Wolfhunt

Wolfhunt
ALBUM
Wolfhunt
Vadim Astrakhan
  • Artist:

    Vadim Astrakhan

  • Release Date:

    2014

BUY THIS ALBUM

Wolfhunt

Recorded in August 2011 – March 2014 in four cities:  New York (US), Seattle (US), St. Petersburg (Russia), and Yekaterinburg (Russia), primarily in Bass Hit Records, NY, NY.

Produced and engineered by different people under the general supervision of Vadim Astrakhan.

Mastered by Dave Darlington

Musically this album lies somewhere between SSSS and Two Fates It still contains wild experimentation with a variety of musical genres, including full symphonic orchestra, hip-hop, metal, blues, and tango, but keeps closer to the Vysotsky’s originals.

 

The CD is $15 US + $3 S&H, regardless of the quantity of discs that you order or your address, foreign or domestic.

 

Songs:

 

BE GRATEFUL YOU’RE ALIVE

Vocals:  Vadim Astrakhan
Rhythm, lead, & bass guitar, drums, & synths:  Roman Korotin
Trumpet:  Dima Vishnepolsky
Background vocals:  Vadim Astrakhan, Roman Korotin, Dimitri Vishnepolsky
Produced by Roman Korotin
Recorded in May – July 2013 by Roman Korotin and Jamie Siegel

You should be grateful you’re alive, be grateful you’re alive!
You should be grateful you’re alive, be grateful you’re alive!

So what – You feel like you are turning psycho.
So what – You’ve just been kicked out by your wife.
So what – You have been mugged the second time now.
You should be grateful you are still alive!
So what – you have been mugged the second time now.
You should be grateful you are still alive.

Big deal – Your poker partner kicked the bucket.
Big deal – You blew your paycheck in a dive.
Big deal – You saw the punch but couldn’t block it.
You should be grateful you are still alive.
You saw the coming punch but couldn’t block it:
You should be grateful you are still alive!

Tough luck – you just got roughed up by a bouncer.
Tough luck – the nightmares keep you up till five.
Tough luck – the tests came back, and you’ve got cancer.
You should be grateful you are still alive.
Tough luck – you have been diagnosed with cancer.
You should be grateful you are still alive!

Who cares – Last night you passed out on the bleachers.
Who cares – You’ve been assaulted with a knife.
Who cares – You got hauled out on a stretcher.
You should be grateful you are still alive.
Who cares – You got hauled out on a stretcher.
You should be grateful you are still alive!

You should be grateful you’re alive, be grateful you’re alive!
You should be grateful you’re alive, be grateful you’re alive!

It’s true that all my chances have been squandered. (You should be grateful…)
It’s true – I don’t push and I don’t strive. (You should be grateful…)
Yes, it’s all true, but one thing makes me wonder:  (You should be grateful…)
To whom should I be grateful I’m alive?
So very true, but one thing makes me wonder:
To whom should I be grateful I’m alive?

 

21st Century City Blues

Vocals & rhythm guitar:  Vadim Astrakhan
Rhythm, lead, & bass guitar:  Thad DeBrock
Drums:  Dave Darlington
Produced by Vadim Astrakhan
Recorded in April 2012 – April 2013

I’m a high-end computer technician.
What they pay me, I’d quickly use up.
And my pay, I would say, is sufficient,
With an annual bonus on top.

Even nerds must have someone to fancy
(I am sure you all can relate).
In the country I have a fiancée
Plus two chicks in the city to lay.

My fiancée gets money and postcards,
And the chicks get martinis and me.
Every night I get so exhausted,
Every night and continuously.

Work performance is now an issue,
As my brain is ‘bout ready to pop.
Feel my health is no longer sufficient
Or the annual bonus on top.

No, this cannot go on any longer.
So I shoot them an email one day:
“Bite me, will ya?  The party is over!
Find yourselves a new daddy, OK?”

Feel so good now, it’s not even funny,
And with no man would I ever swap.
On myself now I spend all my money
And the annual bonus on top!

 

SO HAZY

Translated by Vadim Astrakhan & Julie Deshtor
Vocals:  Polina
Guitars:  Thad DeBrock
Keys:  Dave Darlington
Produced by Vadim Astrakhan & Dave Darlington
Recorded in December 2012 – March 2013

It’s so hazy
The mirror’s reluctant to show reflection.
I can’t see my face, I can only pretend.
And dancers
Are tired of feigning affection.
But still I must sing my song to the end.
All notes have already been played in flashes.
The wine in the glass has burned down to ashes.
The fleeting desire to speak has passed,
And now I should quietly drink my glass.

