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Alexander Gradsky OLD DIARY YOUNGSTER Magazine "Youth", 1985 Ten years ago, after the screens two-part film "Romance for Lovers", we provide readers with twenty-six Gradskiy Alexander - his music for this film and especially the song, as performed by himself, had great success. And now Alexander Gradsky, choosing rather unexpected form, he talks about himself, about his work.

Photo: Plotnikova

Door opened.

Flinch, covered formless jacket. Plump hand shot up to open the curtain. And then he caught, zazvyakalo candies creaking stereo gradually filled the room. It is quite clear - the concert will take place (hello, Y Authority Ivanovich, come sit down, come, Marie Iksovna you, young man - hinged, folding, with ...).

What people irresistible craving for evening conversation!

This solemn

sleepy dressing decorations and materials (cute, fasten, please), a ritual buffet with sandwiches "eat me" and lemonade "drink me" and would be taken as "rocking" of the body at the service entrance (skip, I'm from the ensemble - followed before the mocking echo-transparent door).

Finally, all of whom I should and should not tickets, skipped, performed, drag, translating the spirit before the final battle (a sharp "click" key in the padlock). A quick glance, marking insignificant items: shabby wall trellis portion of which inquisitive hand turn out two or three screws, so that the loop swings from side to side (you are my sorrow, grief), dust cover with a light hand is my face in the mirror endowed with demonic chiaroscuro separated fate (on the floor and on the table) concert shoes, finally, with prominent guitar (on ruler style) strings.

ICONS "holiday" rush in memory of the events that inexorably led me into the room, brought with them all the distinctive features and man (in the mirror), and things are now inseparable from him forever.

Old Moscow house in the shape of a square «C», surrounded by his curve garden, angular staircase, basement room for four people (two meters down, two in width, four in length), a little boy with tongue pressed against the wall waiting for the cold-blooded slow drops (permanent views up and nervously comparing the body to the trajectory of the desired beads) ...

Oh, cowardly-sweet moment when taken in full dry my mother's hand, I went into a room with a long table and lie directly on it heads (Bottom) as a result of this visit - Quickly entertained from our mother's closet and coat other useful things and simultaneous universes in my life a little creaky four core subject in a plywood cover, with black lacquered elephant named "Belarus" Grinning in opening the mouth.

«It - violin, my friend. Here, like this, a hand here, take a bow, finger rotten, more, more ... to - for the first incremental, F - between the first and second line ... Glinka was born ... Tchaikovsky wrote ... Dear, your son is not involved again, comes to class nepodgoto-oh-oh-oh-oh ... »

World filled with images: crackling ball of the bar protects the gate (points on a line), wood and cheap cigarettes "Mahorochnye" - forty-old cents, love for the Pioneer camp fence, the first performances of "bridges stand overnight barrier ..." ( violent attitudes towards insidious Luda from the fourth unit), the first "monkey experiments": "Oh, Tanya, Tanya, Tanya, her case was so ..." Chaliapin 's-if ever so would-u-s- Lou on ... "shrill" spears "Caruso," Between the high bread "Ruslanova, then - one of the first LPs Presley notched without any knowledge of the language (tulle-fluli, oh-Luli ...).

Few years later my mother's untimely departure (Dear, your son is completely out of control), I suddenly realized that the world is cruel, and we must learn to be the same; pen freezes in his hand, not wanting to put up with this idea, have not shared by the author.

A minute later: "Mommy, mommy, dear, come back, come back, even for a moment dreamed ..." For months, it seemed - she was there, says something, scolding for disobedience, rehearsing with my tongue twister: "Charles in Clara stole corals ... ", no one has ever regretted corals, which (against their will) steal and steal from year to year.

Describe: the first impression of the music of "The Beatles" - hundreds of thousands of needles, suddenly thrust into the brain, heart, limbs, forcing screaming mad, jumping, suffer in hot fusion with all audible. Violent pleasure infinite torture slightly husky, deliberately quiet (and therefore demonic) voices, interrupt "simple" (from the point of view of "the venerable today") bursts guitar, singing 'of his loneliness in this fragile, gloomy world.

Describe: trying (again monkey) create such an ensemble, the beginning of the sixties, homemade guitar (arbitrarily adjusted), deaf from themselves amps, infinite cutting boards for the speakers, stupid night disputes lyutoe scorn at us and all, especially the recent "underground" - jazz, suddenly united in opinion with the guys from operotryadov, pointy shoes are like that deprived us of the equipment. Sitting on the broken lamps and spitting with anger, we dreamed about the success of universal proportions.

