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Ekam Sat are a young Moscow band whose members lay claim to particular gifts or insights. Currently the lineup is listed as Evgenii Rodin ("vocals and charisma"); Vlad Orlov (keyboards), Artem Mosalev ("guitars and cosmos"); Evgenii Shramkov (bass), and Aleksandr Iakovuk (drums). Those two emotive peaks of charisma and outer space help to indicate - albeit ironically - the scale of drive and determination needed by callow ensembles.
And indeed the building blocks of this project coalesced only after much effort. More specifically, Ekam Sat first appeared amid the friendships surrounding Orlov's Ocean Shiver. Once those friends had pondered a new relationship as colleagues, a net-single was soon forthcoming - from Messrs. Orlov, Rodin, Mosalev, et al. Slowly, over time, the movement from home-studio pottering to live shows began to gain traction. En route to those vague and promising targets, a high level of romanticism would be required, especially because increased commitment would need greater investment.
And sure enough, in a necessarily upbeat register, the band informs us - in no uncertain terms: "These are young and talented musicians. Their joint project may have emerged spontaneously - but, from the very outset, it was clear that this band has loads of potential!"
Developing that potential, however, would require much enterprise and exertion.
To start with, the playing field open to undecided, yet enthusiastic amateurs was disconcertingly broad; nonetheless, gay abandon still outpaced any wariness: "We never stay within the framework of any one style: we love to experiment - and we make our music for you!" It would be hard to imagine a more optimistic turn of phrase, teetering on the edge of banality, even.
Our audience is tired of awful music on the radio and TV
No matter where we look, this tone endures, full of civic hope and faith.
At another digital venue, dedicated to a recent festival of up-and-coming Moscow bands, Ekam Sat were asked not long ago to define their efforts in five words. They used four: "We write honest music!" Concrete plans required little explanation. The musicians then sketched a key characteristic of their listeners with a slightly longer sentence: "Our audience comes from the kind of people who are tired of awful music on the radio and TV." Here an early note of caution sounds, maybe. Despite the band's consistently chirpy phrasing, we at least sense the emergence of an opposing force: that of primetime media - and profitable mediocrity.
Voting took place at the online festival, but Ekam Sat were not, sadly, chosen for the final round. Fans stepped in with words of consolation in as our musicians began, perhaps, to doubt themselves: "Hey, guys! Don't worry about not making it through. The voting system here is totally rigged by bribes: a small number of people are just shoving their proteges to the top. You play fantastic music; the problem is that only a few people appreciate it - so far. In fact, some of them never will. Good luck to you, all the same!"
Several steps further down the road of experience, we find the outfit Pilar, shown above - and about whom we've written before. As we mentioned on that prior occasion, their progress is overseen by the very well-estabished Leonid Burlakov, who has worked with such monsters of the Russian rock scene as Mumiy Troll and Zemfira.
Marquez or Hemingway? Perm or Moscow?
Based in the city of Perm, the band has obviously faced the same concerns as Ekam Sat at some point. In other words, for all the heady rhetoric of generic freedom and "loads of potential," some choices need to be made. Commitment is required, sooner or later, to a narrower set of goals. Previously we noted that some of Pilar's promo-materials open with the following questions: "Marquez or Hemingway? Perm or Moscow? Brit-pop or post-rock?" While many ensembles fret endlessly over the initial terminology used to pitch - and therefore establish - themselves, Pilar seemed unhurried.
Distant, lofty stars have always looked attainable.
The current line-up consists of Vadim Korolev (vocals, guitar, and keyboards), Il'ia Zuev (bass), Ivan Shatrov (drums), and Andrei Kamenskikh (guitar). Given their connections to the capital, the band members are already able to joke about their provincial origins. In places such as the UK, the notion of a "local scene" can make the most godforsaken backwater into a modish address. Russia, however, enjoys no such distribution of hipness; beyond Moscow's ring road, fashion often dies a swift death.
Nonetheless, the members of Pilar throw caution to the wind and openly advertise their so-called "magical" origins. Places nobody has seen are - logically enough - transformed into the home of fantasy. The middle of nowhere is a fine place to start telling tales; Perm, to boot, was once a Soviet top secret or "closed city," due to its tank production. Hence the following quip: "Our songs are designed for an Alice who cannot escape from the Looking Glass. We're from Perm - a place of parallel realities, something of a closed city. A proud, yet ironic place..."
