top of page

Death gives life - Heaven you breathe!
Dying we live - Ah yet we are breathing!

Dying we live 
Tetralogy

Part 1  Ah yet you are breathing!

Part 2  Everything has its time
Part 3  Everything changes
Part 4  The most precious gifts



 

Pehr_Hilleström-Carl_Michael_Bellman.jpeg

Carl Michael Bellman, född 4 februari 1740 (enl. g.s.) i Stockholm, död 11 februari 1795 i Stockholm, var en svensk skald. Hans mest kända verk är diktcyklerna Fredmans epistlar och Fredmans sånger.

Bellman brukar betraktas som en av Sveriges nationalskalder, och har kallats "Nordens Anakreon", vilket syftar på de backanaliska aspekterna av hans verk. Hans diktning har varit mycket viktig för senare svensk litteratur, och hans betydelse för denna har jämförts med William Shakespeares för den engelskspråkiga.

Bellmans produktion var synnerligen riklig och omväxlande. Den omfattade bland annat dikter, visor, ordensparodier, skådespel, översättningar och religiös diktning. Bland figurerna i hans sånger märks urmakaren Fredman, musikern Movitz, korpral Mollberg och den prostituerade Ulla Winblad, men även gestalter hämtade från den bibliska, grekiska, romerska och fornnordiska mytologin. Han arbetade ofta med kontrasterande stilnivåer och genreblandning i ett och samma verk, så att vad som till en början verkade som en pastoral kunde övergå i supfest och samlag.

 

Melodierna i hans sånger lånade han liksom andra sångförfattare ofta från melodier som var populära i samtiden. De kom bland annat från opera och operett, dansmusik och folkvisor och arbetades om så att de passade hans syfte. I vissa fall, såsom "Träd fram du nattens gud", har man inte hittat någon källmelodi. Huruvida Bellman då själv skrivit melodin eller om källmelodin fallit i glömska är en fråga som inte går att besvara. - Wikipedia.

henning__mankell.jpg

Det är ungefär 230 år sen Bellman dog, utarmad och eländig. Men hans poesi lever som aldrig förr. Hans förmåga att hantera liv och död, erotik och vin, skräck och vånda, yster glädje och djup melankoli, är oöverträffad i den svenska poesin och sångskatten.
I Bellmans diktning och sång går det fortfarande att se sig själv; varje tid, hur skiftande den än är mot tidigare tider, är ändå alltid ”Bellmans tid”.

Henning Mankell, författare  

(Foto: Lina Ikse Bergman)

FÖRORD

 

Utan döden vore inga sånger

 

När vi föds till den här världen gör vi det vanligtvis med ett skrik. Kanske av smärta då lungorna fylls av luft för första gången; att andas eller inte andas. Kanske av förändringens chock, kylan, det okända, livet i ett annat forum. Av längtan tillbaka; att inte andas. Att än mer vilja framåt; andas, andas. Kanske av konflikten.

När Peter Ekberg Peltz´s album Döden Ger Liv föds för lyssnaren sker det däremot med ett skratt. Ett barns bubblande kluckskratt, kanske det ljuvligaste ljudet i universum. Skrattet ger mig bilden av en fjäril som förlöses ur sin puppa, Fjäriln Vingad. Puppan, den källa varifrån vi alla kommer, Vila vid Denna Källa. Fjärilen omvandlas till röst, poetisk och suggestiv, som varsamt tar oss med på en resa i fyra akter med ändhållplats ånyo Vid Denna Källa. Källan, dit vi alla återvänder. Vi föds och vi dör ur och i samma källa. Det är vad det här albumet berättar för mig.

Hur ska man förstå det som inte går ihop men ändå är samma sak? Att livet och döden inte är motsatspar, att det senare inte kommer och rycker bort det förra. Fast det samtidigt är just så. Döden tar sina steg samtidigt med Livet, är dess drivkraft. På samma sätt som Tiden, är den bara där och allt vi kan göra är att hitta strategier att förhålla oss till den. Och Livet, det vill säga det levande livet, blir möjligt i det spänningsfält som uppstår inom oss då vi förhåller oss till denna ”fasliga björn”. Och där föds sångerna.

Att kunna ta emot det vi vet kommer tas ifrån oss är förenat med mycket smärta. Ingen av oss kan förstå vad döden riktigt är. Det går ju inte att tänka att vi inte finns, för då vi tänker den tanken är vi någon som tänker, och då finns vi. Förnekar vi dödes existens kan vi inte leva i ro, vårt inre hamnar i någon slags manisk kramp. Men har vi döden ständigt i blickfånget kan vi inte heller leva. Att veta - utan att förstå - och inte veta samtidigt, det är vad vi behöver klara av. Och de olika sätt på vilket vi gör det får vi ta del av på detta album, en musikalisk beskrivning av livet som produkt av förhållningssättet till en omöjlig ekvation.  

Om albumets första akt målar upp ovan beskrivna utgångspunkt för livet kan man säga att de övriga beskriver människans navigerande i spänningsfältet. Vi får följa hennes oscillerande rörelse mellan alltför närsynt umgänge med dödens stumma ofrånkomlighet till flyktens eufori. För det vi vet men inte förstår kan bli för tungt ibland. Men all glädje är inte flykt! Det är som om det finns en försoningens glädje, en glädje gjord av sammet, den som har en tämjd björn lufsandes vid sin sida.

