но ты мне ближе и роднее оттого, Что моя, верней - твоя, татуировка Много лучше и красивше, чем его.

We didn't share you and didn't caress you, But that we loved you - well that's behind us, I keep in my soul your bright image, Valya, And Lesha tattooed your image to his chest. And that day, when we said farewell at the station, I promised to remember you to my grave, I said "I won't forget Valya for anything". "And I even moreso", answered me Lesha. And now you decide, for whom of us its worse, And for whom it's tougher - try to figure it out, He has your profile tatooed outside, Yet my soul is tatooed from inside. And when it gets hard for me, down to tears, Let my words not insult you, I ask for Lesha to unbutton his shirt, And watch and watch you for hours. But recently my friend, a good buddy, Decided to solve my tragedy creatively, He copied you from Lesha's chest, And tatooed my chest with your profile. I know, it's not easy for me to badmouth friends, But you are closer and nearer to me for that, That my, rather, your tattoo, Is much better and prettier, than his.

Письмо из Сумасшедшего Дома/ Letter from an Insane Asylum Владимир Высоцкий / Vladimir Vysotski Play MP-3 A political song, describing the life of a man who was interred for political reasons in an insane asylum (a common practice in the USSR).

Сказал себе я: брось писать,- Но руки сами просятся. Ох, мама моя родная, друзья любимые! Лежу в палате - косятся, Не сплю: боюсь - набросятся,- Ведь рядом - психи тихие, неизлечимые. Бывают психи разные - Не буйные, но грязные,- Их лечат, морят голодом, их санитары бьют. И вот что удивительно: Все ходят без смирительных И то, что мне приносится, все психи эти жрут. Куда там Достоевскому С "Записками" известными,- Увидел бы, покойничек, как бьют об двери лбы! И рассказать бы Гоголю Про нашу жизнь убогую,- Ей-богу, этот Гоголь бы нам не поверил бы. Вот это мука,- плюй на них! - Они же ведь, суки, буйные: Все норовят меня лизнуть,- ей-богу, нету сил! Вчера в палате номер семь Один свихнулся насовсем - Кричал: "Даешь Америку!" и санитаров бил. Я не желаю славы, и Пока я в полном здравии - Рассудок не померк еще, - и это впереди,- Вот главврачиха - женщина - Пусть тихо, но помешана,- Я говорю: "Сойду с ума!"- она мне: "Подожди!" Я жду, но чувствую - уже Хожу по лезвию ноже: Забыл алфавит, падежей припомнил только два... И я прошу моих друзья, Чтоб кто бы их бы ни был я, Забрать его, ему, меня отсюдова!

I told myself: I must stop writing! But hands are insisting, Oh, help me mother! Favorite friends! I lie in bed - they stare at me, I don't sleep, they might attack me, Next to me are noiseless, hopeless freaks. The psychos vary here, Not all are rowdy, but dirty, Receiving treatment - getting starved and beat, But here is what surprises me: These madmen here are walking free, And all the food that I receive, they simply take and eat. Great Dostoyevsky's fallen short With the renowned, famous "Notes"! I wish the poor deceased could come and see! The famous Gogol I could tell Such stories of this life in hell That sure to God, this Gogol would most-boggled be! This is torture! Spit on them! Because after all, they're rowdy loons! They always aim to lick me on my face - I can't take it. Just yesterday, in ward number seven, One completely lost his mind - He yelled, "Gimme America!" and beat the sanitars. I don't want fame, and, I'm still remaining sane, I've yet to lose my head, but that's ahead. Here is the chief,- the woman nurse, Maybe quiet, but crazed, I tell her that I am going mad and she says: "Wait." And I am sensing while I wait, I'm walking on a sharpened blade,- Forgot the alphabet,- I remember only two declensions! And I am asking my friends Whoever I'm of theirs is Of him, to take, his, me away from outtahere!

Курола или Песня о России/The Cupolas or A Song about Russia Владимир Высоцкий / Vladimir Vysotski Play MP-3: live recording, studio version. A patriotic song about Russia and its connection to God.

Как засмотрится мне нынче, как задышится? Воздух крут перед грозой, крут да вязок. Что споется мне сегодня, что услышится? Птицы вещие поют - да все из сказок. Птица Сирин мне радостно скалится - Веселит, зазывает из гнезд, А напротив - тоскует-печалится, Травит душу чудной Алконост. Словно семь заветных струн Зазвенели в свой черед - Это птица Гамаюн Надежду подает! В синем небе, колокольнями проколотом,- Медный колокол, медный колокол - То ль возрадовался, то ли осерчал... Купола в России кроют чистым золотом - Чтобы чаще Господь замечал. Я стою, как перед вечною загадкою, Пред великою да сказочной страною - Перед солоно - да горько-кисло-сладкою, Голубою, родниковою, ржаною. Грязью чавкая жирной да ржавою, Вязнут лошади по стремена, Но влекут меня сонной державою, Что раскисла, опухла от сна. Словно семь богатых лун На пути моем встает - То птица Гамаюн Надежду подает! Душу, сбитую утратами да тратами, Душу, стертую перекатами,- Если до крови лоскут истончал,- Залатаю золотыми я заплатами - Чтобы чаще Господь замечал!

