Skaldowie: Malowany Dym (Muza, 1969)

Malowany Dym is the first track on Skaldowie’s 1969 LP Cała Jesteś W Skowronkach (the title is translated on the sleeve as There Are Skylarks All Over You, presumably an idiomatic phrase meaning something like ‘You’re Happy’ or ‘You’re All Smiles’). Formed in Krakow around 1965 by Andrzej and Jacek Zielinski, Skaldowie quickly became one of the better known Polish bands of the era, with a softer sound than some of their peers, often comparable to the Beach Boys, but with a tone coloured by Polish folk melodies (particularly those of the Podhale region) rather than the American doo-wop that was Brian Wilson’s primary influence. Malowane Dym (Painted Smoke), is fairly typical of main composer Andrzej Zielinski’s defining approach, blending these highly distinctive Polish folk sounds with pop arrangements and instrumentation. It’s an odd mix, more subtle in its blend of Polish and Western influences than some of the era’s more immediately appealing (to Western ears, at least) Polish groups were creating at the same time. That said, it’s also worth noting that, as with some of the more ’Baroque Pop’ sounds being made in the UK and US between the mid sixties and early seventies (think of, say, The Four Seasons’ Genuine Imitation Life Gazette LP, or the Kinks’ Village Green Preservation Society) the later 1960s recordings of Skaldowie, which can be seen retrospectively as a transitional phase between the group’s earlier beat-based songs and Zielinski’s developing progressive leanings, have a layered and ornately textured quality that retains a lot of staying power. The original Polish lyric of Malowany Dym can be read here, and the song itself can be listened to here.

Malowany Dym (Painted Smoke)

(after Leszek Moczulski/Andrzej Zielinski, 1969)

I paint the wheels of my car but the brush goes on,
my eyes are fixed on all the wide sky above.
No-one knows I’m painting the pavements too,
all the trees, their leaves, the grass and bark.

I’m lighting fires, painting flames and chimney-stacks,
watching smoke rise: a letter sent to the sky.
Turn around. Look up through the rain,
then come to me, whenever you want, like smoke.

Watch the heavy cloth clouds begin to disperse,
dark curtains drawn back to reveal the stars.
I’ll be there, and look, start to paint again,
colour in roof and thatch, gutter-pipes and slates,

every echo sounding on this deserted street,
till all the air and warm drifting wind alike
carry their colours from my hand to your sight.
Keep your eyes fixed on the wide sky above

because I’m painting smoke and setting it free.
This smoke drifts through the world, for me.
Look up. The sky can be any colour you like.
Come to me. Be wherever you want, like smoke.

Hana a Petr Ulrychovi: Láska (Trezor, 1969/1990)

February 14 seems as good a time as any to add this fairly straightforward love song from Hana a Petr Ulrychovi’s Ulysses-themed Odyssea LP, simply titled Láska (Love), to the site. The original Czech lyric by Petr Ulrych can be read here and a live version of the song (performed by Ulrych with Atlantis in 1970) can be heard here. The version on the Odyssea LP itself has a more elaborate arrangement, courtesy of the Gustav Brom Orchestra.

Láska (Love)

(after Petr Ulrych, 1969)

The air melts, slides into a thousand words.
They fall to the ground, rise to our necks,
haunt those who strangled the songs
we heard in childhood on the lips of the dead.

Their echoes return, each sounding emptier,
more hollowed-out, than the one before.
I’d rather not know, wait for life’s return,
for the freedom of those human words.

It’s simple as the sun at noon, a song like this.
It will rise and fall if you’ll only sing.
For I’m a simple girl, hiding myself away,
feel everything, but keep it concealed in myself.

I’m simple as the flower, as laughter,
a welcome smile or the autumn sun that shines
when early frost descends from the sky.
I’m a simple girl. This is a simple song I sing.

But I don’t know yet if she’s the one.
I’m troubled, lost inside a maze of words.
She holds me in orbit like a turning moon.
I’m quiet as the wings of owls at night.

High in the clouds something stirs, says:
‘thou shalt not look here’, suggesting sin.
I wake with a head full of wicked thoughts.
Was it that Commandment put them in?

It’s simple as the moon at night, this song.
It will shine and set if you’ll only sing.
For I’m a simple girl, bashful and vain,
know everything, but keep all I know to myself.