For a while
The cold winter sun hasn’t smiled,
And souls have been frozen beneath the ice.
I know:
Awaiting the spring is so futile.
And memories of sunshine no longer suffice.
The vital notes all have been played in flashes.
The wine in the glass has burned down to ashes.
The fleeting desire to speak has passed.
And all I can do is just drink my glass.

The music
Is limping.  They’re missing their notes.
I’m caught in this circle.  The trap soon will spring.
Keep smiling!
I’m going to leave at the close.
But still I must sing what I came here to sing.
The vital notes all have been played in flashes.
The wine in the glass it has burned to ashes.
The chill of the mirrors’ caress… impasse!
And now I should silently drink my glass.
Or maybe I better just smash my glass.
The glass.

 

THE WOLFHUNT

Vocals & rhythm guitar:  Vadim Astrakhan
Rhythm, lead, & bass guitar:  Thad DeBrock
Drums & keys:  Dave Darlington
Produced by Vadim Astrakhan
Recorded in April – June 2013 by Dave Darlington

Pulling out, I’m tearing tendons…
But today is just like yesterday.
I’m surrounded, I have been hemmed in.
I’m a predator turned into prey.
From the shadows shotguns are thumping,
Hunters hiding behind the trees.
On the snow wolves rolling and jumping:
Living targets, nowhere to flee!

The hunt is on!  The hunt is on!  The hunt is on now!
Mature specimens and cubs are being mowed!
The beaters scream and the slobbering hounds howl.
The flags fly crimson over crimson snow.

No mercy, no fairness shown…
Hands are steady, as bolt actions clank.
By the red flags our freedom is zoned,
As they’re firing rounds point blank!
But we wolves can’t break with tradition.
Must have been in our childhood, blind,
With our mother’s milk we’ve been conditioned:
“Don’t cross, don’t cross the flagline!”

The hunt is on!  The hunt is on!  The hunt is on now!
Mature specimens and cubs are being mowed.
The beaters scream and the slobbering hounds howl.
The flags fly crimson over crimson snow.

Someone tell me:  what are we doing?
Tell us, Alpha:  can’t we rebel?
Why are we dashing towards our ruin
And not trying to break this corral?
Not the wolf:  he cannot, he must not!
And my time is now almost done,
As the one who is now my master
Grins with pleasure and raises his gun.

The hunt is on!  The hunt is on!  The hunt is on now!
Mature specimens and cubs are being mowed.
The humans scream and the slobbering hounds howl.
The flags fly crimson over crimson snow.

I transgress.  I stop following orders.
Lust for life drives me over the lines.
I hear gleefully behind the borders
Shouting men, left without their prize!
Pulling out, I’m tearing tendons…
But today is not like yesterday!
I’m surrounded, but I will not surrender!
Empty-handed the men go away!

The hunt is on!  The hunt is on!  The hunt is on now!
Mature specimens and cubs are being mowed.
The humans scream and the slobbering hounds howl.
The flags fly crimson over crimson snow.

 

GAMBLERS 1812 (A Monologue)

Vocals:  Vadim Astrakhan
Rhythm, lead, & bass guitar, drums, & synths:  Roman Korotin
Violin & trumpet:  Dimitri Vishnepolsky
Background vocals:  Dimitri Vishnepolsky & Vadim Alenichev
Produced by Roman Korotin & Vadim Astrakhan
Recorded in January – February 2014

Cards on the table, gentlemen!
This deck is marked.  It’s glaring!
He switched it, yes, he switched it when
You gulped your liquor, Baron.
The Jack is painted.  Take a look!
My God, we never noticed!
Sir, you’re a grifter and a crook,
And I am at your service!
Now, Count, you can speak your part.
I say you are out of order!
(That day Napoleon Bonaparte
Was crossing Russia’s border)

You aren’t finishing this round:
An urgent matter beckons!
You Baron here and you Viscount,
I hope you’ll be our seconds.
Now you can argue till you drop –
It’s all damn lies, I’m sure.
The choice of weapon, hurry up!
Which one do you prefer?