Att våga ta emot det vi ska förlora, att våga ta emot för att vi ska förlora. Allting har sin tid och Är Jag Född Så Vill Jag Leva. Allting har sin tid och nu är det Ja. Om den här musiken är någonting så är den ett Ja. Den vemodiga rösten har hela tiden glimten i sitt öga. Den lyckas samtidighet och ur det svåra porlar en bäck av liv och fjärilar.

Träd fram du nattens gud, du som mildrar. I naturen är livet och döden ett och detsamma. Där är källan i vilken de möts och förenas. Där är tonerna.

----

 FÖRORD

 

Utan döden vore inga sånger

 

När vi föds till den här världen gör vi det vanligtvis med ett skrik.

Kanske av smärta då lungorna fylls av luft för första gången; att andas eller inte andas.

Kanske av förändringens chock, kylan, det okända, livet i ett annat forum.   

Av längtan tillbaka; att inte andas. Att än mer vilja framåt; andas, andas. Kanske av konflikten.

När Peter Ekberg Pelz album Döden Ger Liv föds för lyssnaren sker det däremot med ett skratt.

Ett barns bubblande kluckskratt, kanske det ljuvligaste ljudet i universum.

Skrattet ger mig bilden av en fjäril som förlöses ur sin puppa, Fjäriln Vingad.

Puppan, den källa varifrån vi alla kommer, Vila vid Denna Källa.

Fjärilen omvandlas till röst, poetisk och suggestiv, som varsamt tar oss med på en resa

i fyra akter med ändhållplats ånyo Vid Denna Källa. Källan, dit vi alla återvänder.

Vi föds och vi dör ur och i samma källa. Det är vad det här albumet berättar för mig.

Hur ska man förstå det som inte går ihop men ändå är samma sak?

Att livet och döden inte är motsatspar, att det senare inte kommer och rycker bort det förra.

Fast det samtidigt är just så. Döden tar sina steg samtidigt med Livet, är dess drivkraft.

På samma sätt som Tiden, är den bara där

och allt vi kan göra är att hitta strategier att förhålla oss till den.

Och Livet, det vill säga det levande livet, blir möjligt i det spänningsfält som uppstår inom oss

då vi förhåller oss till denna ”fasliga björn”. Och där föds sångerna.

Att kunna ta emot det vi vet kommer tas ifrån oss är förenat med mycket smärta.

Ingen av oss kan förstå vad döden riktigt är.

Det går ju inte att tänka att vi inte finns, för då vi tänker den tanken är vi någon som tänker,

och då finns vi.  (Eller?)

Förnekar vi dödens existens kan vi inte leva i ro, vårt inre hamnar i någon slags manisk kramp.

Men har vi döden ständigt i blickfånget kan vi inte heller leva.

Att veta - utan att förstå - och inte veta samtidigt, det är vad vi behöver klara av.

Och de olika sätt på vilket vi gör det får vi ta del av på detta album,

en musikalisk beskrivning av livet som produkt av förhållningssättet till en omöjlig ekvation. 

Om albumets första akt målar upp ovan beskrivna utgångspunkt för livet

kan man säga att de övriga beskriver människans navigerande i spänningsfältet.

Vi får följa hennes oscillerande rörelse mellan alltför närsynt umgänge

med dödens stumma ofrånkomlighet till flyktens eufori.

För det vi vet men inte förstår kan bli för tungt ibland. Men all glädje är inte flykt!

Det är som om det finns en försoningens glädje, en glädje gjord av sammet,

den som har en tämjd björn lufsandes vid sin sida.

Att våga ta emot det vi ska förlora, att våga ta emot för att vi ska förlora.

Allting har sin tid och Är Jag Född Så Vill Jag Leva.

Allting har sin tid och nu är det Ja.

Om den här musiken är någonting så är den ett Ja.

Den vemodiga rösten har hela tiden glimten i sitt öga.

Den lyckas samtidighet och ur det svåra porlar en bäck av liv och fjärilar.

Träd fram du nattens gud, du som mildrar.

I naturen är livet och döden ett och detsamma.

Där är källan i vilken de möts och förenas. Där är tonerna.

Ernst Brunner 1.jpg
Ernst Brunner 2.jpg

CD 1
tap the desired song to see lyrics

CD 2

 1. MOVITZ BLOWN A CONCERT   ep51  5:22  MOVITZ BLEW SO MERRILY  

 

  2. GUBBEN NOAK   S35  2:30  OLD MAN NOAH

 

  3. EVERYTHING IS TRANSFORMED  3:19

 

