Your Honour, Madame Farewell

"High culture meets hooliganism": Taping a bottle of champagne in Puskin's hand.

I’ve left St. Petersburg after a year there and 15 months in Russia.  What did I learn?  That Russia’s an arbitrary, unpredictable and sometimes mean place, but that’s why we love it  It’s the Wild East, the big vacation from the Western banality that suffocates like a drawn-out waterboarding.  It’s simultaneously a refined culture that is breathtaking in the beauty of its everyday manifestations; high culture meets hooliganism.

My last day was a lesson in these contradictions: In the afternoon, I raced a bunch of drunken Russians down a river on blow-up dolls in the 2009 “Bubble Baba Challenge.”  Then before I left for the airport at 3 a.m., we followed Russian tradition and sat down for a moment of silence, airplane be damned.  It’s the second time I’ve left, and the second time this moment of silence has buoyed me up before the coming storm.

In Russia, I love the bold people, the contradictory culture.  I love sovok.   I love the angry cashier ladies.  And I even love the language, kind of like how a dog owner loves his mangy pooch even when it shits on the carpet every day.

Of course, back in America it’s very … nice.  A lady in the airport saw me breaking my fist on the bank of pay phones and offered me her cellphone: “Good karma,” she said.  Boring, but nice.

Even though my Russia dream has died its inevitable first death, the blog won’t be going the way of the Dodo.  I’ll be focusing on translations of Russian literature and music, reviews of Russian movies, and bits of Russian current events that may elsewhere be overlooked.

I’ll soon be back in Russia, or at least the former Soviet Union, but until then, I take my leave with these lines from Bulat Otkudzhava’s song “Vashe blagorodiye”:

“Your Honour, Madame Farewell,
We are kinsfolk of old, what a thing to see.
The letter’s in the envelope, wait, don’t worry,
I’m not fortunate in death, but in love I will be lucky.”

Here’s to you, Viktor

“How many songs are left unsung?
Tell me, cuckoo bird, sing out.
Is it my destiny to live in the city or in the village?
To lay as a stone or burn as a star?
Like a star.”
Kino, “The Cuckoo”

Sunday was the birthday of Viktor Tsoi, the Soviet Kurt Cobain, who wrote some iconic tunes, changed the Russian music world with his group Kino, and then died young enough to become a martyr.

Unfortunately it was also the day after the perennial shitshow “Aliye Parusa” (“Crimson Sails”), which celebrates the end of secondary school for graduates, but is actually just an excuse to pack way too many drunk people and police into the center of St. Petersburg (sometimes the two parties aren’t mutually exclusive: a gang of cops were tipping a few back in Cafe “Bochka” when we arrived). The point is, by the time Sunday rolled around, compatriots to raise a glass or two to Tsoi were few and far between; I didn’t make it out to the artist’s grave at Bogoslovskoye Cemetery.

But I did make it to a birthday concert near my apartment on Petrogradskaya, in the Palace of Culture Lensovyeta, an entirely Soviet venue, down to the angry babushki patrolling the giant, crumbling halls.  Apparently Aliye Parusa really took it out of the Petersburg populace, because the concert itself was ill-attended.

In fact, headliner Torba-na-Kruche, a band I’ve seen twice and often imagined as a Russian Coldplay with the slightest metal edge a la Bon Jovi, refused to play because of the low turnout.  Before there scheduled performance, the MC came out and announced their absence with an enigmatic Soviet saying: “The money to the ticket counter, the culture to the masses.”  But his meaning was apparent looking at the empty hall, where spider webs outnumbered people two-to-one; apparently, the take-in at the door wasn’t enough to pay Torba.

The small crowd began to shout a few meek protests and rumble with discontent, before a savior emerged in the form of an unknown concertgoer with an acoustic guitar who emerged and played half-a-dozen Tsoi tunes.  It was just what the audience was looking for, since the bands at the event almost completely avoided Tsoi covers, like Phish always refused to play the Grateful Dead.

The crowd sang along with every word (Tsoi lyrics are more widely known than those of the national anthem, which has changed so often since the fall of the Soviet Union no one’s sure what they are anymore) and swayed arm-in-arm in the mosh pit.  Tears and sweat streamed beneath the strains of acoustic guitar and plaintive teenage wailing.  It was a 100 percent Russian experience, one that lacks an American equivalent.  As the co-pariah of the Moscow expat newspaper The eXile (which has ironically enough been exiled from Russian soil) Matt Taibbi noted, “Americans can’t do anything without irony.”

The next few bands weren’t bad, and Moscow group Priklyucheniya Elektronikov, which might be loosely translated as “Adventures of the Electronicists,” played a great punk-rock cover of the cartoon classic “The Song of the Bremen Musicians.”  But the highlight of the night was everyone belting out “The Cuckoo” with our surprise guest.

“Sun, have a look at me,
My palm has become a fist.
And if there’s gunpowder, give me fire.
Vot tak.”

