Машину купила, права купила, мозги купить забыла!

Наблюдал в пробке при выезде из Москвы страшную картину. Едет новенький полуседанчик (Volkswagen Polo Sedan), на заднем стекле наклейка «За рулем хУй», за рулем вместо него — девочка, на дорогу не смотрит, читает какую-то очень интересную книжку.


Полуседанчик жалко, девочку не очень.

Американский шансон

ЖЖ-шная общественность восторгается подборкой американского кантри, не задумываясь, что же такое это кантри на самом деле. В английской википедии третьей же строчкой цитируется Harlan Howard, писавший песни в этом стиле: «Country music is three chords and the truth» — то есть «кантри — это три аккорда и правда». Ничего не напоминает? Правильно, у нас подобное называется «русский шансон» — песни про мелкоуголовный элемент и прочих «пацанов с раёна». Предлагаю заценить некоторые тексты.

Для начала — хит 1960 года Hot Rod Lincoln.

Have you heard the story of the hot rod race
Where the Fords and the Lincolns were setting the pace?
Well that story is true cause I’m here to say
I was driving that model A.

It’s got Lincoln motor and its really souped up
And that model A body makes it look like a pup
It’s got eight cylinders, uses them all
It’s got overdrive, just won’t stall

It’s got a four barrel carb, and dual exhaust
With four, eleven gears you can really get lost.
It’s got safety tubes, but I ain’t scared
Breaks are good, tires fair

Pulling out of San Pedro late one night
With the moon and the stars just shining bright
We was headed up grapevine Hill
Passing cars like they was standing still

All of a sudden, in the wink of an eye
A Cadillac sedan passed us by
I said «Boys this ones marked for me»
But by then the tail lights was all you could see

Now the fellas rid me for being behind
So I thought I’d let that Lincoln unwind
Took my foot of the gas and man alive
I shoved it on down into over drive

Wound it up to 110
My speedometer said I hit top end
My foot was glued like lead to the floor
And that’s all there is, and there ain’t no more

Now the boys all thought that I’d lost my sense
Those telephone poles were like a picket fence
They said «Slow down, I see spots!»
The lines on the road just looked like dots

Took a corner, side swiped a truck
Crossed my fingers just for luck
My fenders was clicking the guard rail post
The guy beside me was white as a ghost

We had smoke coming from out of the back
When I started to gain on that Cadillac
I knew I could catch him, I thought I could pass
But don’t you know by then we’d be low on gas

I had flames coming from out of the side
Feel the tension, man what a ride
I said «Look out boys, I’ve got a license to fly»
And that Caddy pulled over and let us by

All of the sudden she started knocking
Down in the dips she started rocking
I looked in the mirror. Red lights were blinking
The cops was after my Hot Rod Lincoln — Damn

The arrested me and they put me in jail
Called my pappy to throw my bail
And he said «Son, you’re going to drive me to drinkin’
If you don’t stop driving that Hot Rod Lincoln»

Песня про то, как пацаны на девятке с ара-тюнингом (hot rod — на самом деле примерно то же самое) гонялись по шоссе, обходили всех, как стоячих, а потом, что логично, загремели в кутузку.

Про тяжелую жизнь американских заключенных — следующая песня, попавшая в чарты в 1956 году — Folsom Prison Blues.

I hear the train a comin’
It’s rollin’ ’round the bend,
And I ain’t seen the sunshine,
Since, I don’t know when,
I’m stuck in Folsom Prison,
And time keeps draggin’ on,
But that train keeps a-rollin’,
On down to San Antone.

When I was just a baby,
My Mama told me, «Son,
Always be a good boy,
Don’t ever play with guns,»
But I shot a man in Reno,
Just to watch him die,
When I hear that whistle blowin’,
I hang my head and cry.

I bet there’s rich folks eatin’,
In a fancy dining car,
They’re probably drinkin’ coffee,
And smokin’ big cigars,
But I know I had it comin’,
I know I can’t be free,
But those people keep a-movin’,
And that’s what tortures me.

Well, if they freed me from this prison,
If that railroad train was mine,
I bet I’d move out over a little,
Farther down the line,
Far from Folsom Prison,
That’s where I want to stay,
And I’d let that lonesome whistle,
Blow my Blues away.

