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  • Van der Graaf Generator - Pioneers Over C (Мой перевод)

    29 jun 2012, 17:45

    Оригинал:

    Van der Graaf Generator - Pioneers Over C

    Left the earth in 1983, fingers groping for the galaxies,
    reddened eyes stared up into the void,
    a thousand stars to be exploited.
    Somebody help me, I'm falling,
    somebody help me, I'm falling down
    into sky, into earth, into sky, into earth.
    It is so dark around, no life, no hope, no sound,
    no chance of seeing home again.
    The universe is on fire, exploding without flame.
    We are the lost ones; we are the pioneers; we are the lost ones
    We are the ones they are going to build a statue for
    ten centuries ago or were going to fifteen forward .....

    One last brief whisper in our loved ones' ears
    to reassure them and to pierce the fear
    standing at controls then still unknown
    we told the world we were about to go
    Somebody help me I'm missing,
    somebody help me I'm missing now
    touch with my mind, I have no frame,
    touch with my mind, I have no frame.
    Well now where is the time and who the hell am I,
    here floating in an aimless way?

    No-one knows where we are,
    they can't feel us precisely ..

    There is no fear here.
    How can such a thing exist
    in a place where living and knowing
    and being have never been heard of?

    Doomed to vanish in the flickering light,
    disappearing to a darker night,
    doomed to vanish in a living death, living anti-matter, anti-breath
    Somebody help me I'm losing,
    somebody help me, I'm losing now
    people around, there's no-one to touch,
    no people around, no-one to touch.

    I am now quite alone, part of a vacant time-zone,
    here floating in the void,
    only dimly aware of existence,
    a dimly existing awareness,
    I am the lost one, I am the one you fear, I am the lost one,
    I am the one who crossed through space,
    or stayed where I was,
    or didn't exist in the first place .....

    Перевод:

    Пионеры сверхсветовых скоростей

    К исходу века улетев с Земли,
    Мы жаждали познать галактики.
    В бездну впился наш голодный взгляд –
    Тысячи миров нам пир сулят.
    Ах, помогите, я падаю…
    Ах, помогите, падаю вниз…
    В небеса, вглубь земли, в небеса, вглубь земли.
    Тьма, пустота кругом! Звук, жизнь, надежду, дом
    Мы утеряли навсегда.
    Вселенная воспылала, взрываясь без огня…
    Мы - потерявшиеся! Первопроходцы звёзд! Мы – потерявшиеся!
    Мы – те, кому поставят статую
    За сотни лет до нас, а может – через сотни только собирались.

    Шепнув родным прощальные слова,
    Тая надежду и скрепив сердца,
    Схватив в неопытных руках штурвал,
    Сказали миру, что наш час настал.
    Ах, помогите, я потерян,
    Ах, помогите, потерян сейчас…
    Мыслю материей, нету границ,
    Мыслю материей, нету границ…
    Куда же пропало время, кто, чёрт возьми, есть я,
    Бессмысленно зависший здесь?

    Нас не найдут здесь,
    Мы недоступны им…

    Тут неизвестен страх,
    Да и откуда взяться ему
    Там, где ни жизни, ни знаний,
    Ни самого бытия никогда не бывало?

    Свет мерцающий – могила нам,
    Растворённым по ночным волнам,
    Сгинувшим в живую смерть, в сгустки антивещества, антивздохами дыша.
    Ах, помогите, я пропадаю,
    Ах, помогите, пропадаю сейчас…
    Люди кругом - нету контакта,
    Нет никого - нету контакта.

    Я стал совсем один среди временных пучин,
    В пустом часовом поясе.
    Лишь смутно осознав существование
    В этом смутно существующем осознании…
    Я – потерявшийся! Тот, кого боишься ты! Я – потерявшийся!
    Я – пересёкший космос,
    А может – оставшийся, где был,
    А может - и не бывший вовсе…
  • An article on Peter Hammill from the deluxe edition of Live In Berlin 1992

