Vysotsky: Translations: Serge Elnitsky.

Vladimir Vysotsky: Songs: Trans. by Serge Elnitsky

Vysotsky's Lyrics: Translation by Serge Elnitsky

07
Be thankful
Bolshoi Karetnyi
Magadan
Moscow to Odessa
Mountain-climbing girl
Red and blue and...
The sentimental boxer's song
To sink to the bottom
The weightlifter

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Mountain-climbing girl
Russian title: Skalolazka

I asked, "Why would you bother to climb up there?"
As you headed off, singing happy songs,
"Mountains look just as beautiful from the air!" 
But you simply laughed, so I tagged along. 

   Oh, how gentle and how sweet you were, 
   My adorable mountain-climbing girl. 
   How you smiled as you pulled me from that crevasse, 
   My remarkable mountain-climbing lass. 

Then, for acting like such a clumsy oaf, 
I received two slaps right upside the head. 
But I knew that I had deserved them both -- 
So took no offense, but demurely said, 

   "Oh, how gentle and how sweet you were, 
   My incredible mountain-climbing girl. 
   How you smiled as you rescued my sorry ass, 
   My magnificent mountain-climbing lass." 

After that, every time we prepared to climb, 
You'd inspect my boots, you'd inspect my pick, 
You'd inspect my grapples and check the line, 
My distrustful mountain-climbing chick. 

   Oh, how scornful and how harsh you were, 
   My irascible mountain-climbing girl. 
   How you frowned as you pulled me from the abyss, 
   My implacable mountain-climbing miss. 

I kept up with you, though my body ached, 
You were straight ahead, just a step away, 
Thought I'd catch up and ask for a little break, 
Then I tripped and fell -- but had time to say, 

   "Oh, you've taken me right atop the world, 
   My invincible mountain-climbing girl. 
   Now, we're roped together in perfect joy: 
   Mountain-climbing girl, mountain-climbing boy."

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Moscow to Odessa
Russian title: Moskva-Odessa

I'm set to fly from Moscow to Odessa; 
As usual, the plane is running late. 
And all I see are blue-clad stewardesses, like princesses, 
Who tell me to sit down, shut up, and wait. 

   In Ashkhabad, the weather is just fine, 
   In contrast with Odessa, where it's snowing; 
   In Kishinev, the sun benignly shines, 
   It's great out there -- but that's not where I'm going. 

I'm told: don't overestimate your chances, 
The heavens aren't being very nice. 
And now, they say again: the next Odessa flight's been canceled -- 
Apparently, the runway's turned to ice. 

   In Murmansk, there is neither rain nor storm, 
   In Kiev and in Lvov, green grass is growing. 
   Tbilisi is enjoyable and warm, 
   It's great down there -- but that's not where I'm going. 

Announcement: flight to Leningrad's now boarding! 
I need to reach Odessa by tonight -- 
But over there, they're issuing inclement-weather warnings, 
And are accepting no incoming flights! 

   I need to go where snow-drifts are waist-high, 
   Where thunder rolls and chilly winds are blowing; 
   While somewhere else there might be sunny skies, 
   And life is good -- but that's not where I'm going. 

They say the flight is ready -- stop the presses! -- 
And now we're being ushered to the gate 
By beautiful and blue-clad stewardesses, like princesses, 
The ones that told me, earlier, to wait. 

   They've opened every city known to man, 
   Accessible by Tupolev or Boeing -- 
   All clear are Paris, London, and Milan; 
   New York's all clear, but that's not where I'm going. 

The pilot's voice immediately distresses: 
The flight's held up. I knew this couldn't last! 
The blue-clad stewardesses, like so many Miss Odessas, 
Now lead us calmly back into the past. 

   One more announcement comes: delayed till eight! 
   And passengers obediently say, "wake me"... 
   But, damn, I can no longer bear to wait; 
   I fly off to whatever place will take me.

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07
Russian title: 07

In my mind -- I'm an outlaw, this evening. 
My heart's racing, a minute a mile. 
With a calmness that might be deceiving, 
The familiar Oh-Seven I dial. 

   Hello, operator. What's your name? Lizzie. 
   Here's the area code, I hope the line is free. 
   No, please do try again, I'm sure it won't stay busy, 
   Ah, now someone's picking up... Honey, hi! It's me. 

Both impatient and angry I'm feeling, 
I don't care whether push comes to shove -- 
Why can't I, without onerous billing, 
Ever speak to the people I love? 

   Operator, listen! We should be more thorough! 
   Here's another number... Where, dammit, could she be? 
   To hell with all the phone lines, I'm flying out tomorrow! 
   Ah, now someone's picking up... Honey, hi! It's me. 

Like an icon to me is the phone, now, 
The directory's now my Koran. 
Operator, you're now my Madonna, 
Turning far into near, on demand. 

   Operator, please! Tonight you cannot falter, 
   Getting through tonight is crucial, can't you see? 
   You're my angel now, so don't step off the altar -- 
   Ah, now someone's picking up... Honey, hi! It's me. 

