Chapter 10, Part 2: "1991"

This was really bad... After all, it wasn't his right hand—which is mainly used to snap the hi-hat—that was injured, but his left—the one used to strike the working drum! This significantly undermined our entire endeavor—I understood that clearly even then, but what could we do? We started reproaching our newly minted defender of rock 'n' roll, like, well, what now, how are you going to hold your drumsticks now... To which Yura pulled out his sticks, got into playing position, and waved them around—see, he says, I'm waving them just fine, although it was evident how much effort it cost him. But what else could we do, so we headed out. Accordingly—to ensure the plane wouldn't crash—well, it was like following a script...

Vadim was already waiting for us in Moscow with a Volkswagen minibus. We hadn't even set off before we were handed our per diem for the current day. Getting ready for the trip to Moscow, each of us had run noticeably low on cash, so this came in perfect time. The only dark cloud was the condition of our drummer. We stopped at a pharmacy along the way to buy him some bandages to change his dressing. Looking at us, Vadim expressed some apprehension about whether it was a good idea to give the band their money right then... he understood that the "troops" were still "in flight" and clearly needed refueling...

We drove along, our noses pressed to the windows. It was probably the first time we had ever ridden in a car like this. Usually, we covered such distances only on the metro: you get on at one end of the city, and over an hour later you get off at the other, seeing absolutely nothing. And there was plenty to see: Moscow wasn't Arkhangelsk. We sat like a school field trip, gawking at the beautiful foreign cars driving past us and towards us, cars we had previously only encountered on the pages of magazines. We were taken to a hotel with the geographically romantic name "Arktika." They put us all together in a three-room suite, each door had a lock, and everyone got a key. We needed to scout out the infrastructure: figure out what was where... which is exactly how we whiled away the rest of the day.

Waking up at the crack of dawn, Igor Patokin and I decided to arrive at the studio early, about two hours before the appointed time. We found the courtyard and an unremarkable door with no identifying signs, and rang the bell. It was opened by a uniformed policeman with an AK-47 slung across his chest. We explained who we were and why we were there, and they let us in, scolding us slightly for arriving too early. However, the previous night shift had already ended, and the studio was free.

I can't even describe my first impression of the studio. I had never seen so much equipment in a single room before... it was something incredible. The "Angelo" console, specially ordered from the United States; a rack unit stretching from floor to ceiling, completely stuffed with devices whose purposes I didn't even know. Then again, how were we supposed to know? A massive drum kit with a countless array of every possible kind of drums, cymbals, bells, and tambourines, toms and rototoms,

Yura Gordeev served as the studio director. He was responsible for security, the technical equipment of the premises, and the studio itself, reporting directly to the owner—Vladimir Pruglo, who went by the name Pyotr. Both were from Magadan, having made their fortunes in gold mining back in the day. Yura greeted us and introduced us to the sound engineer we would be working with. His name was Sasha Barmakov. He was rather pompous, a real metropolitan type—after all, he had recorded all the biggest capital city stars, which apparently gave him the right to be arrogant. Still under the initial shock of what I was seeing, I asked him something, pointing at the rack. Sasha replied that functionally, there were few devices there that could actually help us—they just turned the whole thing on from floor to ceiling to blink and glow with its little lights "so the suckers would be stupefied." That way, the wealthy client "knew" what they were paying for. Finding out what kind of music we were planning to record, Barmakov said they had already been through all that...

We went to the store for instruments. The sheer choice of guitars made my eyes blur—I guess that's why I chose a "Charvell"... the salesman even told me to try it out, pointing to an amp... but I wasn't used to that kind of service and dug my heels in—like, what's there to check, I'll just take it and go. Andrey Lukin picked out a genuine Fender Jazz Bass. We arrived at the studio, unpacked the instruments... everyone there was surprised why I chose such a far-from-perfect guitar—after all, I could have taken anything, just for the time being... plugging it into the amp, it became clear that nothing could be recorded with it... whether it was Chinese, or just a flawed model...