  4. SOLEN GLIMMAR EP48  3:11  NOW THE SUN GLEAMS IN THE SKY

  5. MOST EXPENSIVE GIFTS EP80  0:50   HERDINNAN / PASTORAL  

  6. ULLA MIN ULLA EP71  4:51  TO ULLA AT HER WINDOW  

  7. THE BUTTERFLY WINGED S64  3:15   BUTTERFLY IN ROYAL HAGA  

  8. DANSMÄSTARN EP 69 3:40

  9. MENUETT  Dm  JOHAN WIKMANSON 4:47

10. THE KEY AND ADDITIONAL GUEST  S60  5:52

11. GRAY FATHER BERG EP 12  4:18   ELEGY ON THE FIGHT AT GRÖNA LUND TAVERN

12. SLIDDER SLADDER - SKRUVA FIOLEN Ep2  3:00   SCREW UP THE FIDDLE  

13. FRONT WITH THE BASIC VIOL EP7  5:07

14. TO NUT ON THE TIP EP67  4:51  

15. REST AT THIS SOURCE EP82  4:52

 

1. PROLOG Intro från EP82 - 2:35 * AH YET WE ARE BREATHING!
Maskerad.jpg
pingvinomslag_video copy.jpg

 

  

 

       

1. Prolog      

                  

Intro to Death gives life. Heaven you breathe! -see the beauty of aging, transience and not least be able to be grateful to still breathe after the experience of Covid-19…

 

2. The old man is old ep 27

Meeting with aging. The old man is old clockwork drawn. The hand shows the hour faster --- ”

 

3. Birth song ep 43

About the vulnerability of giving birth, being born and living in this so relentless closeness to death and “the mask hidden in the flower heralds the death of the flower. Everything sighs for the law of nature… ”

 

4. Lullaby to my son Carl

Can the pain of losing your child ever leave? Our need for comfort of new life rocks us to sleep…

 

5. Notice how our shadow ep 81

Our farewells to our loved ones look so different. Here is a portrait from the time when Grällmakar

Löfberg's wife submitted the sign.

"She was divorced from Dantobommen today. - she was thirsty and I am thirsty, We are all thirsty! ”

6. Adagio

To dear mother on Bruna Dörren Ep 24

Basement song Song 15

 7. "Dear Sister, I now want to talk to you before I die"

See the stars twinkle and the night's cool mists stand. I can no longer think. Do not see, let alone go… ”

 10. Our life is a masquerade - Drink from your glass ep 30

 

11. If I was born, I want to live and feel well in the best way ...

 

12. Step up you god of the night song 32

Nature as comfort and healing.

Sitting in the car was ordered by my father-in-law Bellman connoisseur Paul Britten Austin to teach me before his impending death and funeral. develop driving for Gustaf Boethius' funeral.

 

 13. Gleaming Nymph ep 72

Here from this extremely sensual erotic epistle emerges a great heartfelt tenderness. “Cajsa You die- Heaven she breathes! Death gives life ”is an expression of the ultimate rapture. The physical feeling of the disappearance of the world during the act of love. Dare to lose control - betrayed. The woman in the man gets flower.

Movitz blew a concert

Gubben Noak

Heaven you breathe! Gingivitis is the most wonderful medicine for gravity and skill. I love sbba journeys between seriousness and laughter - between darkness and light!

The most precious gifts

Tribute to Ulla Winbladh ep 80 ep 71

Butterfly winged song 64

In the womb of nature there is so much medicine and as Dad always said. Ignore the books. You can best learn the wisdom of life from the women my son.

Slidder Gossip people complain

Screw the violin ep 2

Sing dance and be happy - answer yes and we will be happy.

Your calling is important.

Boat for Ear Eye and Taste,

Döden ger liv! Himmel du andas!


Prolog från Epistel 82

Himmel! hvad denna Runden, 

Af friska Löfträn sammanbunden,

Vidgar en plan i Lunden,

Med strödda gångar och behag. 

Ljufligt där löfven susa,

I svarta hvirflar grå och ljusa,

Träden en skugga krusa,

Inunder skyars fläkt och drag.

Tag, Ulla tag,

Vid denna måltids stunden, 

Ditt glas som jag.

Himmel! hvad denna Runden, 

Bepryds af blommor tusen slag! 

Af blommor tusen slag.

Dying we live! Ah yet you are breathing

 

Prolog - Epistle 82

Heaven, this leafy bower

Enwreath'd of ev'ry tree and flower

Offers the eye a dower

Of pleasant paths and gravell'd ways.

Softly the leaves are sighing

Their darkling shadows whirling, flying

Each leaf to each replying

Where o'er a bought the zephyr plays.

Raise, Ulla, raise 

Thy glass this festive hour

To all our days!

Heaven, this leafy bower 

Its blooms a thousandfold displays!

A thousand blooms displays!

2. TIMGLAS EP 27 - 4:15 * HOURGLASS

FREDMAN'S EPISTLE No. 27

Which are his last thoughts

Age'd am I, my watch is wound up,

Hurrying hands its hours are shewing,

Death has an hourglass placed by my cup,

My bottle with his arrows bestrewing.

Thirsty I gaze on my sun and my star.

Wanderer, hear my lament from afar.

'cello: ~ ~ ~ Movitz, to rest I am going.

Clearest of wombs, delightful embrace,

Flower whose being in sorrow was wasted,

Which in a birth-bed the cause of my days

le father voluptuous tasted.

Both now are sleeping! To bed they have crept.

Sing, Movitz, sing how the eye it wept

'cello: ~ ~ ~ Where' neath a cypress they rested

Staggering shade, red-Visag'd and drear,

Bacchus alone did thee inherit;

Slobbering accents of brandy and beer ~

Know then thy father, see there his spirit!

