Hope on the High Seas: Marble Boy, Torba-na-Kruche, Nick Efremov, and Dya

Maks Ivanov, Torba-na-Kruche (St. Petersburg)

The band Torba-na-Kruche, based in St Petersburg for several years now, take their name from the Russian translation of "Bag-End," Tolkien's famous residence in Hobbiton. This reference point has always been culturally telling. First and foremost, it's worth recalling that "Lord of the Rings" never survived Soviet censorship very well. Attempts to translate the entire work, whilst sidestepping the assumed Cold War references therein, meant the text did not surface in full or official translations until after the end of the Soviet Union.

As a result - and in between these two stages of rejection or rapid acceptance - "Lord of the Rings" enjoyed a very modish phase among urban students in the late '80s and early '90s. Young men and women would gather in small groups or clubs, each attempting translations of their own. 

Consequently, in the context of Russian rock music, Tolkien's epic still carries an enduring and proud aura of Grebenshchikov's heyday. It bears the reputation of a twilight classic among members of rock's intelligentsia - a moral and mystical touchstone as actuality was falling to pieces. This use of Tolkien to suggest values over and above material failure is just as important today, when countless bands are faced with major economic challenges in a weak economy.

Some related issues have now appeared in interviews with Torba, specifically with the group's frontman, Maks Ivanov. The band recently published the third part of a web-based album, "Triptych." The songs therein had been released later than expected, due to economic and geographic hassles: the members of Torba live in various northern cities and traveling during the Russian winter proved difficult. Rehearsals occurred less often than planned. Thus talk turned to other obstacles in daily life....

Torba-na-Kruche

Given the fact that rock music in Russia enjoyed enormous significance during the demise of the USSR, Ivanov is often asked today about the current civic role of his chosen genre. After all, the band's name speaks more to escapist fantasy and "dissident" literature of the past than to any trouble-making on the barricades. How, therefore, does he relate to the current wave of protest and noisy meetings? Should songwriters turn their attention to social failings and flag-waving? Ivanov answers in the negative: choice is more important than prescribed duty.

Whether one should go to battle [for a cause] or not, well... that's a matter of personal conviction...

"A musician, just as any citizen, needs to feel and ponder what's right for him. Whether one should go to battle [for a cause] or not, well... that's a matter of personal conviction...  I myself am convinced that the twenty-first century is a time when political differences [of the past] should disappear. What ought to remain are cultural concerns and the active conservation of various traditions." Prior themes of insurgency or calls to widespread action should instead become those of interaction. Ivanov adds: "There's really nothing left to fight over; people should instead collaborate."

Having witnessed the "effectiveness" of Russian politics on a regional and national level in 2012, Ivanov feels that loud songs of protest solve little today. Civic songwriting almost seems an act of vanity: a performer may gain a sense of purpose - whilst having little social effect. Any communal zeal, therefore, should remain on a microsocial scale: tales of two people are more convincing - and manageable - than those of two thousand. The time of florid banners and swagger has, says Ivanov, passed.

Tat'iana Povaliaeva, Dya (Togliatti)

This shift towards "committed" lyricism rather than earnest bombast, not surprisingly, finds expression in many places. The gap between Moscow's recent protests and non-existent national dissent in Russia give us another reason to suggest why private statement is more palatable than public swagger.

One might, as another example of this downscaling, consider the trio of Dya, from Tolgliatti: Tat'iana Povaliaeva, Mikhail Lezin, and Vladimir Maloletkov. Not only is Togliatti, as a center of Russia's automobile industry, very sensitive to economic change, but the lo-fi garage aesthetic of Dya is also reminiscent of the socially concerned heritage of '80s rock that lies behind Torba.

The big difference, however, between the bands is that Torba's style leans heavily towards bitter-sweet fantasy, whereas the slapdash clamor of Dya is an implicit admission of universal disorder, be it social, fiscal, or cultural. The former band finds solace in retreat and reverie; the world of Dya - and their new album "Lysaya" - is deafened by the sound of collapse. 

As before, these Tolgliatti musicians continue to use turn-of-the-century Futurism as a textual source, specifically the work of Russo-Ukrainian poet Aleksei Kruchenykh (b. 1886). This leads us into the realm of zaum or the so-called "trans-rational" verse of the period that was designed to be maximally, if not endlessly imprecise. It severed any rational link between word and object: this nonsense poetry could mean anything - or everything. It was therefore lauded by some of its exponents as "the language of the gods."

Marble Boy (Kharkov) in a blur of activity

Epiphany shone through the cracks of normal speech. Maybe collapse would lead to a better, brighter sense of worth - at least briefly.