What, a problem again with the cable? 
A repair crew has just been dispatched? 
That's OK -- I am willing and able 
To begin every evening from scratch! 

   Operator, yes, I know at night it's hardest, 
   I've lost track of time here, I've been up since three; 
   Yes, of course, yes, yes, I will accept the charges! 
   -- Now connecting... Please stand by... -- Honey, hi! It's me.

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The sentimental boxer's song
Russian title: Pesnya sentimentalnogo boksera

Left hook, right hook, an uppercut, 
A jab to start round nine; 
Boris Budkeyev's kicking butt -- 
Alas, that butt is mine. 
I'm hoping I survive this round, 
I'm praying for the bell. 
Another jab, I'm on the ground, 
And I'm not feeling well. 

   Budkeyev was thinking, while punching my nose, 
   That life is as pretty and sweet as a rose. 

"Four, five, six, seven..." goes the count, 
I stagger to my feet; 
My fans don't think I can surmount 
His lead, and fear defeat; 
I'm not conserving strength, by plan, 
For later in the fight -- 
I just can't hit my fellow man, 
I just don't think it's right. 

   Budkeyev was thinking, while stomping my toes, 
   That life is as pretty and sweet as a rose. 

The fans have filled the air with boos, 
I'm letting down their hopes. 
Budkeyev's sure he cannot lose, 
And I am on the ropes. 
He's a Siberian, I bet, 
They're really hard to shake. 
I asked him, "Aren't you tired yet? 
Sit down and take a break!" 

   But he would not listen, for he's one of those 
   Who think life's as pretty and sweet as a rose. 

He keeps on landing jabs and hooks, 
He's prancing all around; 
I bob and weave, but now it looks 
Like someone's going down. 
He's reached complete exhaustion, and 
Collapses with a sigh; 
The referee lifts up my hand, 
Which hadn't hurt a fly. 

   He thought, as he lay there, that life's like a rose... 
   For some, like a rose -- and for some, it just blows.

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The weightlifter
Russian title: Shtangist

Weightlifting's not a recent innovation.
Recall how, once, a Greek of some renown
Picked his opponent up, in desperation,
And held him for a while, then tossed him down.

Applause will come -- for me, or for another?
As if a victim's neck, I grip the bar.
I want to tear Antaeus from his mother,
Just like that first athletic superstar.

   No graceful mustang, I! I'm hard as marble;
   And all my movements are constrained and slow.
   The barbell, the overloaded barbell,
   Forever's both my partner and my foe.
   
I wouldn't wish a task this uninviting
On anybody else. There's not much hope!
As I approach the heavy weight, I'm fighting
A heavy feeling: what if I can't cope?

Both it and I look like we're made of metal,
Though only it is metal to the core.
Once I walked up, and once the dust had settled,
I saw the dents my steps left in the floor.

   I don't have time to stand around and marvel.
   Will I earn shame or glory? I don't know.
   Ultimately, that's up to the barbell,
   My only partner and my only foe.

It looks impressive when you knock your foe down.
But in my sport, it's not so cut and dried.
Here's what's unfair about this final showdown:
I'm down below; the barbell is up high.

That sort of win's much like a loss, I reckon.
Yet victory is very simply found:
I must hold on for three more painful seconds,
Then slam the barbell down onto the ground.

   My ears are ringing, and my thoughts are garbled,
   And everything is swaying to and fro.
   As if by magnets drawn, down weighs the barbell,
   My faithful partner and relentless foe.

Still, it creeps upwards, slowly losing power;
My muscles, though, near bursting as they swell.
While from their seats, as if from lofty towers,
Spectators scream: "Just drop it, what the hell!"

I ascertain the judges' satisfaction;
My iron god goes down -- I've done my work.
I was performing that habitual action
Sadistically called the "clean and jerk."

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To sink to the bottom
Russian title: Syt ya po gorlo...

Aches and complaints, you name 'em, I've got 'em, 
Sicker of everything I've never been. 
Wish I could sink, like a sub, to the bottom, 
And disappear from all radar screens. 

"Have one more drink," a friend kept insisting, 
He kept repeating, "This, too, shall pass." 
He hooked me up with some chick named Kristin -- 
"She'll help you, just like the booze in your glass." 

But neither helped me feel any less rotten: 
It made my head hurt, she made a scene. 
Wish I could sink, like a sub, to the bottom, 
And disappear from all radar screens. 

Aches and complaints, you name 'em, I've got 'em, 
Now, even singing heightens my pain... 
Wish I could sink, like a sub, to the bottom, 
And send out signals never again.

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Magadan
Russian title: Magadan

You think I am a sedentary man? 
Believe me, you are very wrong on this one. 
I'll tell you how I went to Magadan, 
Listen! 

   How I saw the bay of Nagaisk, and 
   The highways... 
   If there's sleet, if there's snow, if there's ice, then -- 
   It's my way. 

