Rome—The Chronicles of Kronstadt

My rusty translation, from Disc 3 of Rome’s Die Aesthetik der Herrschaftsfreiheit. As always, I welcome any corrections from native German speakers in the comments.

The Chronicles of Kronstadt

I sink in the ice of Kronstadt I lie under the plaster of Paris I am glued to the walls of Warsaw I stand petrified in Berlin I lie in the streets of Barcelona I fall in a hail of bullets from the White Guard I lie in the snow of Petrograd Lie buried in the forests of Peru I bleed out in the sands of Spain I lie on the Ukrainian steppes I freeze in Siberia Worn down between Hammer and Cross I escape over the sea And I shiver there too They send me back They send me away They ban me They consoled themselves with safety Over me away I’m lying in the port of Odessa Lying garrotted in Leon Mauled by the bloodhounds Of the new order I flow from torn-out throats I am the scream That rises from the steppes That drifts in from the sea Too seldom do I urge myself in circles Centers, wings And even my wish for gentleness Is drawn from the long struggle With the brutality From hiding, from ambush From the belief and the lie I speak in an awkward plethora of voices I’m wildfire I’m rumor, fragment and reason And now your search leads you to me In the exile of defeated revolutions In remote villages of the French provinces In Brusselers’ garrets In attic apartments In Amsterdam and London In Barcelona’s backyards In the barns of Gascony My tracks are covered Yellowed, tattered almost forgotten Spare are the remains, What from brochures and tracts Leaflets and reportage Essays and biographies Speeches and memoirs I know to report I lie buried in the bomb shelter Coded in encryption and bunkered between newspapers And false walls Hidden behind portraits In the cellars of the exile One finds only remnants of conspiracy of life in the underground of the immortal camaraderie and hopefully What you find written here Has through a thousand secret hands been passed Conveyed Through generations, throughout Insights into tradition In witness reports and decrees Been passed on in secret copies Illegal printed material in manifestos Half-lost newspapers in fragile folds Full of languages believed dead In occasional hints Then you will always find something in my black fabric That we once encircled everything Are you looking for the testimonials of your champion? All of this may remain only fragmentaryEach remains alone And yet in every gasp of this surrounding totality How would you compose me In writing? How, wanderer, do you want To give me a voice? To give this smoke form? To codify this air? And who will now Interpret authoritatively? Who built finality? Is it a shame about humanity? Is it?

Ich versinke im eis von Kronstadt Ich liege unter dem Pflaster von Paris Ich klebe an den Mauern Warschaus Ich steh’ versteinert in Berlin Ich liege in den Strassen Barcelonas Ich falle im Kugelhagel Der weissen Garden Ich liege im Schnee Petrograds Lieg’ verscharrt in den Wäldern Perus Ich verblute in Spaniens Sand Ich liege in der Ukranischen Steppe Ich friere in Sibirien Aufgerieben zwischen Hammer und Kreuz Ich rette mich übers Meer Und mich fröstelt es auch dort Man schickt mich zürück Man schickt mich fort Man verbannt mich Man tröstet sich mit sicherheit Über mich hinweg Ich liege im Hafen von Odessa Liege garrotiert in Leon Zerfleischt von den Bluthunden Der neuen Ordnung Ich fliesse aus aufgebisser Gurgel Ich bin der Schrei Der aus der Steppe aufsteigt Der vom Meer herüberweht Zu selten dränge ich mich in Zirkeln Zentren, Flügeln Und auch mein freundlichseinwollen Ist gezeichnet vom langen Kampf Mit der Brutalität Vom versteck, vom hinterhalt Von der Vorstellung und der Lüge Ich spreche in sperriger Vielstimmigkeit Ich bin Steppenbrand Bin Gerücht, Teil und Grund Und nun führt dich deine suche nach mir In das exil besiegter Revolutionen In entlegene Dörfer Der französischen Provinz In brüsseler Mansarden In Dachwohnungen In Amsterdam and London In die Hinterhöfe Barcelonas In die Scheunen der Gascogne Meine Spur ist verwischt Vergilbt, zerfleddert Fast vergessen Spärlich bleibt das Was die Bröschuren und Traktate Flugblätter and Reportagen Essays und Biografien Reden und Memoiren Von mir zu berichten wissen Ich liege im Bombenkeller verscharrt In improvisierten Verstecken Und Bunkern Zwischen Zeitungen Und falschen Wänden Hinter Portraits versteckt In den Kellern der Verbannung Finden sich nur Reste Von Verschwörung Vom Leben im untergrund Von der unsterblichen Kameradschaft Und hoffnung Was du hier gescrieben findest Ist durch tausend heimliche Hände gegangen Weitergereicht Durch Generationen hindurch In überlieferten Einsichten In Dekreten und Zeugenberichten In heimlich weitergereichten Exemplaren Illegaler Druckschriften In Manifesten In halb verschollen Zeitungen In brüchigen Konvoluten Voll totgeglaubter Buchstaben In spärlichen Andeutungen Findet sich dann doch immer noch Etwas von meinen schwarzen Gewebe Das uns einst alle umspann Suchst du nach Zeugnissen Deiner Vorkämpfer? All dies kann nur Fragment bleibenMan bleibt allein Und doch im jedem Atemzug von dieser Totalität umfangen Doch wie willst du mich In Schrift fassen? Wie willst du Wanderer Mir eine Stimme geben? Diesem Rauch eine form? Wie diese Luft kodifizieren? Und wer will nun Deutungshoheit erlangen? Wer Endgültigkeit errichten? Ist es Schade um die Menschen? Ist es?