    11 aug 2011, 06:00

    "The music world has gone IKEA - one size,' he says. "And I'm a bespoke furniture-maker. Not selling many, and only to people who find me." - Peter Hammill, from an interview with Nick Hasted, in The Independent on Sunday newspaper, Sunday June 27th 2004.
    The music business, such as it is in the year 2010, is a fragmented and at times incoherent shambles, the mainstream of which has struggled to come to terms with the fact that for years, it refined away the 'maverick' elements and idiosyncrasies of artists to fit an easily marketable template. Which has left scores of artists whose music makes demands of the listener forced to the margins of the independent sector, where they seemed doomed to the dreaded 'cult' following. When that array includes the likes of Mark E Smith of The Fall, Luke Haines of Black Box Recorder and The Auteurs, and even John Lydon - all of them acknowledged admirers of the subject of this CD / DVD package, Peter Hammill, then maybe that's not such a bad place to be.
    Peter Hammill has charted a determinedly individual course through a career in music that's now well over four decades long. Having had something of a peripatetic childhood, and enduring the rigours of a Jesuit education, Hammill became enthused by the MOD scene in and around Derby in the mid-60s. He was enthused, like thousands of his contemporaries, by the Soul and rythm and blues sounds that held sway back then "The things that really fired me up were British beat groups, R&B and soul," he remembers. "It was a life-choice then to like that stuff. In the East Midlands triangle, that mod signification lasted longer than anywhere else, and had a particular dancehall relevance, and was about being... in with the in-crowd. So the Derby Meccano, the Clouds Club, the whole mod scene - I was there. The bloke who couldn't dance and talked funny. That was the exciting stuff. And that was what being in a group was all about."
    By 1967 and into '68, however, the Mod scene had started to erode; some of 'em grew their hair (cf The Small Faces), started to smoke the ol' Jazz cigarettes, and some even started to get militant. "Che posters, clenched fists, but not much joined-up thought", as Hammill puts it. When Hammill formed Van Der Graaf Generator in 1968 with Chris Judge Smith, they were informed clearly by the changing times: "It was Judge Smith who was visionary about what a band could be. I just wanted to be a singer and have everyone love me. In '68, it was still a world of beat groups and pop hits. There wasn't anything else. The whole idea of doing music for more than three or four years was out of order. I had a vision of myself as a novelist, because that was where I could be serious. I couldn't with music. I don't know why I started writing about other things. There was a lot of science fiction involved, read in conjunction with dope and psychedelics. And then there was Hendrix. And that was like science fiction and social excitement and drama. Everything was there - this is what's happening, in this hour, on stage! The exciting thing - this is happening now!"
    Van Der Graaf eventually found themselves on the Charisma Records label, set up by the genial Tony Stratton-Smith, who had assembled an odd roster of talent that ranged from amiable good-timey Geordie folk-rockers Lindisfarne, through to prog rockers like The Nice and Rare Bird, and warped singer songwriter stuff such as Howard Werth's band, Audience. VDGG occupied a place in many an underground music fan similar to that of Pink Floyd or Soft Machine; ex-public school boys who'd been through the Beat Group mincer, learned their musical chops and were wanting to push the envelope a bit farther out.
    VDGG split in August 1972, and Hammill struck out as a soloist. His 1975 album, Nadir's Big Chance anticipated some of the forthcoming seismic upheavals of Punk which would follow in '76 and '77, and its influence was cited by none other than John Lydon, vocalist / lyricist and front person of The Sex Pistols, of course. Hammill was, therefore, granted something of a kind of musical immunity from Prog Rock prosecution as a result.
    After Hammill left the Charisma label in 1979, his music has been available on a variety of indie imprints, including his own Fie! Label. The themes of his work - religion, free will, the desire for change, are constants, but his ability to match his lyrical concerns with music that can range from simple, riff-based settings to passages of pastoral beauty and complexity makes Hammill one of the most compulsive and gripping of musicians, for whom the term 'singer-songwriter' doesn't seem quite enough.
    Whether playing with a band, as he did in the early eighties with the K Group, or performing solo, Peter Hammill still retains a strong and loyal following, with that following being particularly fervent in Europe. In 1991 Hammill released the album Fall Of The House Of Usher based around the story of the same name by Edgar Allen Poe. The album has never been performed live in its entirety however, during solo concerts in late 1991 and 1992 Peter Hammill performed an edited suite of songs from the album.
    One such concert took place at The Passionkirche in Berlin in April 1992. For many of Hammill's long time fans, this performance holds a special place, and bootleg copies have traded between fans for many years. The jewel for many is the Usher Suite, rendered here in a stark solo performance with Hammill alternating between piano and occasionally guitar, performing a number of songs from his long solo career. Material is drawn from previous albums including The Future Now (The Future Now), Fireships (I Will Find You, Curtains), Patience (Patient) and Peter also revisits the Van Der Graaf Generator song My Room which originally featured on the Still Life album. Hammill's music gains lustre and resonance in the surroundings of the Passionkirche, a suitable performance space for such engrossing, involving music.
    Since then, Hammill has continued to pursue his own path; in 2003, he suffered a sudden heart attack: "I didn't have any conversion or recantation of the stuff I've been banging on about for years - religion, the wish to change things, free will, predestination. The values held. But of course, I didn't die. So I didn't reach the final test. If I had, I'd probably have been under too much morphine to know."
    "Time does very, very funny things," he says. "You are acutely aware of now, and exactly how you feel. You know that time has gone fluid on you. And to be honest, it's still pretty fluid with me. I have a tendency to go off in a ruminative state. Drifting. It is good to just rest and take the longer view, without necessarily making that view cogent."
    One of the most enduring and unusual of surviving talents to emerge from the late 1960s, Peter Hammill remains a vivid and unusual talent, and this CD/DVD set forms a fine point of entry for ther man's work.
    ALAN ROBINSON,
    September 2010
  • Peter Hammill - Gog - Мой перевод

