Friday, June 22, 2012

"On This Black Day"

For some reason this one song kept coming back into my mind all of yesterday and even today. It's Na Cherni Din' by a post-Soviet folk punk rocker called Yanka Dyagileva. She was from Siberia and died of a strange suicide by drowning at the age of 24.
My preferred song from her is a 70 second ditty called Печаль моя светла. If anyone can translate that properly, I'll be amazed and impressed. But for now, with the strange events of the last few days, with a Prime Minister of a country where PM's get kicked out, sometimes violently before their tenures end, Na Cherniy Din', seemed to be apt.
The song starts with an upbeat guitar intro, before kicking into some defiant angry lyrics by my favorite Siberian Punk rocker. I had no idea why I was listening to this Russian song so often, so I decided to google the translation of the lyrics. And I find that "Na Cherni Din'" means "This Black Day". How apt. The word "Din" sounds similar to the Urdu word for day (pronounced D'in). So angrily singing about a day, with a guitar blazing with joy in the background? Intriguement.

Here's a translation of the lyrics I cleaned up a bit, and my, comin from the bubblegum world of Pakistani pop, they are bleak. But you know another trait this Siberian Russian Folk Punk girl had? They were defiant against the darkness.

Na Cherniy Den' (On This Black Day)

On this black day, came a tired dance of drunken eyes and pierced arms
The second one fell, the third one sat, the eighth one was taken to the circle
Onto the wires, out of the wheels and to the three letters from under the pavement
Into the calm deep pool of a hot head
Cold sweat running out in circles

A steel horse, protecting color, carved caterpillar band in the raw
An attraction for the newbies – the horses were floating in circles
A clockwork kaleidoscope is rattling with curved mirrors
The wheel is spinning faster
Through sounds of march, off with the head

The moth has eaten a colored shawl, the cards show 3 and 7
A bull whisking away the flies with its tail, with a hard heart is coming up the hill
Billiard balls have collided
And went apart onto both sides
And to the corners of spaciousness

Behind the shattered shop windows – torn parts of holidays costumes
Under the hobs of sledge – the living flesh of somebody else's plans
Under the counter the parrot is taking tickets out of the hat
To the tram, to the nearest bridge
To the helicopter without windows and doors
To the calm deep pool of the hot head
The wheel is spinning faster


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