Chapter 13: SHEVCHUK, KINCHEV's wives, and Sergey KUREKHIN

One day, Yury Shevchuk came up with the idea to organize the "Open the Windows" festival. It was planned as a broadly focused event, I would say, featuring a multitude of musicians active at the time—both renowned and up-and-coming.

The festival's motto was a slogan partially borrowed from the DDT song "Let's fill the sky with kindness." In its working title, it was customary to add "...and the glasses with mineral water." Officially, at the time, Shevchuk did not consume alcohol, encouraging everyone to go alcohol-free. This was loudly proclaimed and was meant to serve as a role model.

The event took place outdoors in clear weather. Alisa had scheduled their performance to be first, so they could get a proper soundcheck and play right away, instead of hanging around backstage waiting for their turn. That was very reasonable. I couldn't miss their set: I left the studio and went there. I listened to Alisa, was happy with their sound, and really enjoyed it.

The next band was preparing to take the stage, and I was standing not far from it. Suddenly, I see a large group of people emerging from the backstage area, and among them, right in the center, Kostya Kinchev towers and glides like a monument. I didn't rush over to him, but when he saw me, he glided out of the crowd, came over, and we said hello.

– And you, Seryoga, what are you doing here sober? – Kostya asked, noticing the sadness on my face.
– Well, I came to see how things are going with you guys, but there's nowhere to sit around here at all...
– Ah, how I wish I could sit down and have a drink with you, – Kostya sighed, glancing slightly to the side.

Somewhere off to the side, near Kostya, was always his wife, Sasha. Generally speaking, it must be said that Kinchev was always deeply dependent on his wives: first Anya, then Sasha – he loved them madly and obeyed them unconditionally.

Alexandra carefully monitored all of Konstantin's contacts, just in case, to shield him in time from any unsanctioned abuse. And Kostya asks me:

– Where can we go nearby to sit for a bit?
– Right here on Petrogradskaya, not far away, is the Tropillo Studio where I work. Some of our guys are recording there right now, Novaya Zemlya, maybe we could head over there and "listen to some music"?

Someone asked Sasha a question, distracting her, and we quickly slipped away, walking down Dobrolyubov Street towards Bolshoy Prospekt. It was a long walk: Kostya was recognized at every step and invited for a drink, but he would thank them and politely decline. Fans shoved money at him, saying things like, – "well, if not now, then later." We ducked into a store right next to the studio... later it is, then. We got our supplies and headed up to the studio.

– So this is where it all happens, huh? – It was Kostya's first time visiting the studio on Bolshoy, – well, show me what you guys do here?

I put on a few songs for him; he really liked the drummer, Valera Zhuravlyov. We listened, and then Kostya said:

– Well, Seryoga, let's at least sing a couple of songs together, for real...

This idea had been floating in the air for about ten years, ever since we first met, but it had never been realized. Just as I lunged to turn on the microphone, Tropillo arrived. He had barely pushed his way through the dense crowd of fans swarming the building that Kinchev had just entered. He was happy to see Kostya, but then noticed the bottle...

– Aha, friends... sitting around drinking in my studio, and not even inviting me...

Andrey Vladimirovich joined us and gave strict orders to the musicians from Novaya Zemlya to hold their ground at the door and not let any of the fans in, who were crowding the stairwell outside the gate.

So we're sitting there, the three of us, just shooting the breeze. Kostya was talking about what had happened to him over the years, and a discussion broke out about the present and the future. About two and a half hours passed like this, when the musician on guard duty came over and said:

– There are some broads trying to bust in here, making all kinds of noise... should I let them in, Andrey?
– Let no one in, – Andrey waved his arms frantically. – No way, all sorts of people lurking about...

We sit there for another half hour, and again someone comes from the gate:

– I can't take this shrieking and noise anymore, Andrey, what should we do? – with these words, judging by the growing roar in the hallway, it became clear that there was nothing left to do... it was too late: the ones trying to bust in to see Kostya had managed to break through the checkpoint. The door banged open, kicked by an angry foot, nearly flying off its hinges. It was a furious woman...

– Who let this whore in here? – Andrey Tropillo demanded menacingly... but before he could hear the answer, he took the bottom of a beer can swung hard right into his eye.
– I'm a whore? You fat bastard, who the hell are you?
– Why, you bitch – Andrey lunged at Sasha and started choking her. Kostya lunged at Andrey, I grabbed Sasha, and we started pulling them apart. I yell:

– Andrey, wait, Andrey, she's not some fan, not a whore, you understand, this is his actual legal wife, Sasha!!
– What do you mean, wife? – Tropillo was trembling with rage, barely catching his breath. – Whose wife?
– Kostya's wife, her name is Sasha, you get it? – I yell.
– Andrey, – said Kostya, feeling slightly awkward about the black eye that was already swelling up on Tropillo's face. – this is Sasha, my wife. She was looking for me, and well, she found me...

