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Nseven (Pyotr Sutupov, Moscow)
When considering the work of idm exponent Nseven, it's useful to begin with some rather mundane information. His real name is Pyotr Sutupov, a Moscow resident who - from 9 to 5 - is employed in the realm of IT and as a graphic designer. His musical efforts, now widely respected, were begun very much on the periphery of that adult, commonsensical workplace. In fact, it has been ten years now since Sutupov started experimenting after dark - with various styles and stage-names. The persona of "Nseven" was only adopted circa 2004 when the first recordings came to light. Hard media required fixed identities.
Here we are, with some new music and too much time on my hands...
One might imagine that - over time - Sutupov would find it difficult to combine his professional and artistic enterprise, but some of his online statements suggest the opposite. Apathy is occasionally a more pressing concern than any dearth of free time. One recent statement declared, in rather indifferent terms: "Here we are, with some new music and too much time on my hands. Please don't use MySpace to send me any messages; go instead to the website and you'll find plenty of ways to contact me there. I never really use this crappy social network at all."
A recent example of his graphic enterprise sets the tone admirably.
Another source of contextual information regarding Nseven continues to be Twitter, yet a quick overview of Mr. Sutupov's messages of late gives little insight into his autumnal work patterns. What we at least discover is a growing discrepancy between the limits or burden of quotidian experience and a sense of biographical purpose. In fact the levels of surrealism appear to have grown in this year's Tweets, as he feels a marked disparity or disconnect between life and logic. "I was just at a lecture about 'Godzilla.' Before it started, there was jazz playing [in the auditorium]. Photographs of cats moved across a movie screen." Or, elsewhere: "Today I will be repairing iPhones with my willpower alone."
Today I will be repairing iPhones with my willpower alone
As actuality refuses to conform to desire, Sutupov's response grows more dramatic, at least in semi-serious terms: "I am sending [mental] death rays to the person who invented the non-reclining seats on this airplane."
It should, therefore, come as no surprise that our musician places his gentle, romantic instrumentals in a time either prior to adult disappointment - or before chagrin even began. His newest work is published under the indicative title of "Longing." These, in other words, are sounds inspired by the symbolism of future space travel and yet, simultaneously, orchestrated to the explicit noise of children's voices. That dual striving for displacement, backwards or forwards, is then accompanied by a telling quip on another "crappy social network": "I am completely irrelevant. I write the kind of music you'd hear in 1995."
And so, once again, the tension or friction grows between dull typicality and a stubborn need for fantasy - born of times long ago. This heady combination leads to a (tongue-in-cheek) warning that we should: "Be considerate to others... or I will bite your torso and give you a disease." That confrontational line, as some readers may recall, comes from the Aqua Teen Hunger Force feature-length cartoon of 2008, which turned the most cliched plot lines from primetime animation into drug-fueled surrealism. Put differently, the entire film was based upon a tragicomic disparity between reality and fantasy.
Should however, we consider complaining about that narrative gap (and therefore start to malign our "fated" lifeline), the moviemakers themselves are uninterested. Another opening section from the screenplay quoted by Mr. Sutupov reads: "Do not explain the plot [to those sitting beside you]. If you don't understand, then you shouldn't be here. Your money is now our money - and we will spend it on drugs."
If you don't understand, then you should not be here
Reverie might have seemed "doable" in the 1990s, but - judging by the image above - it can apparently only be fueled nowadays with certain substances. This situation then forms a telling parallel with the new works from 101, a project belonging to Lithuanian composer Evaldas Azbukauskas. We've examined his output before in the context of his larger organization, Cold Tear Records, which specializes in ambient dub.
101 (aka Evaldas Azbukauskas): "Love Story" (2011)
Those instrumentals are often inspired by the hushed appearance - and folklore - of local forests. And in fact another of Azbukauskas' offshoots is known as Giriu Dvasios, which translated from the Lithuanian means "Spirit of the Woods." In more explicit terms, Giriu Dvasios defines itself as a consequence of multiple places: "Forests, woods, nature, the world, the sun, lakes, water, the sea, rivers, trees, flowers, the sky, space, planets, stars, the moon, wind, the ocean, flora and fauna..."
We're only half way through: "Flowers, grass, dirt, dust, swamps, insects, the weather, air, our natural environment, leaves, the seasons, rain, snow, light, people, animals..." Human presence is minimal.
Lakes, water, the sea, rivers, trees, flowers, the sky, space, planets, and stars...
These old-school idm tracks from 101, entitled "Love Story," come together with a tiny text: "This album's inspired by those feelings that force us to do crazy things. The kind of things for which we'd otherwise lack courage. It's only through love that we can show people how they misjudge us." And from which prior experiences does Mr. Azbukauskas draw this conclusion or conviction? On his Facebook profile he currently - and clearly - expresses gratitude for one time in his life: "The '90s."
Ruslan Tagirov (Yekaterinburg)
At this point we move swiftly to the city of Yekaterinburg, home to Ruslan Tagirov (who was born on Russia's arctic shoreline, close to Murmansk). We've visited Tagirov's catalog once before, since he's known to a wide audience as half of the idm/electro-house project Dos Buratinos, whose name comes from a famous Soviet kids' story. It's best translated as "Two Pinocchios," perhaps, since both the Russian story and the word "Buratino" hint at the Italian folk origins of the American cartoon.
Like Pyotr Sutupov, so Mr. Tagirov works in IT, albeit the sphere of management, rather than anything design-related. Like Evaldas Azbukauskas, he also draws upon "cosmic" imagery in order to do justice to the imaginative scale that was established in childhood. Azbukauskas refers to his recent instrumentals as a mental "mission to the moon." Tagirov quotes some famous lines from Soviet space pioneer Sergei Korolev, declaring that mere willingness to engage in some activity or other will create "a thousand opportunities." Unwillingness, conversely, will do the opposite.
Not all residents of the Tagirov household concur, though. As we see below, apathy has a certain appeal. Dealing another blow to boundless, starry-eyed optimism, adult doubt and/or cynicism can impinge upon Mr. Tagirov's outlook. He quotes some lines from a U2 stage show that left a particularly strong impression: "Everything You Know Is Wrong" and "BeLIEve."
As a result, a certain level of inactivity is well entrenched - though doubtful daydreaming goes on. Even when hope fizzles out, and adult pragmatism puts an end to major fantasy, desire continues to operate on a low, yet constant level. Quoting himself on one social network, Mr. Tagirov declares: "Give me a Hammond organ and I'll stop masturbating." Unintended English puns aside, we can see how music continues to orchestrate one's imagination better than ostensible - or tangible - reality.
Everything you know is wrong
And that brings us to Tagirov's new solo album, "Standing on a Bridge." With the same hopeful, though nostalgic air of the other performers under consideration here, our Yekaterinburg artist now dedicates ten instrumentals, with a running time of almost sixty minutes, to a liminal state. Put differently, this restrained and elegant album overtly places reverie, romance, and nostalgia in between a range of concrete locations, be they physical (two banks, two planets) or temporal (two decades).
What results is the fleeting fragment of some larger picture, colored in gloomy hues and yet constantly, quietly nurturing hope(s) for a time that might yet be. Inspired by the memories of what once was. Hence, one might argue, the rationale behind Nseven's preferred re-designation of his '90s-style idm as eidm, with the first letter standing for "emotion." The heart stands in whenever logic suggests that we surrender to real-world pressures. That conflict between aspiration and actuality has, according to these retro-tracks, been ongoing for a very long time.
Standing on bridges has become a regular occurrence.
Ruslan Tagirov: "Standing on a Bridge" (2011)
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