Chapter 11, Part 2: “Novaya Zemlya”

A lot has happened during this time, I've met many people, and many secrets have been revealed, but I will stick to chronological order, since this narrative format has already been established. Experiencing an almost complete creative impotence, I was doing routine sound engineering work: recording anyone who came in to be recorded. However, I felt disconnected from real life and creativity: something was clearly missing, namely – simple interaction with my comrades, my dear hometown Arkhangelsk guys…

The band OK physically did not exist at that time, and I missed my own dear people terribly; I wanted to hear the Severomorsk accent unique only to us. Finally, I caught a break: I connected with the band "Novaya Zemlya". We had first attempted to record their album back in 1992 on Tropillo's "Tembry" studio, which was quite a DIY job. Here was a chance to capture that material in far better quality, and I initiated their recording.

I liked "Novaya Zemlya". They had a cool drummer – the very Alexander Kharev who led our Yura Korablev astray, dragging him to that ill-fated birthday party where his palm got slashed right before our recording session. In December 1993, they arrived and stayed right there in the studio; fortunately, there was enough room. However, that was precisely when we ran into a massive problem with the drums.

According to the established workflow of the time, the entire recording process began with a click. The tempo of the track was determined, a channel was selected, and a metronome was laid down, to which the rhythm section was anchored: drums, rhythm or riff guitar, and bass. I had long trained them to practice with a metronome, but Shura Kharev had never played to one. This became a real test for him. Despite his excellent technique, the metronome simply prevented him from playing normally. After a week, he got the hang of it and found it easier, but his playing still exuded a stubborn reluctance to be led by a cold digital click.

It was December, and the New Year holidays were fast approaching. This is not the best time for work: in Russia, New Year's is a special season. Just as they got into a proper groove, December 31st crept up on us, and all the money – both mine and the guys' – had completely run out. We had absolutely nowhere to go. I could have left to celebrate somewhere else; fortunately, I had plenty of friends and acquaintances in St. Petersburg. But it would have been a sin to abandon a hungry band in a situation like that. I was responsible for them.

We were sitting there feeling far from festive – the TV kept reminding us every minute that the new year of 1994 was about to arrive, and we hadn't touched a drop all day, let alone a single speck of dust. And suddenly, right on cue as always, the studio owner himself appears! Andrey Vladimirovich must have sensed it was time to show up at his home turf to see how things were going, dropping in for an inspection: "So, are you sober?" – "Yes, yes..." – "Is the recording going?" – "It's going..." – "Then why so glum?" – "Well, you see how it is – we ran out of crackers yesterday..." – "Alright, then. Have one of you come downstairs with me."

We went downstairs, he opens the trunk – bags. Lots of packages. "This is a gift from me to you, Happy New Year –" overjoyed, we froze as if stunned by the unexpected surprise, "– you can look at them later, just put everything in the kitchen and – get back to it, I'm off to see my family."

When the guys with the bags disappeared into the entranceway, Andrey warned me: "You know, with the holidays here, no one will be around anywhere for a few days, and anything could happen, right down to an attack on the studio – absolutely anything. So keep your eyes peeled."

Tropillo always had plenty of detractors, or simply enemies, who could take advantage of the holiday carelessness to carry out all sorts of hostile acts, something Andrey had been repeatedly warned about by them. As the oldest one there, I had to keep a clear head, and if anything happened – immediately call the phone where Andrey would be sitting all night.

His premonition hadn't deceived him... We welcomed the New Year in grand style: by the time the sacred chimes struck, everyone was already well-fed, drunk, and perhaps even had a snootful of snuff, and not just that – everyone was feelingOrdinarily fine. I had kept the promise of sobriety I made to Andrey. And by about four in the morning, when all the liquids had been drunk and the solids eaten, everyone crashed right where they had been sitting.

I decided to make a routine patrol. To check the windows, the door. The studio was located on the top floor – right under the roof. The studio door was still wooden at the time, but it was prudently separated from the main staircase by a massive grille made of metal bars as thick as a man's thumb. It reached the ceiling, and its top was crowned with an ornament of regular, classic barbed wire.

I stepped out onto the landing: behind me the open door to the studio, and I stood by the grille, debating whether to go downstairs for a walk or not... and then I heard a noise below. A door slammed, and footsteps echoed. Yet that stairwell was non-residential – nothing but offices on all the floors – everything was locked. I figured some revelers had slipped into the entrance to take a leak, and that was that... But no: they were coming up at a measured pace – one, two, three... walking in silence, exchanging only a couple of phrases.

I peeked out of the opening just as I met eyes with the first one approaching. I immediately realized an adventure was coming our way: their appearance made it clear that this delegation was far from friendly, because they all had distinct shaved heads and leather jackets. Not to be confused with skinheads, because back then that was how street thugs dressed, organized into crews, meaning they were from the lower ranks.