Frontman from “Human factor” plays “Simbioz”

Saturday I scoured the dvors (apartment building yards) of the Nevsky shoreline for a half-hour under the pouring rain to hear Gusha Katushkin of “Ensemble imeni chelovecheskogo faktora,” which could be translated as “Ensemble in the name of the human factor.”

Katushkin was playing at the “Simbioz” club that just opened up in the basement of Palace Embankment 22.  The place is still only half-constructed — when I ventured into the recesses of the catacomb-like club in search of a toilet, I found an abandoned bar, groups of people clustered around candles and some workmen watching Soviet films amid the detritus of serious renovation — and the entrance is unmarked, through a red door and down some stairs half obscured by piles of bricks and plastic sheeting.

But the numerous trials we faced, including subjugation to the incongruously erotic “wax-on, wax-off” dance performed by a grinning, flamboyant concertgoer in black leather gloves, were worth it.  Katushkin’s “avtorskaya” music (kind of like singer-songwriter music, only minus the latte-fueled half-passionate musings and yuppie/hipster ennue) is sentimental but grounded in enough daily banality to make it grittily real.  Plus a sense of humor; one so-called “love song” was aptly titled “Chainsaw.”

On the underground hit “Virginia Slims,” Katushkin sings about making gallant advances toward a beautiful girl, only to be shot down with these two English words: “Why are you smoking, you’re a queen! … So what’s your name?  ‘Virginia Slims’.”

And indeed all the songs were underground hits, thanks to a group of slathering fans gathered closely around in the tiny concert room.  The gang, led by a gold-toothed 50-something woman with a bad sort of ’80s lesbo cut, hummed every word alongside Kathushkin, and a good thing, too, since he was forgetting lines by the end of the 2+ hour concert.

By this time he’d had quite a few beers and several swigs from the safari-chic leather-strapped flask slung over the back of his chair (“Why try to hide it?” he giggled to the audience as he took a slug).  And maybe something before the concert, as well, judging by his manic, cheshire-cat smile and “ukurenniye glaza” (blazed look and squinty eyes).  Of course, this may well be his natural state.  I mean, the man sings songs based on children’s literature and laughs with the nervous consistency of a 15-horse motor that kicks and sputters, too full of fuel, then dies out suddenly.

Who Knows?

Last night, the peaceful icefloes (i.e. sidewalks) of Ulitsa Kazanskaya were disrupted by a two-hour burst of sonic sunshine from within Club Sochi, thanks to Moscow reggae-rap-rock-ska group W.K.?, a.k.a. Who Knows?.

Normally I disdain such mixed-genre labeling, which reminds me of how snobbish foreign languages rename technology; why do Finns feel the need to call a computer an “electronic thinking machine,” rather than just coopting the English word?  But in this case, the group truly earned such a lofty categorization with its eclectic style.

I also normally avoid anything having to do with “rap-rock,” but W.K.? fleshes out any lapses into rote Limp Bizkit-esque yell-alongs with a horn section and DJ/synths man.  And their rhythm section was as tight as the Barrett Brothers.

Speaking of which, I was sorrily disappointed that I didn’t get to hear a Russian-accented Bob Marley cover, as trite as that is.  I mean, after someone sang a line from “No Woman No Cry” at the beginning of a similarly flavored W.K.? reggae anthem, I was expecting something more.  And after I noticed that the bass player was wearing a Wailers tank-top, I found myself really jonesing for some Tuff Gong.

P.S.  A singing telegram for the swarms of bouncers that are throwing shade everytime I find myself at Sochi:  La-la-la, go to hell, la-la-la-la-la …  I mean, you’re guarding a hippie club, not a nuclear silo.  Come to think of it, you’d be a lot more needed at some aging Soviet missile base, keeping nukes out of the hands of terrorists.

DragonForce lays waste to SPB

The British extreme power metal band DragonForce, best known for guitar riffing that seemingly defies the laws of motion, landed in St. Petersburg last night.

My friend Anton took this video of some cuss word-laced between-song banter on his cell phone.  Skip to the end to hear singer ZP Theart speak-sing “This song is called ‘Soldiers of the Wastela-a-a-a-a-a-nd” in a true metal frontman’s full-throated warble.

I have to hand it to the band; they were one of the most active acts I’ve ever seen, bounding across the stage as if they were playing on a multi-level expanse LiveAid, not the rinky-dink, glorified podium in Club Orlandina.  Dynamic guitar duo Herman Li and Sam Totman, the force behind the YouTube hit and Guitar Hero III song “Through the Fire and Flames,” wore out every inch of that stage, climbing the monitors like kids on playground equipment.

Visually, it was “potryasayushii” — “stunning.”  DragonForce’s biblically proportioned sound, however, was just too overwhelming for the mere-mortal metal club.  All the intricate fluttering of the guitar solos and melodies was lost in the chiming din, and keyboards only emerged in rare moments of calm.  It wouldn’t have been bad if the band had a more dynamics built in to the roaring squall, but that will have to wait until the next album, when they will hopefully have settled into a more peaceful middle age.  Probably the only time I’ve actually wished that on the band.