Igor Patokin, who had already been to America by that time and had seen the original "Petroshops" over there, didn't lose his cool. He packed the instrument up, drove back, and exchanged it for the absolute best one in the entire store. He brought back a "Fender Strat 5"—none of us had ever seen a guitar like that before. It's a shame such an instrument only ended up in my hands for a few days. Kolya Lyskovsky picked out a Korg T3 for himself—the newest model in the Korg lineup at the time.

We were ready to begin. We arrived in the morning, plugged in the Fender through a brand-name Overdrive we'd picked up right there at the store—but we didn't like the sound. We decided to use a tried-and-true effect instead, so I started hooking up the wires to my battered wooden stompbox. At night, Alexander Kutikov from Mashina Vremeni was recording his solo album in that very studio. We crossed paths on the very first day—he was resting in the bar right next to the lounge after a night of recording. He saw what I was doing and gasped... asking to take a look at this marvel. But how could he have known that my stompbox was essentially a house of cards? Before leaving home, I had tweaked something inside it and didn't fasten the outer parts together, hastily tying them up with wire instead. Alexander grabbed the top panel, where the sound-controlling potentiometers were mounted, and simply lifted it. For a brief second, the bottom half of the casing with the attached circuit board dangled by the hookup wires before crashing to the floor. Alexander was left holding just the top panel... Kutikov was embarrassed. Feeling guilty for breaking the artifact, he lent us his digital guitar processor, the very one he used to play through at night.

We didn't much care for the arrogant attitude of the sound engineer assigned to us, so we quickly found a compromise. After hastily figuring out the ins and outs of the equipment, we started running the board ourselves, while Sasha Barmakov whiled away the time in the lounge. We only turned to him when absolutely necessary. When we mic'd up the drum kit, one thing became clear: the sound wasn't there. Yura wasn't producing the right smack because of his sliced-up hand. Every strike on the snare was accompanied by a grimace of pain. I stepped into the drum booth and asked, "So, how's it going?" The snare drumhead was splattered with blood; the bandage was seeping.

The decision was made: Yura needed anesthesia. However, a strict dry law was enforced at Petrostudio. We spoke with Gordeev, asking him to make a small exception for Korablev. As a special case, he gave us the green light. None of us were hurting for cash, but we had neither the time nor the inclination to spend it. We bought the most expensive cognac, Cinzano, and Martini—all top-shelf stuff—though drinking it in the studio was strictly forbidden. Yura, however, was given permission. And for the rest of us, smuggling it in and hiding it was no problem at all.

And so, one day Gordeev sniffed the air and asked what that persistent smell in the studio was. "You guys are drunk as skunks... alright, play me what you've recorded so far." We played it back, and the result shocked him. In his mind, the only thing anyone could record in that state was the rustling of reeds, but here was everything sounding great, all the parts locked in, and so incredibly groovy. In short, they gave us the green light—they allowed us to stop hiding, figuring we were beyond redemption anyway. From that day on, a bottle of Cinzano and a five-liter glass jar from a jar of Globus assorted pickled peppers, now filled with draft beer, sat openly on our table at all times.

Working was easy and effortless, as if everything was happening on its own. The equipment was state-of-the-art—needless to say, it hadn't cost all that money just for show. By the time Routkin arrived, burning the discs was almost finished. We had a day off that day—the studio folks had probably decided to air the place out thoroughly after us...

That day we got really drunk at the hotel, and sent Kostya Leontyev to meet him. While he was gone, we drank some more, and by the time Oleg showed up—impeccably dressed as always, with sharp-creased trousers and a tie—we were sprawled out on the couches staring at the TV, having no clue what was going on. All around us were empty, half-empty, and full bottles of imported drinks. And only his booming shout—"On your feet! What kind of mess are you making here, you drunken sots, huh?"—forced our heavy eyelids to work. We were no longer able to move any other parts of our bodies. Once we had finally roused ourselves, we were treated to the sight of a revamped Routkin in ripped jeans and an old T-shirt, singing every song he and our sponsor Vadim, who was wrapped in a towel, knew to their exhausted limit. They had quickly hit it off, secluded themselves, already downed three bottles of Martini, and didn't even notice us—standing there with their arms around each other, singing their songs.