Fröja and Bacchus once lent thee a glow.

Movitz, with forefathers' bones below

'cello: - - «~ Let now my ashes be buried.

THE OLD MAN IS OLD EPISTEL no. 27

Which is its last thought

 

The old man is old, the clockwork is being pulled,
The pointer shows,
  timman ilar.
Death has set its hourglass by my glass,
Around the bottle sprinkled his arrows.
Thirsty I watch my Star and Sun.
Hiker now hears my Bass Violin
Movitz, your servant is resting.

 

Clearest womb, lovely bosom!
Sadly the life of the flowers was ruined,
Who gave my father, to my sorrow and anger,
Lust in the bed where I was born.
But both sleep. Happy New Year!
Sing Movitz, sing about how the eye gret
At the Cypresses that were strewn.


Ragling shadow, noisy mine,
Created to Bacchus go to hand;
Scrolls tongue of brandy and wine.
Feel my father there, feel his spirit there.
Fröja and Bacchus gave it a glow.
Movitz sounded among my fathers' legs
This my dust get mixed up.

3. FÖDSLOSÅNG EP43 * BIRTH SONG 6:21

BIRTH SONG

 

(Song No. 19)

Ah, deaths he is a frightful bear, 

Each day and hour our life requiring;

The sparrow and the eagle share 

His cruel blow, and fall expiring,

At nature's law all creatures sigh

(Ep 27)

Clearest of wombs, delightful embrace,

Flower whose being in sorrow was wasted,

Which in a birth-bed the cause of my days

le father voluptuous tasted.

Both now are sleeping! To bed they have crept.

Sing, Movitz, sing how the eye it wept

'cello: ~ ~ ~ Where' neath a cypress they rested

FREDMANS EPISTEL 43

To Ulla Winblad written on a delicate occation

 

Warm more ale and bread

Fetch Madam Wingmark's kettle 

Lay cummin in, a little

Heat our copper bowl on griddle 

Glowing red!

Make up a bed

Or swansdown, silks; oh lessen 

Her pains, Susanna, hurry!

Run for cradle, chair and basin, 

Hurry, I said!

Close her door, instead

Draw the curtains gently round, befriend her, 

Astrild to thy nymph be tender

Whom thou seest in her splendor

All her wounded feelings wait on thee in dread

Mull Rhenish and spread

Milk ginger, candy by her, 

No candle, dear, deny her, 

Anything she can desire

Lighten her dread! 

Oh sing to her, do

Her anxious heart is burning

The blood within returning

Soon must seek to cool its yearning 

Leap, and be two

Beauty in the two

Beauty, what rue!

Deaths in thousands all around thee glower, 

Even in this loving hour

Thou must taste of death's dread power: 

Worm in blossom hid foretells the flower is dead

BIRTH SONG

(Song No. 19)  

Alas, death is a horrible bear:

he demands life every hour.

A seal and the proud eagle,

they must feel the same violence:

||: everything sighs for the law of nature. : ||

 

(Ep 27)

Clearest womb, lovely bosom!

Sadly the life of the flowers was ruined,

Who gave my father, to my burning and anger.

Lust in the bed where I was born.

But both sleep. Happy New Year!

Sing Movitz, sing about how the eye gret.

V: cllo. - - - At the Cypresses that were strewn.

FREDMANS EPISTEL 43

Written to Ulla Winblad on a tender occasion

 

Heat more Beer and Bread,

County Madam Wingmark's jug,

Add Cumin, Susanna,

Heat our large copper pan

Illene red. Nice.

Quickly make a Bed,

With Svandun, Silk quilts;

Gesvindt, precisely on the spot,

Cradle, Chair and Brass Basin,

Get plenty;

Close the door, close.

Fold the curtains completely slowly;

Astrild came, your Nymph warden,

Come and look at her splendor,

Her feelings emotionally await your support. DC

 

Pure Wine, Milk and Mead,

More Ölost whey, dear!

More Sugar, Ginger,

Everything nice she wants.

Relieve its distress; Nice. 

Sing the Nymph a song,

Its heart is anxiously burning;

The blood in there is flowing,

Soon a lovely coolness finds, Sharing its leap;

Beauty, what compulsion!

A thousand kills around you voice;

Even in the hour of your love,

Do you have to feel a death;

The mask hidden in the flower

heralds the death of the flower. D. C

4. VAGGSÅNG - CRADLE SONG 4:17

CRADLE SONG


For my son Carl

CARL MICHAEL BELLMAN 1787

 

Sleep, sweet tiny Carl, in peace, 
'T will soon be time to wake thee;
 
Time to taste our time's disease
Whose bile shall ne'er forsake thee
What's our world? An isle of woe
Breathing, born to death we go;
 
To soon the grave will take thee.

 

In a field a stream ran by. 
A straying from his fellows.
Once a little lad did spy.
His face among the billows,
 
Brief his image fair is seen
In the pretty wavelets green -
Then only weeds and willows
 

 

Such is life upon our earth, 
The swift years disappear.
 
