Journalist, a graduate of the University of the Urals, a poet, he chose journalism career difficult, dangerous and a free life wandering singer "from city to city, from house to house, apartments for foreign friends" Created for these few years, about sixty songs, although some - "Vanya", "Yegor Ermolaevich" - and songs, then you will not name, but rather each of the epic "big" things and contains the whole world, a whole philosophy, like the epic poems of antiquity.

Several years ago I was awakened early morning phone call. Muffled, slightly embarrassed voice. I feel very worried. "Can you hear my songs." I decided to meet and grateful for this decision.

"Hello, I'm Bashlachev - a little pause, added - Alexander." Simple, open face, a cross between a craftsman with Leonardo, tooth metal sticking out of place somehow, got out of the grimy impossible to cover the guitar a la "full Nestroy," grabbed her by the throat (squeak, rattle, negubimenya-добрыймолодецятебеещепригожусь) and cried.

It's like a fresh wind of the Russian suddenly filled the rest of my antique kitchen. I remember saying to myself like not playing, not singing, swallowing half the words, why do I feel so happy and sad at heart, why I empathize what I see and hear. Immediately wanted to tell him something very good, good, but he restrained himself, he decided all that sing, listen, pull out of it all I can, make open up completely exhausted, the devil's sake.

"Tea is something our cool I suppose," Whoa, I thought, this is not a song. So he spoke, sang me during our first and last meeting a beautiful Russian poet Alexander Bashlachev.

"Tea is our cool I suppose," Whoa, I thought, this is not the song. That's spoke, I began to sing during our first and last meeting a great Russian poet Alexander Bashlachev.

What I said to him before departing. It seems that call, they say, what can I do - help, carrying a nonsense - that I could have then? He did not call ...

Then he had often heard his records, read poetry, he gave me the wonderful poems, daring, buffoon - reckless (I do not because if I loved them once and for all), suddenly some kind of harsh, uncompromising, but always sincere, with an incredible pain and tragedy.

Tragedy ...

I understood immediately why he jumped out the window. This is a win-win situation. His head forward like he fell down and I seen all the others - the flight into the heavens, dramatically throw back his face, his hair flying, arms outstretched, eyes fixed on the unknown ...

This is the first printed in the "Youth" poem, the poet Bashlacheva.

© A.Gradsky

• On Wednesday afternoon