The meaning of the lyrics of the song "Customs Incident" (Sluchay na tamojne) the performer of the song "Vladimir Vysotsky"

Over Sheremetyevo

in November

the third--

The weather

conditions are not suitable.

I stand, anxious,

Pale, but well-groomed,

At the customs inspection

In the back of the line.

I stood in the back at first, not wanting to draw attention,

As I myself had loaded up on liquor,

And ahead of me, they were searching a Uruguayan,

Who was smuggling contraband.

A cross on his chest, nestled in thick hair--

The crowd gasps in unison:

“Shake him down by the legs--

You never know, something might jingle!”

And indeed, below his belly--

Comical, but no laughing matter--

Hung two solid crosses

From the fifteenth century.

Oh, how he

lamented:

Where's the law?

There is none, he claims!

I might miss my flight!..

But the crucified Christ,

At half past four,

Was not allowed into Buenos Aires.

We are, after all, becoming wiser year by year--

We need crucifixions for ourselves now,

They are the wealth of our people,

Although, of course, a relic of the past.

And before, we used to, to all corners--

Whether needed or not--

Gift icons, hagiographies,

With or without settings...

From dusty boxes, gazing

Submissively, wearily,

Ancient art from us,

Would sometimes

drift away.

The dentist

extracted a tooth,

Although the mister

shed a tear,

But the customs officer, from the cavity,

With a slight pry of his tool,

Pulled out a marble statue--

Completely intact, just missing an oar.

They frisked a foreign huckster,

Who had fallen suspiciously silent--

And immediately found a fig in his pocket,

And in the fig-- instead of a seed-- a triptych.

“What do you need an icon for, passenger?

You could have bought a Russian souvenir for three rubles

At the “Beryozka”--

An accordion or a matryoshka!”

“Peace-friendship! Cease fire!”--

He went off on one, as if at a cash register.--

“To a goat-- a button accordion, to a priest-- an accordion,

And an icon-- to a Papuan!”

It's hard

with genuine

contraband-

ists!

This one, who had been relieved of his statues,

A sly little fellow,

Tsked with his gapped tooth,

Spat-- and left for Washington.

How good it is that customs has become more vigilant,

Searching for valuable capital--

So that not a single speck of gold falls from a halo,

So that not a single nail is lost from a crucifixion!

They haul it all: some-- iconostases,

Some-- crosses, some-- icons,

And faith in the Lord from us

They slowly take away.

And for journeys far away--

Forever, irrevocably--

The contented go easily,

The prophets-- reluctantly.

Rivers of sweat

flow!

Here I am,

this is me--

Of little interest to customs.

True, near my ankle

A blue cross is tattooed,

But I'll say it's the Red Cross.

One mullah hid a triptych in books.

Yes, smuggling is a craft!

I clenched my fingers in my pocket into a fig--

Just in case, so it would pass.

These Arabs nowadays-- oh boy!--

They've put a squeeze on Europe,

And we, during the "Six-Day War,"

Strongly supported them.

They come to us for a reason--

Think about it!--

And they bring our Christ

To a meeting with Mohammed.

...For now

I'm still here,

Here's my

creation,

Everything is mine-- both business and family!

The faces-- like comrades--

Look at me understandingly

From the blackened boards.

Now, like a drunkard in a sobering-up station,

They will undress me-- shame and disgrace!-- before all the saints,

They will find: fog in my brain, a fig in my pocket,

A cross on my leg-- and call witnesses!

I was scratching off the cross, cursing

Fate, myself-- everything together,

But then the group leader

Stood up for me.

He said quietly, businesslike--

You can't search someone like this:

“Don't touch him.”

(Meaning: besides vodka-- there’s nothing there)--

"A trusted comrade of ours!”

Над Шере-

метьево

В ноябре

третьего —

Метео-

условия не те.

Я стою встревоженный,

Бледный, но ухоженный

На досмотр таможенный

в хвосте.

Стоял сначала, чтоб не нарываться —

Я сам спиртного лишку загрузил,

А впереди шмонали уругвайца,

Который контрабанду провозил.

Крест на груди в густой шерсти —

Толпа как хором ахнет:

"За ноги надо потрясти —

Глядишь, чего и звякнет!"

И точно: ниже живота —

Смешно, да не до смеху —

Висели два литых креста

Пятнадцатого веку.

Ох, как он

сетовал:

Где закон?

Нету, мол!

Я могу, мол, опоздать на рейс!..

Но Христа распятого

В половине пятого

Не пустили в Буэнос-Айрес.