Scarce we're born to joy and mirth,
 
Then laid upon a beer.
Tiny Carl shall so reflect,
Seeing pretty flow'rs have deck'd.
The springtime of the year.


Namnlös.png

LULLABY

to my son Carl 
CARL MICHAEL BELLMAN 1787
 

Little Charles, sleep sweetly, in peace,
You'll get enough time awake,
Time enough to see our evil time
And her bile taste.
The world is an island of sorrow,
The best you can breathe, you will die
And get down to earth.  

Once, where a spring floated
Past a veil in the rye,
Stood a little boy cute
And reflect in the scales:
Best his picture he saw so beautiful
In the wave, clear and green,
As soon as he did not see the.  

So is our time of life,
And then the years disappear:
It is best to breathe well and happily,
Then you lie on the stretcher.
Little Charles should think so,
When he sees the flowers small,
Which adorn the spring.  

Sleep lulla, little Friend,
Your prosperity will make us happy.
When you wake up, we'll be late
You cut horse and sleigh;
Se´n small houses of cards, lull lull,
Shall we build, blow litter
And small songs quince.  

Mom has the baby here
Small gold shoes and gold coat,
And if Charles is modest,
So comes right-now Dad,
Little baby namnam gives.
Sofve lulla! Now lie down
And your pillow pat.

LOVE SONG FOR MY SON CARL

This is one of Bellman's most widespread songs; you can find it in folk tradition in the countryside all over the north. The lullaby was written in August 1787, when his son Carl was just over a month old. Just a few weeks earlier, his son Elis had died two years old of smallpox. The melody that Bellman chose is the usual so-called "fishing boat melody". The text is partly reminiscent of a previous show called Prints Carls Waggewisa. Prince Carl, who came to be called Duke Carl and later Carl XIII, was the one after whom Bellman named his son.


When I was released at Södra BB ten months after  Stockholm south of a midwife ended up my own mother  in hospital near death for a long time.  A 17 year old nanny was hired to take care of me -  the screaming child whose pain of premature separation was too strong for the young virgin, who finally got enough and saw that as the only way out with a pillow, the unbearable sounds that came uninterruptedly from the baby's mouth.

The saving angel who came and interrupted my premature death was my father. 
Thanks Dad!
  And for your lullabies, fairy tales and endless stories in the rocking chair.
But you could have damn well waited to die yourself - until I had grown up for real.
 
You were never sick, not even caught a cold before you died suddenly.
  My near-death experience with difficulty getting air has been a major trauma to process during large parts of my life.
And now in the time of Coronan, Covid 19 has contributed to the continuation of creation
 
of my upcoming album "Death Gives Life - Heaven You Breathe!"

5. MÄRK HUR VÅR SKUGGA EP 81 MARK OUR SHADOW 8:51

FREDMAN'S EPISTLE NO. 81

To Quarrelsome Löfberg, at the Dante Barrier

Composed by the graveside

 

Mark how our shadow, mark Movitz, mon frere,

One small darkness encloses,

How gold and purple that shovel there

To rags and rubbish disposes,

Charon beckons from tumultuous waves,

Then thrice this ancient digger of graves.

For thee ne'er grapeskin shall glister.

Wherefore, my Movitz, come help me to raise

A gravestone over our sister.

 

Ever desirous and modest abode

Under the sighm'g branches,

Where time and death a marriage forebode

'Twixt beauty and ugliness' ashes:

To thee ne'er jealousy findeth her way,

Nor happiness' footstep, swift to stray,

Flitteth amid these barrows.

E'en enmity arm'd, as thou seest this day,

Piously breaketh her arrows.

 

The little bell echoes the great bell's groan.

Robed in the door the precentor

Noisome with quiristers' prayerful moan,

Blesses those who enter.

The way to this templ'd city of tombs

Climbs amid roses' yellowing blooms,

Fragments of molding beers,

Till black-clad each mourner his station assumes,

Bows there deeply in tears.

So to her rest, from scuttle and dance,

Quarrelsome Lo'f'berg, your wife went,

Into the grass where your furious glance

Backward turns, thin-neck'd, on strife bent.

From Danto Barrier taken to die,

With her all our lusty merriments fly.

Who now for bottles shall call?

Thirsty she was, yet more thirsty am I;

Thirsty we are, each and all.

NOTE HOW OUR SHADOW EP 81

To quarrel Löfberg in the star house at Dantobommen Dictated at the grave  
 

Notice how 'our shadow, notice Movitz Mon Frere!
In a dark end,
How Gold and Purple in Skåfveln, that one,
Replace with gravel and cloths.
Charon waves from his roaring elf,
And three times since the Undertaker himself,
More you do not shake your grape.
That's why Movitz came to help me and vault
Tombstone over our Sister.
 

Alas, longing and hidden sheds,
Under the rustling branches,
Where Time and Death a beauty and ugly
To a dust unites!
To you Afund never sought any path,
Happiness, otherwise in flight so agile,
Never around Grifterna hurry.
Oven there armed, what do you think?
Piously breaks his arrows.
 

Lillklockan clamps to Storklockans dön,
Löfvad stands Cantorn in the gate;
And at the prayer of the roaring Goose,
Weekends this resort.
The road up to the temple's adorned city
Trampled between Roses' yellowed leaves,
Decayed Planks and Stretchers;
Until the long and black-clad line,
Deep bows with tears.
 

