Мария Архипова (Аркона) и Веданъ Колодъ

Masha (Arkona) & Vedan Kolod

 

Vedan Kolod > http://vedan-kolod.ru/e_index1.htm

http://www.myspace.com/vedankolod

 

Arkona > http://www.arkona-russia.com/en/enews/

http://www.myspace.com/arkonarussia

Peut-être bien que "les blancs ne savent pas sauter" ? 

( Et franchement, on s'en contrefout ! )

Mais ce qu'il y a de sûr par contre… c'est que les Russes, eux, savent chanter ! 

WARDRUNA - Yggdrasil

 

 

 

WARDRUNA : « Yggdrasil » / Preview

 

 http://www.wardruna.com/

Jeff Hanneman - 2 mai 2013

 

 

Jeff Hanneman

( 31 janvier 1964 / 2 mai 2013 )  

 

 

The Highwayman

 

The Highwayman

  by Alfred Noyes (1880-1958)

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,

The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,

The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,

And the highwayman came riding—

   Riding—riding—

The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

 

He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,

A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;

They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh.

And he rode with a jeweled twinkle,

   His pistol butts a-twinkle,

His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jeweled sky.

 

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,

He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;

He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there

But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,

   Bess, the landlord's daughter,

Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

 

And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked

Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;

His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like moldy hay,

But he loved the landlord's daughter,

   The landlord's red-lipped daughter,

Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—

 

"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize tonight,

But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;

Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,

Then look for me by moonlight,

   Watch for me by moonlight,

I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."

 

He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,

But she loosened her hair in the casement. His face burnt like a brand

As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;

And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,

   (Oh, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)

Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the West.

 

He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;

And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,

When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,

A red-coat troop came marching—

   Marching—marching—

King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

 

They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,

But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;

Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side.

There was death at every window;

   And hell at one dark window;

For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.

 

They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest.

They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast.

"Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her. She heard the doomed man say—

Look for me by moonlight;

   Watch for me by moonlight;

I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

 

She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good.

She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood.

They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,

Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,

   Cold, on the stroke of midnight,

The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

 

The tip of one finger touched it. She strove no more for the rest.

Up, she stood up to attention, with the muzzle beneath her breast.

She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;

For the road lay bare in the moonlight;

   Blank and bare in the moonlight;

And the blood of her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love's refrain.

Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;

Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?

Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,

The highwayman came riding,

   Riding, riding!

The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still!

 

Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!

Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!

Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,

Then her finger moved in the moonlight,

   Her musket shattered the moonlight,

Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.

 

He turned; he spurred to the west; he did not know who stood

Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood.

Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew gray to hear

How Bess, the landlord's daughter,

   The landlord's black-eyed daughter,

Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

 

Back, he spurred like a madman, shouting a curse to the sky,

With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!

Blood-red were his spurs in the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,

When they shot him down on the highway,

   Down like a dog on the highway,

And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.

             

And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,

When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,

When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,

A highwayman comes riding—

   Riding—riding—

A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard;

He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;

He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there

But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,

   Bess, the landlord's daughter,

Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

Flower of Scotland / Flouer o Scotland / Flùr na h-Alba

O Flouer o Scotland,
When will we see
Yer like again,
That focht an dee'd for
Yere wee bit Hill an Glen,
An stuid agin him,
Prood Edward's Airmy,
An senet him hamewart,
Tae think again.

The Hills are bare nou,
An Autumn leafs
Lig thick an still,
O'er laund that 's lost nou,
That yon sae liefly huild,
That stuid agin him,
Prood Edward's Airmy,
An sent him hamewart,
Tae think again.

Thae days are gone nou,
An in the past
Thay maun remain,
But we can still rise nou,
An be the nation again,
That stuid agin him,
Prood Edward's Airmy,
An sent him hamewart,
Tae think again.

O Flouer o Scotland,
Whan will we see
Yer like again,
That focht an dee'd for,
Yer wee bit Hill an Glen,
An stuid agin him,
Prood Edward's Airmy,
An sent him hamewart,
Tae think again.

PIAREVARACIEN

Boutique Fiertés Européennes :

 

PIAREVARACIEN : « If No Sun »

 

( CD / 2011 / Biélorussie )

 

Version « occidentale » ( et donc entièrement chantée en anglais ) du second album des « lycanthropes » biélorusses ( Пярэварацень = Piarevaracien = loup-garou = werwolf ), ce « If no Sun », ne pourra que ravir tout amoureux de Pagan Black Slave engagé ( et ce au sens large du terme, puisque le gang se fend même d’un hommage à Ratko Mladic – sur fond de Kolovrat – au sein du layout ! ), qu’il soit accro’ au grand TEMNOZOR ( bien sûr, l’influence majeure du gang, ne serait-ce qu’au travers de la très belle utilisation de la flûte ), aux débuts de SATARIAL, à KRODA, DRYGVA ou aux dernières et très floydiennes releases de NOKTURNAL MORTUM !!!

Passages « planants », ambiances enchanteresses, mélancoliques ou somptueusement sauvages… images fugaces de meutes de grands loups gris courant à s’en étourdir au sein des sombres forêts biélorusses figées par le givre… et atmosphères martiales ou quasi-shamaniques se succèdent tour à tour tout au long de ces 60 mns de beauté pure, sur lesquelles planent les ombres de Svarog, Vélès et Perun, le Triglav à l’origine de l’âme Slave.

Un soliste inspiré, des vocaux bien rugueux ( impossible de ne pas, penser au LUCIFUGUM des débuts ) alternant avec des voix claires fort bien maîtrisées, un Heathen Black teinté de Folk, de références seventies ( la piste bonus est, en la matière, un vrai régal ! ) et de passages purement Heavy Metal… impossible de ne pas tomber sous le charme lupin de cette ô combien païenne et superbe offrande aux déités du Svarga !

 

Crush The Desert / Très beau digipack 3 volets / Livret 12 pages avec lyrics.

Un sticker et un badge offert avec chaque digi… >>> 12 €uros. / disponible.

 

 

 

Disponible via D.U.K.E / ce blog… 

Ou directement via l'excellent label qu'est Crush The Desert

 

28 février / Jour du Kalevala.

Le Kalevala est l’épopée nationale finlandaise.

C’est un recueil d'anciens chants et de poésies populaires

transmis oralement et assemblés par Elias Lönnrot, médecin et folkloriste.

 

Le 28 février est célébré en Finlande le jour du Kalevala et de la culture finlandaise ("Kalevalanpäivä" en finnois) en mémoire de la première édition du livre, parue en 1835.

 

Lire la suite :

http://lafinlandemodedemploi.over-blog.com/article-kaleva...