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When FFM was first born - and the size of suitable texts remained unclear - we posted a brief introduction to the work of Denis Taiga. At that time, our St Petersburg artist talked of his creative output in intriguing and locally specific terms.
Taiga developed his early experiments along “the basic lines of sampladelic experience and ethnic, eclectic jazz. You can hear lots of samples from Soviet movies and cassette tapes, mixed with real folklore recordings and modern electronics, too. In the process of combining [all those elements], their source dissolves in deep sonic clues. Even I, as the composer, no longer understand where each work comes from… I call this technique ‘hypno.'’’
...sampladelic experience and ethnic, eclectic jazz
His final noun is especially informative. It suggests that Taiga's sounds are not so much created as experienced in a semi-passive manner and then referenced or "credited," perhaps. In other words, he assumes that some audible harmony endures elsewhere: in ethnic or archival spheres that can be appreciated only in a non-logical state. Verity and vagueness begin to overlap. The inexpressible dimensions of non-urban, pre-modern geography are, he suggests, also hinted at (not exhausted!) in the romance of old Soviet cinema, which was informed by a related inclusionary intent.
And in Russia the notion of "plenitude" or full inclusion is unlikely to be modest in scale, shaped as it is by local vistas. In the words of a Russian saying: "This is a country where 100 grams is not considered 'vodka,' one hundred years is not 'old age,' and 100km is not a proper 'distance.'" Mr. Taiga can be seen below on the right, slowly encroaching upon those dimensions. He goes in search of something bigger and better - which is probably more than 100km down the road.
Both the Russian biosphere and the politically-informed cinema it would inspire evoke a "communal" experience that dwarfs the atomized workings of contemporary, urban experience. "Everything" is probably much bigger than "something."
The only way, suggests Taiga, in which we might possibly reconnect with the spiraling, inclusive promise of the preindustrial past is to lean upon forms of psychedelic or hallucinogenic adventure. Once again, logic and pragmatism are little help in a local setting. Common sense is even a hindrance. True harmony can be sensed through hynoptic states - and they, in turn, are expressed through spontaneous, "pre-logical" performance. Yet another saying with regard to Russia's rambling nature seems relevant here - the assumption it has "no roads, only directions."
These same experiments and snowballing experiences of social "extension" continue in some brand new tracks, which in turn have helped to relaunch the Electrosound.Ru project. This admirable endeavor was begun in 2002 and slowly morphed from a webzine into a netlabel, constantly maintaining connections with Moscow's galleries and clubs. As a victim, though, of a worsening economy, Electrosound closed in 2008.
Refusing, nonetheless, to accept defeat, it has now happily reappeared, marking that return with a handful of excellent publications. Taiga needs first to be woken up.
His newest milestone, unveiled by a rejuvenated Electrosound, is called "Wireless." Technology continues the geographic interest in universality: pylons replace tree tops. A worldview of never-ending space is championed by a web project that refuses to die. How fitting.
Electrosound - headed by the figure of Ilyas Mikanaev - announces the new compositions as follows: "Denis Taiga's album is a combination of trademark ethnic motifs with fashionable elements of dusbstep and technoid electronica." The opening track, performed together with Galya Chikiss, is even described as a "journey into states of ethnic exaltation." The further one investigates these pre-modern, rural experiences, the better. All at the expense of rationality, linear roads, and moderation.
Ethnic motifs with elements of dubstep and technoid electronica
For precisely these reasons, the people at Electrosound suggest that the same instrumentals are equally appropriate for "careful listening at home or for dancing around a bonfire at night." Our mental capacities are well-suited to the wandering, self-generating patterns of the forest - where there are no roads, only directions.
This connection between creative and geographic extension, born of a fundamentally hippy worldview, occurs elsewhere this week - a little closer to Moscow. On the capital's outskirts, a figure known as Alexander Xuman operates an artists' colony, designed to keep the concrete jungle at arm's length. The building that houses the community has already given birth to several musical ventures, the most important of which (re)appears this week. Xuman's eponymous band has just announced a debut CD, "Golden Age."
The cover is shown above, presumably advertising a little venture with big promise. (And a lot of DIY gold paint, should awards not be forthcoming.)
Initial responses to the new songs are deserving of serious attention. By way of illustration, a long and insightful text was published a few days ago by Alexander Gorbachev on the Afisha website. Here he discusses the relationship of Xuman's music both to the Russian mainstream and Western models. In the article and associated comments left by his readership, the issue arises of whether Russian songwriting should retain something of a local flavor - even at the minor level of accent, say. This debate, common elsewhere, is on this occasion prompted by Xuman's biography, which suggests that his overseas experience included substantial time spent both on Ibiza and in the US.