Soon you’ll forget about cards!
Your gambling days are over!
(That day Napoleon Bonaparte
Was crossing Russia’s border)

Enough, I’ll make the call myself:
It’s pistols.  Wait, make it sabers!
But I suspect you’d rather have
Your choice of ladies’ chambers!
A dagger?  Now I am amused:
I mastered it in combat!
But I suspect you’d rather use
This very deck you’ve loaded.

Now I am ready to depart.
I’ll see you in the courtyard!
(That day Napoleon Bonaparte, that day Napoleon Bonaparte
Was crossing Russia’s border)

No need to help me, I’m alright.
See?  I’m not falling over!
I’ll challenge this man to a fight
Again, when I am sober.
Be silent, dear Baron, sit!
Viscount, stop your bleating!
I want this bastard to admit
The truth about his cheating!

Reveal the secret of the cards,
And you’ll escape your murder!
(That day Napoleon Bonaparte
Was crossing Russia’s border)

But if your arrogance prevails,
I promise, my dear Count:
The Countess can send you mail
Some six feet underground!
It’s not amusing anymore!
I solemnly declare:
I’ll put a bullet right up your –
Pardonnez-moi – derrière!

(It was a warm day off the charts,
And would get even warmer.
That day Napoleon Bonaparte, that day Napoleon Bonaparte
Was crossing Russia’s border)

My dear Count!  Forgive me my
Deplorable behavior!
I had to call you out to try
And ask you for a favor.
I had to ask you for a loan,
While no one else was watching.
So, just to be with you alone,
I staged all that debauching.
Oh yes, I had a drink (or twelve)
And made the play on Fours…
“A fool”?  What’s that?  Oh, very well!
The first shot, then, is yours.

It was a warm day off the charts
And would get even warmer.
That day Napoleon Bonaparte, that day Napoleon Bonaparte
Was crossing Russia’s border!

 

ONE FAILED ROMANCE

Vocals:  Vadim Astrakhan
Rhythm, lead, & bass guitar, drums, & synths:  Roman Korotin
Produced by Roman Korotin
Recorded in March – April 2013

She has got her own place that she recently bought.
As for me:  I’m renting a couch from some widow.
All my time, all the time that I have or have not
‘Cross the street I keep staring at her from my window.

She has got an apartment that’s cheerfully lit.
And last night her concierge in the bar spilled the basics:
That she’s got two male friends in the Broadway elite
And some guy who apparently works in forensics.

I confess:  she will be very hard to impress.
What I’ve learned made me feel both uncertain and cranky:
That her dad runs a unit in the IRS,
And her brother plays second base for the Yankees.

I will say that the Yankees I watch every day.
I will say that her brother can surely throw!
I will say that my taxes I frequently pay.
And by the way:  I’ve been cast for that CSI show.

She has got marble sills, where geraniums sit.
And I swear I’d do anything just to impress her!
But I got… what?  In my window I ain’t got shit.
Only dust, only dust, only dust, only dust, only inches of dust on the dresser.

But what the hell!  I’m bound to get lucky one day!
Even though in this world it is very unlikely.
I’ll shape up and the sweepstakes this year I’ll play,
And I’ll win!  And then she’ll have no choice but to like me…

 

THE WARPLANE (The Airfight, Pt. 2)

Vocals:  Vadim Astrakhan
Ural State Conservatory Symphonic Orchestra, conducted by Anton Shaburov
Recorded by Zhanna Skachkova and Dave Darlington in July 2013

A warplane, a fighter, I soar happily.
I rule the skies, a wind-rider!
But the one who’s sitting inside of me
He thinks that he is the fighter.
I just killed a bomber effortlessly:
My seventeenth, verified.
But the one who’s sitting inside of me
Has become quite a thorn in my side!
I was riddled through on my last sortie;
I owe the techs my revival.
But the one who’s sitting inside of me
Again sends me into a spiral.
Death from above is brought by a bomb,
After they pull the lever.
Yet somehow I hear the bomb’s fin hum
“Peace be with you forever!”

A bandit’s on my tail; I want to flee.
I’m tired of fighting, I am.
But the one who’s sitting inside of me,
I see, has decided to ram!
He must be insane!  I’ll blow, by God!
Yet somehow I stay alive.
Against all my limits, against all the odds,
I’m pulling up from a dive.
I’m flying high!  I’m on top again!
Survived another endeavor!
But look:  my wingman is diving, and then –
“Peace be with you forever!”