I told a friend, "I'll visit when I can."
My promise was as good as etched in granite. 
I knew, someday, I'd get to Magadan, 
Dammit! 

   I would see the bay of Nagaisk, and 
   The highways... 
   If there's sleet, if there's snow, if there's ice, then --
   It's my way. 

Like from the plague, from my own self I ran.
The rumors flew -- my plane flew even faster.
I spent my first three days in Magadan
Plastered!

   But I saw the bay of Nagaisk, and 
   The highways... 
   If there's sleet, if there's snow, if there's ice, then --
   It's my way. 

I didn't give my enemies a chance, 
I didn't slit my wrists or have a seizure. 
I simply told myself, "There's Magadan. 
Be there!" 

   Then I saw the bay of Nagaisk, and 
   The highways... 
   If there's sleet, if there's snow, if there's ice, then --
   It's my way. 

I could've stayed at home, as I had planned,
While keeping all my girlfriends here from straying.
Instead, I flew away to Magadan, 
Saying:

   "I will see the bay of Nagaisk, and 
   The highways... 
   If there's sleet, if there's snow, if there's ice, then --
   It's my way." 

I knew that I'd get frostbite, not a tan;
I knew my wallet, too, would suffer badly.
But still, I chose to fly to Magadan,
Gladly!

   And I gazed at the bay, at the slopes, at 
   The highways... 
   You've not seen them? Then you're a dope, that's 
   What I say.

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Be thankful
Russian title: Podumaesh, s zhenoj ne ochen' ladno...

Who cares that your old lady's always nagging? 
Who cares that you are breaking out in hives? 
Who cares that, once again, you're off the wagon? 
Be thankful that, at least, you're still alive. 

Big deal -- your only jacket doesn't wear well. 
Big deal -- the nightmares tortured you till five. 
Big deal -- somebody mugged you in the stairwell. 
Be thankful that, at least, you're still alive. 

Yeah, yeah -- your poker partner died of scurvy. 
Yeah, yeah -- you're looking pale and sleep-deprived. 
Yeah, yeah -- you spent a week-end on a gurney. 
Be thankful that, at least, you're still alive. 

So what if you've got footprints on your forehead? 
So what if your career just took a dive? 
So what if your cholesterol is horrid? 
Be thankful that, at least, you're still alive. 

No sweat -- you never learned to play the fiddle. 
No sweat -- another summons has arrived. 
No sweat -- your head is hurting you a little. 
Be thankful that, at least, you're still alive. 

It's true that it's my fault, and I am sorry. 
It's true -- you can't achieve unless you strive. 
It's true. I only have a single worry: 
To whom should I give thanks that I'm alive?

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* * *
Russian title: Krasnoe, zelenoe...

Red and blue and mauve and green, 
Jade and quartz and tourmaline, 
Anything to keep you away from other men; 
Shirts and skirts and crinolines, 
Silken robes and denim jeans, 
But you just gave me vodka, and some cognac now and then. 

Even though I wasn't rich, 
I tried to scratch your every itch, 
Many times I asked, "Is this enough for you, my love?" 
Your usual response to which -- 
You lying, scheming, thieving bitch -- 
Was just to give me vodka and yell, "No, it's not enough!" 

The money came perpetually, 
It fell on you torrentially, 
Banknote after banknote, emeralds and gold; 
I played it safe, essentially, 
But still got caught, eventually -- 
Now, for a quarter-century, my life's been put on hold. 

Know that I intensely loathe 
You and all your stupid clothes, 
You're the only reason why I'm wearing white and black;
Screw you and your sacred oath, 
Screw you and your mother, both! 
Live the way you want to -- I am never coming back!

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Bolshoi Karetnyi
Russian title: Bolshoj Karetnyj

   Where were you at seventeen? 
   On Bolshoi Karetnyi. 
   And where've your troubles always been? 
   On Bolshoi Karetnyi. 
   Where's your big black .38? 
   On Bolshoi Karetnyi. 
   And where aren't you today? 
   On Bolshoi Karetnyi. 

Do you still recall that 
House, my friend? 
You'll remember always 
Where it stands. 
I would say that anyone's life was lived in vain, 
If he never walked Karetnyi Lane -- 
   Because... 

   Where were you at seventeen? 
   On Bolshoi Karetnyi. 
   And where've your troubles always been? 
   On Bolshoi Karetnyi. 
   Where's your big black .38? 
   On Bolshoi Karetnyi. 
   And where aren't you today? 
   On Bolshoi Karetnyi. 

Now, Karetnyi Lane is 
Not the same; 
It has been repainted 
And renamed. 
But anyplace you go and no matter what you find, 
Karetnyi Lane is always on your mind -- 
   Because... 

   Where were you at seventeen? 
   On Bolshoi Karetnyi. 
   And where've your troubles always been? 
   On Bolshoi Karetnyi. 
   Where's your big black .38? 
   On Bolshoi Karetnyi. 
   And where aren't you today? 
   On Bolshoi Karetnyi.

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