Лирический герой ни за что ни про что замочил какого-то мужика в городе Рено, штат Невада, за что его почему-то посадили. Сидит теперь и тоскует.

Вот еще одна песенка — In The Jailhouse Now

He’s in the jailhouse now he’s in the jailhouse now
I told him once or twice quit playin’ cards and shootin’ dice
He’s in the jailhouse now

I had a friend named Ramblin’ Bob
Who used to steal gamble and rob
He thought he was the smartest guy in town
But I found out last Monday
That Bob got locked up Sunday
They’ve got him in the jailhouse way down town
He’s in the jailhouse now he’s in the jailhouse now
I told him once or twice quit playin’ cards and shootin’ dice
He’s in the jailhouse now

I went out last Tuesday met a gal named Susie
Told her I was the swellest guy around
We started to spend my money
Then she started to call me honey
We took in every cabaret in town

We’re in the jailhouse now we’re in the jailhouse now
I told him once or twice quit playin’ cards and shootin’ dice
We’re in the jailhouse now

Украл, выпил, в тюрьму! Романтика!

Перейдем теперь к категории «шансон без тюрьмы». Допустим, к шОферским песням. Это направление шансона прекрасно представлено и в Америке. По одной такой песне даже фильм сняли. Итак, хит 1975 года — Convoy.

[On the CB]
Ah, breaker one-nine, this here’s the Rubber Duck. You gotta copy on me, Pig Pen, c’mon? Ah, yeah, 10-4, Pig Pen, fer shure, fer shure. By golly, it’s clean clear to Flag Town, c’mon. Yeah, that’s a big 10-4 there, Pig Pen, yeah, we definitely got the front door, good buddy. Mercy sakes alive, looks like we got us a convoy…

Was the dark of the moon on the sixth of June
In a Kenworth pullin’ logs
Cab-over Pete with a reefer on
And a Jimmy haulin’ hogs
We is headin’ for bear on I-one-oh
‘Bout a mile outta Shaky Town
I says, «Pig Pen, this here’s the Rubber Duck.
«And I’m about to put the hammer down.»

‘Cause we got a little convoy
Rockin’ through the night.
Yeah, we got a little convoy,
Ain’t she a beautiful sight?
Come on and join our convoy
Ain’t nothin’ gonna get in our way.
We gonna roll this truckin’ convoy
‘Cross the U-S-A.

[On the CB]
Ah, breaker, Pig Pen, this here’s the Duck. And, you wanna back off them hogs? Yeah, 10-4, ’bout five mile or so. Ten, roger. Them hogs is gettin’ in-tense up here.

By the time we got into Tulsa Town,
We had eighty-five trucks in all.
But they’s a roadblock up on the cloverleaf,
And them bears was wall-to-wall.
Yeah, them smokies is thick as bugs on a bumper;
They even had a bear in the air!
I says, «Callin’ all trucks, this here’s the Duck.
«We about to go a-huntin’ bear.»

‘Cause we got a great big convoy
Rockin’ through the night.
Yeah, we got a great big convoy,
Ain’t she a beautiful sight?
Come on and join our convoy
Ain’t nothin’ gonna get in our way.
We gonna roll this truckin’ convoy
‘Cross the U-S-A.

[On the CB]
Ah, you wanna give me a 10-9 on that, Pig Pen? Negatory, Pig Pen; you’re still too close. Yeah, them hogs is startin’ to close up my sinuses. Mercy sakes, you better back off another ten.

Well, we rolled up Interstate 44
Like a rocket sled on rails.
We tore up all of our swindle sheets,
And left ’em settin’ on the scales.
By the time we hit that Chi-town,
Them bears was a-gettin’ smart:
They’d brought up some reinforcements
From the Illinois National Guard.
There’s armored cars, and tanks, and jeeps,
And rigs of ev’ry size.
Yeah, them chicken coops was full’a bears
And choppers filled the skies.
Well, we shot the line and we went for broke
With a thousand screamin’ trucks
An’ eleven long-haired Friends a’ Jesus
In a chartreuse micra-bus.

[On the CB]
Ah, Rubber Duck to Sodbuster, come over. Yeah, 10-4, Sodbuster? Lissen, you wanna put that micra-bus in behind that suicide jockey? Yeah, he’s haulin’ dynamite, and he needs all the help he can get.

