The Time of Little Bells

Like Yanka Dyagileva, Alexander Bashlachyov might be called a "rock bard," known for powerful lyrics sung raucously to a simple guitar accompaniment. Bashlachyov's raw and emotional delivery, and his coarse voice, are strongly reminiscent of Vladimir Vysotssky, perhaps the most famous Russian bard. Unfortunately, Yanka and Bashlachyov both died very young, under somewhat strange circumstances (she by drowning, he by falling from his apartment window). Though most believe both deaths were suicides, some friends and family vigorously denied that suicide was possible, and various conspiracy theories arose, as typically did in the cases of such deaths throughout the Soviet period (including that of the poet Mayakovsky, for example).

While certainly not the most popular hit of the Soviet rock movement, Bashlachyov's "The Time of Little Bells" is arguably the most important, and one of the most well-written — metaphorically dense, historically complex, and rich in vernacular speech. It reaches back to pre-Soviet Russian religious culture, and the all-important symbol of the bell, rung to call worshipers to services and mark special occasions, but also to sound the alarm in times of danger. Russian bells were rung in a way that may strike the Western ear as cacophonous or chaotic; they are not rung to play out a discernable melody, as is often done in Western churches, but rather all at once, often by a bell ringer handling several ropes simultaneously; each rope pulls at the "tongue" of the bell, striking the tongue against the bell itself, which remains stationary. The bell was something sacred, and with good reason: the colossal undertaking of casting a bell in medieval Russia can better appreciated by watching the final scene of Andrey Tarkovsky's film about Russia's most famous icon painter, Andrey Rublyov, as his protégé, a young, aspiring bell-caster, is overwhelmed with emotion when his giant bell is successfully rung for the first time, despite his doubts of even knowing how to cast one. The largest bell ever cast in Russia is the so-called “Tsar Bell” (Царь-колокол, pictured above), mentioned in the song; but it cracked and was never rung, and to this day stands idly beside the Ivan the Great Bell Tower in the Kremlin (you may recall seeing it on Day 3!). 

Bashlachyov paints an apocalyptic picture of a Russia where these sacred things now lay discarded, its people wandering aimlesslessly - living "underground" in thier own country! What follows is a call to music - but not (yet) the ringing of big bells, but, more modestly, and perhaps more authentically, "little bells" (a Russian diminutive: a колокольчик is a tiny колокол, of the kind typically attached to shaft bow of a harness, and thus strongly associated with travel by carriage or sleigh - just take a line from Pushkin's poem "Demons": "Еду, еду в чистом поле / Колокольчик дин-дин-дин." - "I ride, I ride through the open field, the little bell ringing ding-ding-ding"). Bashlachyov uses the symbol of the "little bell" to link rock music (which earlier was known as "big-beat" in Russia) to the sacred spiritual music of Russia's past, even while calling it a "glorious paganism," and defiantly affirming the present "time of the little bells." One could take this outstanding song as a kind of manifesto of Soviet rockers, and many of them did indeed regard it as such. It's full of wonderful metaphors and images: for example, when he calls a bell a "bronze loudspeaker." And why, when his "heart rings out," do the crows scatter? Because they would scatter from the bell tower whenever a bell was rung.

It's very hard, if not impossible, to translate a text of this complexity. What follows is just a best attempt. To give one example: "gouge my eyes out" is a saying implying that "my eyes are of no use, you might as well gouge them out." It is usually said when it is pitch-black, and one can see nothing. In the song, it seems to imply that these eyes have seen it all, having lived for a lifetime (or, a century - the same word in Russian!). What about "chewing curses with prayers?" The noun матюги refers to мат — a kind of language formed from the most obscene Russian curses. Bashlachyov is paradoxically conflating the sacred and the profane.

We've mentioned that Russian rock musicians were long unable to perform publically, since they couldn't get permission to appear in public venues. This kept them "underground;" as we've already mentioend, Viktor Tsoi literally performed underground, in the boiler room of his apartment building. And Bashlachyov explicitly refers to the underground in this song. But the most typical type of performance was the apartment concert, called a "квартирник" (from the noun for "apartment,"квартира). The link for today's song is a bit of fascinating footage of a квартирник at the apartment of Akvarium frontman БГ (remember him?).