I’m simple as the flowers, as stars,
as welcome sleep or the warmth on my skin.
Winter snow descends from the sky.
I’m a simple girl. This is a simple song I sing.

Hana a Petr Ulrychovi: Nechoď do Kláštera (Supraphon, 1968)

A fairly straightforward song from the Moravian brother and sister duo, Hana a Petr Ulrychovi, addressing a story as old as Hamlet and Ophelia or the letters of Heloise and Abelard, where parted lovers find themselves on opposite sides of a Convent’s walls after some unspecified misunderstanding or outside attempt at separation. The version here is somewhat elaborated around the core of the Czech text, though (I think) largely within the general mood set by the original song. It may be worth noting that the lyric here is not, slightly unusually, by Petr Ulrych himself, who in this instance restricts himself to music and performance, but is written by the rather prolific lyricist Vladimír Poštulka, among whose other works is Bludička Julie, which comprised the flipside to Hana Zagorova’s far more intriguing Rokle, which has already been featured here in an English version. The flipside to Nechoď do kláštera, incidentally, is an excellent English-language song performed by Atlantis with Hana Ulrychova, You Don’t Love Me Any More. The promotional film for Nechoď do kláštera, meanwhile, can be seen here and a version of Poštulka’s Czech lyric can be read here.

Nechoď do kláštera (Don’t Go to The Convent)

(after Vladimír Poštulka/Petr Ulrych, 1968)

In grass beneath firs at the edge of a wood
this pale girl lingers, her heart possessed.
Don’t leave her there, in a veil of black,
take her hand at the door, on the convent step,
lift her, at once – she will not be saved.
Hurry, seize her while the chance remains.
Only you can bring her laughter back…

Do not disappear among these convent stones,
stay, drink the cup of love to its end,
I’ll give you the best of what’s left in me,
do not disappear among this convent’s stones.

Sad girl, let’s go far away from here,
cast off that veil of black, those rosary beads.
Take my hand at the door, on the convent step.
You will not be saved from love by prayer.
Consider this water-lily I picked by the lake,
pale as a moon, yet bright as a sun.
Come away with me, now. Let’s sing till dawn.

Take a bow, sad girl, show a tear or two,
think of a gentle song like this:
find release in this song, my princess,
come closer and closer and closer…

You can’t leave her there, in a veil of black:
take her hand at the door, on the convent step,
lift her to her feet again. You can be saved.
Your only wish, today, is to be at her side,
so run to that convent, tell her how you feel.
Hurry, seize her while the chance remains.
Only you can bring her laughter back…

Halina Frąckowiak: Idę Dalej (Muza, 1974)

Halina Frąckowiak had long been known as the lead vocalist with Andrzeja Niebeskiego’s Polish soul outfit Grupa ABC when she released her first full-length solo recording, Idę, in 1974. While many of the songs were in more mainstream idioms, the best material used progressive instrumentation and arrangements, many composed by Frąckowiak herself (including the song that concerns us here, Idę Dalej) with some additional material on the LP arranged by such notable composers as Katarzyna Gärtner and Wojciech Trzciński. The supporting musicians on Idę are drawn from a wide pool of Polish players of the time, so the approach here appears to have been for Frąckowiak to put together an appropriate backing for each song rather than work with a more stable line-up (on her second solo release, Geira, she worked more consistently with the progressive rock band SBB). Idę Dalej itself has a heavy organ-based sound and a dynamic that underscores its message perfectly: as Frąckowiak walks out on her dying relationship into some unknown future, to be lived on her own terms, the slow sections describing what she’s leaving behind are contrasted neatly with the uplift of the choruses that describe her going. I can’t help suspecting that this song might well have a similar status in Poland to that held by Gloria Gaynor’s I Will Survive in the UK: a perfect marriage of heartbreak and exhileration precisely engineered to make the ending of a relationship feel like the most exciting thing in the world, tinged with sadness though it might remain. The full song can be heard here and a transcript of the Polish lyric, written by Janusz Kondratowicz, can be read here:

Ide Dalej (Going On)

(After Janusz Kondratowicz/Halina Frackowiak, 1974)

There’s not much I can give you,
I’ve so little left in hand:
while the clock ticks ever faster
my days fade out like sound.

