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Cambridge are - or were - a threesome from the port of Vladivostok on Russia's Pacific coastline. We offer that verb in the past tense because a post on the band's page at Vkontakte suggests in no uncertain terms that Cambridge have just lost a guitarist. Until the "festive" season, in that case, the three members shown above were Evgenii Dubovoi on vocals and keyboards, Ivan Anishenko on bass guitar, and Konstantin Chistokhin. The last of those three musicians appears to have gone AWOL.
Whatever their current lineup, Cambridge march onwards into 2010 with some bold ambitions. On one of their web pages they list their influences as the 1980s, Duran Duran, Soviet pop music, the 1990s (also), "fairy tales," and the seaside. That last item is the most logical and significant, perhaps. As the central Pacific port for Russia's navy, Vladivostok is tied professionally and culturally to the sea. It has become one of the most promising centers of post-Soviet music, and artists from the region often state the positive influence of the ocean upon their creative output.
The most frequently declared benefit of living close to the seashore is, say these musicians, the ability to look far into the distance, and - as a result - foster a bolder worldview. Life's obstacles are harder to imagine when there's nothing blocking your view. Hence, no doubt, the ability to include not only "fairy tales" in your philosophy, but also the gloss and glitz of 1980s neo-romanticism.
It's somewhat surprising, therefore, that the (dwindling) members of Cambridge also credit the 1990s as an influence, which was a very different decade for British music and politics. In fact this Pacific outfit arguably owes most to the "spiky," laddish britpop of recent years, whose melancholy overtones are tied closely to the failure of New Labor and the return of working-class doldrums. The Vladivostok press has also noticed this odd combination, suggesting that Cambridge reflect the influences of Bowie, provincial dance stars Ruki vverkh ("Hands Up!"), and "Sh*tdisco," by which they either mean the Glasgow outfit or the same term as it's sometimes applied to deliberately trashy/kitschy projects from Russia like Novosibirsk's Lenin Was a Zombie.
Either analogy would work, since they both consist of a pop aesthetic that's twisted out of shape by scowl of disdain.
The power of the curled lip.
The same local newspapers have even declared, somewhat melodramatically, that the band would happily "have died" in the 80s, before the "sh*tty" cynicism of the following decade rolled around. This seems unlikely in a small group of seaside-dwelling, romantic readers of fairytales. More credible is the idea that any elements of gloom or pessimism would at least play the role of emotional insurance in the case of (possible) failure. Having a dour outlook in place - just in case - is better than falling from the giddy heights of boundless optimism.
It allows for a softer landing.
Being an optimist at all can, admittedly, be difficult at times in these regions. Further investigation into the Pacific periodicals reveals that the members of Cambridge sometimes put a spin on their doe-eyed, horizon-bound philosophy in that they claim to feel a special kinship with the open sea at times of "rain and fog," which may account for the name of their new EP, offered here: "Beneath the Rain" (Pod dozhdem). Their purview stretches far - and adventurously - into the unknown, yet is not always sunny...
The same muddied view of the future, even for stubborn dreamers, might also help to explain the recent loss of their bass player. Things are evidently not always sweetness and light, since although Cambridge was formed only in 2008, they've already plowed their way through seven guitarists, six bassists, and another six drummers. People lose faith and move on to other, less risky (or more predictable) careers, where assured comfort replaces possible joy.
The reason for such wavering is understandable if we look at the recent events in and around a band from the opposite end of Russian-speaking lands, Open Space. We offered a snapshot of the group earlier in 2009, when they released their second EP, "Beautiful," which can still be downloaded for free from several locations. At that time of the EP's initial availability, we wrote that "this is a charming ensemble whom we can easily imagine enjoying more attention from central media, not only at home in Belarus, but across Russia, too."
We had faith. A trusting, open-armed view of the world seemed possible.
Since that time, a couple of events have come to pass, both of which bode well for the near future - and anybody whose worldview is troubled by "rain and fog." A few days ago, Open Space declared: "We're happy to inform you that our new album is now available for free listening across most of the social networks." Entitled "Deal with Silence," it's the bands first album-length publication, consisting of 11 songs. Having gathered together smaller projects of the recent past, such as prior singles, EPs, and other offerings, the group was quickly interrogated by fans as to the general raison d'etre of the album: "There's no real sense in trying to describe the basic idea of the disc."
There's no real sense in trying to describe the basic idea of the disc.
Given the name of the CD, in fact, it would be both ironic and counter-productive if the members of Open Space lapsed into wordy definitions of their new material. Thankfully, the Russian press did the job for them.
A review just appeared in Russia's version of Rolling Stone, with - as we can see - Shakira on the front cover. The band clearly remains shocked to find themselves in such company. The magazine offered some very kind words to justify this unexpected surprise. "Time and again we find ourselves obliged to return to that theme of the 'Belarusian Wave.' Indeed the most interesting bands of late keep coming from nearby Belarus. Whatever style we're talking about, whether it's pop-rock - in fact, it could even cabaret material with ambient elements[!] - the stuff that comes from Belarus will have something original about it, a fresh view of things, so to speak. That's usually explained by virtue of a 'time machine effect,' i.e., the fact that Belarus has supposedly remained some kind of socialist wildlife park..."
Assumptions of old-world cultural constraints, however, would prove to be mistaken.
"...But then, [despite all those stereotypes,] there are bands like Open Space, who prove that they're operating in the same informational sphere as our up-to-date indie groups in Russia. Open Space play an energetic kind of English-language post-punk. Some of the songs' melodies almost operate in the realm of catchy anthems for the [football] terraces." Not only, therefore, was this a CD of surprising optimism and market savvy; other cliches would be unexpectedly subverted: "As opposed to the anglophile clubs of Moscow, the radio and TV stations of Open Space's homeland show how this kind of band can expect media attention. We can only be jealous."
As opposed to the anglophile clubs of Moscow, the radio and TV stations of Open Space's homeland show how this kind of band can expect media attention. We can only be jealous.
In a nation associated with a media stranglehold, music appeared to be moving with greater freedom - and garnering more attention.
Placed side by side, Cambridge and Open Space produce a pleasing and informative snapshot of modern music's dilemmas in the Russian-speaking world. Young men and women, nurturing their dreams of success, find initial inspiration in the sweeping landscapes of their homeland. Their early optimism may be marked by the occasional, if not insistent greyness of "rain and fog," but a positive worldview endures.
The forces of the modern market - and commerical media - will, however, subsequently make things extremely difficult. Should anybody suddenly find themselves shoulder to shoulder with Shakira on the pages of a glossy magazine, there's neither rhyme nor reason as to why it should have happened at that given moment. Hard work is met with arbitrariness.
Nurturing anything, therefore, becomes very difficult.
There's one place, we might argue, where less commercial and more adventurous styles could possibly develop; on non-commerical radio, in the kind of state-run venues that, with huge irony, still operate in Belarus. Maybe there's some evolutionary logic at work here that could be profitably employed. Young bands should be raised on the beaches of the Pacific, fostered in the TV studios of Minsk, and then bussed into Moscow.
Russian-language pop music should start from this bench. One of our Vladivostok musicians, inspired by the vista, is already casting a hopeful glace westwards, to the streets of distant Minsk...
Back to the future, so to speak.
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