The one who’s sitting inside my skull,
He then got us both duped:
He forced me into a dive, a freefall,
Straight down, out of a loop.
He’s up at 3G, yet he’s pulling away:
An ace pilot boy, in his prime!
Yes, damnit, I know I must obey –
I swear – for one last time!
No more will I follow my master’s calls,
Let him deny me the sky!
But why can’t he hear the furious pulse?
The fuel – my blood! – is running dry!
This machine’s patience drains rapidly…
And his time is up, at last.
The one who was sitting inside of me
Slumped face first into the glass.
He’s killed!  It is over!  Once and for all!
I’m burning my last fuel drops!
But what’s this?  I’m now in a freefall,
And this time I can’t pull up…
A pity.  I haven’t accomplished a thing.
May others succeed however!
One thing I know:  I did get to sing:
“Peace be with you forever!”

 

THE FINISHED MAN

Vocals:  Vadim Astrakhan
Guitars:  Andrey Dobrovolsky
Bass:  Grigory Egorkin
Drums:  Yuri Homonenko
Produced by Leonid Kovin (St. Petersburg)
Recorded by Leonid Kovin (St. Petersburg) and Polina Goudieva (NYC) in June-August 2011
Mixed by Andrey Dobrovolsky

If you push, down I go,
I confess.
All I’ve got is just “no,”
Never “yes.”

Fatigue is crawling, like a lizard, in my bones.
My heart and sober head are not at war.
My blood no longer chills at hairpin turns.
Breathtaking speed is not breathtaking anymore.
My throat isn’t caught by love gone mad.
My nerves aren’t taut.  You wanna rip ‘em?  Go ahead!
Like laundry ropes my nerves are slack and thin.
I don’t care if I lose or if I win.

Tap water lately I refuse to drink.
Not rushing people or events (not in the mood).
My bow lies on the floor with a rotten string.
My broken arrows I now use as firewood.
Not active.  Not involved.  Just kinda “there.”
Attack me all you want:  I don’t care.
I’m all transparent, like a window, open wide.
Like linens, inconspicuous and white.

My scars don’t ache, and my wounds don’t hurt:
They have been sterilized and bandaged at the seams.
I’m neither bothered, nor annoyed, nor concerned
With apprehensions, or with questions, or with dreams.
I’m tired of fighting gravity – I lose.
I just lie low:  this way it’s farther to the noose!
My heart – it jerks, as if in someone else’s chest.
It’s time to go where it’s all “no” and never “yes.”

 

PARROT THE PIRATE

Vocals:  Vadim Astrakhan
Keys:  Mark Alston
Produced by Vadim Astrakhan & Mark Alston
Recorded in January 2012

Hey, listen to me!  Tally ho, tally hee!
The parrot, the pirate of the high seas!

(I was) born in the year 1512
In a jungle, rotting and reeking.
My papa was a pa-pa-parrot as well,
Who at that time wasn’t speaking.
But soon I departed the woods of the West
Captured by Captain Hernando Cortez.
He screamed at papa and made him cry,
But papa to Ernie just could not reply!
He simply could not reply!

And so I studied, sunset to sunrise,
But three words only I memorized.
Day in, day out, I doggedly hummed:
“Caramba!”, “Burrito!”, and “Barrel of rum!”

Caught by the storm on the way back
With seasickness I wrestled.
An Englishman under the Irish flag
Attacked and boarded our vessel!
Two days and three nights the battle raged.
I ended up in an English cage.
That’s how I started my numerous trips,
Around the equator and iceberg tips,
On various pirate ships!

They served me coffee and cocoa too.
They said:  “Speak English, damn Cockatoo!”
But to their demands I would not succumb:
“Caramba!”, “Burrito!”, and “Barrel of rum!”

Hey, listen to me!  Tally ho, tally hee!
The parrot, the pirate of the high seas!

For many years with pirates I sailed,
Till some fool, walking unsteady,
For merely a penny sold me away,
But I was speaking already!
The Sultan of Turkey did a somersault,
When I said “Sultan, pass me the salt!”
And then he was positively stupefied,
When he realized that I could also write,
Could count, and dance, and fight!

I’ve been to St. Petersburg and Iraq,
So you better give this bird some respect!
And if you don’t:  oh, well, you’re dumb!
“Caramba!”, “Burrito!”, and “Barrel of rum!”