Describe: many ticky-tacky tour with "massive" repertoire that suits everyone, while secretly rehearsed their songs, no petye and not playing, waiting, as we cleverly invented his "rock" (emphasis can be on the ground and on the penultimate syllable ) hours, tour, in which the author met with many current leading lights, then just pianists, guitarists, soloists unimportant Philharmonic.

«Do you love her, my girl ..." - steadily write young singer accompanied by her husband - a songwriter, gently stepping hands on the keys, and I interrupted her inserts on guitar ...

«Once upon a time I was ..." - piercingly squealed Yours truly a few years, taking part in the recording of the first "giant" of the former pianist oblfilarmonii - now recognized master of the song.

Describe: welcome Moscow's success; tough crowd at the cafe "Blue Bird", unexpected dance nights, where not dance, and, huddled in a semicircle, listening to that today they will sing "Buffoons» ...

And they sang and simple and hard about what life is both simple and complex, and that this idea is certainly not new and banal, but passed through individual musician, equipped with grotesque techniques, the roll of drums, powerful trehgolosiem , knowledge of a new musical style, sometimes do their reading, visiting the truth were suddenly the new face of the public. Where are you now, my comrades in the same fun time?

Note (just before) the random flow of the author's vocal faculty Gnessin Institute, a couple of years, it seemed to him and his teachers is a natural, infinite gratitude to the first teacher, I trimmed with the growing cock hands own teacher - a woman once and ever seen in the corner of the room as the omniscient Buddha utters three languages ??perfectly true rough, scratchy, once battering soprano, portly god with eyes closed (like the singing student), now closed forever.

Describe my former dashing peremptory, to judge almost everything (Who? Z Yes he did not know how to play Yes I, Yes Me! ..), we emphasize that it was in the seventies, I started in the process, finally destroy this self-righteousness.

Send

Taping a radio studio, once one of them is a tall man in a leather jacket, and I become a blessing to others, we were introduced, composed the music for the film, becoming a "pop personality." Outlet Film graduate from the institute, the group is now going to just for the record my music on film, first song, then vocal cycles, suites, opera, ballet, music for films. Simultaneously studying at the conservatory (soft footsteps of the great master: "Well, well, what did you bring?" ...), Unfortunately, completed independently.

By this time I was convinced: in traditional opera I have nothing to do ...

Knock at the door. It's time ...

«Theatre so full of ...»

Sing.

... See you tomorrow, guys ... Victor, wires? .. Thank you so far ... Food. This - Moscow. And here is where I live. Olga, that's me. Yes. Yes. No. So. I sleep.

Morning ... Saturday ...

From the window came the cheerful voices duty retirees. They are always at his post, though today more closely at their bench - output ...

Who

weekend, and I have - record. Saturday or Sunday - the perfect time for quiet work in the fifth jellies home recordings. Today is exactly one and a half years since I started writing his opera "Stadium". Worked on it for eleven years, though, it seems it was yesterday: autumn seventy-third, the Chilean tragedy ...

first - just a thought. Then the question is: what means? Orchestra? - Yes! Rock band? - Probably. Soloists, chorus ...

My head swirled some threads popevki, whole scenes (although the characters did not exist). And the first verse. Libretto was written easily edited harder remake was incredibly difficult - to give up something? This is not out of the question. So after two years of terror and the struggle between Rita Pushkina (poor co-author) and me and us with ourselves produced the poem is not poetry, the document is not a document in a word - the libretto.

Already foresee my eyes, regretting me (could for this time "business" to do - that is easier ...), the eyes' umtsa-ear specialist "(from the mind of the sample, the mind of the sample, the traditional rhythm of the popular one-day).

Oh Disco! You conquer space and time. You, on the incomparable, managed many clearly show that all serious music - rubbish! That there is only: in-ta-ta, the Press, a-tat-tat, the-ta ...

What

Us books that we knowledge, abilities and skills that we all the world, U-ta-ta, the Press, a-tat-tat, Uta ... Thank you, Friends of musicians! Bu-bu-bu, bu-bu-bu ... Thank you, friends of poets!

And, by the way ... Why not? Why is not shaken after a hard day? All Bahi Bahi yes! And we just want to ... have fun, we want it! That's it? Sorry. And, by the way ...

Small

My son looking at me slyly. What kind of music he go away? Do not tell me he was down, "Dad, you do not understand, because it is the most modern," grunts-still-navel, chi-hraki-still-boo-boo, chilyakotupotap. "

Lagged behind you, Dad, it's time to draw you in ... »

All

Tired. It should be somewhere in the south, to the sea. There's good:

Again sea, gray beach,

Duty anguish.

