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The Pacific Coast foursome Mari! Mari! have just published a new three-track single by the name of "Photographs" (Fotografii). Not only have we written of the band on several occasions before - thus increasing the likelihood of this post - but the new songs have a special significance in the context of an interview the group gave a few months ago to the Moscow press.
Once, as usual, the ensemble had explained the origin of its name (in semi-serious ways, all designed to amplify the mythmaking process), they said a word or two about the way they first came together - several years ago in Vladivostok. Those passing observations about years gone by would help to explain the present - and suggest a possible direction for the future, too.
The very first concerts by Mari! Mari! were - perhaps not surprisingly - part and parcel of local tribute evenings dedicated to Coldplay. Giving from the outset an indication that they would never take this kind of slavish imitation too seriously, they went out on stage with a poorly-trained pianist and - in fact - had prepared for the entire event with a travel schedule so irresponsibly slapped together that they barely made it to the club at all.
Nonetheless, inspired by even the smallest manifestations of public approval, they inched their way towards Khabarovsk, the nearest town of any consequence. Once that location was conquered, thoughts turned to both Moscow and St Petersburg, many time zones away.
Time to buy some transport, mix some paint, and prepare for an upwards struggle.
Thus far, all is well, and the band has already played on several occasions in both cities, allowing them to ponder PR work on an even bigger scale. Those plans, they know, will never come to fruition if they expect other people to handle matters for them. Russian show business is a frightening and often heartless realm, both dishonest and dangerous. Mari! Mari!, therefore, operate according to a different philosophy: "We're always joking whenever anybody asks about our future plans, but one thing's for sure. We're never going to look for assistance from others, nor will be expect anything to happen of its own accord. Everything that works out does so because of the effort we put in. We try and invest all our efforts, exhaust all possibilities, but - it goes with saying! - they will always be an [unavoidable] element of our own sloppiness involved!"
Including the inability to hold a camera straight or focus a lens.
Journalists in Russia's "central" cities are increasingly interested in the sense of adventure required to catapult (or drag!) a band all the way across Russia. Hence the reason for the interview we're quoting. Despite such serious issues as transport, accommodation, management, and so forth, at one point the chat took a rather strange turn. First of all the group was asked whether they might possibly be able to survive without a part of their body and - if so - which one?
After deciding they'd all be pretty keen on keeping their hair, the four musicians declared that they'd rather keep their physique intact, if the journalist had no special objection. She then inquired how all four would react if they awoke to discover one morning that their drummer had lost one of his legs. That same drummer, not surprisingly, had the strongest reaction of all.
Prudishness prohibits us from printing it in its entirety. Many asterisks would be involved - and the tabloids would be all over us.
On the tail of these queries about loss - and the confidence to face the future both bald and legless - came a simpler, more direct question: "Are you happy with yourselves?" "Yes! they said, "We're totally self-satisfied and cocky!" "YES! We love ourselves 100%!" "We're incredibly incredible!" Despite their content, the answers sounded increasingly ironic. After a brief pause and the joking stopped, drummer Zhenia offered the only straight-faced response to the question, no doubt in sober fashion, after pondering the loss of a limb: "Sometimes we're happy with ourselves... but usually that's not the case."
Sometimes we're happy with ourselves... but usually that's not the case.
This combination of boyish swagger and sneaking doubt finds direct expression in the new EP, specifically in the title track, "Photographs."If one were to look today for the lyrics online - given that the song is brand new - it would pop up in one venue alone, a profoundly amateur one, at that. A young woman in the Arctic port of Murmansk runs a blog of no importance except for herself and her friends; in a recent post, she took a few lines about from "Fotografii" and wove them into a lyrical observation, creating something of a mini-mashup that dovetails two authors, two genders, and two points of view. The song thus takes on a new significance and immediate relevance beyond the bedrooms of Vladivostok.
This small, personal digression was, therefore, now written from a woman's point of view - after the loss (maybe even death) of a male figure in her life. Once confident, if not arrogant - even after she had lost him temporarily - she is now wracked with regret after losing the same man forever. Swagger has turned to seemingly permanent grief with awful speed. She posted the text together with the tearful B&W image shown above. In prosaic translation, her words - together with some lines from the song - read as follows. Her addressee slips back and forth; on occasion she addresses her absent/deceased friend, on other she speaks to herself, having lost all sense of social confidence. All orientation has fallen away.
"Life without you. It's the first day with that thought. I'm broken. You'll always have a special place in my heart. I'll always love and remember you. My hands shake. The tears keep coming... they don't ask my permission. Another person I love - you - has vanished forever. It's Tuesday. Ill-fated Tuesday. The very last night of September..."
"It seems to me that I can feel your presence. Your gaze. As if you're saying something. Why? Why was I so cold towards you? Why did I delete all those photos out of spite? We're still kissing in that photograph. We're still gazing at each other - so intently. It constantly seems that I hear the phone ringing... or that it rings - and I don't pick up the receiver. This is so hard. I don't want anybody to remind me of him right now. Things are going to be so much harder. You'll always be in our hearts... We all love you. We remember. We're grieving."
In distant places - in a difficult land - the quipping of a big city journalist fades away. A young woman has to face the loss of a cherished acquaintance, perhaps from one of the incessant problems that plague the nation, such as hazing, rampant alcoholism, dangerous roads, low-grade drugs, a suspect health-care system, and so forth. Without being morose, it possible to say that through songs such as these new offerings from Mari! Mari! the importance of pop music as a mechanism of consolation is massive. Hence, perhaps, the reason behind the name of the band's current tour: "Here It Is." Not the pompous, profiteering of Michael Jackson's swansong - "This Is It" - but a brief sense of consoling co-presence. Sympathy is "here," but will soon depart. This, in no uncertain terms, is the value of songwriting in much of Russia; it is not the soundtrack to accompany tales of ongoing, established success, but quite the opposite.
Songs offer three minutes of hope amidst the likelihood of failure. They are virtual, in all senses of the word - and thus offer a few seconds in which to rise - at least emotionally - above the here and now.
The girl from Murmansk has already been responded to by three friends, also speaking of the deceased young man. They have the following observations to make: "He lived for us, dear. He wouldn't want us to cry. Now it's our turn to live for him." The second friend agrees: "Yes, you're absolutely right. We'll do just that. Everything's going to be fine." And, finally: "Yes. Our smiles will be for him..."
He lived for us, dear. He wouldn't want us to cry. Now it's our turn to live for him.
And so, when we turn to the other two songs on the new single, "Dance" (Tanets) and "Reasons to Smile at You" (Prichiny tebe ulybat'sia), it's worth bearing in mind that throwaway pop can mean the world in snow-covered towns like Murmansk (shown above), where the population is rapidly falling and the sun barely comes up in winter.
People are not having children; they're not marrying, either. No wonder they need a song or two.
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