So went to rest, from Fighting and Ball,
Quarrels Löfberg, your wife;
There, there the grass ate long-necked and narrow,
You still stare back.
She was divorced from the Danto boom today,
And with Her all the funny teams;
Who will now command the Bottle.
She was thirsty and I am thirsty;
We are all thirsty.
 

BellmanCornelis.png
Gubben är gammal

ADAGIO

Johan Wikmanson from the D minor quartet  

Wikmanson was taught  piano playing  and  generalbas  by the conductor  Henrik Philip Johnsen  and was apprenticed in 1770 to a  mathematical  instrument maker  in  Copenhagen , from where he escaped due to poor treatment and soon returned to Sweden.

There he was employed in 1771 at  the Post Office  and 1772 at  the number lottery , where he stayed  chambers  1778. In addition, he became  organist  in the Dutch Church and later, 1781, in  The Great Church .
He became a member in 1788  Academy of Music , 1796 director of this academy and 1797 also teacher in  harmony  and  counterpoint  at its educational institution.

In the winter of 1972, Wikmanson wrote his own songbook of Bellman's poems

ADAGIO

Johan Wikmanson from D minor string quartet

Wikmanson was taught piano and general bass by the conductor Henrik Philip Johnsen and was apprenticed in 1770 to a mathematical instrument maker in Copenhagen, from where he ran off due to poor treatment escaped and soon returned to Sweden. There he was employed in 1771 at the Post Office and in 1772 at the number lottery, where he became chamberlain in 1778. Therefore he became organist in the Dutch Church and later, in 1781, in the Great Church. In 1788 he became a member of the Academy of Music, in 1796 directly for this academy and in 1797 also a teacher of harmony and counterpoint at its educational institution.

 

In the winter of 1972, Wikmanson wrote his own songbook of Bellman's poems

7. KÄRA SYSTER EP 24 6:42

Fredman's Epistle No. 24

To dear mother at Bruna Dörren

 

Dear sister, I now shine
talk to you before I die.
Double beer gives a good mood,
simple beer I never taste.
The anxiety of brandy shakes my heart,
and I stand by the edge of the grave
dressed as a Bacchi hero,
but despised and despised,
afraid of my own shadow.

 

Dear sister, mine now shines
to get me a drink;
then go into my dark depths.
The clock is ticking, Charon is sending.
Take me this and that,
dear mother, I'm hiccuping.
Bacchi juices still delight me.

 

Wretched times! What it suffers,
only the price is lowered,
better buys on spirits are available.
But then I no longer live,
other heroes then hover.
Can you believe, then, dear mother,
I'm going to get a sup so big,
I'll drink, if you think so,
like runius, Lucidor.
Wretched times! What it suffers,
my leg rank falls down,
but my mouth ate the glass smiling.
Supper several! Give me more!
Bacchus, no other,
shall embalm me
as a great namesake man.

Sisters, listen! When in the pipes
on top of the tavern glass and stop,
drink my cup then all,
sing about love, wine and happiness,
if they qualify a thirsty press
and about how a drunken man
paradise can win,
if the fire in the blood flowed,
when he first found the grape.
Sisters hear: Brown Door
close to everything well again;
let my harbor knock then.
Do not drop! Stop, let's up!
I have to go; farewell
boat ', with soul and body!
Here's a drink, I'm thirsty to death.

 

  • Carl Michael Bellman

Dear sister, I now shine

Talk to you before I die

Talk to you before I die

Double beer gives a good mood

Simple beer I never taste

Brandy anxiety shakes my heart

And I stand by the grave

Like a bacchi hero dressed

But despised and despised

Afraid of my own shadow

 

Dear sister, I now shine

To get me a drink

Then go into my dark depths

The clock is ticking

Charon sends a sloop

Take me this and that

Dear mother, I'm hiccuping

Bacchi juices still delight me

 

Poor times

What it suffers

Only the price is lowered

Only the price is lowered

Better buys on spirits are available

But then I no longer live

Other heroes then hover

Can you believe then dear mother

I was going to get a drink so big

I should drink. If you believe

Like runius lucidor

 

Poor times  - what it suffers

My leg rank falls down

But my mouth ate the glass smiling

Drink more - give me more

More!

Bacchus no ann

Shall embalm me

Like a big one 

  name only -un-niger man

 

Sisters hear!

When in the pipes

Upstairs tavern glass and stop

Upstairs tavern glass and stop

Then drink it all

Sing about love wine and happiness

If they qualify a thirsty press

And about how a drunken man

Paradise can win

If the fire in the blood flowed

When he found the first grape

 

Sisters hear. -  brown the door

Close everything again

Let my port knock then

Do not drop

Held!  --- let up

But

I have to say goodbye

Both with soul and body!

Hit a sup

I'm thirsty to death

8. KÄLLARSÅNG S15 3:01

Fredmans Sång nr 15

BASEMENT SONG

Come nice basement-girls
in fast jump, in trip and trot,
beat up both 'cracks and slits,
and let me drink from it;
I'm thirsty,
night and day,
dull and weak;
Give me fifteen kinds of wine.