How I'll see it now, how I'll breathe it in? Air is harsh before the lightning, harsh and choking. How I'll hear it all today, how I will sing. From the fairy tales the wise birds are singing. The bird Sirin is joyfully grinning, Making happy, calling from nests. And against him is now despairing, Wounds the soul the strange Alkonost. Just like seven promised strings Ring without stop - Thus the bird Gamayun Imparting hope! In the blue sky, pierced with belltowers, Copper bell, copper bell, Will be joyful or will be sore. Russian cupolas are dressed in pure gold That the good Lord would notice them more. I stand, like before an timeless mystery, Before great and fairy-tale country. Before salty - bitter - sweet and sour land Blue, spring-water, and full of rye. Eating dirt fat till the rust, Horses go down till stirrups, But they pull me with a sleepy great power That has rotted, bloated from sleep. Just like seven rich moons Stand on my path - Thus the bird Gamayun Imparting hope! The soul, beaten with losses and sorrows, The soul, torn till it's narrow, If till blood the cloth has been worn, I will patch with the golden patches That the good Lord will notice it more.

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ВСЁ НЕ ВОВРЕМЯ / NOTHING'S ON TIME Александр Галичь / Alexander Galich Play MP-3 Galich's song about how two convicts in a concentration camp are being led to execution. One was guilty of digging up artifacts in Hersones (an ancient Greek city near Sevastopol) without permission, the other (the song's narrator) was guilty of killing an informer and was then ratted out by another informer, Aleha. This song is dedicated to the writer Varlam Shalamov, who authored the famous "Kolimskie Rasskazi" (stories of the Kolyma), stories about the lives of concentration camp inmates.

Посвящается В.Т.Шаламову А ты стучи, стучи, а тебе Бог простит, А начальнички тебе, Леха, срок скостят! А за Окой сейчас, небось, коростель свистит, А у нас на Тайшете ветра свистят. А месяц май уже, все снега белы, А вертухаевы на снегу следы, А что полнормы, тьфу, это полбеды, А что песню спел - полторы беды! А над Окой летят гуси-лебеди, А за Окой свистит коростель, А тут по наледи курвы-нелюди Двух зэка ведут на расстрел! А первый зэка, он с Севастополя, Он там, черт чудной, Херсонес копал, Он копал, чумак, что ни попадя, И на полный срок в лагеря попал. И жену его, и сынка его, И старуху мать, чтоб молчала, блядь! Чтобы знали все, что закаяно Нашу родину с подниза копать! А в Крыму теплынь, в море сельди, И миндаль, небось, подоспел, А тут на наледи курвы-нелюди Двух зэка ведут на расстрел! А второй зэка - это лично я, Я без мами жил, и без папи жил, Моя б жизнь была преотличная, Да я в шухере стукаря пришил! А мне сперва вышка, а я в раскаянье, А уж в лагере - корешей в навал, И на кой я пес при Лехе-Каине Чумаку подпел "Интернационал"?! А в караулке пьют с рафинадом чай, И вертухай идет, весь сопрел. Ему скучно, чай, и несподручно, чай, Нас в обед вести на расстрел!

Dedicated to Varlam T. Shalamov And you rat and rat, and God will forgive you, And the bosses will cut down your sentence, Aleha! And past the Oka now, probably, the corn crake is whistling, And here in Taishet the winds are whistling. And its May already, all the snow is white, And the tracks from the guards are in the snow, And the half-rations, dammit, are half the problem, And that you sang a song - that's a problem and a half! And over the Oka are flying geese and swans, And behind the Oka the corn crake is whistling, And here nearby are whores, non-humans, Two convicts are being led to be shot! And the first convict, he's from Sevastopol, He, the clever devil, was digging in Hersones, He was digging, the moron, thinking he'd get away, And he got a full sentence in the camp. And his wife too, and his son as well, And his old mother, so the whore would keep quiet! So they'd know everything, repentfully, What it means to dig our motherland from underneath. And in the Crimea its warm, herrings are in the sea, And the almonds, no doubt, are ripe. And here are whores, non-people, Two convicts are being led to be shot! And the second convict - that's me personally, I lived without my mommy, and my daddy, My life would have been superb, But in a scuffle I nailed an informer! At first they wanted the death sentence, but then I confessed, And in the camp - plenty of buddies, And why the heck in the presence of Aleha, that Cain, Did I sing to the idiot the "internationale"?! And in the guard house they drink tea with sugar cubes, And the guard is walking, all sour. He's bored, no doubt, and it's inconvenient, no doubt During lunch to take us to be shot!

