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Zhytomyr, Ukraine
Despite the modern, rather Soviet vista shown above, the Ukrainian city of Zhytomyr actually has an ancient lineage. Various historians - and local myth-makers - will insist that the region was founded in the ninth century, flourishing along with Kievan culture until the violent invasion of Mongol troops four hundred years later. Subsequent eras would bring little more stability as Zhytomyr was thrown back and forth between Polish and Lithuanian realms. It was not until the early twentieth century that a major, albeit fleeting renaissance occurred; during a period of Ukrainian independence this city was declared the new capital of a free nation... only for Soviet rule to begin in 1920.
Life during World War Two was arguably worse still, in that the Nazis claimed Zhytomyr as the center for various "resettlement" projects, which would lead to horrific losses in the surrounding lands - and beyond. Against this awful background, it is not surprising that notions of self-determination are sometimes weakly established among local artists. History has not exactly fostered a sense of private liberty. There certainly seems, therefore, a justifiable connection between events of the past and the modus operandi of modern creative endeavors - such as Zhytomyr's Pathetic Records.
The project's self-deprecating tone masks a genuine and consequential melancholy, as we'll see.
Sundown on Zhytomyr's industrial outskirts
We examined one of their artists a few days ago, namely Phooey!, through whom we discovered that the label considers itself "a pitiful enterprise, of no use to anybody. Pathetic Records are based in the Ukrainian provinces or, to be more specific, in Ozerne [close to Zhytomyr]. The label is far from your standard DIY project; we don't for example, use our parents' money to cover distribution costs. And we certainly don't release run-of-the-mill hardcore cr*p for morons. What we do is something more. (But we don't yet know what...)."
We don't release run-of-the-mill hardcore cr*p for morons
Any contrary, modishly "subversive" politics are unlikely to take hold here, since they would involve both organization and goal-driven effort, neither of which are in evident supply. "Like all today's punks, we struggle against forms of discrimination... but we usually do so sitting behind a computer screen. [At least] we don't eat meat, though." Four bands bring this indolent, yet understandable outlook to life.
We could start with Zhytomyr's own My Sister Spectre, who introduce themselves to the outside world with little enthusiasm (and even less use of a dictionary). They inform new listeners that the band's backstory... "doesn't really justify itself as a 'story' at all. We're simply glad to play our music as we've always done - differently." Unexpectedly inspired to adopt an abstract tone, they then attribute their clamorous style to "melodies, words, paper ghosts, and whispers."
Local audiences are glad of this cathartic clamor.
My Sister Spectre and a hometown crowd
When playing on stage, as the above photograph might suggest, the musicians perk up somewhat: "Playing live, we tend to be spiteful, frustrating, visionary, and yet anxious. We started performing around 2009-2010 and don't intend stopping. At least not until our 'fantasy mechanism' breaks down..." Put differently, the very fact that My Sister Spectre even consider themselves a half-decent ensemble is attributed to fantasy or delusion, rather than to objective worth.
The current operations of this garage/noise outfit endure only because of the band's ability to "ignore whatever people think - and please ignore our feeble abilities, too! Not to mention the drumming..." And so, because of continuously bad percussion, a drum machine is now joined by Igor' (credited with bass guitar and "mouth") plus Bogdan (with his guitar and "ideas").
Ignore whatever people think - and please ignore our feeble abilities, too
The group's trademark physicality - enduring no matter what - is nicely furthered by the output of another Pathetic collective, Nozdri (i.e., Nostrils). Here we find a foursome: Pauvel (bass), Sergei (drums), Inokentii (guitar), and Roman ("f**khead"). With epic disregard for anything akin to self-respect, Nozdri tell us they're "the worst band in the history of music." And yet, whenever they ask for listener feedback, they append a polite request "not to swear at us. Please try and write something longer than twenty characters (i.e., please avoid the kind of message in which fifteen of those characters would be smileys...)."
Already admitting to their tiny skill-set, the musicians would gain nothing from distant diatribes.
And so the influx of public comment begins, after a brief nod towards The Ramones: "Hey! Ho! Let's Go!" One of the first remarks actually includes considerable approval: "These songs are really suited to today's slacker youth culture. I kinda like 'em!" Better still, other positive assessments came from Moscow: "Nozdri play fast, amazingly noisy punk. The vocals are deliberately out of tune... Nozdri really are a new and interesting band. We hope people give them due attention ASAP!"
Fast, amazingly noisy punk. The vocals are deliberately out of tune...
Keen to show off their tuneless "slacker lyrics," the band now upload several texts following "loads of requests. (Well, actually after 2½ people asked us...)." The first couplets begin: "This is no longer funny./ We shout and die, celebrate and sing./ Some people go to heaven, while others live there..." That injustice leads to a dramatic response: "Who gave you the right to make this world your own?/ You've lost your self-control/ And want to hurt others./ Go on, show us what a man you are./ Pummel your friends... and then forget about it." Writing songs in a dog-eat-dog, even hopeless provincial setting is no mean feat.
Later we hear of the desperate hope of "finding some kind of direction./ All my life I've dreamed of clean air, not dirt./ I watch how the birds fly past / And, when springtime comes/ I don't know what makes people/ Burn their bridges..." For all the cutting humor within Pathetic Records and the witty profiles of their artists, some very dark themes come occasionally to the surface: "Look truth in the eye:/ We're sick of being no-one."
A violent response to actuality is tempting.
The narrow expressive range at work here speaks simultaneously to a couple of issues: an inability to define (or cope with) actuality's mechanisms and yet - at the same time - a laudable ability to simply endure. It's this same persistence, as singular and montonal noise, that's part and parcel of The Partyvans, who play all their songs in the key of E - because they know no other. Since their inception they've declared an uncomplicated intention to sing "only songs about love and monsters... but none of our releases so far seem to have anything about the latter." Plans are made, advertised, and yet go unfinished, since mere existence is too time-consuming. Big ideas run up against banal actuality, time and time again.
For all this metaphorical head-butting, fantasy lurks surreptitiously in the background: The Partyvans' lineup consists of Steve ("guitars from Mars"), Pete ("low bass from 'deep ass'"), and Eddie ("knocking, rocking, and no smoking"). A rhyming dictionary might be a good investment.
Everything's written at home, sitting alone, using the same old methods
The operational logic of Pathetic Records, on the edge of what staff members perceive as cultural nothingness, is perhaps best shown by the Pathetic Pop Band, who have managed to release a five-track EP, but can't even put together a website. The group - just like Phooey! - are more of a bedroom DIY project: lots of ideas, little ability, and almost no results. "Everything's written at home, sitting alone, using the same old methods [as our label-mates]." A series of recordings were planned beyond the first EP... "but the Pathetic Pop Band [true to their name] is now dead."
One recent recording was accompanied by a voting system, from one to five stars. Pathetic Records removed the fifth star, "since nobody's going to rank our cr*p that highly." 87.5% of listeners voted for four stars. Zhytomyr's amateurish refusal to lie down or shut up has wide appeal.
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