As you can here in the video, Theart had a good time cussing and manhandling the crowd, at one point pulling a Moses move and parting the tide of people for a yelling match.  The Russian fans were clearly miffed by the scattershot brio of his stage banter, which was further confused by profligate use of expletives and a slight Scottish lilt in his British accent, but nevertheless got the picture after a few bright ones picked up on his hand-gesturing.  During a lull in the action, someone even gave it right back to Theart with a cheerful “Fuck you!”

Check out the concert preview I did after an interview with Ukrainian band member Vadim Pruzhanov for the St. Petersburg Times.

Russian Radiohead tribute: Damn that dental fricative “th”

Saw a tribute concert to Radiohead last night at The Point, a “club” that’s actually just a small bar with a soundboard housed in half a VW van that reads, “Where were you in ’62?” on the front.

As a result of this half-ecstatic, half-traumatic experience, I will never be able to listen to any Radiohead song involving the phoneme “th” without thinking of Russian youth whipping themselves into a blind frenzy to melodic keyboard tones: “Every-sss-i-i-i-ng … in it’s right place …”

There are a few topics that almost any person will pretend he’s an expert on regardless of his actual experience; the music of Radiohead is the third most popular of these, following sex and Barack Obama’s health care plan.

And so I was a bit surprised to find myself the resident Radiohead expert in the room following the show.

“How was the singing?  I mean, the English pronunciation?” an eager dredded Russian would-be tormented-but-rich-and-famous pop artist asked me.

“It was great, Sid, just watch that ‘th’ sound.  It’s a doozy.”

John McCain really looks like a gay Russian singer

John McCain ...

And Boris Moiseyev, a famous, and famously gay, Russian pop singer.

Russian reggae

Saw a Russian reggae concert by the local group I-LASKA last night, and I will say, that despite originating 5720.3 miles from the birthplace of reggae, they can play pretty damn well.  I went with a few friends from Stirka, one of whom knew the mad-nimble bass player from the band.

It could have been a reggae concert in the States, only the lyrics were in Russian (except for the English-language cliche, rendered truly campy by the Russian accent, in the chorus of the first song: “Chill out, chill out, chill out!”).

Also surprising, the club’s beefy security types were inexplicably on edge at the sight of a bunch of peaceful souls grooving to a band fronted by a singer in rainbow suspenders.  In fact, the “face control” stooge at the door was convinced I was packing heat (likely on account of my “rebellious” black bandana, a real novelty here) and gave me one of the most thorough friskings I’ve ever experienced.  What a pointless power trip, especially when you consider that for the DDT concert at the CKK arena, a big enough venue for someone to do some real damage, the security didn’t even check my ticket.

Peace, love and Russian rock ‘n’ roll

DDT fans light another round of road flares at a musical peak during the band's concert. Photo by Matt Stephenson.

Last night we saw DDT, the cherished Russian band led by rock prophet Yuri Yulianovich Shevchuk.

Like some sort of well-respected hippie grandfather, Shevchuk preached an age-old gospel of love, peace and rock ‘n’ roll to his younger following, who wore his likeness on their T-shirts, waved flags emblazoned with the black-and-white “DDT” logo, and chanted the band’s slogan, taken from a line in the closing song: «Не стреляй!» (“Ne strelyai!”) — “Don’t shoot!”

In all the excitement, some attendees even experimented with low-impact moshing, although DDT’s brand of dreamy, uplifting classic rock hardly lends itself to extended “slam” sessions.

Slightly disheveled and beaming from beneath bifocals, a three-day growth of stubble and a shock of dark brown hair, Shevchyk ministered to his flock like a youth outreach pastor, condemning the war in Georgia and trumpeting the virtues of peace and understanding.

A sample of his rhetoric (translated from the Russian): “God created man for peace, not for war. Everything is in balance, against the evil one.”

To this effect, a local poet, bearded and robed like an Russian-Orthodox priest, emerged mid-set to declaim for several minutes on the theme of international brotherhood. This was one of several interruptions during the concert, as two “opening” bands also came out at different points to play their own brief sets.

The heady encore was followed by an Altamont-style crush of people at the narrow exit, as young men braced themselves against the wall to create a passage for their girlfriends. “Girls forward!” they cried as the masses poured out into the dark pathways and shimmering lakes of the unlit Park of Victory, phantom images of road flares burning into their retinas and the chant of “Ne strelyai!” echoing in their ears.

Only at Stirka …

Your friendly neighborhood laundromat/bar (it seems like almost every establishment in St. Petersburg can be classified as "/bar").

Стирка (Stirka, “laundry”), the local bar which gets its name from the three rarely functioning washing machines in the back corner, has to be the one of the first equal-parts laundry/drinking establishments in the world.

Only at Stirka can you do your laundry and …

1. Take shots at the bar.
2. Listen to a DJ produce electro-beats music live at 1 p.m. on a Sunday afternoon.
3. Fear your clothes will be eaten alive by one of the temperamental, ancient washing machines, which emit a high screeching noise whenever they hit a fast spin cycle.
4. Graffiti a washing machine.
5. Leave with your clothes actually smelling less clean, having absorbed a fetus-killing dose of second-hand smoke.