 

A GRAND MISTAKE

Vocals:  Vadim Astrakhan
Rhythm, lead, & bass guitar, & drums:  Roman Korotin
Produced by Roman Korotin & Vadim Astrakhan
Recorded in August – October 2013

Back in the day, not long ago
I had my lot of pain and woe.
I bled and quivered, head to toe,
I floated in a haze.
Like in a movie I once watched
A shadow in the door emerged.
I was immediately scorched
By his malicious gaze.

Authoritatively he barked:  “Get down!  Face the wall!”
They tied me up and went to work in methods manifold.
Their leader, looking grim and cold, began the note-taking.
I recognized a criminal casefile in the making.

At first the icy fingers grabbed
My throat.  Then I felt a jab
Down in my gut.  They took a stab
At my afflicted liver.
The blow rattled my ribcage.
My insides twisted up in rage.
The pen spat blood into the page.
The paper only shivered.

Yes, I felt like a goner as I stripped and didn’t cringe.
An old hag in the corner was preparing a syringe!
Inside my body, very deep, I felt the terror ringing:
What if the shot puts me to sleep, and then I would start singing?

He briefly labored on my gut,
Then tied my elbow with a knot.
A tourniquet cut off the blood.
My head was also tied.
I almost let out a squeal,
But then my lips were shut and sealed,
As he just sweated, head to heel,
And scribbled with delight.

He radiated ecstasy, but I just shouted:  “Stop!
“What are you jotting?  Let me see the shit you’re making up!”
His goon, a classic psychopath, restrained me, with elation.
There in a row gleamed like death the weapons of persuasion!

Though I could hang tough with the best,
I was subdued, I was suppressed,
So I collapsed, I got depressed,
And even kinda bored.
I lay there naked in the glow,
As he sat at the table low,
Kept taking notes, even though
I hadn’t said a word!

I was exhausted.  I would need all of my strength to surge
When they start tickling my feet – yes, with a blowtorch!
Though bilious, I stayed afloat – unwavering, unbowed!
They stuck a tube right down my throat, but I just spat it out!

A vise grip and a stranglehold…
I watched their wickedness unfold.
They wanted to dissect my soul:
A push, a shove, a grope…
It only takes a minute here
To snatch a soul, to soil and smear,
To rip it open, front to rear,
And hang it on a rope!

Come on, keep breathing, with your mouth, exhale, you stupid ass!” –
“Oh, yeah?  I’d say if I breathe out, it might just be my last!”
My dry mouth stretched into a grin:  “You’re stopping?  What’s the matter?
“You, comrades, have to try again.  I know you can do better!”

They killed the light and hit the gas.
A board lit up behind the glass,
My eyes sprayed mucus from the stress,
My throat gargled gently.
As he was raging, more and more,
I saw a bucket – what’s it for?
I’ve seen these implements before:
A Nazi documentary!

They gave my ass another shot, then started to reload.
“Keep jabbing, sons of bitches, but you let me see those notes!”
I sank down to the concrete floor.  I kneeled, humiliated.
I ordered, pleaded, and implored, demanded and persuaded…

The garrote has made another turn.
The Bunsen burner’s lit to burn.
The Cat o’ Nine Tails – I could have sworn! –
Was next for me that day.
They won’t give up till I expire!
Still I attempted to inquire:
“I know I’m up for a hot wire,
“So what’s with the delay?”

The orgy heated up.  The sweat, like boiling lava, flowed.
A bell rang, and a raven sat upon the bloodstained coat.
And quoth the raven:  “Nevermore!”  One foul happy camper!
He leads the way straight to the morgue out of the torture chamber.

To them I was a simple case.
But feebly my tail I raised:
“Hey, your interrogation ways
Are clearly out of line!
The “good old days” you surely miss.
You will not get away with this!
And my confession – the law insists! –
You must give me to sign!”

Contorting out of my spine, I tried to snatch the scroll:
“This paper I will never sign, not till I read it all!”
He kept on scribbling in his chair then placidly rebutted:
We do not need your signature.  We can proceed without it.

My little sister, don’t cry!
I won’t back off, I’d rather die!
This testimony I’ll deny
When I speak to my lawyer!
Do not believe the lies they spew!
I told them nothing, it is true!
To everybody that I knew
I stayed forever loyal!

He spoke, “Just go ahead and read.  Cool off a bit, you cretin!
I latched onto the scribbled sheet, but it was all in Latin!
The fear vanished from my heart.  The truth lay undisputed:
It was a doctor’s chart in an intensive care unit!

