Forty four years in a row.
Time after time and day after day.
I mentally enter that office.
To that room.
Which is no more.
Everything is like Maximilian Voloshin's.
It is with his poems that my story today begins.
Childhood memories.
Memory film glittering celluloid.
Something unrecoverable.
Something that no one can destroy.
My father listened to the crimson and pink apple disc every day.
And every day I looked at him through the sun (then, when he was removed from the turntable), looked at an envelope with antique figures and motorcyclists who had come from nowhere among them, imagined myself in a basket of a balloon carried away by geese or someone else to the upper right corner, and I did not understand, I could not understand in any way what was happening to me.
Did I love this music?
I wanted to rage under her and jump on the sofa, yelling and waving my arms?
Not...
Did she make me cry?
And this is unlikely.
What then brought you to tears?
A broken moon rover itself, a GDR submarine that sank in a dacha pond? .. We watched films about the war with clenched teeth, adults cried ...
Other.
The music became me.
I myself disappeared for a while.
I found myself far, far away - in hot countries, in caravans of oriental merchants, on the decks of ships carrying heavenly gifts to the eternal transcendental Atlantis, wandered among the reeds, fogs, reeds, the cries of a bird's wedge in the middle of the loneliness of autumn tore my little disobedient heart.
There was a rhythm.
Since then, it has entered my bloodstream forever.
There was a voice.
To the gallery page
Perhaps that is why I fell ill years later with voices of truly great ones.
There was a complex, unlike anything pattern, a dance of many woven threads, and I ran with him, looking for and did not find that first ball, that spark of primordial matter, from which everything flared up, turning into the world.
So hard and long.
I never thought that it would be so difficult and so long to live in one vinyl album of one very strange master who created eons ago.
But he is still alive.
I somehow immediately remembered him - David Tukhmanov.
It was so simple, imprinted in my memory by itself.
As well as the song-cry of a student who has never been seen, perished in a foreign land, caught up and lifted up at the last moment by the omnipotent gods of torn cloaks and long roads - vagants.
The Vagants amazed me completely.
Later, having found and read everything that came down to us from them, I realized: there were all spells.
In every line.
For fate and an evil time.
At a feast and an evening in a tavern, perhaps the last one, after which - nothing and a sky without stars.
Magicians.
Master words.
“Here I stand, holding an oar,
I'll sail away in a moment.
Poor heart sank
Sorrow and sorrow.
Water is quietly splashing -
Blue ribbon.
Think back sometimes
Your student! "
What does not fit in the human heart ...
And, probably, it's good if it hurts from this.
In that distant, almost mythical now country, we swore allegiance to each other for centuries, confessed our love to the grave, believed in heroes and titans who created, erected a sixth of the land in red and scarlet.
So weird...
It's just a plate.
A piece of cardboard.
A piece of vinyl.
And the sound.
And words.
September 9, 1976.
Release date of the album "In the wake of my memory".
The first edition of "Melody" practically did not reach the stores, it dissolved, as it were, in the eternity prepared for it.
The smallest, how much it cost from hands - ten, or even a quarter.
And everything was printed, printed.
And he was everywhere and in every (probably so?) House.
And he became a lamp of recognition "friend or foe".
How they found fault with us ...
And then, and always - "brothers" abroad.
With what an undisguised sense of superiority they called the bast shoes grimy and erratic.
And Tukhmanov connected all times and all the signs of the times on both sides of the vinyl record - Voloshin and Mitskevich, Baudelaire and Verlaine, Shelley and Goethe, Guillen ... Who knew Guillen then ?!
Akhmatova! .. As if leading an invisible, never heard by anyone woeful dialogue with Sappho ...
“It
seems to me that happiness is equal to God.
The person who is so close, close
Sits in front of you, your sounding tender
Listens to the voice
And a lovely laugh ... "
“You don’t like, don’t want to watch?
Oh, how beautiful you are, damned!
And I can't take off
And since childhood I was winged ... "
How was this possible?
Why was this done?
Why did he make all the involved vocalists sing in such a way that no one would recognize you, you know?
No one!".
And nobody knew.
At first.
And then...
Alexander Barykin, Sergey Belikov, Mehrdad Badi, Vladislav Andrianov, Lyudmila Barykina, Igor Ivanov. Everyone woke up famous. And it's sad and funny how they remember it.