And now we have a net-album that's available for free download.
The rhetoric of fantasy endures: "The leading roles in producing this album have been played by five wizards and their magical tunes." In showcasing these optimistic recordings and sunny outlook for a Moscow audience, the band nonetheless admit that "a difficult test lies ahead: only the bravest and toughest will make it through. People with a delicate sense of wellbeing should probably step back!" Initial talk of a romantic, freely-willed endeavor starts morphing into a moral responsibility: "With your help [dear listeners], we could get one and a half million people to download the songs! Only you are able to shape the course of things; only you can write the story of Pilar."
A difficult test lies ahead: only the bravest and toughest will make it through
Kindred spirits become brothers in arms.
And that leads us to the wonderful and usually witty Ukrainian trio, I Drug Moi Gruzovik ("My Friend Truck and I"). Based in Dnipropetrovsk, they were responsible for one of 2010's finest album's "Zhivot." Those two syllables can be translated as "Stomach," or - more accurately - "Gut," since the songs are mostly dedicated to issues of age - and a failing physique: "The human stomach is virtually the only thing that gives away an individual's true age. A person might look fairly young, drink bootleg gin, and even sleep with his windows wide open [in the Russian/Ukrainian winter], but he'll not be able to hide his gut forever. The stomach is a kind of sentence passed on a careless youth; it's the result of an offhand attitude towards oneself. It comes from not thinking about tomorrow..."
As time goes on, those thoughts increase - and grow a little darker. The appearance of a gut hardly helps.
That sense of inexorable deceleration has now been emphasized further still with the release of a six-track mini-album, the title of which might be translated as "Stylized Aftertaste." The title implies a reconsideration of some recent experience - in slightly aestheticized forms. And those recent events do not appear jolly. The stylization seems minimal, too: "We didn't use any kind of sound effects or experimentation this time. We just recorded things the way they are. Without any afterdubs, either."
We just recorded things the way they are
The songs, in other words, have not only been captured in a cold, documentary style; they have also appeared with zero PR work. Vocalist Anton Slepakov - below - recently remarked: "We reckoned that [a quiet, unannounced publication] was a more honest and proper approach to things. After all, we often deceive ourselves with prior expectations. If you get people whipped up into a frenzy, then all that'll lead to is more hysterics..." The upshot of optimistic effort, evident in any young band, now appears to be little more than false hope and a dislike for histrionics.
The band members even toy - in rather resigned tones - with the idea that "Stylized Aftertaste" will perhaps be their very last recording. "It might well be that our desire or ability to put things on tape will come to an end pretty soon. It's so much more interesting and exciting to create than it is to record!"
These six songs open with the downbeat, troubled tale of an imaginary elder brother - according to whose equally imaginary wishes Slepakov's hero formed a band, long ago... Translated into suitably grey, English prose, the lyrics read: "What can I say about that first group of mine? They were pretty hopeless: you could put things that bluntly. I wouldn't go around claiming once and for all that we were big-time musicians. But - as my older brother would say - we had some chance to find our place under the sun..."
In retrospect, therefore, the musical project in question was - from its very outset - born of false hopes, themselves located in the approval of an imagined(!) elder.
I get mixed up, tell lies, and forget the words...
The new recording from I Drug Moi Gruzovik continues in this brutally honest vein. "When my head stops hurting, I'll play the first couple of songs. But the pain doesn't pass. I get mixed up, tell lies, and forget the words..." The album concludes with the dramatically titled "Last Song (That's It: The Final Song)." These three Ukrainian performers - in the voice of Slepakov - look back at the many words said or written about them, often in attempts to make comparisons with other ensembles. And yet, says Slepakov himself, he's most like his father. For all the talk of social connections, a fan base, or an adoring public, the closest, most important linkages had often been ignored.
And so, according to a rather disheartening logic, the band has performed for years on stage - in order to realize the importance of what lies much closer to home. Songs in praise of love, affection, and other social states frequently bypassed their most obvious objects. Therefore, by implication, a final word of thanks goes out to those people whose approval was most important (and always guaranteed) from the outset: friends and family - who need no PR.
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