Chapter 3: How "Oblachnyy Kray" Got Wasted with the Band "Aquarium".

In January 1982, a group from Leningrad arrived in our Arkhangelsk, a group previously unknown to us, a certain band called "Aquarium". We were maximalists back then, and it seemed to us that if we didn't know someone, they simply didn't exist, or they were complete crap not worthy of our attention. The day before, my friend Oleg Zaitsev, the host of a local salon, dropped by and invited me to a concert at the Builders' House of Culture, but I refused. I told him I wasn't a fan of Russian-language rock bands; as a matter of principle, we didn't listen to or take anyone seriously back then. Just three days earlier, we had finished recording and editing our first serious album, "Oblachny Krai – 1", and going to concerts was the last thing on our minds.

The "Aquarium" gig went fine; they were invited by the now-famous writer, Nikolai Kharitonov, who was then the organizer of our first rock club. However, after the concert, a question arose: where were the ten members of the Leningrad band going to sleep? Their tickets were for the day after tomorrow, and outside it was January—a blizzard, freezing cold. The wonderful band "Aquarium" stood with their instruments on the steps of the House of Culture, and that's when our friend Oleg Zaitsev invited them all to his place. He had excellent accommodations: a large two-bedroom apartment in the city center, without any parents around. Essentially, he ran a sort of salon there; it was exactly the place where the city's rock-n-roll scene took root.

Thus, the entire "Aquarium" entourage, led by Nikolai Kharitonov, headed over there. They spent the night there, hanging out properly and drinking heavily to celebrate the concert. In the morning, they woke up in less-than-stellar moods; it was too early—around eight o'clock. In major cities, you could hit up a kiosk from nine in the morning and cure your hangover, but in Arkhangelsk, nothing opened until eleven. The guests were in a grim state: plenty of bottles, but all of them empty; a blizzard raging outside; not leaving until the next day. The guys started badmouthing the city, saying things like, "What kind of dump is this you guys have here? There's absolutely nothing but snow, you can't even buy beer. It's not like our Leningrad, where you can step out with a little jug and survive until 'zero hour,' but here..." They started asking, "Well, seriously, what's going on in this town besides Soviet pop music and dubbing over cassettes of 'Mashina Vremeni' and 'Visokosnoye Leto'? Are you all really so brain-dead that you can't produce anything of your own..."

At this point, Oleg Zaitsev, like a true patriot of the city, objected that no, he said, we do have a band, they play excellently, just finished recording their first album a few days ago, completely original music, their own lyrics, so you're making false accusations. "Aquarium" took this with irony and sarcasm, like, "Uh-huh, recorded an album, in Arkhangelsk on a consumer tape recorder, right, good for you. And does this recording actually exist?" Oleg turned our album up louder, and that's exactly when the guests' mood shifted. As they listened to the album, the musicians' eyes showed interest and thoughtfulness; they had already forgotten about having to wait until eleven. They silently listened to the entire album from start to finish and bombarded Oleg with questions.

– "This can't be, are you trying to say this was recorded in Arkhangelsk?" – "Of course, by my friends in Arkhangelsk, five minutes away, what doubt can there be?" – to which he received objections that it sounded way too good, so well-recorded that even by Leningrad standards it was highly respectable, and by Arkhangelsk standards altogether unreal. The most distressed was the sound engineer for "Aquarium," Andrei Vladimirovich Tropillo; he simply couldn't believe Oleg that in makeshift conditions one could get such a drum and guitar sound. It fit into no framework of the technical capabilities existing at the time; it was hard to imagine this being done at the Krasnaya Kuznitsa factory on a consumer tape recorder. Zaitsev couldn't give them any technical explanations and suggested they talk to the artistic director of the band themselves – meaning me. He was promptly shoved out the door with the condition that he not come back "without me."

And so I'm sitting at home, Sunday, just woke up, don't have to go to work, beautiful. Then the doorbell rings, who could it be, I wonder, what on earth brings someone over so early, and there stands a ruffled Oleg shouting:

– "Seryoga, get dressed, let's go quickly to my place." – "What happened?" I ask. – "Remember, I was telling you yesterday – there was a concert, 'Aquarium' from Leningrad, they all came to my place afterwards, spent the night, listened to your album..." – "And what, my friend, did you come running over here for?" I say. – "You don't get it, they're calling for you, immediately, right now, urgently, they said not to come back without you." – "Hell no, go to hell with your Aquarium, and besides, I have other plans today, sorry." And then my friend, usually mild-mannered, but here became insistently demanding:

– "No, I'm not going without you, aren't you curious yourself to tell how you did all this, it's so interesting, besides, such interesting people have taken an interest in your band, and you're just ignoring it, are you really not interested?" To which I said in frustration and annoyance:

– "To hell with them, Oleg, those interesting people and their curiosity..."