Мы всё-таки мудреем год от года —

Распятья нам самим теперь нужны,

Они богатство нашего народа,

Хотя, конечно, и пережиток старины.

А раньше мы во все края —

И надо и не надо —

Дарили лики, жития,

В окладе, без оклада...

Из пыльных ящиков косясь

Безропотно, устало,

Искусство древнее от нас,

Бывало,

и — сплывало.

Доктор зуб

высверлил,

Хоть слезу

мистер лил,

Но таможник вынул из дупла,

Чуть поддев лопатою,

Мраморную статую —

Целенькую, только без весла.

Общупали заморского барыгу,

Который подозрительно притих, —

И сразу же нашли в кармане фигу,

А в фиге — вместо косточки — триптих.

"Зачем вам складень, пассажир?

Купили бы за трёшку

В "Берёзке" русский сувенир —

Гармонь или матрёшку!" —

"Мир-дружба! Прекратить огонь! —

Попёр он как на кассу. —

Козе — баян, попу — гармонь,

Икону — папуасу!"

Тяжело

с истыми

Контрабан-

дистами!

Этот, что статуи был лишён,

Малый с подковыркою

Цыкнул зубом с дыркою,

Сплюнул — и уехал в Вашингтон.

Как хорошо, что бдительнее стало,

Таможня ищет ценный капитал —

Чтоб золотинки с нимба не упало,

Чтобы гвоздок с распятья не пропал!

Таскают: кто — иконостас,

Кто — крестик, кто — иконку,

И веру в Господа от нас

Увозят потихоньку.

И на поездки в далеко —

Навек, бесповоротно —

Угодники идут легко,

Пророки — неохотно.

Реки льют

потные!

Весь я тут,

вот он я —

Слабый для таможни интерес.

Правда возле щиколот

Синий крестик выколот,

Но я скажу, что это — Красный Крест.

Один мулла триптих запрятал в книги.

Да, контрабанда — это ремесло!

Я пальцы сжал в кармане в виде фиги —

На всякий случай, чтобы пронесло.

Арабы нынче — ну и ну! —

Европу поприжали,

А мы в "шестидневную войну"

Их очень поддержали.

Они к нам ездят неспроста —

Задумайтесь об этом! —

И возят нашего Христа

На встречу с Магометом.

...Я пока

здесь ещё,

Здесь моё

детищё,

Всё моё — и дело, и родня!

Лики — как товарищи —

Смотрят понимающе

С почерневших досок на меня.

Сейчас, как в вытрезвителе ханыгу,

Разденут — стыд и срам! — при всех святых,

Найдут: в мозгу туман, в кармане фигу,

Крест на ноге — и кликнут понятых!

Я крест сцарапывал, кляня

Судьбу, себя — всё вкупе,

Но тут вступился за меня

Ответственный по группе.

Сказал он тихо, делово —

Такого не обшаришь:

Мол, вы не трогайте его

(Мол, кроме водки — ничего) —

Проверенный, наш товарищ!

In his song "Incident at the Customs", Vladimir Vysotsky uses biting irony to describe a situation in which the USSR, while trying to prevent the export of cultural valuables, creates an absurd situation.

The lyrical hero is nervous at customs, waiting for inspection. He is carrying a lot of alcohol, but his anxiety pales in comparison to the smugglers trying to export religious artifacts. First, it's a Uruguayan with 15th-century crosses hidden under his clothes. The customs officers, having discovered the relics, rejoice, considering them "the wealth of the people" and "a relic of the past" that must be preserved in the country.

This is followed by other "true smugglers": a man who tried to export a statue without an oar, and an "overseas huckster" with a triptych in a fig. The customs officers, detaining them, proudly demonstrate their vigilance and suppress attempts to export "valuable capital".

The culmination is the description of the lyrical hero, who is afraid that they will find his own cross on his leg. He is horrified to imagine how he, "like a drunk in a sobering-up station," will be searched "in front of all the saints." However, he is rescued by the "person in charge of the group," who assures the customs officers that the hero is a "trusted comrade" and that he has "nothing but vodka."

In the finale of the song, Vysotsky bitterly states that "icons, like comrades," are looking at him "from blackened boards," and "faith in the Lord is being quietly taken away from us." The prophets and saints depicted on the icons "go easily" on "trips to faraway lands," while the lyrical hero himself remains in the country for the time being.

The song is full of bitter irony and makes one think about what "valuable capital" really is – material objects or spiritual values? Vysotsky criticizes the hypocrisy of the system, which declares atheism, but at the same time is afraid of "missing" religious artifacts, seeing in them only material value.