The next morning we still couldn't wake them up, so we went on our own. We stopped at a kiosk, filled a jug, and headed to the studio. We arrived early, and the security guard wouldn't let us in, telling us to wait until our appointed time. We didn't mind, especially since the summer heat hadn't yet melted away our precious, life-giving chill. We sat in the shade and quickly whiled away the midday heat. At the right time, the door opened, and the softened guard playfully flashed the sawed-off barrel of his assault rifle: "Welcome, comrades musicians. Your time has come."

Barmakov was already noticeably more casual and friendly with us—having likely grasped our harsh northern might. He also knew that today was the day for the first vocal recording, and he had everything ready for it. "So, where is your praised and long-awaited vocalist?" he asked upon seeing us in our usual, familiar lineup. "He'll be here soon," we replied. "And when he arrives, you'll recognize him immediately..."

So there we were, preparing the backing tracks for the vocals, when suddenly our police guard walks into the control room: "Excuse me, comrades, for interrupting your creative process, but there is absolute mayhem at my post. Some beasts are banging on the door. They're throwing rocks, beating it with sticks. I tell them I'll use my weapon, and they threaten to toss a grenade through the firing port, claiming they're here to record. Letting them in violates my orders. What should I do?"

We exchanged glances... slowly walked outside, and our worst fears were confirmed – it was Vadim and Rautkin – completely dead drunk. They stood there, holding each other up, presenting a truly grim sight. We firmly sent them back to the hotel – letting them into the recording session would have completely destroyed whatever was left of our reputation. They didn't really put up much of a fight anyway. We walked them to the Warsaw Highway, put them in a cab, and asked the driver to keep an eye on them and not let them out anywhere until they reached the 'Arktika' hotel – we gave him plenty of money. There was nothing left for us to record anyway, so after sitting around a bit, we followed after them. We found them asleep and decided to relieve some stress ourselves. I volunteered – I was just tired of sitting indoors the whole time, and the weather was nice – mid-August.

I took a stroll down the avenue, ogled the girls, went into one store and bought something, popped into another and bought a few things, then a third... I head back, and reach for my keys – wait! The key is gone. I rummaged around, but it was nowhere to be found. I reached into my pocket... the notebook was gone! The notebook containing all the phone numbers, and most importantly – the lyrics that Oleg was supposed to sing tomorrow! My blood ran cold. The lyrics for the new album... the studio was already paid for, we were all here, the music was written...

I retraced every single inch of my aimless walk twice, but in vain... I returned to the room like a beaten dog, my legs stiff as boards. Oleg and Vadim were still fast asleep, while the others were waiting for us. Seeing my distress, despite the fact that I was carrying a shopping bag and seemed alive and well, they asked what was wrong. "The thing is," I said, "that tomorrow Oleg and I have nothing to sing – I've lost the lyrics. Believe it or not."

That day, we got drunk again from sheer misery, twice as hard as before, and the next morning we went to the studio. We decided to pin the delay in recording the vocals on Yura Korablyov, with his silent consent. I couldn't bear to share our grief with the studio folks and wash our dirty linen in public. We figured we'd let the drummer carefully study his mistakes for the time being, while we frantically tried to reconstruct the lyrics – it was what it was... besides, his hand had mostly healed by then anyway.

The studio guys greeted our decision with absolute enthusiasm: dedicating an entire ten-hour shift to fixing the drummer's mistakes in the middle of a recording session seemed like a highly professional approach to them. We secluded ourselves—the three of us: me, Rautkin, and Patokin—and threw all our energy into a brainstorming session. Yura was tapping out beats here and there—adding an extra hit where needed, tapping out a whole measure... while we locked ourselves in the lounge. I jotted down the themes I remembered—whatever I could recall, anyway—and the resuscitation process was underway. Three lyrics were finished by the end of the shift. We bought a lot of beer on the way back to the hotel; we were even writing on the subway.