How lovely it must be
to bravely drink the glasses out,
and see himself in danger
to dim every minute!
Fast! I smile,
right now look
I no more
to go home to my neighborhood.

I do not want to be sober
for all too much very good;
You live so depressed
when nothing is wet;
I agree,
throat should
like a pipe
softened, liquefied, until one dies.

So drink now at the bottom,
alas, old men of the heart! Do your best;
In the lot of this bliss
so there is no rivet.
Sounding glass
crash
i kalas,
when where many sips are taken.

This is how happy thoughts are evoked
in Bacchi real paradise.
Fresh carries many anchors
of French and Portuguese;
No one can stand now
any toast
in our bark,
supa is our purpose.

See the stars they shine,
and the cool mists of the night stand;
I can no longer think,
do not see, let alone walk;
Guys at least,
on each other
do you have to
now reconciled as one can.

I dim over all the way,
my dear supebror, I pray,
your toast my friend, can happen
we never happen again;
Now we have
very good,
very wet,
as our heart left behind.

 

  • Carl Michael Bellman

From Carl Michael Bellman's Fredman's Songs (1791). Interpreted by Peter Ekberg Pelz. Song 15 is by all accounts one of the oldest among Fredman's Songs. It dates from the first half of the 1760s, a period during which Bellman's lyric poetry was far more economical than it would be after 1765 - and far more traditional. The song is a classic representative of the so-called situation song, a drink song about drinking and about the type of drink. (G Hillbom) The source tune is a French vaudeville.

9. BRÖDERNA FARA VÄL VILSE EP35 4:11
FREDMAN'S  EPISTLE  No.35

Concerning his fair one and her fickleness

 

Truly the brethren go often astray 'Mid glasses, but never for taverns.

All to the land of the grapes find a way.

Drink brother, a little, I pray.

Hear how they stumble and scrape in the sand,

Fumble for doorways to Bacchus's caverns,

Bloody of lip how they beat on them, and

Go headlong with tankard in hand.

Father lffovilz, fill up for me;

My girl has forgotten me, I die faithful. Day      and night will I drunken be

To all my misery flee.

 

Hot-headed brothers, at dicing so rash, By tankards ever declaiming,

Drinking, they swallow a quart in a flash,

-With rapiers cutting a dash.

The dice go a-tumbling, the arguments <: lash,

Now   of a  broomstick and now of a church-spire;          

Meanwhile the waiter, despicable trash,

Curses, demanding his cash.

Dice, ah yes, it's thewaythey fallI

A spark for my pipe, sir, I thank'ee kindly.

In my mind I've the wench's ska.I,

.T ho 'she  has  ost me my all.

 

Gifts have I given, and glimmering gold, The babe to the poorhouse I've taken,

And when it died, sir, I drank on its mold So.  deep the gravedigger roll'd.                    

Tell me, have I, when the watchman patroll'd,

Once that lascivious harlot forsaken?

 

Risking for this case  · A ·: wh ippin g, I'm told, I've routed those champions bold.

Yet, my Anna-Greta, yet

I, like a sparrow, en.snar 'd and taken, Once again for my freedom fret,

Whom death itself, would forget.

Fill up my glass, sir, and maybe the pain

Will yield to its exquisite savor.

Tears down my nose, sir, now trickle amain.

Ska.I1 My heart's easy again.

Scarce fifty years have I liv'd, yet I fain Friends to ye all will now safely assever Liquor as rare as I've yesterd y ta 'en

Is balm for a woman's disdain.

Drip a drop or two on my sore,

And on my heart, sir, do me that favor. Damn my soul, but the pain'll pass o'er paJ Stand me a dram, sir, onemore1

 

Ah, when I think on her heavenly hue And roguishly fiery glances, 

'Then will my heart, sir, a leadweight for rue, Bottles forever eschew.

He breast's a shimmering cloud i'the skies; Froja denies me yet  Froja entrances. 

Palsied my hands are, and dazzl'd my eyes.

Heaven, new agonies rise1 Yet, my Anna-Greta, you

Know very well who the fickle wench is. Devil take you, deceitful shrew1

Hey, waiter, pour out. , -J   It'll do.

FREDMANS Ep. 35

Regarding her beauty and her impermanence   

 

The brothers get lost sometimes
About the glasses but nothing about the hook
All of them find their way to the land of grapes
Drink brothers, drink a little grand
Hear how they stumble and scratch in the sand
Fumble on doors and knock with the knuckle
Rag and tumble with the stop in hand,
And bleed on tongue and tooth.
Father Movitz, strike, strike!
My girl has forgotten me, I die faithful;
Night and day constantly in drunkenness,
Shall all my sorrow pass away.

The brothers quarrel over trays and throws,
At Ölbägarn constantly demonstrate;
Some people drink a block in a hurry,
And pull the blades sharply;
Dice roll, and the tile is fixed;
The old men slam and proudly discuss
Than about a church tower and than about a broom;
But Kyparn he swears like a guest.
Hi yes yes yes, it's so, yes!
Fire my pipe, give me more.
The girl's bowl in mind,
Though she has cost me well.