I shared everything I had with you,
each word, each passing thought,
each touch and fleeting moment:
what’s left now is not enough.

So your silence grows in volume,
impatient stares turn dark,
moods shift from cold to black,
sway like palm trees in a storm.

I’m going, I’m going back to live my life.
I’m going, as one thing’s born and another dies.
I’m going, you’ll write your own account of us.
I’m going, don’t miss me, I’ll find my own way out.

I’m going, along the path I have to walk.
I’m going, where horizons fall out of sight.
I’m going, without you at my side,
I’m going, I’ll keep going. I’m moving on.

There’s not much I can give you,
I’ve so little left in hand:
while the clock ticks ever faster
my days fade out like sound.

I shared everything I had with you,
each word, each passing thought,
each touch and fleeting moment:
what’s left now is not enough.

Today, there’s nothing left of us,
what I know I’ll no longer hide.
One hope I’ll carry against the wind:
that the memory helps me live.

I’m going, I’m going back to live my life.
I’m going, as one thing’s born and another dies.
I’m going, you’ll write your own account of us.
I’m going, don’t miss me, I’ll find my own way out.

I’m going, along the path I have to walk.
I’m going, where horizons fall out of sight.
I’m going, without you at my side,
I’m going, I’ll keep going. I’m moving on.

Sarolta Zalatnay/Metro Együttes: Mostanában Bármit Teszünk (Qualiton, 1967)

I’ve wanted to include this particular song since a friend first alerted me to its importance in the Hungarian context around two years ago, but that same importance has made it something it seemed crucial to get at least approximately right, and the absence of any workable and reliable gloss from the Hungarian has meant it’s only now that I’ve had an opportunity to make even this tentative attempt at an English version of the lyric. Written by the Belgrade-born but Hungarian-resident brothers Zorán and Dusán Sztevanovity for their group, Metro, in 1967, the song gained prominence when featured in a key film documenting the emerging youth culture of the time, Ezek e Fiatalok (These Young People). The lyric in Hungarian can be transcribed roughly as follows, if my sources are correct:

Mostanában bármit teszünk, egyre több a vágy.
Ki az, akit vádolnak? Ki az, akit vádolnak?
Téged is, ha életkorod nem sokkal a húsz év fölött jár.
Mondd csak, mivel vádolnak? Mondd csak, mivel vádolnak?
Tűnik az, hogy korosztályunk másképp él, mint jó apáink,
nem hasonlít mégse rájuk, náluk néha többre vágyik már.
Mostanában bármit teszünk, egyre több a vágy.
Ki az, akit vádolnak? Ki az, akit vádolnak?
Téged is, ha életkorod nem sokkal a húsz év fölött jár.
Mondd csak, mivel vádolnak? Mondd csak, mivel vádolnak?
Vétek az, ha hajunk hosszú,kedves táncunk nem a tangó.
Ki az, akit vádolnak? Ki az, akit vádolnak?
Tánczenénk ha gyors, ha lassú, számukra csak fület bántó zaj.
Mondd csak, mivel vádolnak? Mondd csak, mivel vádolnak?
Évek múlva biztos mi ishallunk ehhez hasonlókat,
egyszer tán a fiaink is így mondják el bánatukat majd.

Coming only a decade after the brutal suppression of the 1956 uprising, the accusatory tone adopted, and the song’s assertion of a basic right to be, well, young, was a potent mix. The studied insolence of the very young Sarolta Zalatnay in this performance is utterly remarkable, every bit as charismatic as her Western contemporaries and predecessors, but it’s the content of the song that seems most forceful. The refrains demanding to have the accusations and charges insinuated by those prone to criticise the young spelled out would have contained a particularly powerful bite in a context where dissidence could still be an arrestable offence in the view of the State, so while on a par with equivalent Western songs similarly asserting the rights of the young, Mostanában is a song that in its own time and place made a stronger statement than the familiarity of some of its sentiments to Western ears would, by themselves, indicate. The song, as performed in Ezek e Fiatalok, can be heard here, and if any Hungarian speaker finds the original lyric transcribed above, or the English version below, to contain errors, please do get in touch: these are all drafts and versions in progress, open to correction.