Meeting his gaze, I understood everything at once, and he understood that I had figured it out. He shouted something to his mates, and they broke into a run. I dashed back into the studio, not bothering to close the door, what with the impassable grille, and started calling for Kostya Strelkov, our most powerful fighter, but he... was sleeping the sound, peaceful sleep of a child. The second Kostya, Khvostenko – Grandpa Pops – was sleeping just as soundly. I tried to shake the old border guard awake, but Yegor Martynyuk, our guitarist, didn't respond either.

I peeked out the door: two meters away, right outside the security gate, I saw those terrifying mugs and thought, yeah... there's still time. There was no way they were going to breach this obstacle right away. Inside the studio, there was a phone illegally patched into the Gaidar Children's Library line, which I decided to use: I called Tropillo. It took a long time for someone to pick up, but fortunately, Andrey answered. — "Andrey, it's me," — he could tell from my voice that I wasn't calling to wish him a happy holiday. — "Well, what's going on over there?" — "Exactly what you warned me about." — "How many of them are there?" — "Four or five are standing by the gate, trying to figure out what to do."

Andrey had a good acquaintance in an organization known by the acronym SOBR. He was a squad commander. It was a sort of police unit like OMON, but even tougher: they didn't patrol the streets to maintain public order; they handled much more serious matters. They happened to be on duty that day, so Andrey immediately gave them a call. — "I'll call them right now, they'll be there in a matter of minutes. You guys hold tight, don't let those thugs get inside the studio."

I hung up the phone and felt a surge of courage: backup was on the way, plus the alcohol was doing its job. In short, I peeked outside again — they were still standing there, shuffling their feet. No one had cellphones back then, so they had no one to consult with about what to do next. Cracking the door open, I yelled at them: "What are you standing around for, you idiots? Freaks! Came to smash up the studio? Well, tough luck. Get the hell out of here before I box your ears!" — "What the hell are you babbling about, you piece of shit? Shut your mouth, we're about to trash everything in here"...

Bolstered by the knowledge that the police would arrive any second, I took up a defensive position. It was risky to stick my head out — what if they had a gun? They'd put a bullet in my forehead, and that would be goodbye... In the hallway around me, there was a rather impressive stockpile of empty bottles, many of them from champagne. I lined them up in front of me like a defender of the Brest Fortress and, provoked by their threats, unleashed a furious, relentless barrage of fire at the gate. I had no chance of actually hitting anyone's bald head: every single bottle shattered against the metal bars, showering them in countless sharp, piercing shards. We had a whole lot of bottles.

All of this was accompanied by such a crash, piercing the night silence—they clearly hadn't expected anything like it. Especially since I had developed a furious pace, hurling "grenades" so frequently it sounded like at least three people fighting, not just one. The shaved heads retreated one floor down, from where they proceeded to shower me with fierce curses. I made a mistake back then: I peeked out and yelled down to them that the riot police had been called and they were about to get what was coming to them, but... before the echo of my words could even fade, a door slammed downstairs and silence fell. And a minute later, I heard the thud of running boots.

The masked men, assault rifles at the ready, quickly assessed the situation. Seeing that I was in my place, the security grate was intact, and the door was secure, they asked: "Is everyone alright?" — "Everyone's fine, come on in, please, they're all asleep." — "No, don't bother, is everything in order then?" — "Yes, everything's fine." — "So where are they?" — "Downstairs..."

A detachment of soldiers split off and ran downstairs, but the thugs were already long gone. "You probably told them we were coming, didn't you?" — "Unfortunately..." — "Well, that was a mistake. We were just sitting around bored and finally came out to stretch our legs—and you spooked them. Good thing everyone's safe, at least."

And that's how we rang in the New Year. We were saved by that miracle security grate; without it, we would have been done for. They would have smashed the wooden door down in two seconds flat. Andrey played it safe after that; immediately following the incident, he installed a heavy iron door as thick as an arm. The guys from the New Land group didn't hear a thing. It was only in the morning, when they ran out of cigarettes and went outside, that they stepped beyond the boundaries of our fortified zone and gasped: "What the hell happened here tonight?" — I didn't want to frighten them with our internal affairs and problems, so I honestly admitted: "Yeah, looks like someone had a dispute here, probably." — "Must have been one hell of a dispute," they noted grimly. Nobody exactly felt like cleaning up the debris.

By noon, when all the guys were awake, I mobilized them to clean up the stairwell. An hour later, nothing remained to remind anyone of the fierce battle that had played out that night. Andrey showed up during the day, took a look at us, and handed out a bonus in the form of a crate of beer, seven bottles of church wine (the Kagor variety), and a modest sum of money—which, at that moment, couldn't have come at a better time for us.

From that day on, work on recording the album for the band "Novaya Zemlya" progressed at double the pace. By the end of January, we had already recorded everything with them. A week was spent mixing, and we were ready to wrap things up. Andrey liked the resulting material and was already rubbing his golden hands in anticipation of an extraordinary, highly appealing new release.

One day, when almost everything was ready, Alexey Vishnya unexpectedly arrived at the studio. He urgently needed to record a vocal for a new song. The song belonged to his personal pets, the band "Kofe". He was the only one who recorded these guys, and not just one album, but several: two or three. Back then, he had slickly pitched that song to the stage and theater actress Natasha Sorokina, who was well-known at the time for her performances at the "Theater-Buff":

Oh-oh-ooo, I'm betting on zero
it's a strange move, but I've always been lucky with zero...

