Country.
Grass under the feet of men.
In summer we do not see, in winter we do not feel.
In the fall, he rustles with fallen leaves, talks, as if he wants to say something very simple, understandable.
In the spring ... it makes its way to the sun and sky.
It reels the soul, wanders inside with maple, birch, and some other sap.
Makes you live.
Sing.
To strum on a guitar that has dried up all the nonsense about ripe stars and the southern night.
Pretty paper, pretty ribbons of blue
Wrap your presents to your darling from you
Pretty pencils to write "I love you"
Pretty paper, pretty ribbons of blue
Some kind of madness.
And always, as in any madness, there are founding fathers in the midst of the crowd.
Willie Nelson is one of them.
This is his song, by the way.
True, the sugary-sugar Pretty Paper brought fame to Roy Orbison.
It's a common thing - vocalists take everything from God.
Nelson was born terribly long ago.
Then they didn't really know the calendar either - April 29, 1933.
In Texas, of course.
Where else can a country music composer be born?
He was brutally stubborn.
Persistent and restless.
Fickle, cocky and impatient.
What else would you like to accompany a spicy dish with hot spices?
It looks simple and sleek at first.
Like a pastor.
Own.
From the plow and the earth.
The first significant song is Family Bible (not written by myself).
Ancient, like crying in the middle of the prairie.
When it is known for certain: there is no house, and there is no table in it, and there is no tattered prayer book or poor food on that table - all this is only destined to appear.
Later, not now.
If you are lucky, the prairie schooner will land in the right place, without losing the bones bleached by the winds and vultures.
On a long journey.
There's a family Bible on the table
Each page is torn and hard to read
But the family Bible on the table
Will ever be my key to memories
Or here's Willie Nelson's significant 1970s hit On the Road Again.
A song with constantly repeated words, not just from poetic heights.
On the road again -
Just can't wait to get on the road again.
The life I love is making music with my friends
And I can't wait to get on the road again.
On the way, on the road, my legs were erased ...
These are our "Valenki", just the opposite.
And now you are listening to "Valenki", for example, performed by Lydia Ruslanova, and do you understand - this is country, it has no nationality, no location.
What is there?
Yearning.
Ordinary and a ray of sun in the midst of the darkness of obscurity, subordination to the eternal forces of nature, endless expectation of the harvest - both rye and corn.
Or something else.
Similar ...
It's not even music.
Enumeration of old strings.
The blues grew out of slavery.
Country - out of despair.
Therefore, there are very strange, biblical-superman texts in country music.
Harbingers of Marvel and other terrible horrors.
An old cowboy went riding out one dark and windy day
Upon a ridge he rested as he went along his way
When all at once a mighty herd of red eyed cows he saw
A-plowing through the ragged sky and up the cloudy draw
Yippie yi Yaaaaay !!!
Yippie yi Ohhhhh !!!
Ghost Riders in the sky ...
The screams of the drivers of heavenly lost souls, visions of the temporal fog of oblivion, the understanding of the futility of efforts and suffering in the midst of mud and disorder, on the lands of the "damned redskins" (who, by the way, did not call anyone anywhere).
See who's on stage?
(Live at Nassau Coliseum, 1990) - Willie Nelson, Johnny Cash, Chris Christofferson.
And what are they doing?
Mass is being celebrated.
Without gloss and tears, in frayed jeans, most of all similar to visiting buffoonery entertainers, they tell the audience stories, children's horror stories for adults, the American chronicle of the great and senseless resettlement.
Chronicle in gloomy pictures.
Almost like Edgar Poe's.
And there are always so many tears in all this foreign country.
Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain is an iconic black mark piece written by Fred Rose, composer and music creator of Nashville.
Who remembers that now? ..
However, blue eyes crying in the rain ...
In the twilight glow I see her
Blue eyes crying in the rain
When we kissed goodbye and parted
I knew we'd never meet again
Love is like a dying ember
Only memories remain
Through the ages I remember
Blue eyes crying in the rain
Someday when we meet up yonder
We'll stroll hand in hand again
In a land that knows no parting
Blue eyes crying in the rain ...
There is no happiness and there never will be.
Everything is fleeting, the Lord holds us no stronger than dry river sand, squeezed into a handful.
One gust of wind.
One carelessly expressed desire ...
Willie Nelson sang Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain in his own way.
And he seems to have glorified the song.
Like "Valenki".
Or "Kalinka".
Kalinka, Kalinka, my Kalinka!
There is a raspberry in the garden, my raspberry!
Oh you!
I lived with a master, I lived with a dear
I have not gained anything ...
I have gained nothing
Kalinka, Kalinka, my Kalinka!
There is a raspberry in the garden, my raspberry! ..
"I have not gained anything ..."
And there is no beautiful luggage car for the next world, so that suitcases with junk-money, every belongings, gold-pebbles, diamonds.
Acres, ranches, horses ...
Sky.
Stars.
The river in the gorge.
Sun-drenched meadow.
A silver fish flank beating on the water ...
Elvis lifted Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain to unreachable heights.
Whenever I want to shake the fragile souls of my young friends, I invite them to listen to Presley's Country Songs.
Performed by Elvis.
Silence.
And attention.
And the question: “But this is not country?
Yes?
Country, is it - tryn-bryn? .. ”This is exactly what it is.
Bryn-tryn.
Grass under the feet of men.
Something that does not exist, and it never happened at all.
Great music of the heart, the music of fingers knocked down in blood, voices ripped off to the rattle of dying voices, the music of useless guitars and only for the wood of good pianos people make.
Grown over themselves.
That is why they listen to Ruslanova.
And not the choir of the village (any of your choice), recorded by random passers-by.
That's why they listen to Nelson.
What's in those "Valenki"?
What is in that haggard-faced grandfather of a cornered Indian chief?
Yes, yes - this is about Nelson now.
And the fact that the soul breaks out.
What to spit, what chords are there and how many times the same is shouted and purred.
In this one and the same - our whole life.
Got up.
Bowed to the sun, is there, is not it in the sky.
He took the soap and washed the stigma.
Began to walk for a plow.
Everyone has their own.
Sokha.
And to go after her - each of us in the family is written.
So what's up with country?
What's under your feet, brothers and sisters?
And where, pray tell, are your sewn, patched boots three times?
Funny How Time Slips Away - Also Willie Nelson wrote.
Who sang it best?
You yourself know.
Elvis.
Everything is in that text.
All about our days.
Flowing away like water.
Unnoticed by us, as if they were grass under our feet ...
Gotta go now,
guess I'll see you hanging round
Don't know when though, oh
Never know when I'll be back in town
But I remember what I told you
That in time your gonna pay
Ain't it funny how time slips away
Ain't it funny how time slips away ...
The point of view of the author may not coincide with the position of the editorial board.