Mostanában bármit teszünk (These Days, Whatever We Do)

(after Zorán Sztevanovity/Dusán Sztevanovity, 1967)

These days, whatever we do, it seems we want more:
What are we accused of? Who has been accused?
We’re not even twenty, hanging out with our friends:
Tell me, what’s the problem? Tell me, what’s the charge?
Our fathers are another age, we don’t compare, we want more now!
What are we accused of? Who has been accused?
We’re not even twenty, hanging out with our friends:
Tell me, what’s the problem? Tell me, what’s the charge?
We don’t dance the tango, and you think it’s a shame:
What are we accused of? Who has been accused?
Our dancing’s fast, our music hurts your ears:
Tell me, what’s the problem? Tell me, what’s the charge?
I’m sure when we’re older, we’ll dance more slowly ourselves:
What are we accused of? Who has been accused?
That day, our sons will start to complain about us:
Tell me, what’s the problem? Tell me, what’s the charge?
But these days, whatever we do, it seems we want more:
What are we accused of? Who has been accused?
We’re not even twenty, hanging out with our friends:
Tell me, what’s the problem? Tell me, what’s the charge?
What are we accused of? Who has been accused?

Alibabki: Kwiat Jednej Nocy (Pronit, 1969)

Alibabki were an all-female vocal group formed around 1964, probably in an attempt to replicate the success of the by-then well established Filipinki, at the peak of their popularity that year with songs like Wala-Twist. It appears that Alibabki’s repertoire was initially controlled by the group’s producers and managers, Zbigniew Ciechan and Jan Rybiński, and they were generally used as  backing singers to a variety of groups and solo artists through the mid-sixties: after 1968 they seem to have won greater independence and embarked on material produced in their own name, alongside many far more adventurous collaborations. Among Alibabki’s most notable endeavours in the latter category are their contributions to recordings by Tadeusz Wozniak and Czeslaw Niemen, but it’s on their 1969 debut LP Kwiat Jednej Nocy that they really came into their own, and fully distinguished themselves from both the pop-orientated Filipinki and the more experimental NOVI Singers. Alibabki’s frequently changing line up, featuring core members Alicja Puk, Anna Dębicka, Anna Łytko, Ewa Dębicka, Krystyna Grochowska, Sylwia Rajchert and Wanda Orlańska, marked out its own territory in sound with a unique hybrid of folk-inflected harmonies applied to pop and jazz material. The arrangements on Kwiat Jednej Nocy range widely, from the uptempo pop-psychedelia of Slonce W Chmurach Lazi (Sun Loafing in the Clouds) to the title track’s more conventional cabaret pop, a 1920s pastiche style that proved repeatedly popular at song festivals. Its lyric, by Jonasz Kofta, offers a spin on the kind of romantic floral motif also to be found in much European Symbolist poetry.  The song can be heard here, and a version of the Polish lyric can be read here.

Kwiat Jednej Nocy (A Night Flower)

(After Juliusz Loranc/Jonasz Kofta, 1969)

This white flower will bloom just once,
for one night give such fragrance out
that stars must bow, a daylight breeze
fan the flower’s small flame
as though to keep it bright for years.

These petals light up only for a moment
while the whole world sleeps,
pour wormwood and vanilla scent
from the heart of one white cup.
All the night stars will bow to its light.

This white flower knows my secrets well,
knows I loved once, for many years,
still sleep in love with the world.
Who knows this bloom is mine?
My secret knows the white flower, too.

Filipinki: Batumi (Muza, 1964)

This first posting of 2012 offers a small, feather-light hymn to the city of Batumi in the Soviet Caucasus by Poland’s leading early 1960s female vocal group, Filipinki, whose history is discussed in a little more detail in this earlier post, where their commemorative twist-song, dedicated to Valentina Tereshkova, the first female Cosmonaut, was given an approximate English version. After some very helpful translation from the Cyrillic titles on a series of small postcards (many thanks to the poet Peter Daniels for that effort) it was also possible to confirm that a few of the views contained in a 1955 Soviet folder, forwarded to me along with a CD by Martin Joela of the excellent Melodija website in Tallin, show one or two scenes from the city celebrated in this particular song. Released in 1964 on the same EP as the Wala-Twist (Valentina Twist) the song can be heard here and the original Polish lyric (and a probably slightly more accurate English translation) can both be found here.