Yes, I have given her gifts and gold;
At the orphanage I get the Child;
The child it though; with Calas on its soil
I drank the Undertaker drunk.
The Paltars have often gone on patrol
I have then freed the suffering scar,
Dare for her both 'backrest and hole,
And beat those heroes litter.
But, my Anna Greta! but!
Now I'm like the bird caught in the net,
Who wants out to his freedom again,
And hardly has death as a friend.

Strike me; maybe the pain goes away
Of the sweet acidity of the juices.
Tears run down her nose; Good year!
My heart feels better now.
I have barely lived for fifty years,
However, I can safely assure you all,
That kind of Finkel I drank yesterday
Is costly against the wounds of love.
Drizzle a drop or two,
And pour it on the heart, pour four;
Swede shall take me a thousand to pass away;
Just take a drink on top.

Ouch! when I think up her skin
And the burning games of the eyes,
The heart of anxiety as heavy as a lead
Want to escape from the bottles;
The chest it resembles a floating sky;
Rejoice me lures and Rejoice me denies;
Hands clasped, my eyes bother.
Oh heavens! my grief is now new.
But, my Anna Greta! probably,
Surely you now know who I'm pointing to,
Damn you you cheated on me!
Beat waiters in. - That's enough.

10. MASKERAD - JERGEN PUCKEL EP79 1:32 DRICK UR EP 30 7:15
FREDMAN'S  EPISTLE  No.30

 

Drain off thy glass! See death upon thee waiting,

Sharpens his sword and peers in at thee door.

Be not afraid! He but essays the grating, 

Friend, to thy tomb; and grants the one year more. 

Movitz, consumption is laying thee in the grave, man! 

--- Pluck an octave, man! 

Tune thy sweet notes, sing life's fair spring of yore.  

Yellowish hue, and small cheeks hotly burning, 

Shrunken thy chest, and shoulders as of lath.

Let's see thy hand! Each vein the blood returning, 

Swollen and damp, as from heated bath. 

Sweaty thy palm is, its art'ries all stiffen'd.

--- Play till thou'rt deafen'd.

Drain off thy bottle, drink and sing and laugh!

 

Heavens, thou diest! Each cough with fear inspiring

Hollowly grates, and all thy parts repine.

White is thy toungue, thy frighten'd heart expiring,

Muscles and flesh, all soft to death incline.

Breathe! Ah, preserve us! Such fumes from thy throttle. 

--- Reach me the bottle! 

Movitz, thy health! Bowl! Praise the god of wine!  

 

From out his bowl thy death away is dripping; 

Laughing and gay, thy life he takes by stealth.

'Burning fiery worms' thou, Movitz, oft art sipping 

From this same glass; full sinister its walth.

All is consum'd now, all rheum'd now thy gazing.

--- "My guts, sir, are blazing!" 

Hast thou the strength once more? Ah, yes, good health!  

Well, then a toast: to Bacchus farewell waving

From Fröja's throne, a last, a long adieu!

Fondly the blood, thy veins a last time laving, 

Seethes to its spell. Then violently spew.

Sing, read, forget; weep, bethink thee and ponder: 

--- Wilt thou go yonder?

Movitz, wouldst die? Ah no! Good health to you!

11. ÄR JAG FÖDD SÅ VILL JAG LEVA S16 7:22

If I was born, I want to live!

Enter text LATER ENTER TEXT LATER ENTER TEXT LATER ENTER TEXT LATER ENTER TEXT LATER ENTER TEXT LATER ENTER TEXT LATER ENTER TEXT LATER ENTER TEXT LATER ENTER TEXT LATER ENTER TEXT LATER ENTER TEXT LATER ENTER TEXT LATER ENTER TEXT LATER ENTER TEXT LATER ENTER TEXT LATER PRINT IN TEXT LATER ENTER TEXT LATER ENTER TEXT LATER ENTER TEXT LATER ENTER TEXT LATER ENTER TEXT LATER ENTER TEXT LATER ENTER TEXT LATER ENTER TEXT LATER ENTER TEXT LATER ENTER TEXT LATER ENTER TEXT LATER ENTER TEXT LATER ENTER TEXT LATER ENTER TEXT LATER

 

If I was born, I want to live!

Enter text LATER ENTER TEXT LATER ENTER TEXT LATER ENTER TEXT LATER ENTER TEXT LATER ENTER TEXT LATER ENTER TEXT LATER ENTER TEXT LATER ENTER TEXT LATER ENTER TEXT LATER ENTER TEXT LATER ENTER TEXT LATER ENTER TEXT LATER ENTER TEXT LATER ENTER TEXT LATER ENTER TEXT LATER PRINT IN TEXT LATER ENTER TEXT LATER ENTER TEXT LATER ENTER TEXT LATER ENTER TEXT LATER ENTER TEXT LATER ENTER TEXT LATER ENTER TEXT LATER ENTER TEXT LATER ENTER TEXT LATER ENTER TEXT LATER ENTER TEXT LATER ENTER TEXT LATER ENTER TEXT LATER ENTER TEXT LATER

 

12. TRÄD FRAM DU NATTENS GUD SÅNG 12 6:26
13. GLIMMANDE NYMF EP. 72 6:15
Fästpunkt 1
bottom of page