FROM THE HISTORY OF THE BAND 'OBLACHNY KRAI'. CHAPTER 16: EXILE FROM PARADISE. A GREBENSHCHIKOV TRIBUTE

Honestly, when recounting the story of how the last album came to be, I can't avoid talking about my relationship with alcohol. I see it as an integral part of the creative process. Unfortunately, on the one hand; but on the other hand – maybe that's how it was supposed to be, maybe it was exactly the right time. Otherwise, the music might have been completely different – stupid and uninteresting. As Tropillo says, music can be acid-inspired, weed-inspired, or alcohol-inspired. The latter is definitely mine.

I’m trying to count how many times during that period Tropillo kicked me out of the studio in disgrace. And not just kicked me out, but banned me forever, with no right to ever return, shouting all sorts of colorful idioms after me. Every time he escorted me off the factory grounds, he would leave a written order at both checkpoints: "Do not give Sergey Bogaev a key to the studio under any circumstances."

The first time it happened was in '04; Vishnya and I had just started recording the basic tracks for the album. It was a cold St. Petersburg winter—or rather, there hadn't been cold winters in St. Petersburg for a long time, but my boots were in such a state that this was exactly how I remembered that particular winter. Of course, back then I was making some sort of living at the studio, but I often couldn't even afford to buy food, sending all my money home. The studio was still under construction; you could work there, but only alongside jackhammers and grinders. Back then, the studio still had a folding cot and a couch where you could get some sleep. You could always throw your frail, drunken body down, although a heavy, drunken sleep often overtook me somewhere on the way to my bed. More often than not, I simply couldn't carry myself to my destination.

On one of my less-than-stellar days, I suddenly felt down and lonely. I didn’t want to go visiting; plus, I knew that if you left for the evening, you’d come back a week later. So I decided not to go anywhere and instead went to buy a bottle or two of wine. I'll spend my time productively, I thought. At the store, I saw some port wine for twenty-seven rubles; I bought four bottles and a can of some cheap canned food. I bought it thinking that this port wine would last me a week, figuring everyone would leave, and I’d just quietly drink it right here…

Music should be written in a good mood, I believe. Because that's when it turns out kind. To make the music kind, I filled a glass to the brim with this very port wine and downed it in one gulp. I could feel the kindness spreading through my heart, seeping into its very core. Well, since that's the case, I thought, between the first and second... I filled the glass again and poured it down my throat. The guitar practically jumped into my hands, my fingers started flying, and my voice broke through. In about forty minutes, I had finished the bottle off completely. I turned on the recording on the computer and just started wailing away, making the very walls shake. I’ve written a lot on impulse in general: I’d turn on the tape recorder and go roar into the amp with every fiber of my being. Now it was so much easier! I liked a section—I’d just take it, cut it out, and put it at the beginning, and boom, there’s your intro, completely badass. This wasn't like the days of tape recorders. While I was at it, I looked over and saw a second bottle already showing its bottom. I started at midnight, and there was no one to stop me. By three in the morning, a battery of four empty units was already standing by the trash can. I figured I’d clean everything up in the morning, no big deal. I didn't even notice how I collapsed under the mixing console and fell into a deep sleep right there. I heard the pounding of a sledgehammer on iron and shouting:

– Bogayev, you're in there, we know it, open up, come on, open the door, hear me? Open the door, you bastard!

I glanced at the clock – half past three. That meant I’d managed to sleep for about fifteen minutes. And I realized I had to get up, pull myself together and get up, but... I had absolutely no strength left. I couldn't move a leg or an arm, nor could I use my voice to help them. I took comfort in the fact that Tropillo must have his own key, but I forgot that I had latched the deadbolt. So I fell asleep again, despite the horrific screams and banging. There is always a shortage of silence in the studio, and I was used to that. Gradually, the screams and shouts faded away, and I was once again enveloped in a beautiful childhood dream. I dreamed that I was lying in a meadow of beautiful flowers, and all the flowers were smiling at me and asking, "Who are you?" I smile back at them, not knowing what to answer, because I had forgotten who I was, I felt so incredibly good.

I woke up around ten in the morning and cleaned up the mess I'd made. At one in the afternoon, a furious Tropillo bursts in. I hadn't seen him this angry in a long time. He started yelling at me right from the doorway! It turned out that the night before, he had brought the Ivanovo band "Degeneratorz" to the studio. They had arrived with their instruments, wet and tired. There was no doorbell at the studio. In every room, there was a bright lightbulb that was impossible to miss. But I had passed out under the bright lights and fallen off my chair, right under the mixing console. So they flashed the lights, then started knocking, then kicking, then yelling, but it was all in vain. Then Andrey dragged them all back to his place, the whole bunch of them. Naturally, he couldn't forgive me for this.

"I can't even get into my own studio after taking a night train because some fucking asshole got so shitfaced he couldn't even crawl to the door to let me in, bitch! Get out of here! I don't want to see you around here again, you freak!"

The most I could "negotiate" was to leave my stuff there; I had nowhere else to go. And so, for the first time, the studio door slammed shut on me, and I found myself out on the street. I called everyone in my phone book. Some weren't home, while others had nagging wives and whiny kids—in short, no one expressed any desire to take me in. But I had promised Tropillo I'd leave, so I did. I wandered over to a concert at the "Gora" club, where various metal bands were playing. There, I ran into the guys from the band "Rock-n-roll sity," old acquaintances from the studio on Petrogradskaya. They took me to some apartment, where I spent my first night of wandering. We drank all night, and I told them my tale of woe. "Don't worry, it'll all work out. You can crash at our place for a while, don't sweat it," they said. Faced with a choice between port wine, vodka, cognac, and beer, I calmed down. After all, the world didn't begin and end with Tropillo. There are plenty of studios out there—hell, nowadays every Tom, Dick, and Harry has a computer. We'll make it through, I thought to myself at that moment.

In the morning, I went to the studio, and the security guards let me in. They probably knew I was just there for my things. Inside, Tropillo was fussing with his wires and gadgets. He saw me:

"Ah, you've shown up. So what are you going to do now? Where are you headed?"

"Wherever the wind takes me," I replied. "I don't really have anywhere else to go!"

"Right," Andrey remarked snidely. "Nowhere indeed. You know, I'm putting together a Grebenshchikov tribute here. Here's the track list; some have already been claimed. Take a look, maybe you'll pick something. I'll put my eviction order on hold for a week."

Tropillo smirked slyly into his mustache, and I realized: by some miracle, I had dodged a bullet this time. Andrey is quick to forgive; he can't stay mad for long. I chose a song for myself with a minimal number of words: "Every Woman Should Have a Snake." The work I had done saved my skin: the track really stood out from the rest, because everyone else was trying to precisely replicate the sound of Aquarium, copying their instrumental parts. I don't like that approach; it's better to just listen to the original than to a copycat performance. I did everything differently. Tropillo listened once, then a second time, turning up the volume. You could tell he was completely satisfied. I solemnly promised Andrey never to allow drinking on the job again. He believed me, and to be honest, I really believed it myself. I wouldn't survive being banished from paradise a second time.

FOR SPECIALRADIO.RU
Prepared by Alexey Vishnya
Summer 2008
Saint Petersburg

FROM THE HISTORY OF THE BAND "OBLACHNY KRAY". CHAPTER 15: UNCLE MISHA IS ALIVE!