Batumi

(Artemij Ajwazjan/Ola Obarska, 1964)

In our wanderings we’ve seen many cities,
many rivers and seas, mountains among many stars.
But the city we sing about, and remember now,
the city that nourishes our kindest dreams
of how things might be: that city is Batumi.

Yes, Batumi, circled by fields of fragrant grass
the colour of tea or skin touched by sun,
where cicadas cradle us in sleep till dawn
and we’ll wake to one more moment of happiness.

We leave this city with heavy hearts, say ‘Farewell Georgia’
with a little song, launch our words like boats
on the resonant, expansive echoes of here.
When we close our eyes, we’ll see Batumi once more,
picture this place where our dreams can breathe.

Yes, Batumi, circled by fields of fragrant grass
the colour of tea or skin touched by sun,
where cicadas cradle us in sleep till dawn
and we’ll wake to one more moment of happiness.

In our wanderings we’ve seen many cities,
many rivers and seas, mountains among many stars.
But the city we sing about, and remember now,
the city that nourishes our kindest dreams
of how things might be: that city is Batumi.

Marta Kubišová : Ne (Trezor, 1969/1990)

Not surprisingly, this most joyous of protest songs went unreleased in the immediate aftermath of the Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia in 1968 when it was first recorded by a woman who was already the most popular female artist in the country, standing on the cusp of an international career that was terminated with a 20-year ban on performing and recording implemented (after just under two years of increasingly prominent and vocal opposition to ‘normalisation’ from Kubišová herself) in early 1970. Thereafter, she worked in all kinds of menial and clerical jobs to support herself, aided at times by former colleagues and friends, and was, alongside her friend Vaclav Havel, one of the first signatories of the Charter 77 document catalysed by the arrest of rock band The Plastic People of the Universe. Hearing the news of Havel’s death today, it seems far better to celebrate the defiance he represented – as expressed by Kubišová – than to mourn his passing. When dissidents like him began, shaped by the thaw of the Dubček era, they couldn’t have known how the story of their country would unfold: and standing at the end of 2011, with our own supposedly free markets displaying all the same arrogance, stupidity and willingness to repress democratic accountability as their sclerotic Communist forebears in 1968, it seems the best way to celebrate Vaclav Havel’s life is to continue the questioning and resistance it represented. Marta Kubišová’s Ne finally appeared on the uncensored version of her 1969 Songy a Balady LP released on the Trezor label in 1990, and the song can be heard here.

Ne (No)

(after Otakar Petrina/Zdenek Rytir, 1969)

I’d buy all the Pacific, and the other seas besides,
with storms and hurricanes scattered here and there.
I’d build a house on the deepest ocean’s floor
if it meant I’d be clear of this country’s shores
where fear rules and false accusations are bold.
Does anyone here want to live in that world?

No.

I’d buy spring sky and the beauty of all its stars,
with wind sometimes, on its journey home.
I’d build my castle walls on a foundation of clouds
and hope by some miracle it wouldn’t fall.
This country is ruled by fear, kills innocence.
Would anyone here want to return to this?

No.

But I’d find the sea lanes are guarded by warships,
carrying tons and kilos of bullets and bombs.
If I went under, deeper, submarines would plunge
and soon find my home in the water-caves.
In the sky are airplanes and satellites, as you know -
is there anywhere, then, where I might go?

No.

So we’re all caged here, and keep ourselves quiet,
but might sail out, sometimes, under camouflage.
Should we be grateful that we’re granted permission to live?
That if we just say nothing, we’ll be left in peace?
Fear rules this place, false accusations grow bold.
Does anyone here want to remain in this world?

No.

Prúdy: Čierna ruža (Supraphon, 1968)

There’s a pronounced fairytale feel to this 1968 song by the Slovak progressive rock band Prúdy (the group’s name means ‘streams’ or ‘currents’). They initially formed in 1962, around the nucleus of Pavol Hammel and Marián Varga, but made their name with their debut LP release, Zvoňte zvonky (The Bells Ring) in 1969. Zvoňte zvonky is a record that bridges between influences from classical music and the thriving pop, beat and psychedelic rock idioms of its own particular moment. Čierna ruža (Black Rose) was released as a single in 1968 and later featured as that now classic album’s final song and carries many of its distinctive characteristics, not least a prominent role for piano and strings, a tendency to abruptly change mood and tempo (in this case, from a timeless feel in the verses to extended passages of heavily distorted guitar and layered vocal harmonies on the chorus) and adds a lyric that works as a similar hybrid to the music. Here, we find quasi-traditional (deliberately anachronistic, even) folk and poetic images merged with far more current linguistic registers and themes. The rendition below is much adjusted from the original, in both form and content, but it hopefully remains at least in the vicinity of its model as far as the gist of its meaning goes. The song can be heard here, and a version of the original lyric can be found here.