Andrey didn't know what to say... then Sasha chimed in:

– I booked the boat, like you asked. It's all paid for: it's waiting for us right now – let's go!

That was essentially where our meeting with Konstantin ended. Sasha took him away for a ride on his motorboat, while we stayed with Andrey to "finish what we started" and debate just how important it actually is to be able to recognize the wives of our heroes by sight.

These days, everyone knows everything about everybody. From the tabloids, from TV shows. But back then, there was no information available at all. Once, a similar incident with Kuryokhin happened right before my eyes when I dropped by the office to pick up my paycheck. After all, I worked full-time for Tropillo. Of course, money was always tight—we didn't produce anything of substance besides music. And who needs our music when everyone's pockets are empty. Nevertheless, though not regularly, we did still get paid by the Lutherans. Sometimes people would crowd into the office on Ligovsky Prospect and loiter for an hour, two, or three, waiting for their money.

One time, I arrived there first thing: the chief accountant, Vika, was sitting there sorting through documents, and the cashier, Lora, was tallying up the payroll sheets. Lora's numbers weren't adding up, and she was getting nervous. The door opened, and Sergey Kuryokhin appeared on the threshold with his trademark, ever-radiant smile. He and I had known each other for a long time already, since 1984. He said hello to me, to Vika, and formally to Lora. But she was so engrossed in her work that she didn't even look up. Sergey had some business with Tropillo that had absolutely nothing to do with finances. He sat down next to me to wait for Andrey.

The cashier, Lora, was new to him, and she immediately became the object of his heightened attention. Kuryokhin started asking her all sorts of questions; she snapped back at him, and he advised her not to get so nervous—after all, these were finances, a delicate matter... However, Lora was in no mood for jokes: she was about to hand out payroll for the first time in her life, the numbers weren't adding up, and Kuryokhin was pestering her at the worst possible moment. He offered her some water, pouring it from a carafe. That was the last straw; Lora lifted a gaze filled with anger toward Sergey:

– "Young man," she said with a heavy sigh, "would you be so kind as to shut up and keep quiet, hmm?"
– "Oh, my, of course I understand you perfectly, and I will absolutely shut up and keep quiet, but miss, you must understand, how can you use such crude expressions in a place like this, and directed at such people..."

Sergey was riding a serious high: he had already entered an ironic tailspin from which he found it difficult to pull out himself. Kuryokhin stared at Lora with a disarming smile, which completely drove her over the edge. She fixed her heavy gaze upon him:

– "You really do look so much like Kuryokhin, you look just like him... but he has an intelligent gaze, he is cultured, noble – you don't even compare."
– "Well, I certainly don't compare..." – Sergey furrowed his brow.
– "You are a boor, a lowly beer-joint lout. You can't even bring yourself to say His name, listen here, you..."

Lora was genuinely furious. Kuryokhin was her absolute favorite figure: she had attended all his concerts, kept his vinyl records, and owned all his recordings. Lora couldn't even fathom that the real Sergey Kuryokhin was standing right in front of her, making a mockery of her:

– "Yes, yes, I get mistaken for him often, and I've even heard a thing or two about him," – Sergey turned to us, holding an index finger to his lips, – "though I would argue about whose gaze is more meaningful – mine, or his." He walked up to Lora, loomed over her spreadsheet-ledger, and lifted his glasses.

– "Hey, get out of here! Get your filthy paws away. Get out, I said! Or else I won't be responsible for my actions," Lora shrieked.
– All right then, – Sergei retreated, – if that's how it is – I won't wait for Tropillo, I'm already late for my meeting, I'll go catch myself a car. He nodded to Vika and me and said goodbye to Lora.

– I wish I'd never laid eyes on you, – Lora sighed tiredly, – he's finally gone… the office was right on Ligovsky Prospect, and our large display window faced the avenue directly. Lora watched Sergei sadly:

– How things turn out in life. He's the spitting image of Kuryokhin.

Finally, Vika and I couldn't hold back any longer and told her who he was. The shock was so intense that Lora burst into tears.

– Catch up to him, Sergei, bring him back, – the girl begged me.
– Well, why don't you run after him yourself, Lora? Why don't you catch up to him and grab his wrist, why can't you do it? – I was already starting to get indignant.

Lora stood frozen to the spot. She couldn't take a step; she stared out the window, barely breathing. Just then, Sergei hailed a cab, turned back to look at our window, and saw the cashier's flushed face: she was looking at him with teary but devoted eyes. Sergei waved to us, smiled at Lora, and disappeared into the car.

What can you do? You have to know your heroes by sight, just as you must know your anti-heroes. Life sometimes confronts us with a cruel lack of spirituality, and with true enemies hiding behind the masks of friends. We weren't spared this fate either: we got robbed, to the tune of three whole albums, and the best ones at that ended up in unscrupulous hands… but more on all that—in due time.

For Special Radio

September 2008

Photos by Svetlana Loseva