    3 jul 2010, 10:06

    Гог

    Для одних я ДЬЯВОЛ, для других же БОГ,
    Для некоторых НЕМО… Я не рождён…
    Одни лишь в анаграммах говорят о мне,
    Других сразил мой гнев…
    А тех же, кто мне служит,
    Я лишь гублю.
    Я всё твержу:
    «Пропало», «Поздно», «Невозможно», «Никогда»;
    Мой дом и на закате, и на заре.
    Над Именем моим молчанье,
    Его лишь шепчут ото зла.
    Вход перекрыт,
    Все двери на засовах,
    Бежать здесь некуда.
    Так приди же ко мне
    И полюби ещё хоть ночь.

    Одних слеплю сияньем, другим я сер;
    Шлифованный алмаз, металл оружий – я есмь ВСЁ.
    Иные свято верят – я рыдал
    На маковых полях Французов…
    В броске костей узри их крах!
    Другим смешно, и видно, как смеюсь я
    По коридорам власти:
    Иным мой знак привиделся на Цезаре и мантии его.
    Мой лик окутан мраком,
    Порой я вижусь тебе в тьме,
    Ушли друзья,
    Затихли уж все зовы
    В мертвецкой тишине.
    Приползи же ко мне
    И полюби ещё хоть день.

    Одним я лучше пуст, другим же – полон,
    Иные жаждут вечности – но я НИЧТО.
    Меня искали в символах,
    Мой путь чертили среди звёзд
    И строили из чисел:
    Я есмь Никто.
    Одни заводят летопись моих движений,
    Моих оттенков и одежд,
    Другим же интересны наработки
    - они завершены.
    Душа моя в кристалле,
    И не раскрыть её ножом.
    Засохли родники, заплесневел весь хлеб,
    Вокруг сплошной Содом.
    Убеги ж из него
    И полюби меня ещё хоть жизнь…

    Оригинал:

    Peter Hammill - Gog

    Some call me SATAN others have me GOD
    some name me NEMO...I am unborn.
    Some speak of me in anagrams,
    some grieve upon my wrath...
    the ones who give me service
    I grant my scorn.
    My words are
    'Too late', 'Never', 'Impossible', and 'Gone';
    my home is in the sunset and the dawn.
    My Name is locked in silence,
    sometimes it's whispered out of spite.
    All gates are locked,
    all doors are barred and bolted,
    there is no place for flight.
    Will you not come to me
    and love me for one more night?

    Some see me shining, others have me dull;
    gun-metal and cut diamond -I am ALL.
    Some swear they see me weeping
    in the poppy-fields of France...
    in the tumbling of the dice see them fall!
    Some laugh and see me laughing
    down the corridors of power:
    some see my sign on Caesar and his pall.
    My face is robed in darkness,
    sometimes you glimpse me in the shade,
    All friends have gone,
    all calls are weak and wasted,
    there is no more to say.
    Will you not crawl to me
    and love me for one more day?

    Some wish me empty, others will me full,
    some crave of me infinity - I am NONE.
    Some look for me in symbols,
    some trace my line in stars,
    some count my ways in numbers:
    I am No One.
    Some chronicle my movements,
    my colours and my clothes,
    some trace the work in progress
    - it is done.
    My soul is cast in crystal
    yet unrevealed beneath the knife.
    All wells are dry, all bread is masked in fungus
    and now disease is rife.
    Will you not run from this
    and love me for one more life?
  • Peter Hammill - Nadir's Big Chance - мой перевод

    3 jul 2010, 09:59

    Большой шанс Надира

    Я ошивался кругом, выжидая свой шанс,
    Чтоб вставить пару слов
    про ваш излюбленный музон,
    Который вас пускает в пляс –
    знайте, он полнейшее дерьмо!
    Я заору, закричу, я достану гитару,
    Чтоб аж тело свело, я такого дам жару!

    Вы посмотрите на придурков
    в блестящих мишурой костюмах,
    Пляшущих кругом… Посмотрите на уродов
    В высоких сапогах из кожи,
    режущих тяжёлый звук…
    Я затопчу слащавость и заору до хрипоты –
    Не добьёт гитара, так снесут басы!

    Вот и мой шанс – пустите на сцену!
    Я всё расставлю по местам;
    Долой фальшивки, эти ваши стены
    Мы разнесём ко всем чертям!
    Мы не такие идиоты, чтоб нас дурачили вечно,
    Так давайте все вместе, разобьём систему песней!

    Разобьём систему песней!