Musical expertise was acquired; a tan was not.
His arrival in (or return to?) Russia led to the construction of the aforementioned community amid the trees: "There's a forest nearby, where people can stroll. Generally speaking, it's a sort of artistic utopia. An idyll." So what kind of music emerged from these leafy, communal spaces - especially because the very phrase "golden age" speaks traditionally to a primordial or "lost" paradise?
There's a forest nearby. Generally speaking, it's a sort of artistic utopia. An idyll
By the band's own admission, they were originally working in the vein of Tesla Boy, but now feel that MGMT or Denmark's Mew might be more appropriate parallels. Mr. Gorbachev wonders whether the result, designed in the shadow of those models, might be a tad precious. He admits that the songs are composed with impressive skill - and sport similarly high production standards. Nonetheless, he remains concerned that the resulting compositions have mirrored their overseas references to the point where individuality is slowly erased.
"We're in Big Trouble!" says a poster near the musicians' rehearsal space...
The group's official website informs us that Xuman - as a collective - hope to write music for Western audiences. It would seem more logical, though, to suggest that these songs - given their grand, earnest lyricism - are certainly needed in (and are a consequence of!) the domestic context, for the following reasons.
Xuman - like Tesla Boy, Tapeaters, URAN, and so forth - undoubtedly draw upon the synth-pop of the 1980s. Why the widespread appeal, though? It seems reasonable to suggest that the generally uplifting, optimistic outlook of that movement in the West forms a stark counterpart to the grim Russian experiences of the same decade. From a Slavic standpoint, therefore, it's a pleasing way to reconsider and redo one's youth. A 1980s' aesthetic redux.
In the West, the same fashion emerged as a counterpart to Thatcher's England - not as protest, but as pushy hedonism. The increasing theatrics of synth-pop's often-operatic vocals over time were testament to the difficulties of escapism in the UK environment. Ignoring the outside world was a sufficiently challenging or "dramatic" endeavor in and of itself. Alexander Xuman's own falsetto is a reflection of some related tensions, even today: serious fun is needed to overshadow equally serious social failings.
Hence the straight faces on the cover of a celebratory recording.
The other local aspect to bear in mind is the "precious" tendency noted by Mr. Gorbachev. Why do these songs present their small, private storylines with such insistent integrity? Here it might be useful to compare things to the work of Moscow's Copy Cat Project, who use the same melange of 80s' electronic pop and boyish vocals. In looking at C.C.P, we recently said they might remind some Western listeners of late-career recordings by Prefab Sprout or the Pet Shop Boys, say, in which the simplest lyrics were delivered with the greatest seriousness.
Those songs were an attempt to reclaim the trusting honesty of a UK pop tradition long spoiled by market forces. Banality thus became an object of desire, almost, as corporate practice had made even the simplest love songs unbelievable. Removing the high levels of cynicism from major media nowadays seems an almost impossible task. Hope alternates with sad admissions that the distance between creative pride and profit may remain too great. The challenge is big.
Love songs, as a result, must be writ large - all the time. The local surroundings dictate these views of creative "normality" - and their scale.
Primetime media is woefully short of intelligent, well-crafted pop. The new Xuman album is a big step in the right direction; with their youthful, often "thespian" delivery, these musicians speak of a related need for earnest lyricism in modern Russian songwriting. "Golden Age," addressing that need, is a fine piece of pop craftsmanship. It presents itself as proud and polished in order to challenge the same "expert" realms that have claimed songwriting for their own.
Once again, it's worth noting that the title "Golden Age" comes from classical notions of some lost paradise. In other words, from a squandered simplicity. Grand, future plans are therefore constructed on the simplest, yet most elusive of premises. Good ideas start anew - and from scratch. The fact that this album had to come from a forest, inhabited by penniless romantics huddled together, says a great deal about the fate of "bad" songs within the city.
Alexander Xuman: 'The album includes both life-affirming and melancholy aspects'
Despite their stylistic differences, therefore, both Xuman and Denis Taiga draw upon the promise of a rambling green periphery in order to ponder projects of major significance. In the specific case of Taiga, he references - on a bolder scale - Russia's ancient, wholly rural (or uninhabited!) realms in order to ponder the challenge of the future.
And so the stretching begins, prior to engaging the nation's endless options - be they spatial, chemical, or melodic. Anything's possible in a land of directions, not roads.
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