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Electrosound: "...At Least (2005-2011)"
Glo-fi enterprise, irrespective of one's address, always looks back with much fondness at the synth-heavy pop music of the 1980s. Wistful melodies pass slowly through a warm sea of ambient electronica, to the point where vocals are often inaudible. Intonation and emotion are discernible, but distinct lyrics tend to slip away. Many of these characteristics are, of course, part and parcel of chillwave, too, but the term "glo-fi" tends to concern the brighter end of 80s' pop, full of drum pads, neon lights, and angular shoulders. Hence the name of an ensemble in this article.
Western journalists have, on occasion, associated both chillwave and glo-fi with today's ailing economy. Practioners of those styles, goes the argument, reconsider the poor recording technology of their youth with an affection for its (affordable) simplicity. And, sure enough, several of the tracks under investigation here replicate the wobbly, fuzzy sound of cassettes or VHS tapes. They recall a time when technology was simple - but sounded bad.
Leaving aside that economic rationale for these lo-fi tunes within a Western context, we might then consider the meaning of glo-fi for East European artists. Here the plastic thump of '80s disco-pop is redolent of an enormous social shift. Gaudy pop, in other words, was broadcast nationwide in order to the mark the sudden appearance of democratic, commercial culture. Hopes were high - and colors were loud.
Ilyas Mikanaev (Moscow)
We needn't limit ourselves to the dancefloor, either. Take, for example, the wonderful new compilation that has just appeared from Moscow's Electrosound label. Operated and managed for many years by Ilyas Mikanaev, Electrosound has now come to an end - in order (thankfully) that other related concerns may flourish instead. Marking the end of one stage in his editorial career, Mikanaev has published an extraordinarily generous overview of the label's efforts - for free. Fifty compositions and songs - lasting over four hours! - have now been released with the collective title of "...At Least."
A story ends - the last in our long history. Thank you... and Happy New Year! (Electrosound)
Covering the years 2005-2011 "...At Least," includes several examples of this nostalgia for the 1980s - and their appropriately vague sounds. We offer a track from Kiev's Dunaewsky69 (Oleksandr Gladun) as a little proof. In Gladun's enigmatically titled "h5FUL" the uncomplicated patterns of late Soviet electronica interweave with aging machinery, in order to remember a time when sci-fi and social fantasy sounded briefly similar.
From among the other 49 tracks, we might offer The Kirbi (aka Denis Fomenko), who plays a related game with audible history - not to mention geography. Here - amid the charming simplicity of a prior decade - we find some synthesized accordion motifs(!). A Siberian instrumentalist from the city of Barnaul inserts a lovable folksy stereotype into a genre usually associated with "futuristic" issues. Put differently, he makes gentle fun of his own enterprise, reminding us of the (enduring) distance of Siberian reality from any desire to "see Paris and die" - as the Russian expression has it. The track's title underscores that same disparity - and fading dream - rather well: "Barnaul: Second Paris."
A slight smile of irony will pass over listeners' lips. Many dreams do not transpire, especially those cherished in snowy locations and faraway bedrooms.
Neon Lights (Max Hagen and Eugene Lazarenko, St. Petersburg)
This slightly ironic attitude towards futuristic or forward-looking sound comes from a generation that has, arguably, long since abandoned the (all-encompassing) romance of the late 1980s. These same musicians, therefore, get peverse pleasure nowadays from toying with glossy, bold, and synthesized textures that were - more than two decades ago - expressive of genuine hope for social and international progress. Mr. Mikanaev, for example, appends a remarkably modest note to his Electrosound compilation: "A story ends [here] - it's the last in our long history. Thank you... and Happy New Year."
There's no strident rhetoric, hoping to fuel forward-looking, self-assured enterprise. Tunes from shiny, happy places are instead treated as curios.
Music for clinical levels of laziness
With bands such as St. Petersburg's Neon Lights, that erstwhile romance seemingly continues - but it does so tongue in cheek. This outfit consists of two men: Eugene Lazarenko (from local rock band Multfilmy) and music journalist Max Hagen. They look back - explicitly - to "new wave" pop of the '80s - a tradition in which they find "clear, attractive melodies - more than any specific attention to the sound itself." Tunes are more important than thematic purpose. Atmospheres are more important than statements. Already we've taken a clear step away from the city's rock music traditions, grounded in wordy considerations of social issues. Nowadays there's less to debate - and more to imagine.
This wistfulness is also connected to the musicians' own lifestyles. They both admit to "clinical levels of laziness," which give rise to occasionally "introvert" character traits or a "distanced relationship with surrounding reality." Two directionless jellyfish on some recent cover art set the tone.
Neon Lights, "Lazy" (2012)
Unappealing, often harsh reality is very likely to spawn more nostalgic dreamers. Lazarenko and Hagen release their music on a DIY basis "because trusting anybody at all nowadays is difficult." Likewise, for all the romance of St. Petersburg and its gorgeous architecture, the musicians recently said, in a contrary spirit, that "somewhere in the boggy depths of this city live the kind of creatures who - if you let them! - will eat us all alive..." It's much easier and more pleasant, therefore, to recall or revive the "clear-cut, melodious synth-pop of the '80s." Unassuming or consoling stories, with a pleasingly predictable structure, are preferable to the horrors that lurk on dark city streets.
The precise and melodious synth-pop of the '80s
Even more direct in its artistic or chronological references is the anonymous outfit Sunday Morning, also from St. Petersburg. These musicians might remain nameless, but their webpages on a Russian social network gather hundreds of songs - and thousands of images! - to both remember and represent the audio-visual aesthetic of the '80s. Vague memories outnumber concrete biographies. A series of questions posed at Formspring does little to flesh out a lifeline. Sunday Morning refuse(s) to give many details about day-to-day activities or a specific worldview: "Do you ride on public transport?" "Do you believe in people [nowadays]?" and so forth.
Nonetheless, a few moments of possible significance shine through: they - again - involve public transport, oddly enough. "When I look around at the folks on local buses [in St. Petersburg], it's hard to have faith in today's society. But the main thing is the quality of people, not their quantity!" Simple values and thoughts of a simpler time transpire - both of which are apparently under threat today.
Sunday Morning (St. Petersburg): "Under a Billion Stars" (2012)
These doubts, once more, do much to foster introspection - or retrospection.
An increasing movement away from strangers is certainly important for this week's gentle compositions from Ruslan Tagirov, a resident of Yekaterinburg. He has just released a new EP called "Home." His chosen title - and some sentimental artwork, shown below - both suggest and/or advocate a flight from modern-day experience, to places where buses are probably not needed. On this particular occasion, Tagirov offers his work under the abbreviated, collective moniker of RTFM: "Ruslan Tagirov, Friends, and Mates." More specifically, the EP was built with the support of Liza Rybalko, Alexander 'Fidel' Ashbel, Alexey Zakharov, Darya Mezhetskaya, and Brian Hazard. People who are little-known but obviously much appreciated.
In fact, Tagirov ends his promotional materials with some simple gratitude for "all my family and friends. Thanks for your love and support." Amid present-day doubt and quixotic desires for past security, there seems only one fitting response: emotional connections from the past that continue, come what may. Fidelity lessens the need for (or likelihood of) nostalgia: it may even cancel it altogether, with an emphasis on social quality, not quantity.
The best houses are very small - and stand forever.
Ruslan Tagirov and Friends (Yekaterinburg): "Home" (2012)
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