Čierna ruža (Black Rose)

(after Marián Varga/Ján Masaryk, 1968)

There is nothing in this world: no romance, no heroic deeds.
I look outside – there is not one castle to be seen
between where I stand and the furthest horizon.
You are not there, either, are not standing under this window,
waiting for me. It seems you are not of this world,
will never wait at the window  for me to come,
never stand there to be seen by this one you might love.
I blame this small black rose – this small black rose
etched in the metal, mud and dust, a chimera
glimpsed between all the grey shadows of this world I’ve known.
Yes, I blame the black rose – this small black rose.

You are not there, either, are not standing under this window,
waiting for me. It seems you are not of this world.
I ask: can I offer a rose to the tedium of the present day?
Can I give a rose, or does the rose give me?
Do you even want this small black rose I hold?
There are roses on the tablecloth, a stem in a vase.
The water I offer in exchange for their flowers
opens them,  petal by petal, deliberate as a desert bloom,
slow as the heat, insubstantial as anything in this world.
Does the heart give love, or take the love it finds?
There is love in this desert, one small black rose.

Olympic: Ikarus Blues (Supraphon, 1968)

Like Báječné místo, already included here, Ikarus Blues is a song on Olympic’s second LP, Pták Rosomák (The Wolf-Bird), and – like its predecessor – appears to hold a Prague Spring subtext that ensured its parent LP’s removal from circulation during the ‘normalisation’ period of Gustáv Husák. The lyric’s retelling of the myth of Icarus, whose aspiration to fly was thwarted by the Gods and too close a proximity to the Sun, is here freighted with political significance, subtle but fairly hard to miss regardless. Musically, with its wordless vocal passages (not reflected in this version), inventive studio guitar work and droning sitars, this is certainly among Olympic’s best songs: the Czech lyric can be read here and the song itself can be heard here.

Ikarus Blues (Icarus Blues)

(after Pavel Chrastina/Ladislav Klein, 1968)

A pair of wings is a wonderful gift –
Who forgot to give them to us?
The sun spoke, and – well, you know how it’s been:
we couldn’t bear to hear the words.
Who knows your name now? Everyone.
All say “Icarus is the sun”.
He took off, my friend, so long ago
the years between are filled with longing
for the wings Icarus always wore.

But maybe anyone here could fly?
All of us understand that desire,
born with fear of that first fall
as we toddled, barefoot and very small,
on rugs or waxed wooden floors
around our childhood homes…
Maybe now we will win our share,
feather our arms, glue our whole lives
with candlewax to this altar-stone.

But Icarus – he knows the long fall,
the dark night burned by the sun,
knows how capricious mighty gods,
queasy with ambrosia, can sometimes be.
Up there is the butter of soft red wax
as the sun melts human wings
and an ocean swirls, so far below
he is falling still. Will that crash be heard?
One day, the sound will frighten me.

Soon, perhaps, when the sea calms
we’ll find wool and feathers washed ashore.
Crowds of children pick them up,
take them home to weave hopes from.
Till then, you’d dream those fragments
sliding from the arms of a man who flew;
maybe catch a glimpse of better days
in that moment he stays, poised in the air,
free of all gravity, before the fall.

It’s my friend, Icarus, who sings this blues,
hero of men, enemy of distant gods
who’d prefer to fight among themselves.
A pair of wings is a wonderful gift –
Who forgot to give them to us?
The sun spoke, and – well, you know how it’s been:
we couldn’t bear to hear the words.
Who knows his name now? Everyone.
All say “Icarus touched the sun”.

But Icarus – he knows the long fall,
the dark night burned by the sun,
knows how capricious mighty gods,
queasy with ambrosia, can sometimes be.
Up there is the butter of soft red wax
as the sun melts human wings
and an ocean swirls, so far below
he is falling still. See his body, spinning down.
One day, Icarus might hit the ground.