Another problem awaited us at the hotel. During check-in, we were strictly warned: losing the keys meant immediate eviction. The only way to get into the room on the tenth floor was via the balcony that connected all our rooms from the outside, by climbing over a partition. As a result, we spent the entire night climbing back and forth. None of us would have agreed to such a stunt sober. We finally mustered the courage to confess to the management about the lost key.

We sketched out one more lyric and relaxed. If we had knocked out forty percent in a single day, what was stopping us from taking our time remembering the rest while Rautkin recorded the finished vocals? The next morning, he sang the title track, "A Holy Cause," followed by a second song with the strange title, "Only an Older Brother Can Help." Igor Patokin came up with that title. He could never explain what it was supposed to mean in relation to the lyrics, but we didn't have the time to obsess over it. We urgently needed to sing the syllables and phonemes—we had no time for mushrooms.

We had just started warming up when the door opened, and in walked Vladimir Pruglo, a.k.a. Pyotr—the studio owner: "Guys, I need you to take a break for exactly one hour. We'll extend your shift, but right now a crew from the 'Vremya' [Time] program is coming to film a segment." Ten minutes later, they arrived. The group was led by some erratic, gesticulating woman of indeterminate age—fussy and disheveled—a typical capital-city representative of the "high arts." She started bossing everyone around: "Alright, these people stand here, and this one sits there. Where is the leader? That T-shirt has to go."

My T-shirt had a terrifying face drawn on it with the words "Ozzy Osbourne"—she didn't like that, just as she didn't much care for the appearance of the rest of the guys involved in the process. We offered to just take our shirts off altogether and bare our torsos, to which she nervously replied that this was the "Vremya" program, not "Zdorovye" [Health]. In the end, we were filmed half-turned, and Lukin gave the interview instead of me—his T-shirt had something harmless written on it about rock 'n' roll.

The most important thing was not to get drunk and not to fall asleep before 9:00 PM. We called all our relatives and warned them to watch "Vremya". Either in the middle or at the end... only when they finished the sports report and ran the weather credits did we realize that we wouldn't be on TV today. We reliably drowned our disappointment in Irish, semi-sweet wine. They later came to the studio one more time. They apologized to Pruglo and asked to be invited to film a more appropriate guest, who turned out to be Philipp Kirkorov, who was recording his album around the same time.

And our work was nearing a rather successful end. Our risky venture to reconstruct the lyrics went off without a hitch; at the very least, the recording session wasn't canceled. I sang some parts, Rautkin sang others, and we didn't even notice when it was all over. We had exactly two days of studio time left. During that time, everything had to be mixed. We asked Sasha to give us the maximum amount of freedom, because we were the only ones who knew how we wanted to sound in the final version. Patokin and I sat at the console and mixed it ourselves for two days. We made a master: one copy for us and one for the studio's historical archive. Everyone made a copy on a 19 [reel-to-reel tape]. This happened on August 15th, in the first half of the day. We sat around, had a drink, and even Sasha Barmakov and Yura Gordeev took a sip to celebrate the completion of our work.

Satisfied, we were heading home. Rautkin to Ukraine from Vnukovo, and we to Arkhangelsk from Sheremetyevo. We stocked up on Martini, Cinzano, and Armenian brandy. There were no tickets at Sheremetyevo for the day of departure, and we absolutely didn't want to spend a day traveling on a train. We understood: if we took the train, we wouldn't be able to bring a damn thing home, and we so wanted to please our relatives and deliver this overseas deficit. An hour and twenty minutes, and we'd be home... of course, we waited for tickets. We waited for a whole day, destroying half the gifts we brought. The 16th arrived. The information desk promised us tickets, but without guarantees—maybe within 24 hours. Just as we decided to rush back to the hotel, we heard an announcement: those wishing to fly to Arkhangelsk should come to the ticket counter—ten tickets had just been released!

Andrey Lukin and Kostya Leontiev decided to stay behind a bit longer in Moscow. Their girlfriends came to visit them, they needed to go dancing at the "Seventh Heaven" restaurant in the Ostankino TV Tower... while we safely flew back home.

Recorded by Alexey Vishnya
For Special Radio

January 2007