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Before embarking upon any consideration of these songs and their author(s), a few words are warranted about the title that precedes them both: "Arkhangelsk." More than 600 miles to the north of Moscow, that same city is perched upon the edge of terra firma in ways that justify any "angelic" wordplay. Not only does this ancient port form a long, lonely ribbon across Russia's northern coastline; the winter weather also does its best to erase Arkhangelsk from view. Physicality has a tenuous presence, at best.
In fact, thanks only to the sturdiest of modern icebreakers is the region now able to accept shipping on a year-round basis. Left to their own devices, arctic storms can swiftly immobilize all human and maritime motion with blizzards, icebergs, or other heartless tools. The image above shows how close those icebreakers operate to shore. Every inch of mobility is precious.
Equally important is the scale of Arkhangelsk's history. Viking records tell of nearby settlements as early as the year 800. Over the centuries, more and more people moved to the region as additional defense was needed against other, more bellicose "visitors" from Scandinavia. As ever, though, a horrific climate would inhibit any major population growth - and thus the area became a more important center of monastic faith than of trade. That seemingly timeless focus upon small-scale, fervent belief is recognized by our chosen performers, even today.
Belief hides and thus persists.
Internal artwork for Arkhangelsk (2011)
Under the supposed protection of Archangel Michael, a long-term stalemate developed between human enterprise and nature's contrariness. As suggested by our shipping image, it was thanks only to nineteenth-century railways and seafaring heroes that Arkhangelsk would finally be linked to the nation - or surrounding cultures. And so these freezing streets and shorelines have long been associated with some liminal state, between bold presence and humble absence, between material and spiritual goals. Arkhanglesk embodies a precious, yet cruel potential.
As a metaphorical link to one's heritage, northern roots, and a history beyond political melodrama, Arkhangelsk offers a great deal. The city is a symbol of endurance - in various senses and against various obstacles. Today, within this rich context, we find nine new compositions from Akvarium, arguably Russia's greatest rock band. Its members are about to celebrate forty years of collective, creative endeavor. Now, as ever, the band calls upon a series of traditions that also dwarf the social drama of their lifetime: Celtic mythology, Indian spiritualism, Orthodox Christianity and other belief systems. Tradition and transience are both up for discussion.
How, then, do these sweeping geographic or historical vistas now find expression in the songwriting of Boris Grebenshchikov (below), the band's frontman and soon to celebrate his sixtieth birthday? Grebenshchikov himself recently gave an interview to Afisha in Moscow that explains a great deal - including his desire that the album title be spelled as "Archangelsk" in English.
The first issue to arise was the very existence of this new recording: due to piracy, the band had declared their intention in 2010 to no longer make albums. Russian CDs, after all, are ripped and placed online within hours of their official release. Albums serve to increase concert-ticket sales, not to promote audio that's embedded in hard media. And, as a result of this very situation, "Arkhangelsk" is available on a pay-as-you-wish basis through Kroogi.
Mr. Grebenshchikov began the interview playfully, saying that Akvarium needed to produce an album (even digitally) precisely because it's a format that no longer has any apparent worth. An expression of faith or fidelity - to a narrative form - was more important than any fiscal logic. And, as some reviewers have pointed out, several of these songs are already well known to Russian concertgoers, thus offering another - sensible! - reason for not publishing a CD. The very raison d'etre of Arkhangelsk, one might argue, is absurd - whether we're talking about an album or an address.
I believe in God - and not businessmen
Grebenshchikov extended this notion of irrational fidelity to a national scale. Patriotism, he argued, is no less illogical. By way of proof, he remarked that most Russians "one way or another" feel affection for their homeland, "rather than for what happens in it." Nationhood, according to this view, moves swiftly beyond the narrow confines of policy - and even human history. It's a kind of positively "senseless" membership, removed from modern ideologies or politics: "I'd rather not believe in anybody who has power. Neither in the sense of physical influence, nor within informational spheres. I believe in God - and not businessmen. I won't be signing up for membership in any one camp..."
Akvarium (Live, 2011)
This same ahistorical pride is explained further. More important than arrogant claim to permanence, says Grebenshchikov, is endurance: "Peasants lived here in the nineteenth century. Right now somebody's living in exactly the same place. And they won't be new people, moving in from heaven knows where. They'll be the great-grandchildren of those peasants..."
Peasants lived here in the nineteenth century. Right now somebody's living in exactly the same place...
The songs of "Arkhangelsk" do much to underscore this faith in quiet perseverance on a lyrical level. Take, for example, the track "Fire of Babylon," which plays - ironically - upon the long-standing love for Rastafarian themes in Akvarium's repertoire. For all the drama and pathos one might expect from a similarly-titled song, the authorial touch is light. The words toy with some presumed meeting of Grebenshchikov and a mystical interlocutor. The relationship or dialog between them simply underscores our common cluelessness in the face of genuinely enduring, if not eternal significances. Through wit (and a mockery of misguided worldviews) we're slowly led towards issues of genuine worth... and worry.
Listeners are introduced to a ghostly figure who "appears when no-one expects him. He's civil and old-fashioned, just like in films of the '30s." This unnamed, ageless figure simply is: "It's pointless seeking him," since he has no fixed abode, and yet some clash of our (petty) transience and his (wordless) permanence seems inevitable. As Grebenshchikov writes: "The two of us have unfinished business on an Eastern shore." Sooner or later, fleeting existence stands face to face with grander matters on a grander scale. Stories worthy of that experience are spun far from European experience, apparently.
Oleg Shar, Akvarium's percussionist since 1997
Grebenshchikov sings that the only connection between his brief lifespan and the representative of some greater, abstract significance is that: "We both belong to children of a northern mist." A bridge between vanity (now) and verity (always) is conceivable between some northern, foggy locale and the spirit of an imagined, "Eastern" coast. Concrete locations and frustrating abstractions overlap, spanning Russia's girth as they do so. Neither gains the upper hand.
That leads to the kind of self-deprecation we hear in other tracks: "Rain-Colored Sky" begins with the melancholy statement that: "We sang for so long about 'Light,' while we traveled ourselves through fog, unaware of our chatter... While the wind played upon glass strings, linking our souls to to the earth."
...the wind played upon glass strings, linking our souls to to the earth
Nature appears a better bond between material and immaterial experience than either language or concerted, logical effort. That's a humbling observation from a group of thoughtful musicians after decades of hard work. And indeed, if we look way back to the early 1970s when Akvarium were first formed, it's worth recalling that one of the initial members - Anatolii Gunitskii - was simultaneously evolving as an absurdist poet. Verity, harmony, and illogicality worked together from the outset - in modest forms.
In this most recent and fitting recording from Akvarium's mature lineup, those same stubborn efforts - conducted "in fog" - are dedicated to an illogical, yet nationally vital location. Somewhere beyond inhuman distance and a dangerous climate is a center of national faith and fidelity. It's now surrounded by a city that - contrary to all logic - maintains a fragile "link between our souls and the earth." Nobody should live here and yet they do - in service of some ancient, if not timeless truths.
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