Well, really, I couldn't have cared less back then whether someone from Leningrad would be interested in it. The album was recorded for myself and my friends, and I had no expectations attached to it... and what kind of hopes could there even be in those years? But still, seeing his frustration practically oozing out of him, I felt sort of bad for him; he was our comrade, after all. We arrived, he opens the apartment door and shouts from the threshold: "I brought him!"

I walked into the apartment, and in the hallway all the Leningrad guests were standing in a semicircle, staring at me. And I stood in the doorway, looking at them. For a few seconds an awkward silence hung in the air—not exactly oppressive, but hell if I know how to characterize that pause. I looked at them, they looked at me, Oleg stood between us, shifting from foot to foot: – "Here he is, just like I promised: Sergey Bogaev, leader of the band 'Oblastnoy Kray', and this is 'Aquarium', and over here is the producer Andrey Tropillo."

We exchanged greetings, and the silence broke as a flurry of questions rained down. Mainly, three people attacked me with questions – Tropillo, drummer Zhenya Guberman, and guitarist Sasha Lyapin. They were all talking at once: what kind of drums did you use, microphones, what guitar, what effects pedals? Generally, all of it just stunned me, such genuine interest, and most importantly, I had absolutely nothing to answer these questions with... Then Oleg broke the tension by inviting everyone to the table. The long-awaited hour had struck, someone had already made a run to the liquor store, the table was groaning under the weight of food and drinks, and they kept bombarding me with questions. Tropillo puzzled me the most; he kept asking what mixing console we used, and I couldn't answer him at all because I simply didn't know what he was talking about. We didn't have any console, and I didn't understand what he was asking. The guests thought they were being messed with, because on the recording, each of the eight pieces of the drum kit could be heard absolutely clearly, which was impossible without individually miking every drum, the two cymbals, and the hi-hat. So I told them that we didn't have any console, that my guitar was an "Ural", and that I had soldered the effects pedals myself using our MP39B transistors for twenty kopecks. This again prompted a lot of questions about why the vocals sounded so clear amidst such heavy music; the distinctness of all the instruments highly puzzled the Leningrad guests.

To the best of my ability in that environment, I explained the how and what of it – the recording sequence, how we first recorded the guitar and drums, then overdubbed the bass and keyboards. It's ridiculous to describe this technology now: to make every piece of the kit sound right, you need a corresponding number of microphones. Our friends had gifted us about a dozen consumer-grade microphones, the kind bundled with tape recorders like the MD200. I cut the plugs off them and twisted all the wires together in parallel – grounds to ground, and signals together – and this entire contraption was plugged into the tape recorder's microphone input as a thick, bushy mess of cables. Without a console, we set the optimal volume for each piece by adjusting the distance from the microphone to the drum. We recorded a section, listened to how it turned out, and by altering the distance to the sound source, we achieved a balance between the instruments. Basically – the Stone Age, even for that time. Sheer poverty in terms of equipment forced us to use our heads and conduct experiments that normal people in big cities wouldn't even bother with. To me, it was all so simple, mundane, and elementary that I just sat there, unable to fathom why "Aquarium" was staring at me with a dozen pairs of eyes, wide with astonishment.

Sasha Lyapin took a particular liking to the song "Young Naturalist." It's based on a guitar progression that runs through the entire track, with the vocals laid over it. The progression is rather intricate—not exactly complex, but Lyapin was already an outstanding, recognized guitarist back then. For him, there were no impossible guitar parts, yet here he was trying to figure out mine. He sat and sat, playing the first half, but couldn't manage the second. It just wasn't working for him; something was always off. He asked, "How do you play this part?" I took the guitar and showed him, he tried again, and still couldn't get it. Zhenka Guberman asked, "What kind of drumheads do you have, what brand is your drum kit?..." "What the hell brand," I replied. I didn't even know words like that back then. "Whatever they had at the House of Culture. It says 'Engels Factory' on it... made at the 'Red Smithy' plant, what other brands could there be?... Soviet hardware that bends with every hit as if it were made of Plasticine... and whatever drumheads were on there, that's what stayed, our good old domestic ones... Why a 'Ural' guitar?... That question didn't make sense to me either. What other guitar could I have had? Sure, I'd seen Gibsons, various Fenders, and stuff like that on the record covers of Western bands, but for us, that was completely out of reach, in another universe. I built the bass guitar myself. The keyboards were a FAEMI—some crappy mono-synth thing they sold back then... and there was this Baltic gadget—the 'MIKI' electric piano, made of polished particleboard, the same stuff they used to make wardrobes and nightstands. A couple of amps and ten standard household microphones. And that was it. We had absolutely nothing, except for a firm belief in what we were doing, which, essentially, was our only driving force. That's exactly what I told our Leningrad friends, to which Andrey Tropillo replied that it was hard to believe. Nevertheless, the recording was there, so they listened to it again, analyzed it, and asked questions along the way. Nowadays, that album sounds funny, but in 1982, in the city of Arkhangelsk, it sounded far from funny—and it was dead serious.