Photo: Витольд Муратов

“Art Holds a Unity That History Does Not”

Accompanying illustrations: Revolutionary images in pointillized sepia imprecision.

My interest in Luxembourgish band Rome providentially coincided with my participation in early Occupy Wall Street. I was looking for cultural products that bore witness to, examined and problematized past revolutions. Rome’s latest release, “Die Aesthetik Der Herrschaftsfreiheit” (The Aesthetic of Anarchy), is a 3-album epic that opens with the statement: “Art Holds a Unity that History Does Not.” On the facing page is a pointillized image I suspect is from Spanish Civil War-era Barcelona. Like the image at left, the rendering hearkens to both newspaper-printing and the yellowing of time, while making indistinct the revolutionary image portrayed.

Though founder Jerome Reuter is from Luxembourg, Rome has been based out of Germany for some time. This changed recently, and I wonder if it had anything to do with Germany’s understandable sensitivity towards any talk straying beyond reformism. The music is very European: lyrics are in English but extensive samples and commentary are in German and French with the occasional Italian and Spanish. Reuter says English is “neutral.” As far as I can find, Rome is the only band in the European underground “neofolk” movement that is not crypto-/fascist in its iconography and lyrics, although it doesn’t shy away from confronting the ideological past and its legacies. (UPDATE: England’s Sieben is also clearly opposed to right wing use of “Blood and Soil” aesthetics, which I write about at this post.)

I recently ordered the European edition of 2011’s Die Aesthetik Der Herrschaftsfreiheit (3 CDs in three beautifully-bound booklets) to better understand and translate the lyrics; entire passages of this album are in German and my German is not strong enough to translate by ear. In the booklets, Rome credits its inspirations to “Bertolt Brecht, Peter Weiss, Pablo Neruda, Abel Paz, H-M Enzensberger, Georg Büchner, Friedrich Nietzsche, Reinaldo Arenas, Bertrand Russell, P-J Proudhon, Gustav Landauer, u.a. [und andere, and others]”.

The ballad “To Each His Storm” is a suitable introduction to this album. Though it uses the singer/songwriter format that Rome has increasingly used over its career, Die Aesthetik includes many fine examples of all styles and voices used by Rome across its prolific release calendar since 2006. Look for further translations and perhaps critiques as I proceed.

TO EACH HIS STORM

This is close, far too close
You just might
Be blinded by this crown’s golden light
You just might
Be putting yourself in the flame
Which can only burn and shame

Our lawless life
Just seems so compelling
Because you too
Could ennoble yourself through rebelling
But what good are they
Ideals soaked in blood
What good are they
Buried in the mud

To each his ground on which to flourish
To each his storm in which to perish
Now that we’ve shed our clothes and shared our oaths
There’s no way back for you
Don’t kid yourself
We’d rather be mad than delighted
You’d rather be entertained than enlightened
There’s no way back to you

(ref)

This is too close… (cont)

Die Keller versiegelt
Die Bücher eingestampft
Die Bibliotheken verriefelt
Die Schriften verbrannt
Die Zeitungen geschwärzt
Die Portraits gewechselt
Die Vorstellungen gestört
Die Theater geschlossen
Die Filme zerstört
Die Spiegel erblindet

(trans.:)
The cellar is sealed
The books are shredded
The libraries are locked
The newspapers are redacted
The portraits are swapped out
The beliefs are deranged
The theaters are closed
The films are destroyed
The mirrors go blind

UPDATE:

I thought I’d not cause offense in uploading “To Each…”, since many other Trisol releases of Rome are on Youtube with thousands of views and comments. It was a considered decision.