Individual experience continues to push hard against lumpen actuality in the hope of some broader values. And we needn't stay within the Russian context for proof of that rough-and-tumble this week. If we turn south, towards the Russian-speaking duo of Marble Boy in Kharkov, Ukraine, a similar worldview comes swiftly to light. This young band consists of Anton Shatokhin and the enigmatically named Ma De, who is currently at stage school (hence the thespian moniker, no doubt). The twosome have directed their recent efforts towards what they call "brave creative experimentation" or, more specifically, a small collection of songs that can be downloaded for free.  

Those tracks are written with English phrasing that, to be honest, can be rather hard to understand - but some printed lyrics are thankfully on hand. The poems of Marble Boy are dedicated to issues of some vague, yet "beautiful" descent, in which "I thought I'd soon reach the ground," yet the speaker immediately admits to "feeling scared of this height." Appeal becomes anxiety. Even subjective, private ventures leave a sense of tumbling far from safety - and this vertiginous passage is continued, whatever one's worry, because "there's [only] one truth. It burns... but you're the light."

There's [only] one truth. It burns... but you're the light

Interaction even on the smallest possible scale(!) conjures metaphors of rapid decline and elusive, risky fire. That's a high degree of pathos for a private scenario. Continuing in the same spirit, Marble Boy then go on to document the "sound of drums" and "hidden rage" of self-expression that "stands before the eyes of the dumb." Considerable levels of volume are needed in order to be heard above the white noise of social indifference.

Marble Boy (Anton Shatokhin and Ma De)

Should one turn to any matters of "universal" relevance, vanity will only suffer a bruising. "You thought you've been talking to [the] gods, but they're not smiling." And so, stripped of major (flattering) causes, "We shout the words of loneliness and freedom. We whisper prayers... staying in the darkness alone. Everything is moving like a desert wind, leaving neither bricks nor straw."

Personal expression is placed amid the roar of external events. Any hopes of lasting relevance or shared values are likened to the fragile structure of a poorly built home. Whether that image recalls Biblical metaphors or the malice of a big, bad wolf, the end result is not happy. Social concerns in both cases are made synonymous with lost causes. Existential worries undermine any hope of a stable civic platform.

We whisper prayers... staying in the darkness alone

If we then break down that minimal social unit of two figures and turn to a new solo release today, this same flight from wordy, social enterprise becomes even more dramatic. Solo work only heightens the sense of unreliable society.

Four new compositions have just appeared from Moscow instrumentalist Nick (Nikolai) Efremov, which he qualifies as "music for the imagination. These are a mixture of acoustic and electronic sounds." In framing these tracks for unfamiliar listeners, Efremov documents his own creative passage in terms that remain far from loud, civic pomp: "I was born, grew up, and started to write music. Or [to be honest], I thought I'd start writing it - but I didn't." Instead of stalwart commitment to some recognized and constant goals, we're offered four very eclectic tracks, ranging from indie-rock to ambient drone, since - as Efremov himself says - "music says what words cannot." (And, when he does emply lyrics, they come in a nervous, quick-fire fashion that Russians at Soundcloud have likened to Dolphin.)

Uncertainty about one's audience leads to code- and/or style switching. Linking private statements to public importance is a tough call and so our author flip-flops not only between formats, but also between speech and silence. Maybe it's not worth saying anything.

Nick (Nikolai) Efremov (Moscow)

In the face of any resulting, wordless wistfulness, a different raison d'etre emerges. It may remain hopeful, but any timescale therein will be scaled back dramatically. What results is the Tolkien romance of Torba-na-Kruche we see above, but now it is used to get through life twenty-four hours at a time... One of Efremov's tracks is called "Good Morning" (Dobroe Utro) and considers the "purposefulness" of a single day. Longer timeframes would apparently be unadvisable. Rock anthems of civic zeal, supposedly based upon "timeless" notions of right and wrong, are therefore reduced. 

Every day is seen as a quest(!) and deserving of some truly "epic" metaphors. Tolkien would approve.

The wind tears at our shabby sails...

Efremov frames his song as follows: "Good morning! It's already light, if you hadn't noticed... There's a heaving ocean all around us. We may have forgotten our path, but the wind reminds us of some distant goal - as it tears at our shabby sails. We're no longer in the grip of illusion - our course can be replotted and the storm's already passing. Can you feel the freshness after the storm? What a remarkable and interesting time we live in! It makes us want to shout, sing... or whatever." A suitable register is sought in order to fuel romance for a single day. Or whatever... 

Little challenges are viewed in terms of maritime bravado and a contrary, possibly fatal tumult! Getting out of bed is equated with adventures on the high - and fickle - seas. No wonder these musicians feel unwilling to sing of civic or political values for an entire crowd: personal relationships and the average workday are a world unto themselves. A world with very unpredictable patterns. 

Efremov's "worldly" avatar on several social networks