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 The Soviets had a name for this --"bard"

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pinhedz
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Registration date: 2008-04-28

PostSubject: The Soviets had a name for this --"bard"   Wed Jan 14, 2009 2:31 pm

During the Soviet era, there was a type of performer known as a “bard.” It means a poet with a guitar. Their songs were more about the words than the music—like Woody Guthrie’s “talking blues” songs. And they didn’t come up with a lot of original tunes—they’d use the same song formats over and over again. Their performances were almost like poetry recitals with guitar accompaniment.

The most famous Soviet bard was Bulat Okudzhava. Here’s one of his lyrics:

The Song About The Black Cat

"From the backyard to our alley,
though what we call the back door
In that alley, like the landlord,
lives the neighborhood's black cat."

"He hides a smirk behind his whiskers,
the darkness is for him a shield.
All other cats may sing and cry,
but from this one, not a sound."

"He has long ago stopped mousing,
grinning behind his mustached snout,
It's like he’s hunting us in fact it seems,
for a piece of sausage-meat"

"Asking little, demanding nothing
his eyes a-yellow glowing in the dark.
We all may bring our food to him,
but we thank him as we go."

"Day or night he utters not a sound
he only eats his food and drinks his drink.
His dirty claws, they scrape the earth,
just as if they'd rip your throat."

"And so to know the house in which we live,
brings no cheer to not a soul.
Better to have hung a light, I guess,
but for that we'll never have the money."

Here's what his music sounds like; this song is called "The Last Trolley:"


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pinhedz
Schrödinger's Hepcat


Number of posts: 4486
Registration date: 2008-04-28

PostSubject: Re: The Soviets had a name for this --"bard"   Thu Jul 16, 2009 5:10 am

The Poet

A poet has no rivals,
neither in life or in destiny.
And when he cries out to the world,
it's not about you, but about himself.

He raises his fragile arms up to heaven,
he loses, drop by drop, life and strength;
he pines away, he asks forgiveness...
He doesn't do it for you, but for himself.

But when he reaches the end
and his soul takes flight in the darkness
beyond the field just crossed, the labour just concluded,
you decide for what and for who.

Either be the honey, or be the bitter cup,
either be the infernal fire, or be the temple...
All that was his, is yours now.
All is for you. Dedicated to you.

Dedicated to you.


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I don't do it for the money, babe. I do it to entertain people.-- Susan Boyle
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The Soviets had a name for this --"bard"

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