While we were discussing our recording techniques, the atmosphere warmed up considerably. The crowd had managed to drink heavily, everyone softened up and got rosy-cheeked. Everyone was talking practically on top of each other, glasses clinked, port wine and vodka flowed like water—the quintessential democratic drinks of all time and peoples. No one even noticed the harsh northern winter raging outside. There was some sort of snack, too. At that point, someone noticed that I hadn't drunk anything at all. And I should mention—believe it or not—I didn't drink alcohol back then. I had just returned from the army, I was twenty years old, we had just recorded our first album, and we didn't drink in those days. Someone pointed it out: "Hey, why isn't Sergey drinking?" I explained that I meant no disrespect; I simply didn't drink, adding that I wouldn't mind some juice or lemonade. Everyone exchanged glances. It was incomprehensible to them: a rock 'n' roll musician who doesn't drink. The girl who had come with Lyapin—maybe his wife, maybe not—leaned in and asked me in a hushed, deeply sympathetic tone:

– "Sergey, excuse me, but are you sick or something?"

– "In what sense?" I asked, bewildered. "In what sense, miss, am I sick?"

– "Well, I mean, you don't drink, and if you don't drink, that just can't be, because if a person doesn't drink, there must be something seriously wrong with their health..."

– "No, I'm not sick, I'm just not a drinker. It's normal; our whole crew is like that," I replied, genuinely surprised.

I should say that at the time, when all this was happening, I didn't yet realize just how much it would turn the future life of our ensemble upside down, or what the consequences of this encounter would be. It seemed to me like just a pleasant little gathering with like-minded people. They played their recordings and brought their new album, *Triangle*, but we didn't like that kind of music back then—I mean, the quiet, calm kind. For us at the time, with our musical education, it seemed too quiet and too slow, not to mention whiny. But I was fully aware that it was highly unusual and very interesting. We listened to *Aquarium*, then our album. Andrey Vladimirovich kept pestering me for all the recording details, and right then and there he uttered the fateful words: "Come on, write down my address. I have my own studio, too." He worked as an instructor for an acoustics and sound recording club at the House of Young Technicians, which is where all the titans of Russian rock music recorded illegally. "You never know. If you're ever in Leningrad, drop by and check out my studio. And if anything happens here in Arkhangelsk and you need help—come over, call anytime, reach out without any hesitation." I wrote down his contact info, absolutely certain that I didn't need it at all and would never use it in a hundred years. I didn't attach any importance to it, but out of politeness, I wrote everything down on a piece of paper. As time would later show, I was very wrong.

By then, the crowd had completely loosened up, and songs were already being sung to a live guitar. I remember how impressed I was by Lyapin. His blood vessels had finally dilated to the perfect condition, his blood was pumping, he grabbed a guitar, and in the breaks between Grebenshchikov's songs, he belted out solos. I heard how the man played, and I was simply amazed at how a mostly sober person could pull off something like that live. Western vinyl records were one thing, that's understandable, but here was an ordinary, living person sitting right across from me, shredding like that. It sparked a huge sense of awe and defeat in me; it was the first time I'd ever seen anyone play the guitar like that. Except for me, of course. But that's if you cast false modesty aside. It was a pity there was no place to go and jam together. Doing it at the Krasnaya Kuznitsa base was out of the question; everything there required a special pass. I couldn't sneak in such a large group of tipsy, noisy, and, most importantly, way-too-hairy-for-our-city people. That idea had to be nipped in the bud, and everyone understood. We listened to a tape recording of yesterday's concert, but frankly, what impressed me the most was their live playing right there in Oleg's apartment—especially with Zhenka tapping away on a chair with his drumsticks. Lyapin's solos sounded far more interesting than yesterday's tape.