Andrianov - very frankly and cheerfully, almost like a prankster, hastily combed and buttoned up by the head teacher right before entering the school stage: “Tukhmanov gave me a decent break ... We didn’t know anything about his plans at that time - we wrote it down and wrote it down ... One morning ... I am standing at the bus stop, and from all the windows, songs are pouring out all over the place - "In the French side ..." and "When was that, when was that?
In a dream?
Wake up? .. ”At that time all of us suddenly began to have such pacified faces, like Tomjons, they achieved everything, they could do everything.
Sewed tuxedos, put on shirts with bow ties.
It is necessary, they say, to correspond.
Kindergarten, in a word.
But the fact is: "In the wake of my memory" - it was ... it was a crazy takeoff. "
Skin as golden as the sun, thin heels,
Silk hair knot, dress folds are light
A mulatto, just a passer-by, how far we are now.
I thought after: "Little grass,
The wind roars over the abyss.
Sugar cane
Who will push you into the abyss?
Whose sickle will aim at you
Cut the sprout?
Which plantation is the mill
Will it grind you into powder? "
Nicolas Guillen - President of the National Council of Writers of Cuba during the time of Commander Fidel.
His poems.
Purified consciousness of eternity.
The abyss, which is still full of stars, and you will be as much as you wish - bow down, scoop up.
In that country and at that time only such a thing was possible - "every tractor driver in our country knows Pushkin!"
Is it funny?
I would not say.
Adoring Allan Poe, already at a very mature age, having stumbled upon Charles Baudelaire's essay about his, Poe, work, I realized: here it is, the bridge in my head - from the impossible to the unthinkable, and here he is, Baudelaire, in my mind, straight from there, from 1976.
Baudelaire, on whose verses Tukhmanov did not even write music - a mystery of light, love, maybe unattainable, maybe accessible - just stretch out your hand, Baudelaire, devoured by sorrows and circumstances, pierced through with nail verses about passions and vices, the most tender, lost and life and mind - illuminated my entire forty-four years, both my childhood and adult life.
Speaking simple truths, saving at the very last and terrible moment of despair - “She is.
She will be both your sister and your lover.
You must meet her.
You can find her. "
“
And we will enter together into a high ancient house,
Where coziness is polished by time ...
Where for love - centuries
Where even death is easy
In the desired land, similar to you ... "
Every tractor driver, in a quilted jacket and kirzachs, ten kilos of stuck mud, knew not only Pushkin.
Akhmatov.
Aseeva.
Gumilyov.
Albeit unconsciously, not right here with a volume in his hand.
Although what libraries we had!
Someone will hear.
Of those who will read.
Someone will hear me.
It was not the "red Atlantis" that went under water.
This is us under water.
Devoured by social media, well-intentioned and cotton candy "terrible mean" in everything.
"Sentimental walk" by Paul Verlaine, when from the fire to the fire, when the cold of October squeezes and presses on the chest - nobody and nothing, and that's it!
And in the same place, on the second side of the album, - Mickiewicz.
Be able to appreciate the small.
And the very last gift of fate ...
“
Be happy with the autumn leaf,
He was in a friendly hand, though not bright,
Be glad to him, finally, and for the fact that
This is the
last
gift
! "
Goethe - Herz, mein Herz, was soll das geben, was bedränget dich so sehr?
Tukhmanov's orchestration is on the verge of a rock disaster.
A mixture of everything, napalm and a steam roller and ... a leaf in the wind.
Slowly sinking to the water surface.
Many of Tukhmanov's translations are mixed with the originals, the speech jumps, you should get lost in a multilingual, but no.
How to get lost in absolute harmony?
This is later, over the years, the names of translators, mastodons of antiquity emerge - Veresaev, Ginzburg, Tynyanova, Levik, Efron ...
Red Atlantis.
"Victory Day" was also written by Tukhmanov.
The music for the song "Victory Day" was written by David Tukhmanov.
And then suddenly the first time not quite ...
"My address is the Soviet Union" - he is also.
As, however, and "The last train", "Eastern song", "These eyes opposite" - all of him.
He was asked a million times about Victory Day, how and what happened, what you feel, and he answers like this: “To this day I sing it in my programs, sometimes I end a concert with it.
