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The rock band Leningrad, led by nationally famous frontman Sergei Shnurov (below, center), was formed in 1996. During the fiscal chaos of Yeltsin's second term and the subsequent oil boom of the early 2000s, Leningrad's sound and favorite subjects combined as an alternative worldview to shoptalk and corporate confidence. Continuing the traditions of protest within Russian rock, the band also employed a broad range of reggae and ska influences. The result was a melange of an ironic, drop-out aesthetic and the most obscene, confrontational language imaginable.
Indolence, cultural savvy, and blasphemy came together. All talk and probably not much action.
Much of that "colorful" phrasing has its roots along the fringes of Russian society. Given the prudish nature of dictionaries and Moscow's media prior to the 1990s, for example, bad language and bad behavior were presumed to be synonymous - and for good reason. The people who spoke (very) improperly had, it was assumed, acquired their rhetorical tools in improper places - such as prison. Leningrad, playing with those enduring stereotypes, managed to rope together a good-time, sax-heavy sound with the worldview of a cynical slacker. And yet - in the background - there always lay the additional thought that social indifference could easily become anger. The distance between sulky dismissiveness and direct dissent was small. Moscow's mayor banned Shnurov et al from the city's venues... Just in case.
Shrurov stopped Leningrad in 2008 in order to foster an alternative rock project - Ruble - but the final months of 2010 saw rumors in the Russian press that they would be reformed. And indeed they have been. We now, following that restoration, have a brand new album, entitled "Khna" (i.e., "Henna"), a partial reference to the red hair of jazz vocalist Julia Kogan. She is both shown on the cover and very much foregrounded in the new recordings. Her previous experience with the band had only been in the capacity of back vocalist. As we see, she's now front and center.
Just as before, the new Leningrad recordings continue along those dual lines of West Indian rhythms and local obscenities: the tension between Caribbean ease and domestic hassles can be striking. By way of illustration, the opening track of the CD involves Kogan describing her sexual preferences in ways that surely make radio play an absolute impossibility. A song of promiscuity will only be heard narrowly; our heroine's desire and society's willingness do not coincide.
Some critics have even decided, following those three minutes, that the entire album might be divided along broad lines of escapist pleasure and dismissive, if not foul-mouthed social commentary. Kogan's tracks tend to celebrate sexual liberties, whereas Shnurov's "outsider" texts are more likely to shower curses upon various social mores.
The songs have received an interesting reception in the Russian press. Critic Aleksandr Gorbachev at Moscow's Afisha reminded readers of Shnurov's comments in a recent interview. The performer expressed his desire to write some songs in the vein of Alla Pugacheva's "Harlequin" from the mid-70s. That song, famous to this day, was a bittersweet tale of a circus clown's life and launched the career of the Soviet Union's greatest pop-star. Why this retrospective reference - to a very different genre?
Orchestrated to the melodies of carousels and barrel-organs, Pugacheva's track was - despite its festive overtones - always shouldering a degree of misery. All was not well beneath the Big Top. "Harlequin," as Mr. Gorbachev points out, was thus a quintessential song of Brezhnev's "stagnation" - the grey, predictable years of the Cold War. Society offered neither meaningful risk nor entertaining adventure - and so fantasy worked very hard.
Aware, however, of its limitations or merely fleeting effects on reality, romantic reverie was never able to take itself that seriously. Hence the melancholy subtext of Pugacheva's upbeat material - or the self-mockery within science fiction films of the same period, say. Clowns were never blissfully happy and rockets never flew that far... This interplay of fun, games, and an occasional wish to cancel out pointless actuality is just as clear in the new songs from Shnurov. Romance is undercut by real life.
Some eternal values: vodka, cash, and sex
"The Leningrad album," we're told, "is actually free of any ideas whatsoever. In their place, all manner of social authorities are verbally abused. This [dismissiveness] allows Shnurov to celebrate some eternal values [of Russian life] instead: vodka, cash, and sex." We have paraphrased that last noun; the original is a tad more colorful. The appeal of those three categories is wide indeed. Earned through social effort in the workplace, they then allow people to escape the same spheres.
Three cheers for nothing in particular.
Based upon those observations from Afisha, it might seem as if Leningrad are offering little more than booze-addled carousing for society's losers. And yet, if we turn to another of Moscow's better-known music journalists, Boris Barabanov, those very same values are celebrated as having considerable appeal - and consequence. The absence of ideologically informed behavior itself takes on a political function, perhaps. The choice of constant rejection is actively accepted.
