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A decent amount of time has passed since drum and bass fell out of (modish) favor in the West, having morphed into grime, dubstep, and other sub-genres in the middle of the last decade. If we look at the style's reputation in Russia and surrounding nations, similar reconsiderations have occurred, most of which hope to guide D&B away from its initial reputation as a rather bad-tempered, "male" fashion, unlikely to find favor in mainstream clubs.
Examples of these changes can be found in the catalogs of Pryzma and Anastasia Tiiu; the former artist is from the Belarusian city of Mogilev (above) and the latter from deep within the Russian heartland, namely Tomsk in southern Siberia.
If we start with the hometown of Pryzma (aka Artem Kuznetsov and shown below), we discover a location that's not unfamiliar with grand, civic processes of change and transformation. Founded in the thirteenth century, Mogilev has been shunted back and forth with considerable drama between the geopolitical schemes of Lithuania, Poland, and Russia. Invaded then by the Germans during WWII, Mogilev eventually - and gratefully - established itself as a stable center of Soviet industry after 1945, but would not gain independence, of course, until the 1990s.
In the briefest possible terms, much has happened in the history of Mogilev - and usually in violent fashion.
And so, on a blissfully peaceful scale, we reach the cultural transformations of today. Kuznetsov, raised in the commercial contexts of post-Soviet culture, was troubled in recent years by the ways in which local businesses, including radio stations and club venues, were unwilling to move beyond D&B, since it had proven itself lucrative for so long. The limits of experimentation in various genres were defined by narrow profit margins; any musical form that showed itself to be a cash cow would - to extend the metaphor - be milked to death. Variety on the airwaves suffered greatly.
As he recently recalled: "I became totally disenchanted with drum and bass. I'd hear the same amen breaks and tweaked basslines over and over again."
I became totally disenchanted with drum and bass...
Slowly, though, he started to notice signs of innovation, albeit not on local streets. He turned with a glimmer of hope to a new generation of musicians working in and around St Petersburg. A handful of Russian performers, thanks to growing web access and the demise of FM playlists, finally "invented some new ways of positioning the beats and basslines. Inspired by all that, I started myself to discover new forms of D&B, too."
The distant gaze and monochrome palette would both soften.
The first structural element to be dropped was, logically enough, the predominance of a growling bass, so often associated with impending dancefloor violence. "Don't expect to hear any deep or dark sounds," said Kuznetsov as he went off to chip away at the canon: "It's time to change the sound of drum and bass. Step by step..."
A suitable, kindred spirit was found in Lithuania's Amen Brothers Records; the label was a perfect match for Kuznetsov's revisionism. As we might already sense from the label's name, they too referenced one of the fundamental building blocks of D&B - it order then to throw it away.
"At Amen Brothers Records, we only have one rule [for contributors]. Your tunes should sound like music. They should contain a genuine sense of spirit - and some kind of idea, too! We don't care whether you've just written your first melody or have tons of music already finished! What matters is the quality of the sound, not the quantity. Music itself runs too broadly and beautifully to be limited by notions of what's 'deep' or 'heavy'..."
Music runs too broadly and beautifully to be limited by notions of what's 'deep' or 'heavy'
Almost a paraphrase of Kuznetsov's own thoughts.
That synergy soon gave us the compositions in this post, from a resident of Mogilev who - with help from Vilnius - turned his "base" genre into all manner of intricate sounds. This creative trajectory has been mirrored by the recent work of Anastasia Tiiu, who although born in Hungary, was raised far away in Tomsk (below).
Given the position of that city in Siberia, it hardly bears mentioning that Tomsk has not seen the borderline conflicts of Mogilev. Quite the opposite, in fact: the most notable events in the city's history involve various social forces moving through - en route to somewhere else.
Gold was discovered here in the early 19th century; as a result, prospectors flocked in. Not long after, work began on the Trans-Siberian Railway, bypassing the region in favor of Novosibirsk; the influx of new residents was reversed. Tomsk, as a result of this slow exodus, became by the end of the century associated primarily with exiled prisoners and other unwilling visitors.
Witness to much violence during the Civil War, it - like Mogilev - grew quickly under the Soviets as a renovated center of heavy industry. And this is where Ms. Tiiu was raised, in quieter times that now give rise to apartment blocks and playgrounds.
What, though, of the music? Also unhappy with the generic narrowness of classic, instrumental D&B, Tiiu first wrote a lot of material within that style, yet designed for vocals. This move from sheer, ineffable power to delicate poetry continues to be important as she provides guest vocals for a wide range of performers.
Following an initial shift in emphasis, she then - like her Belarusian contemporary - felt there was even more room for lyrical development. Drum and bass, she believed, could become a much better vehicle for "thoughts and feelings," rather than for testosterone alone.
Help was at hand. Kuznetsov had found help and inspiration in Lithuania; Tiiu found support after the inclusion of her tracks in some podcasts made at London's Hospital Records and the related Med School project. Kuznetsov's material, in fact, would later appear there, too.
In a word, she slipped the shackles of traditional D&B in order to embrace - and then abandon! - subgenres like techstep or neurofunk. Currently she admits to happily mixing various offshoots of drum and bass with gentler idm formats; an initially angry style has thus become quieter and more contemplative.
"There's a harmonious combination in my sets of all kinds of material - all the way from indie to jungle and idm, too..." Her stylistic flexibility has led to shows not only in many cities around Siberia, but also in Moscow - and further still, at summertime events in Ukraine.
All kinds of material... all the way from indie to jungle and idm, too
This experimentation, in summary, is designed to "transfer aspects of my inner world into everyday reality." D&B, rather then enhance actuality, was always keener on dismantling it; it was the soundtrack to repressed bitterness. Very much aware of this generic leap from machismo to an "inner world," Tiiu writes elsewhere that through her wistful remixes and lyrical penchant for English-language, ethereal vocals, she "enriches the music with everything that a tender soul has experienced."
The third-person verbs here imply a healthy ability to stand back from the proceedings - and view them with a wry smile. Other forms of self-monitoring are available.
A little self-deprecating humor goes a long way in transforming a "deep and heavy" heritage.
These reflective reconsiderations of a classic post-Soviet musical style - managed between Belarus and Siberia - could continue for a long time. Kuznetsov recently admitted, in humbling fashion, that "the more I learn, the more I realize what I don't know." Especially in the context of his admitted love for "science fiction, study of the cosmos, and sounds..."
Kuznetsov's notions of audible completion or plenitude lie a long way off - in outer space. The greater one travels that path of investigation, revealing a snowballing scale of "ignorance," the more a sense of adventure will become hushed, humbling awe. Investigation will become amazement - and loud proclamations of intent will fall to noiseless wonder.
The more I learn, the more I realize what I don't know
That process, in its most extreme form, leads to an ontological quality one traditionally encounters in Russian/Slavic culture: enlightened ignorance. At which point all danger of arrogance vanishes forever - and loud, pushy genres surely morph into hushed minimalism.
That same downsizing of scale and volume could also be contributed to other local factors. Below we see a very recent image of Tomsk at minus forty degrees Celsius. At a temperature where most technology fails and cameras undoubtedly suffer, one would expect music to be a little quieter, too.
The figures below certainly look stooped and hushed; body warmth is probably lost through an open mouth.
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