Vishnya appeared, as always, unexpectedly, noisily, with his characteristic optimism and infectious, cheerful laugh. Seeing the colorful mugs of the Novaya Zemlya guys, he questioned me about who played what. I played him some of their stuff, and he liked it. Their songs reminded him of the Leningrad band "Nol" and Fedy Chistyakov, who was deeply submerged at the time: having failed to completely cut out the root of all troubles on Earth, he was receiving ongoing therapy in a special medical facility, freeing up a niche previously occupied by him alone.

Vishnya hadn't come alone; he was with his friend Oleg Kushnirev, the late-night host on "Radio Baltic". The task was to lay his vocal line over the female vocalist's voice to create a contrasting effect. Kushnirev has a very deep, quintessential radio voice. I recorded everything for them, and as a farewell, I played them a song by "Novaya Zemlya". They both really liked the track, and Oleg suggested putting it on the air. I made him a copy on DAT.

That morning, Andrey Tropillo was sitting at home having breakfast before work. The radio was playing in the kitchen. Imagine his surprise when the receiver announced: "Up next, music news. Work on the album 'Northern Miracle' by the young Arkhangelsk band Novaya Zemlya has been completed at the ANTROP studio. Their fellow townsman, the legendary leader of the band Oblachny Krai, Sergey Bogayev, took part in the recording. I want to draw your closest attention to one of the songs; it's called 'Tyup-tyurup'—Tropillo choked on his sandwich from the sheer surprise, but I can guarantee you: he was thrilled.

It was getting high time to leave, but we had no money. One day, Tropillo called and invited us to the office, saying he had some cash waiting for us. Now we finally had the means to leave, which is exactly what we set about doing: we bought tickets and stocked up for the road. Andrey entrusted me with a large sum of money to pass on to his partner in Arkhangelsk. I tucked that thick wad of cash into the breast pocket of my leather jacket. I also put in a couple of high-quality Japanese audio cassettes—the kind that were impossible to find back home, even if you searched high and low. We boarded the train already in pretty high spirits: as always, we had no snacks whatsoever—just a sea of booze.

The main ones always looking for trouble were both of the Kostyas—Strelkov and Khvostenko. Once they had a few drinks, they absolutely had to go roaming through the train cars, picking fights with passengers, harassing girls, and—if they got lucky—punching someone in the face... Youth, hot blood. We stayed in the compartment while the two Kostyas roamed the train. It ended badly: as we were approaching Vologda, we started nodding off, leaving just me and Yegor, who was a border guard. I hung my jacket on a hanger by the door. In Vologda, those eagles were dragged right off the train and hauled off to the drunk tank. The provodnitsa had ratted us out. The cops tried to wake us up, but to no avail. The forty-minute station stop just wasn't enough time for them to manage it.

I wake up in the morning—both Kostyas are gone. And my leather jacket is gone, too. A mournful premonition squeezed my heart like a vile, slimy, warty toad: "The money!" I thought. But what's the point of even thinking about it, really... it was gone, and that was that...

The train attendant told us how our buddies had been kicked off the train for harassing passengers while drunk, and that the only thing that saved us was the fact that we were asleep. The thought that the cops might have woken us up, quiet and sleeping as we were, to drag us off to a drunk tank, filled me with a sense of shame and disgust for my homeland—a country where the cops have the right to barge into a paid sleeper cabin, manhandle sleeping passengers to wake them up, and haul them off to the drunk tank. If I had figured out at that moment who stole my jacket, I would have strangled that bitch of a train attendant. Instead, I took some tea from her and went back to the cabin. I thought maybe Kostya had put on my brand-new jacket, since his—old and grimy—was hanging in its place. Clinging to that hope, we made it to Arkhangelsk.

I step outside... in just a T-shirt. It just so happened that I had left my sweater at the studio. And outside it was February frosts, the Arctic Circle, the whole nine yards. Bag in one hand, guitar in the other, I walked to the taxi stand. "What are you, fresh from Crimea?" "Aim higher—Ethiopia..."

A couple of days later, both Kostyas returned home, also wearing nothing but T-shirts. They managed to successfully recover their jackets from the attendants of our train car, but mine—expensive, and full of money, documents, and Japanese audio cassettes—had vanished into thin air. I have a hunch that the cops took the jacket; unable to wake us up, they took our money as compensation for their futile efforts and split it among themselves... It hurts to think that, but what else was I supposed to imagine? The train attendant swore up and down that she kept a close eye on things all night, and no one except the cops she called had entered our cabin.

There was no small change in it—exactly three hundred thousand rubles. I didn't realize then that the terrifying bell of fate was ringing invitingly for us: it was time to quit drinking on the road, and in general, there are so many different moments in life... but I never did hear that ringing.

For Spetsialnoye Radio

July 2008
Recorded by Alexei Vishnya