So, the audience always gets up in the hall, and you know, at such moments I feel myself not as an author, but as one of these people.
If I had not been sitting at the piano, I would have stood up too ... This song has become, as it were, a part of history, it is a symbol of a huge country, and in this case I am just a particle of the people ... "
Part of the people.
Piano.
Kirz boots, ten kilos each, from stuck mud.
"Let Washington call us bast shoe Russia - today we launched over five tons of bast shoe."
"In the wake of my memory" on the net is usually called a concept album.
And this is somehow surprisingly true.
The humblest Tukhmanov says that the Beatles with Sergeant Pepper pushed him into the idea of such an album - well, of course.
The Beatles pushed ...
Probably, this is the whole "Red Project".
The entire "Red Project" on one vinyl of a crimson-scarlet color.
When nothing is superfluous and it does not matter who and how he lived, but what did you leave behind, what lines, why, my dear man, will we remember and recognize you?
Percy Bysshe Shelley.
Creator and thinker.
A tragic figure in the midst of many empty shadows.
A genius, of course.
On the plate of the "Melodiya" company of the USSR Ministry of Culture.
Tukhmanov never really explained how he came up with all this: “So somehow, you know, it occurred to me, and I decided - why not.
Experiment is always good. "
From here, one step to the Cosmos.
And we have already been in it.
There is such a strange little and newfangled concept - a cultural code, or maybe it always was.
By what and how we recognize each other.
People are still not only by smell ...
My friend, beautiful Amalia, three days ago, passing by, sang: “When was this, when was it, in a dream?
Wake up?
In a dream, in reality, along the wave of my memory, I will float ... "
And I clicked.
That Tukhmanov will turn eighty-one on the 20th of July.
That you don't need any long conversations to find out your own in the crowd, but just one piece of melody is enough.
What...
That everything is alive.
Everything can be and live again.
So it goes.
This text is a dedication and a mental message to my father.
And to all those who come into our life without asking permission, and leave it without closing the door behind them.
В тот открытый навсегда и навечно дверной проём мы видим перспективу, дорогу, уходящую вдаль, мост в вечность и лестницу в небо.
Там нам легче. Кажется, мы почти различаем неимоверно далёкие силуэты, слышим голоса...
Наверно, это и есть связь времён. Когда все живы и никому не надо умирать. Когда рядом с ожившими античными богами перекусывают в тени томных олив уставшие, запылённые веками времени мотоциклисты.
И кружится яблоко. И надписи на нём. И по волнам моей памяти плывут далёкие и прекрасные кораблики детства — сплошь из света и слёз. Из радости до перехваченного дыхания. Из красного, алого цвета зари и неба, мыслей и грёз.
Той страны нет.
Нет и того кабинета, той комнаты...
Но не оттого ли всё перечисленное мною — ещё более реально и зримо, ощутимо во времени и пространстве, будто и нет его и никогда уже больше не будет — ни времени, ни пространства.
А лишь одно только счастье.
Одна только жизнь.
На всех.
И для каждого.
На всех.
И для каждого.
«И в шелесте листаемых страниц,
В напеве слов, в изгибах интонаций
Мерцают отсветы бесед, событий, лиц…
Угасшие огни былых иллюминаций...»
Эти слова Волошина вы не услышите на диске фирмы «Мелодия».
Но вот фокус — и они там есть.
А ещё однажды приключилась с Волошиным смешная история — жена потеряла его из виду на вокзале в Москве и просто кричала: «Макс! Ма-а-акс!» И услышали её красноармейцы, и увидели мчащегося к жене огромного мужчину атлетического телосложения с неимоверно густой и вьющейся седой шевелюрой и окладистой пышной бородой.
Они, красноармейцы, подумали, что женщина кричала: «Маркс! Маркс!» Подошли к Волошину, горячо поприветствовали, крепко пожали руку, сказали что изучают со всем вниманием и прилежанием его труды.
Волошин улыбнулся лукаво и сказал: «Учите, учите, ребятки!»
Учите, ребятки.
И поэзию, и музыку, и самих себя.
Ибо сказано: «И они там есть».
Придёт время — и увидим.
Точка зрения автора может не совпадать с позицией редакции.