Fifteen rough-looking guys, plus a long-legged redhead in a sparkling dress
Mr. Barabanov explains how a sensation of liberty grows from this gaggle of knockabout musicians: "When you see fifteen rough-looking guys come on stage with a long-legged redhead in a sparkling dress, there's a sense of real freedom in the air. They all kinda look like us. They're all made from the same raw, Soviet material as us - and live on the same streets, too. And when Shnurov appears, naked to the waist - looking like a cynic, layabout, and inveterate boozer, then you know at once: you can indeed live the way you want."
Negation, sloth, and a weak liver: three reasons for a prolonged fanfare.
At that point it's worth turning to the general outlook and social stance of a Minsk ensemble, Rockerjoker, formed a couple of years ago by local musicians Mikhei Nosorogov and Maks Siryi. The band has a simple, self-confessed aim: "to entertain people with a sense of swagger. Rockerjoker have no pretense towards originality; instead the artists lean heavily on a rich vein of pub songs. The texts are full of humor: little 'adventure stories' alternate with love lyrics. You'll find some classic elements of Russian-language songwriting here: punch-ups, guns, broken hearts, pride... and positive aggression, too."
You'll find some classic elements here: punch-ups, guns, broken hearts, pride...
Rockerjoker, just as Leningrad, also have a new CD: in translation the title reads "Planet for Sale." Also like their St Petersburg colleagues, they've spent the last couple of years writing material specifically for this release. In describing their potential appeal to an audience, Nosorogov and Siryi are unlikely to remain serious for long. Nosorogov, for example, tells the Belarus press: "I'm hardly a six-foot, handsome, or especially passionate guy who's in good health and has a blinding smile. On the other hand, I'm not a deaf-and-dumb, cocky little dwarf, either - or, come to that, a necrophiliac with a wooden leg."
An ability to stand up might disprove that last point.
Unable to find particular cause for celebration either within himself or in society, Nosorogov looks instead to the greater appeal and efficiency of the natural world. At a time of unimpressive civic connections, Mother Nature sets the standard. "Sometimes when I'm in a place of magical peace and quiet, it seems I can hear the planet breathing. I can hear its soft whisper." That unexpectedly sentimental register shows even more directly that the outside world is failing to impress. A sense of affection grows for whatever's lacking at home. Absence makes the heart grow especially fond.
Siryi has also spoken of a private need to find consistency in public spheres: "Around us we see endless wars, various crises, the creation and breakdown of entire nations, economic problems, and political intrigue, too. That's what we all lived through in the '80s, '90s, or 2000s - and now it's all moving smoothly into this decade, too! It's becoming increasingly difficult to find any moral or spiritual stability amid all that..."
Around us we see endless wars, various crises, the creation and breakdown of entire nations, economic problems, and political intrigue, too
Critics in Belarus have noticed this discrepancy between reality and ideals from a physical standpoint, also. Our two musicians simply don't look like the kind of people who could offer us any "moral or spiritual" alternatives to dull and disorienting reality. Flat caps and cargo pants are not the traditional uniform of society's guardians.
This oddity is foregrounded as follows in Minsk: "Rockerjoker are a fairly comic, if not laughable project. The band basically consists of two guys who are built like a couple of dockers, but they sit down [like regular musicians] and start smiling in a really friendly way - after which they begin to play some tiny instruments. With thunderous, gruff vocals Rockerjoker get their message to the audience." That same message of natural harmony and civic calm, we're informed, "is jam-packed with references to all manner of daily problems."
With thunderous, gruff vocals Rockerjoker get their message to the audience
Amid all that muddle, therefore, we have two bands in neighboring countries with a shared philosophy. Leningrad have returned with the same brand of live performance that made them famous in a prior decade. A devil-may-care, tipsy approach to stagecraft leads to a disorderly, but inclusive relationship with the audience. That relationship grows amid disappointments with the outside world. Rockerjoker extend this boozy heritage of the 1990s even further into the past, maintaining that inebriated calls for civic betterment are part and parcel of traditional Slavic pub songs.
And what kind of consistency do those traditions support? What are the standard causes for celebration and consolation amid fickle social change? "Vodka, cash, and sex" on one hand; "punch-ups, guns, and broken hearts" on the other. Drinking - as one way, initially, to keep potential alive (as hope) - becomes drinking in order to obliterate surrounding failures. Including oneself. Moribund drives thus begin to gravitate around cherished goals: between them sits song, both engendering hope and mollifying failure.
Rockerjoker get a headstart.
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