Again, try using the song for a bit of pronunciation practice. Soon, when we learn a bit about how verbs work, we'll switch gears, looking at much simpler songs that you might be able to understand a bit of in the original.

The Time of Little Bells

Long did we walk, through heat, through frost;
We bore everything, and remained free;
We ate snow with birch-tree porridge.
And grew as tall as the bell towers.

If we cried - we didn't spare the salt,
Nor, if we feasted - the gingerbread cookies.
The bell-ringers, with black-calloused hands,
Pulled at the nerve of the bronze loudspeaker.

But with each passing day, the times are changing.
The cupolas have lost their gold.
The bell-ringers are wandering about, idle.
The bells have been knocked down and split.

What are we doing now, walking around pointlessly,
On our own grounds, like underground-dwellers?
If they haven't cast a bell for us,
Then that means this is the time of little bells.

Our heart will ring out beneath our shirt,
Frantically - and the crows scatter.
Hey! Lead out the shaft horse and trace,
And we'll race off to all four ends of the earth.

But for how many years have the horses been unshod,
Nor a single wheel oiled.
There's no whip. The saddles have been stolen
And all knots are long since untied.

But in the rain, all roads are rainbows!
Disaster looms. Is this a time for laughter?
But if there's a little bell beneath the shaft bow,
That's all we need. Hitch the horses, off we go!

We'll thunder, whistle, click!
It'll spread to our bones, to our fingertips.
Hey, brothers! Can your little livers sense
The terrible laughter of the little Russian bells?

For a century we've chewed curses with prayers.
For a lifetime we've lived - gouge our eyes out.
We sleep and drink. For days and liters on end.
We don't sing. We've lost the hang of singing.

We've been waiting a long time. Walking around dirty,
And therefore we'd come to resemble one another;
But beneath the rain, we turned out to be different -
The majority of us - honest, good.

And who cares if the Tsar-Bell is broken?
We've come with our black guitars.
After all, big-beat, the blues, and rock-n-roll
Enchanted us with the very first strums.

And in our chest - sparks of electricity.
Throw your hats to the snow, and tug more ringingly.
Rock-n-roll - a glorious paganism.
I love the time of the little bells..

Время колокольчиков

Долго шли зноем и морозами,
Всё снесли и остались вольными,
Жрали снег с кашею берёзовой
И росли вровень с колокольнями.

Если плач – не жалели соли мы,
Если пир – сахарного пряника.
Звонари чёрными мозолями
Рвали нерв медного динамика.

Но с каждым днём времена меняются.
Купола растеряли золото.
Звонари по миру слоняются.
Колокола сбиты и расколоты.

Что же теперь ходим круг да около
На своём поле, как подпольщики?
Если нам не отлили колокол,
Значит, здесь время колокольчиков.

Зазвенит сердце под рубашкою
Второпях – врассыпную вороны.
Эй! Выводи коренных с пристяжкою
И рванём на четыре стороны.

Но сколько лет лошади не кованы,
Ни одно колесо не мазано.
Плётки нет. Сёдла разворованы.
И давно все узлы развязаны.

А на дожде – все дороги радугой!
Быть беде. Нынче нам до смеха ли?
Но если есть колокольчик под дугой,
Так, значит, всё. Заряжай, поехали!

Загремим, засвистим, защёлкаем!
Проберёт до костей, до кончиков.
Эй, братва! Чуете печёнками
Грозный смех русских колокольчиков?

Век жуём матюги с молитвами.
Век живём – хоть шары нам выколи.
Спим да пьём. Сутками и литрами.
Не поём. Петь уже отвыкли.

Долго ждём. Всё ходили грязные,
Оттого сделались похожими,
А под дождём оказались разные –
Большинство-то – честные, хорошие.

И пусть разбит батюшка Царь-колокол –
Мы пришли с чёрными гитарами.
Ведь биг-бит, блюз и рок-н-ролл
Околдовали нас первыми ударами.

И в груди – искры электричества.
Шапки в снег – и рваните звонче.
Рок-н-ролл — славное язычество.
Я люблю время колокольчиков.