I really liked Grebenshchikov's lyrics; Mashina Vremeni's lyrics were too preachy. That really annoyed us—all that moralizing from the heights of their own life experience, from the heights of their own special understanding, constantly teaching us something. But we figured we already knew everything ourselves. Aquarium had lyrics that suited us much better, completely the opposite of Mashina Vremeni: humorous, without any fucking philosophizing or preaching. That's how our first contact with musical civilization happened, a contact that eventually proved to be a milestone for us. Thank God Oleg dragged me out and forced me to meet such interesting people. Nikolai Kharitonov, who was always hanging out with our crowd, took a great interest in our band. He had heard about us before but hadn't taken us seriously. Back then, he was the main authority on rock music in Arkhangelsk; his word was always final, weighty, and absolute. If he dropped by a band's rehearsal, listened, and said no, this is a dead end, nothing will come of it, that was considered the final verdict. Once, he somewhat illegaly dropped by our rehearsal, listened from behind the wall, and, as I was later told, grimaced, as if to say, nothing good. But when he saw the reaction of our Leningrad guests, he was pretty dumbfounded, because their opinions were beyond question; if people like that were saying such things, then there had to be something to it. From then on, Nikolai Nikolaevich graced us with his attention and also began taking a keen interest in our music. Overall, this meeting brought a massive amount of positives. It all manifested itself much later, but that day became a major milestone for us.

Towards the end of our meeting, when it was already time for me to leave, our relationship had become almost friendly. And although they say the sober man is no companion to the drunk, and all our guests were completely wasted while I was sitting there sober as a judge, it didn't get in the way at all. We were people who understood each other. It seemed strange to me that just yesterday, and even this morning, I thought there was absolutely nothing interesting going on with rock music in the Soviet Union, nor could there be. But it turns out there are people who play this kind of music, and there is a guy like Andrei Tropillo, who struck me as just incredibly smart. He threw around terms and spoke of concepts I had absolutely no clue about. It made an impression; you could tell he knew the subject from the inside. Theoretically, I was a complete ignoramus; I learned everything purely empirically, through trial and error. But everything he said was backed up by all sorts of theoretical frameworks, which couldn't help but command my deep respect and interest. It was decided that as soon as I had some free time, built up some days off, or went on vacation, I would definitely come visit, and we might just record something...

We exchanged addresses with Grebenshchikov, Guberman, and Lyapin; bridges were built, and two civilizations came into contact. A sort of "Close Encounters of the Third Kind." Because, by and large, that's exactly what it was. Twenty-two years have passed, but it feels like it was just yesterday. So many events have taken place since then, but that day remains forever etched in my memory. There was even a suggestion that, since things had turned out this way and we had met and gotten along so wonderfully, perhaps we should organize some sort of joint concert... But my guys were still in school, so it wasn't feasible at the time. For the first time, I regretted not having at least a little drink with them; it certainly wouldn't have made things worse. By around two or three o'clock in the afternoon, the apartment was packed with people, because in addition to having no parents around, Oleg also had a telephone—which was an extreme rarity in those days. He had managed to call everyone he could and invite them over. It turned into a little impromptu house concert. It was my first time at such an event; until then, it hadn't even crossed my mind that you could pull something like this off at home, that such an atmosphere could exist, and that you could play and sing whatever you wanted... It was a pity, of course, that Rautkin and Lyskovsky weren't with me, although we wouldn't have been able to play anything acoustic back then anyway. It just hadn't impressed us before, but that was a misconception—I heard how musicians could perform in an ordinary apartment. They had practically everything at their fingertips: a cello, a flute, a couple of guitars, a harmonica, all sorts of pots and pans, and chairs, which Guberman tapped on. And it all sounded beautiful, because there was no crappy Soviet equipment to distort, crackle, or hiss; everything sounded exactly as it was.

Zhenya Guberman was also surprised by how the drums sounded on our recordings. It was common knowledge that if a guitarist mixed the sound, they would bury the rest of the arrangement beneath the guitar, pushing all the other instruments—including the drums—far into the background. But for me, just like for Suvorov, the drums were our favorite instrument, and I never drowned out the rhythm section with my guitars. Zhenya was surprised by such a respectful treatment of the drums, and Andrei Tropillo was very surprised by it too. He couldn't understand how we had achieved such a sound on the MD200, especially considering he was the most experienced rock engineer at the time, having done so much both before and after to develop the rock-n-roll scene in our homeland. As it turned out, Tropillo and Guberman were kindred spirits, which we subsequently proved quite well—this acquaintance played a major role in the destiny of "Oblachny Krai".

It should be added that at a general meeting of our collective, we raised the question back then that perhaps it was time to give up sodas and juices; we were no longer children, and to put it bluntly, we weren't exactly playing at kids' matinees... And so, beverages of a somewhat different nature than soda gradually began to enter our lives. Looking back, it's hard to say whether this was good or bad, but it was precisely after my meeting with Tropillo and "Aquarium" that changes regarding alcohol were introduced into our lives. Once we got used to it, we couldn't understand how we had ever managed without it before.

Recorded by Alexey Vishnya
For Special Radio