Псалом / The Psalm Александр Галичь / Alexander Galich No audio file available Galich's introspective work about his search for God, written two years before his baptism.

Я вышел на поиски Бога. В предгорьи уже рассвело. А нужно мне было немного -- Две пригоршни глины всего. И с гор я спустился в долину, Развел над рекою костер, И красную вязкую глину В ладонях размял и растер. Что знал я в ту пору о Боге На тихой заре бытия? Я вылепил руки и ноги, И голову вылепил я. И полон предчувствием смутным Мечтал я, при свете огня, Что будет Он добрым и мудрым, Что Он пожалеет меня! Когда ж он померк, этот длинный День страхов, надежд и скорбей -- Мой бог, сотворенный из глины, Сказал мне: -- Иди и убей !.. И канули годы. И снова - Все так же, но только грубей, Мой бог, сотворенный из слова, Твердил мне: -- Иди и убей! И шел я дорогою праха, Мне в платье впивался репей, И Бог, сотворенный из страха, Шептал мне: -- Иди и убей! Но вновь я печально и строго С утра выхожу за порог -- На поиски доброго Бога И -- ах, да поможет мне Бог!

I went on a search for God. The dawn had already reached the hills. I needed very little - Two handfuls of clay, that's all. And from the hills I went into the field. I started a fire by the lake. And I took the red clay Into my palms, mashing and rubbing it. What did I know about God then In this quiet dawn of existence? I made out arms and legs, And made out a head, too. And full of a dark foreboding I fantasized in the light of the fire, That He will be kind and wise, That He will have pity on me! When this long day was over, This day of fears, hopes, and sufferings - My god, created from clay, Told me: - Go forth and kill!.. Then years went by. Then once again - All the same, but only more stern, My god, created from a word, Insisted: - Go forth and kill! And I went down the dirt road, Burdocks sticking on my clothes, And God, created from fear, Whispered to me: - Go forth and kill! But once again I sadly and firmly, Walk out my door in the morning - In search of the kind God, And oh - may God help me!

Talkov links: Igor Talkov webpage in Russian, features sound files of many of his songs plus videos and memoirs. Igor Talkov songs on Voskres.ru, also featuring Jeanne Bichevski and other Orthodox song writers/performers.

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Родина Моя / My Motherland Игорь Тальков / Igor Talkov Play MP-3 This is a live "unplugged" version of this song, very revealing of Talkov's bard influence.

Я пробираюсь по осколкам детских грез В стране родной, Где все как будто происходит не всерьез Со мной, со мной. Ну, надо ж было так устать, Дотянув до возраста Христа, Господи... А вокруг, как на парад, Вся страна шагает в ад Широкой поступью. Родина моя Скорбна и нема... Родина моя, Ты сошла с ума. В анабиозе доживает век Москва - дошла. Над куполами люциферова звезда взошла, Наблюдая свысока, как идешь ты с молотка за пятак, Как над гордостью твоей смеется бывший твой халдей с Запада. Восьмой десяток лет омывают не дожди твой крест, твой крест, То слезы льют твои великие сыны с небес, с небес, Они взирают с облаков, как ты под игом дураков клонишься, То запиваешь и грустишь, то голодаешь и молчишь, то молишься... Родина моя Скорбна и нема... Родина моя, Ты сошла с ума. Родина моя - Нищая сума. Родина моя, Ты сошла с ума.

I am walking through the shards of childhood fantasies, In my homeland, Where it seems nothing happens seriously To me, to me. I had to get so tired having pulled through to Christ's age, oh God. Yet around me as if on parade, The whole nation is walking into hell With wide steps. My motherland, Grief filled and mute, My motherland, You have lost your mind. In suspended animation Moscow lives out its century, Its come to that. Over the church domes Lucifer's star has risen, has risen. Watching from above, as you're sold off the mallot for five kopecks, Laughing over your memory is your past lackey from the West. For the eighth decade it is not the rain which washes your cross, your cross. They are the tears of your great sons from the skies, They are watching from the clouds, as you are bowing before the yoke of idiots. Either you drink up and grieve, or you hunger in silence, or pray. My motherland, Grief filled and mute, My motherland, You have lost your mind. My motherland, Destitute, My motherland, You have lost your mind.

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