"Bob Dylan"
- Subterranean Homesick Blues
- Tangled Up in Blue
- Don't Think Twice, It's All Right
- Shelter from the Storm
- Forever Young
- Girl From the North Country
- Ballad of a Thin Man
"Bob Dylan"
Tempest
автор:
Bob Dylan
жанры: folk, rock, guitar
альбомы: Tempest
- Текст
- Открытка с текстом
The pale moon rose in it's glory Out on the Western town She told a sad, sad story Of the great ship that went downT'was the fourteenth day of April Over the waves she rode Sailing into tomorrow To a golden age foretoldThe night was black with starlight The seas were sharp and clear Moving through the shadows The promised hour was nearLights were holding steady Gliding over the foam All the lords and ladies Heading for their eternal homeThe chandeliers were swaying From the balustrades above The orchestra was playing Songs of faded loveThe watchman, he lay dreaming As the ballroom dancers twirled He dreamed the Titanic was sinking Into the underworldLeo took his sketchbook He was often so inclined He closed his eyes and painted The scenery in his mindCupid struck his bosom And broke it with a snap The closest woman to him He fell into her lapHe heard a loud commotion Something sounded wrong His inner spirit was saying That he couldn't stand here longHe staggered to the quarterdeck No time now to sleep Water on the quarterdeck Already three foot deepSmokestack was leaning sideways Heavy feet began to pound He walked into the whirlwind Sky splitting all aroundThe ship was going under The universe had opened wide The roll was called up yonder The angels turned asideLights down in the hallway Flickering dim and dull Dead bodies already floating In the double bottom hullThe engines then exploded Propellers they failed to start The boilers overloaded The ship's bow split apartPassengers were flying Backward, forward, far and fast They mumbled, fumbled, and tumbled Each one more weary than the lastThe veil was torn asunder 'Tween the hours of twelve and one No change, no sudden wonder Could undo what had been doneThe watchman lay there dreaming At fourty five degrees He dreamed that the Titanic was sinking Dropping to her kneesWellington he was sleeping His bed began to slide His valiant heart was beating He pushed the tables asideGlass of shattered crystal Lay scattered roundabout He strapped on both his pistols How long could he hold out?His men and his companions Were nowhere to be seen In silence there he waited for Time and space to interveneThe passageway was narrow There was blackness in the air He saw every kind of sorrow Heard voices everywhereAlarm-bells were ringing To hold back the swelling tide Friends and lovers clinging To each other side by sideMothers and their daughters Descending down the stairs Jumped into the icy waters Love and pity sent their prayersThe rich man, Mister Astor Kissed his darling wife He had no way of knowing It'd be the last trip of his lifeCalvin, Blake and Wilson Gambled in the dark Not one of them would ever live to Tell the tale on the disembarkBrother rose up 'gainst brother In every circumstance They fought and slaughtered each other In a deadly danceThey lowered down the lifeboats From the sinking wreck There were traitors, there were turncoats Broken backs and broken necksThe bishop left his cabin To help others in need Turned his eyes up to the heavens Said, "The poor are yours to feed"Davey the brothel-keeper Came out dismissed his girls Saw the water getting deeper Saw the changing of his worldJim Dandy smiled He never learned to swim Saw the little crippled child And he gave his seat to himHe saw the starlight shining Streaming from the East Death was on the rampage But his heart was now at peaceThey battened down the hatches But the hatches wouldn't hold They drowned upon the staircase Of brass and polished goldLeo said to Cleo I think I'm going mad But he'd lost his mind already Whatever mind he hadHe tried to block the doorway To save all those from harm Blood from an open wound Pouring down his armPetals fell from flowers 'Til all of them were gone In the long and dreadful hours The wizard's curse played onThe host was pouring brandy He was going down slow He stayed right to the end and he Was the last to goThere were many, many others Nameless here forever more They never sailed the ocean Or left their homes beforeThe watchman, he lay dreaming The damage had been done He dreamed the Titanic was sinking And he tried to tell someoneThe captain, barely breathing Kneeling at the wheel Above him and beneath him Fifty thousand tons of steelHe looked over at his compass And he gazed into its face Needle pointing downward He knew he lost the raceIn the dark illumination He remembered bygone years He read the Book of Revelation And he filled his cup with tearsWhen the Reaper's task had ended Sixteen hundred had gone to rest The good, the bad, the rich, the poor The loveliest and the bestThey waited at the landing And they tried to understand But there is no understanding On the judgement of God's handThe news came over the wires And struck with deadly force Love had lost its fires All things had run their courseThe watchman he lay dreaming Of all the things that can be He dreamed the Titanic was sinking Into the deep blue sea
На непростой вопрос — как сделать так, чтобы твой тридцать пятый альбом отличался от предыдущих — 71-летний Боб Дилан отвечает по-стариковски мудро: никак. «Tempest» — это по большому счету все то же самое в который раз подряд: предельно архаический аккомпанемент, убедительно апеллирующий к вечным американским традициям, мелодия как архетип, длинные монотонные нарративы, песни-рассказы и песни-повести — титульная вещь, в частности, длится 14 минут, в последнем номере «Roll on John» Дилан, как пономарь, вспоминает старых и по преимуществу мертвых коллег, рядом с которыми некогда делал историю рок-н-ролла. Эта самая история тут по большому счету и есть предмет и материал; это песни, сухие и умные, как лицо старика, и беспрекословные, как музейный экспонат. Человеку со стороны трудно будет объяснить, зачем это вообще нужно слушать, и все же — дилановский мифогенный безостановочный сип завораживает по-настоящему; «Tempest» по большому счету есть веское доказательство, что великому барду не слишком нужна даже музыка — дыхание большой истории тут чувствуется и без нее.