    Оригинал:

    Peter Hammill - Nadir's Big Chance

    I've been hanging around, waiting for my chance
    to tell you what I think about the music that's gone down
    to which you madly danced - frankly, you know that it stinks.
    I'm gonna scream, gonna shout, gonna play my guitar
    until your body's rigid and you see stars.

    Look at all the jerks in their tinsel glitter suits,
    pansying around; look at all the nerks
    in their leather platform boots, making with the heavy sound...
    I'm gonna stamp on the stardust and scream till I'm ill -
    if the guitar don't get ya, the drums will.

    Now's my big break - let me up on the stage,
    I'll show you what it's all about; enough of the fake,
    bang your feet in a rage, tear down the walls and let us out!
    We're more than mere morons, perpetually conned,
    so come on everybody, smash the system with the song.

    Smash the system with the song!
  • Peter Hammill (VdGG) - Scorched Earth - мой перевод

    3 jul 2010, 09:58

    Выжженная земля.

    Один безумный миг, и жребий всё решил,
    Он посмотрел вперёд и вспомнил, кем он был,
    Задумался над тем, зачем он в бой идёт,
    Пожал плечами, горд и скор, он на колени не падёт.

    За собой он оставляет выжженную землю и напрасный труд,
    Дым за ним взмывает – он свободен, в путь!
    Убежать от наступления смертельного врага,
    Не оставив ни добычи, ни родного очага.
    Обернуться уже поздно, разве только в камень.
    В безрассудном наступлении, через снег ступая,
    Ветра вой безумен, он вперёд шагает,
    Лишь следы в снегу запомнят его изнурительный восход,
    Через топь до возвышенья,
    Он бредёт вперёд.
    В конце концов, его следы так и останутся в снегу одни.

    Образчик неведомой ереси, он втянут в немедленный бой,
    Поверив, что нужно убить врага.
    И поздно, он знает, это так –
    Слишком поздно отступать, и рано объявлять отбой.
    За спиной беспокойное прошлое,
    Идёт он прямо в капкан.
    Он окружён, гонимый страхом и волею.
    Он знает – впереди его засада ждёт,
    Но все равно он тянет жребий,
    День ото дня живёт,
    Взвалив на плечи весь свой мир,
    Он за собой оставит лишь свои следы.

    Он не даст себя взять пленным и рабом не хочет быть
    В прошлом нет ему преграды, впереди всё может быть.
    И бежит он в отступленье, за собой мосты сжигая,
    Жизнь его ещё свободна, поражение отрицая,
    Он уже не обернётся, разве только в камень.
    Хоть былое в его власти – пусть оно пылает!

    Он оставил за собой лишь выжженный пустырь;
    Не имея ничего, но не обязанный ничем другим,
    Ничего не требуя, впустую не гордясь, он выживает.
    Всё, что нам досталось – лишь в снегу следы,
    От человека, что ступил на путь мечты,
    Оставляя для себя лишь жизнь, которую он знал –
    Вот и всё, чем он когда-то обладал.

    Оригинал:

    Van der Graaf Generator - Scorched Earth

    Just one crazy moment while the dice are cast,
    he looks into the future and remembers what is past,
    wonders what he's doing on this battlefield,
    shrugs to his shadow, impatient, too proud yet to kneel.

    In his wake he leaves scorched earth and work in vain;
    smoke drifts up behind him - he is free again,
    free to run before the onslaught of a deadly foe,
    leaving nothing fit for pillage, hardly leaving home.
    It's far too late to turn, unless it's to stone.
    Charging madly forward, tracks across the snow;
    wind screams madness to him, ever on he goes,
    leaving spoor to mark his passage, trace his weary climb.
    Cross the moor and make the headland -
    stumbling, wayward, blind.
    In the end his footprints extend as one single line.

    This latest exponent of heresy is goaded into an attack,
    persuaded to charge at his enemy.
    Too late, he knows it is,
    too late now to turn back, too soon by far to falter.
    The past sits uneasily at his rear,
    he's walking right into the trap,
    surrounded, but striving through will and fear.
    Ahead of him he knows there waits an ambuscade
    but the dice slip through his fingers
    and he's living from day to day,
    carrying his world around upon his back,
    leaving nothing behind but the tell-tale of his track.

    He will not be hostage, he will not be slave,
    no snare of past can trap him, though the future may.
    Still he runs and burns behind him in advanced retreat;
    still his life remains unfettered - he denies defeat.
    It's far too late to turn, unless it's to stone.
    Leave the past to burn - at least that's been his own.

    Scorched earth, that's all that's left when he's done;
    holding nothing but beholden to no-one,
    claiming nothing, out of no false pride, he survives.
    Snow tracks are all that's left to be seen
    of a man who entered the course of a dream,
    claiming nothing but the life he's known
    - this, at least, has been his own.