I turn to the task I do again today, I cannot hide - Iím flooded with the light. I go to the mike, like to a holy site to pray - No, no, today itís to a rifle sight. The heartless microphone doesnít wish me well - I know my voice will tire any hearer. Iím sure if anywhere a lie I tell - Itíll amplify it, mercilessly clear. And the lights shine on my face unkind From the side, the spotlights drive me blind The beams lash at me as they repeat... And the heat! The heat... The heat!... Today my voice is strongly hoarse and low But I dare not change to another key - For if my soul slightly twists, I know The mike will never straighten it for me. That beast, the mike, itís sharper than a blade, And hears each cent of flatness that I do. It doesnít care that today is not my day As long as every note I sing is true! And the lights shine on my face unkind From the side, the spotlights drive me blind The beams lash at me as they repeat... And the heat! The heat... The heat!... Upon its supple neck that evil mike Lifts up its head, itís snakelike, serpentine: The moment I fall silent it will strike - I must keep singing - unto madness, unto dying. Donít stir, donít move, donít dare to, I say! I see your fangs, you are a snake, I know! Iím not a singer, Iím a snake charmer today - It is to charm a cobra that I go. And the lights shine on my face unkind From the side, the spotlights drive me blind The beams lash at me as they repeat... And the heat! The heat... The heat!... The hungry mike, with an eagletís greed again Out of my mouth it grabs at every sound. Itíll shoot a bullet deep into my brain - By my guitar my hands are trapped and bound. Is there no end to this endless time and place? What is this thing, this microphone of mine? It is a candle by an iconís face - But Iím no saint, and the microphone wonít shine. And the lights shine on my face unkind From the side, the spotlights drive me blind The beams lash at me as they repeat... And the heat! The heat... The heat!... My melodies are simpler than a scale But if I go off, even by a tone My face is lashed, as by a bullwhipís tail By the still shadow of the microphone. A storm or stillness - now what will I feel? I cannot hide; Iím flooded with the light. I go to the mike, like to a holy site to kneel... No, no, today itís to a rifle sight. And the lights shine on my face unkind From the side, the spotlights drive me blind The beams lash at me as they repeat... And the heat! The heat... The heat!...
© Tamara Vardomskaya. Translation, ?