 

HISTORY OF ILLNESS

Vocals:  Vadim Astrakhan
Rhythm & lead guitar:  Thad DeBrock
Drums & bass:  Dave Darlington
Produced by Vadim Astrakhan (with tribute to TAROT)
Recorded in December 2013 – January 2014

I was as healthy as a horse back in the days bygone.
So when a conflict called for force, I could break anyone.
I walked and whistled, high and low; my life was neatly planned.
But now under the knife I go:  “You’ve done it now, man!”
You have no reason to feel down!” the doc showed little interest.
Truthfully, everyone around has got, has got a history of illness!”

The doctors vanish in the haze.  My fever’s in full bloom.
I’m like a furnace, and my face heats up the room.
All of a sudden I feel brave and angry.  I charge right at the screen.
So that the tech can barely save his x-ray machine.
I’m coughing blood.  I’ll drown all of my country in this seizure!
An order:  “The table’s up, let’s roll!  Administer anesthesia!

My shirt is promptly ripped to shreds; with ice my neck is bound.
My bloody mouth is grinning red, just like a circus clown.
I tell myself to bleed some more, to try and press my luck.
I spit so much blood on the floor that someone will get stuck.
There’s no stop once I begin:  I’ll bleed around the planet!
But they pull up a tub of tin and trap my blood flow in it…

I can no longer hear my scream or recognize the nurse.
The dizzying gas enters my bloodstream, like vodka (only worse).
The doctors’ faces fade away into a colored plaid.
But I’ve convinced them I’m OK, at least inside my head.
I jerk and cough, the blood runs hot.  The needles find their route,
Injecting artificial blood.  I cannot cough it out!

Until my anesthesia sets, hey, doc, lend me your ear!
I haven’t said my last words yet; for you I have them here:
“Godspeed to all your cutting crew!  Get started and relax!
“These words I speak are not of you, but of some other quacks!”
I’m on the edge of the abyss.  Caught in a wobbly stillness.
And my whole history is this, this history… this history of illness!

“You’ll make a full recovery.  Do not be sad!  Depression only hinders.
Alas!  Your country’s history is a history of illness!”

The first man, Adam, he was ill.  He only hid it all.
And the Creator was on pills, when he designed our world.
He did the apple trick to Eve who played near.
The Snake was also sick with megalomania.
We’re all diseased to some degree, with every plague in nomenclature.
And all of mankind’s history is medical in nature.

Eternally all people ail.  They’re fragile and they’re frail.
From the first air they inhale, they walk the sickly trail.
The first man he was ill.  He only hid it all.
The Lord was popping pills, when he designed our world.
Humanity accelerates, in uselessness relentless,
Enjoying pain, enjoying hate, its history of illness.

 

CRYSTAL HOUSE

Vocals:  Vadim Astrakhan
Ural State Conservatory Symphonic Orchestra, conducted by Anton Shaburov
Recorded by Zhanna Skachkova and Dave Darlington in August – October 2012

If I’m richer than the King of Seas,
You just tell me to catch the bait.
All my kingdoms and my treasuries
I’d spill out and not hesitate!

A crystal house on the hill for her!
Bring a cage, and I will live in it!
All my silver springs and ores,
All my gemstones infinite…

If I’m poor, like some wretched hound,
And my life is hopelessly amiss.
Lord, please help me turn it all around!
Don’t drive me into the abyss!

A crystal house on the hill for her!
Bring a cage, and I will live in it!
All my silver springs and ores,
All my gemstones infinite…

No one else shall I compare to you,
Even if they torture me in hell!
Look at how I revere you:
My Madonna of Raphael!

A crystal house on the hill for her!
Bring a cage, and I will live in it!
All my silver springs and ores,
All my gemstones infinite.

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Vadim Astrakhan
Vadim Astrakhan Album

Vadim Astrakhan - If Your Friend (Песня о Друге)

Singer, Sailor, Soldier, Spirit
ALBUM
Singer, Sailor, Soldier, Spirit
Vadim Astrakhan
Vadim Astrakhan Album

Vadim Astrakhan - Ships (Корабли)

Studio Outtakes, Rarities, & Live Cuts
ALBUM
Studio Outtakes, Rarities, & Live Cuts
Vadim Astrakhan
Vadim Astrakhan Album

Vadim Astrakhan - 25 to Life (guitar + harmonica)