And those are the face,

And autumn is the x,

And stone at the temple ...

Walk air, flies are evil.

Nebula sky.

Shadow poplar slope

Over the shore rises.

And unnaturally clean,

As lace brides,

Hell that binds the sheets

With blue heaven.

And contemplation raw

Coming night. Moment

Sunset - Dream polukontsa,

Polunachala them.

Oh dying ray!

(Clinging to the cliff!)

An house early candle -

Shadow dancing on the floor.

And the dusty gloom;

And curtains steps overweight

The wind in the back -

Sure sign,

Sad that dinner.

Scurry pustyashnye words

On both sides of the table.

And heavier head,

And labor body

Over izobnlem food

Spins conversation,

Penalty omnipotence nonsense,

As shot at it.

From stuffy rooms HOLD

I quietly away.

In air lock on Jurassic < br />

In panbarhatnuyu night.

Alone with her,

Forget, freeze ...

Not afraid to live in darkness, < br />

But afraid of dying.

In the south, as anywhere, truly realize the beauty of the lack of phones. Do not knowingly take with no partiturnye sheets (even in Moscow deficit) or a guitar or a piano, or a studio recorder, no remote, no synthesizers, no!

To rest (especially at the end), as nowhere else, the really realize the beauty of live communication with the public. Initially room completely black, then (when the eyes adjust) appear the person can see a smile, oh ... this is not interesting - all while talking to a friend, crying little boy in the third row - mother of chic to it (probably not the one to leave), do not cry, do not cry, please - I'm singing Shakespeare, he did not recognize the crying ... No, you do not bother me, sit down, please (I'm lying).

Climax all who came for nothing, or was serving, wondering what is there to clap, or at home. Went the third hour of my recital. All (even without the two or three dozen spectators, still whole) Hall, seems to me.

I have nothing to say, only gestures, words, points are not kept on a wet nose, I must go, and you do not want ...

Yes. Well think about it during the holidays, sick of it to the extreme, it is hard to think about it for a day or two before the show, sgrashnovato understand that in an hour you will have always known and unpredictable at the same time.

And yet: "Stadium" (to the south another week). Hi! I sit down. Speaking ... I work.

Record. All soloists surprise with dedication.

Infinitely varied Pugacheva, tired and shook her, fills the entire room studio, improvising, gesticulates, says something funny ... Suddenly ... microphone.

Sharp, stern look to nowhere (or yourself?).

- Alia, you know, get so ... (Show) ... Well ... More ... more ... wrong ...

- Let me try in their own way (does exactly as I requested).

Or maybe not? Maybe it was just her interpretation is immediately familiar to me and my? ..

Kamburova. Quiet voice. Skittish vzlyad huge eyes (secret of secrets), all as if the geometric projection on the ground of a celestial body, but come soundtrack, along with music and are born again, and woman and her sense of her wisdom and Madness at once.

Men: Kobzon surprise for everyone and for the roles of sergeant executioner. Profundovy low register, ominous tone, a powerful word that the music becomes so only at the right performance - not for any of the singer trade secrets, but only a high skill penetration into the image and music.

Ardent, energetic Boyarsky and elegant, ironic Mironov brilliantly performed their (albeit small) party.

New names: Vladimir and Alexander Mozenkov Minkov - artists that have become for me a simple open - let the audience itself will open them for you.

Andrei Makarevich, Alexander Kutikov and Vladimir Kuzmin, happily coinciding with their characters. Their participation in the recording - more proof of our old and the human and musical intimacy.

His game I'm going to sing after all - it should be clear to me until the end.

Night. Food. In the car window, grunting and pushing each other, climb smells: wet asphalt (oil, petrol, shoes), trees, whispering to each other about the problems of tomorrow (oh, the poplar, always sends its feather-sending young the-le-ee-enym birches), and finally, when the front wheels kiss the adorable all drivers from iron manhole covers, delicately scattered here and there, smells like burnt rubber and first trip to the car wash.

«." Here is the street, this house, that's the ba ... "" Quiet you! "- angry wife. Hush me. Hush me. Milk. Bread and cheese. Sofa ...

Sometimes I think: to finish the opera - and everything, no more to sing, write, speak, his head is empty, completely empty, absolutely, absolutely empty, stupid head, so ... what is this ... there on the bookshelf ... it seems ...