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Home » Author Biography » WOLF HUNT – Song by Vladimir Vysotsky

WOLF HUNT – Song by Vladimir Vysotsky

Although still unknown to the public, in October 1964 Vysotsky recorded in chronological order 48 of his own songs, his first self-made compilation on hour-long reel-to-reel cassette, which boosted his popularity as a new Moscow folk underground star. Vladimir Vysockij – an actor, guitarist and Soviet poet – was born in Moscow http://www.scmp.com/magazines/post-magazine/travel/article/2095390/good-bad-and-ugly-sides-being-tourist-moscow in 1938. As a little boy used to recite poems, standing on a chair and “flinging hair backwards, like a real poet,” often using in his public speeches expressions he could hardly have heard at home. His sense of humor was extraordinary, but often baffling for people around him. After the divorce of his parents he lived several years in Germany. In 1949 he returned to Moscow, where he joined drama and singing courses.

In 1970, the song “WOLF HUNT” was released. He wrote this song in a few hours after filming a movie “The Master of Taiga” in which Vysotsky portrayeda crew boss of the wood-floaters. In 1971 a drinking spree-related nervous breakdown brought Vysotsky to the Moscow psychiatry clinic. Many of his songs from this period deal – either directly or metaphorically – with alcoholism and insanity. In 1980, he died in Moscow, but there are controversy sourrounding circumstances of his death. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ROmlFJamIuY

WOLF HUNTI’m exhausted, I have the tendons in pieces, but today, still like yesterday, I’m hacked. Hunted! The shooters, cheerful, run to fit! Behind the trees a tedious double-shot rifle, the hunters are swirling in the shade, the wolves roll on the snow and turn into living targets. Hunting for wolves. Hunting! To gray, old and puppy predators. The poachers scream and the dogs get up to nausea. Blood on the snow and red patches of flags. Hunters do not play the same with the wolves, and their hands do not tremble! They uncovered our freedom with flags, they hit us with certainty, sure to center the target. The wolf can not break the traditions. We little puppies, small puppies, we sucked the lupa, and with his milk, the ban on passing flags! Hunting for wolves. Hunting! To gray, old and puppy predators. The poachers scream and the dogs get up to nausea. Blood on the snow and red patches of flags. Our paws and jaws are fast. And you answer, are you the head of the pack, why do we warn, hunt them against their rifles and do not try to transgress the ban? The wolf can not, does not have to act differently. Here, my hour has come. The person to whom I am destined smiles and raises the rifle. Hunting for wolves. Hunting! To gray, old and puppy predators. The poachers scream and the dogs get up to nausea. Blood on the snow and red patches of flags. I refused to obey, I passed the flags, the thirst for life is stronger! I have only heard behind me, with joy, the humorous shouts of men. I’m exhausted, I have the tendons in pieces, but today, I’m not like yesterday! I’m hacked. Hunted! And the hunters are left empty-handed! Hunting for wolves. Hunting! To gray, old and puppy predators. The poachers scream and the dogs get up to nausea. Blood on the snow and red patches of flags.

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