Well, we laid a strip for the Jersey shore
And prepared to cross the line
I could see the bridge was lined with bears
But I didn’t have a dog-goned dime.
I says, «Pig Pen, this here’s the Rubber Duck.
«We just ain’t a-gonna pay no toll.»
So we crashed the gate doing ninety-eight
I says «Let them truckers roll, 10-4.»

‘Cause we got a mighty convoy
Rockin’ through the night.
Yeah, we got a mighty convoy,
Ain’t she a beautiful sight?
Come on and join our convoy
Ain’t nothin’ gonna get in our way.
We gonna roll this truckin’ convoy
‘Cross the U-S-A.

[On the CB]
Ah, 10-4, Pig Pen, what’s your twenty? OMAHA? Well, they oughta know what to do with them hogs out there fer shure. Well, mercy sakes, good buddy, we gonna back on outta here, so keep the bugs off your glass and the bears off your tail. We’ll catch you on the flip-flop. This here’s the Rubber Duck on the side.
We gone. ‘Bye,’bye.

Песня про то, как американские дальнобойщики, простые реднекские парни на здоровенных грузовиках нарушают все, что можно, изображая из себя «конвой» — впрочем, смотрите одноименный фильм.

Еще одна популярная тема — военные песни. Предлагаю послушать PT-109.

In ’43 they put to sea thirteen men and Kennedy
Aboard the PT 109 to fight the brazen enemy
And off the isle of Olasana in the straight beyond Naru
A Jap destroyer in the night cut the 109 in two
Smoke and fire upon the sea everywhere they looked was the enemy
The heathen gods of old Japan yeah they thought had the best of a mighty good man

And on the coast of Kolombangara looking through this telescope
Australian Evans saw the battle for the crew had little hope
Two were dead and some were wounded all were clinging to the bow
Fightin’ fire and flightin’ water trying to save themselves somehow
Smoke and fire upon the sea…

McMahon the Irishman was burned so badly he couldn’t swim
Leave me here go on he said cause if you don’t we’ll all be dead
The PT skipper couldn’t leave him a man to die alone at sea
And with a strap between his teeth he towed the Irishman through the sea
Smoke and fire upon the sea…
[ flute ]
He led his men through waters dark rocky reefs and hungry sharks
He braved the enemy’s bayonets a thirty eight hung round his neck
Four more days and four more nights a rescue boat pulled into sight
The PT 109 was gone but Kennedy and his crew lived on
Now who could guess who could possibly know that same man named Kennedy
Would be the leader of the nation be the one to take command
The PT 109 was gone but Kennedy lived to fight again
Smoke and fire upon the sea everywhere they looked was the enemy
But JFK and his crew lived on
Which proves it’s hard to get the best of a man named John
(Big John Big John Big John Big John Big John Big John)

Это — про эпизод из биографии тогдашнего американского президента Джона Кеннеди. Во время войны он служил на флоте, командовал торпедным катером. Катер был потоплен японцами, но Кеннеди и большая часть экипажа спаслись. Разумеется, что эпизод активно «раскручивали» во времена президентства Кеннеди.

Это был 1962 год, а вот песня 1971 года — Soldiers Last Letter.

I’m writing this down in a trench Mom
So don’t scold if it isn’t so neat
You know as you did when I was a kid
And I’d come home with mud on my feet

The captain just gave us our orders
And Mom we will carry them through
And I’ll finish this letter the first chance I get
But for now I’ll just say I love you

The mother’s old hands began to tremble
As she fought against tears in her eyes
But they came unashamed for there was no name
And she knew her poor darlin had died

That night as she knelt by her bedside
She prayed ‘Lord above hear my plea and
Protect all the son’s who are fighting to night
And dear God keep America free’

Правда ведь, мало чем отличается от наших афганских и чеченских песен?

Да и в целом почти все «кантри», если перевести — достойный репертуар для «Радио «Шансон»» — и заметьте, я не вкладываю в это никаких отрицательных определений. Тем забавнее наблюдать наших «ценителей музыки», считающих, что у них, в Америке, там высокая культура и единственное в своем роде кантри, а у нас — шансон и уголовники.