But within 12 hours of posting a link to the video I made of this image & song, copyright owner Trisol Music Group GmbH had it removed. Fair enough. I’m sure they’ve put some money into developing Rome as a talent and {shudder} brand and it’s their right to manage their “content.” If you’re interested in Rome after this post and the 30-second clip I linked to on Amazon, much of Rome’s work released on the redoubtable Swedish independent, Cold Meat Industry, can be heard in its entirety on Youtube. (See Querkraft, a more industrial early release, with this chilling fan video.) It’s easy enough to buy the individual tracks from eMusic and Amazon/Google Play (or, if you must, iTunes), and for “Die Aesthetik” be aware that the U.S. edition is almost as costly as the EU hardcopy, for what appears to be very little: 3 individual CDs, priced around $31 apiece.

UPDATE 2: After almost a year, someone else has uploaded this tune, scoring a noirish video. Finally this post can be complete, for posterity.

Another Rome post: The Chronicles of Kronstadt translation

Black/Liquid Goldrush

Though the cozy relationship between oil and government goes back to ancient Rome, these days must be its most brazen. The Romans weren’t so profligate as to salt Carthage (Tunisia) after its defeat; they redeemed it into an olive oil colony that soon, in producing two-thirds of the empire’s quota for olive oil, was strewn with the villas of oil wealth. Oil was such a valuable commodity that olive country could pay their taxes with it. It was an indispensable ingredient in cooking, lamp fuel, medication, cosmetics and so forth, the lifeblood of Roman society.

Just as Rome forbade the importation of olive oil from Carthage until its subjugation after the Third Punic War, it passed legislation to encourage olive oil manufacture once Carthage was absorbed. I wouldn’t be surprised if Rome’s influential merchants who trafficked in what Homer called “liquid gold” wanted to keep Carthage’s oil from competing with that of the empire (Italy, Spain, Greece et al.), “trading with the enemy” notwithstanding. How much did the Third Punic War have to do with olive oil and wheat?

Things certainly do change to stay the same. Homer called Rome’s lifeblood “liquid gold,” and Beverly Hillbillies called our lifeblood “black gold.” It’s worth fighting wars and sundering empires over.

Hell, it’s worth starting wars over. Dick Cheney’s 2001 energy task force schemed to plunder Iraq’s oil and parcel out concessions, as proclaimed in papers like “Foreign Suitors for Iraqi Oilfield Contracts.” The Bush administration would not release any of the papers on these discussions until after the war had started. By that time Halliburton, of which Cheney was the former CEO, was profiting immensely from its no-bid contracts in the region—but these were mere offsets to its enormous asbestos-related losses. Maybe Halliburton is on a Warfare to Work program, which will redeem it from its lossy past to a future of black gold-to-black ink.

Welfare to Work and like programs ostensibly help at-risk populations. When BP used prison labor (paid on a sliding scale from nothing to bubkus, and including tax breaks for BP) to clean up its Deepwater Horizon spill, The Nation documented largely-Black chain gangs sporting “Inmate Labor” suits on Louisiana beaches. These populations were hardly improving their future work prospects, assuming they’d live very long: if they refused a job, they could lose all the sentence-abatement time they had worked. The Bush-era Work Opportunity Tax Credit offers companies hiring from risky populations $2,400 for each work-release inmate. One wonders at the spirit of this law, but in practice it amounted to a stepchild of slavery—a Plaquemines Parish Sheriff’s lieutenant said, “They’re not getting paid, it’s part of their sentence.”

We wait to see what catastrophe ExxonMobil has wrought in Yellowstone, and what depredations Big Oil will bring to New York if Governor Cuomo trades our environment to fracking companies for a few jobs and some tax revenue. The prospects aren’t good; France just banned hydraulic fracturing, and they were the first country to adopt the metric system. Maybe we’d rather eat our freedom fries in the shadow of their Statue of Liberty while pumper trucks gurn offshore.