The Modern Dostoyevskys: notes from Russia’s rock underground

All my life I have been fascinated by the Soviet Union’s history mainly because my parents were growing up as it was unfolding. I’ve sought out various mediums of art — documentaries, films, and photographs among others things — to better familiarize myself with the world of my parents’ youth. A couple of days ago I watched a documentary called Soviet Hippies (2017). I learned that the hippie movements’ explosion in the second half of the 20th century was not just impactful within the western hemisphere, but also on the other side of the Iron Curtain. I am, of course, talking about the Soviet Union.

“Soviet Hippie” was a derogatory term for artists, musicians, and generally “bohemian,” nonconformist people in the Soviet Union. Institutionalization among artists and other creatives was largely frequent. A common reason that Soviet Hippies could be institutionalized in psychiatric hospitals, or psikhushkas, was due to a lack of hygiene or sexually transmitted diseases (STDs). Government officials would go so far as to invent cases of lice or STDs simply to place Soviet Hippies in psikhushkas. Komsomolskaya Pravda, a Russian newspaper, listed among the symptoms of psychiatric illness “an exceptional interest in philosophical systems, religion, and art.” Additionally, prominent Soviet psychiatrists Marat Vartanyan and Andrei Mukhin believed that “people who were obsessively occupied with [various art forms]” were unable to carry out normal conversations on anything aside from the project they were working on. One of the hippies in the film describes being sent to a psychiatric ward by his mother because his enthusiastic response to a bootleg copy of The Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band (1967) made his mother think that he had gone insane.

This persecution and censure of creative people did not relate to only hippies. In fact, the music produced by these artists was not very well-known and was not exactly impactful on Soviet culture. The fact is that the majority of Soviet citizens were not aware of the work of these artists. In my research, I learned that the Soviet Union was more focused on censoring the work of prominent rock artists who were functioning and productive members of society — people going to school, working jobs, and leading generally normal lives. The Soviet Union went after anyone and everyone who they deemed a threat to their carefully crafted totalitarian regime. Artists who attempted to speak up against the regime were all put in the same perilous situation.

Censorship of artists persists to this day in Russia, mostly targeting left-of-center groups that pertain to genres like punk, electronic, and hip-hop. Of course, Russian authorities say they are implementing this crackdown for the people’s greater good. They are protecting the youth from exposure to songs about suicide, narcotics, sexual promiscuity and, god forbid, “gay propaganda.”

After watching the documentary and doing research on music during the era of the Soviet Union, I put together a list of Soviet artists that I believe are a great introduction to the music scene of that time. Hopefully, my list will allow those previously unfamiliar with these artists to get a better sense of the rich cultural history of the Soviet Union, as well as how the music produced by these artists inspired hope within the working people of the Soviet Union.

Vladimir Vysotsky

Vladimir Vysotsky was born into an impoverished family in Moscow in 1938. He would go on to have a prolific career both in theater and also as a singer. The impact of Vladimir Vysotsky on Russia’s youth is impossible to describe. Literally. Whatever activity Vysotsky pursued — playing Hamlet at Moscow’s progressive Taganka Theater, portraying Don Juan in the cinematic film Little Tragedies (1979), singing, or simply going about his daily life — he did with nadryv, a Russian word that remains untranslatable in English but generally alludes to the idea of a strong tension encompassing one’s being and unleashes indescribably powerful and guttural emotions. Not surprisingly, Vysotsky’s music evokes these kinds of feelings in his listeners. 

• “Pismo” from Pismo (release year unknown)

“Pismo” is the Russian word for letter. With only a guitar to aid him, Vysotsky narrates a letter about surviving Soviet prison life (“Only the final judgement could be worse”). Vysotsky’s character escapes from Prison (“I could not handle my first sentence”), so it is likely he will be “given another year, maybe four.” Vysotksy’s situation is brutal: the men around him are given barely any alcohol, and even on the sunniest of days there is snow. This song evokes an air of pessimism that was not uncommon among other works in Vysotksy’s discography.

• “A Lyudi Vse Roptali I Roptali” from A Lydui Vse Roptali I Roptali  (release year unknown)

To “roptats” means to grumble. This song is about a fairly common occurrence in the Soviet Union: waiting in line for food. Through this lens, Vysotsky highlights the many hypocrisies of ordinary Russian daily life (crowded living quarters, long food lines, ad unfair privileges of the elite). The song paints a scene of a long line as people are waiting for food, but the people who are first in line are still hungry while those before them have already gotten their food. For the people in this bread line, arriving early is not as helpful as being one of the important elite. When the ordinary people in the front ask the Administrator why they have not gotten their food yet, the Administrator tellingly replies, “Sorry, who are you again?”

• “Ya Ne Lyublyu” from Ya Ne Lyublyu (release year unknown)

On this song, Vladimir Vysotksy lists all the things he does not love in the first person (“Ya ne lyublyu”). Among other things, he criticizes Soviet official hypocrisy (“I grieve that honour has been put to rout, that backbiting has been deified”). There are many things he does not like, mostly qualities in people. He does not like backstabbers, gossipers, or people who read his private letters over his shoulders. This kind of invasive behavior was normal at the time, as neighbors would spy on one another in order to report suspicious behavior to their local officials.

Viktor Tsoi and Kino

Viktor Tsoi was born in Leningrad in 1962 to a Korean father and a Russian mother. He was widely regarded as one of the largest impacts on Russian rock and continues to have a large following in countries that once were part of the Soviet Union to this day. It was clear from the early years of his life that Tsoi was never meant to fit in with the rest. When he was 18 years old, Tsoi was expelled from the Serov Artistic Academy for having “poor grades” but it probably did not serve to benefit him that he was heavily invested in the local rock scene. In the beginning of the 1980s, he and a group of several musicians recorded a demo tape under the Russian word for “cinema,” or Kino. The group’s tape was passed around first in Leningrad and then all over the country by rock fanatics. Their very first album 45 (1962) was willing to discuss political issues, which was highly uncommon at the time. While their contribution to the anti-disestablishment movement was idolized and achieved cult status among the politically dissenting youth, the government was highly concerned. Their performances were not allowed on television, and their lyrics were constantly pre-approved by the Russian police (KGB). Additionally, Kino was sometimes forced to play at the KGB-supervised venue Rock Club, so as to keep an eye on them. Kino got their big break in 1986, when they put out a split double called Red Wave: 4 Underground Bands from the Soviet Union, which became the first release of Russian rock music into the United States. The album featured Russian rock bands Aquarium, Kino, Alisa, and Strannye Igry, all from Leningrad. Unfortunately, Viktor Tsoi died in a mysterious car crash along a Latvian highway 4 years later. Tsoi fell asleep behind the wheel while driving at high speed, which caused his car to turn onto the oncoming late and collide with a bus. His premature and mysterious death has led his cult of fans to honor his memory to this day.

• “Elektrichka” from 45 (1982)

“Elektrichka” is a Russian word for a suburban commuter train. The track narrates the story of a man who is stuck on a train taking him in a direction that he does not want to go in. The song is a clear metaphor for life in the Soviet Union and the band was immediately banned from performing this song live. However, it became radically popular among rebellious youth that began to view Tsoi and Kino as idols.

• “Changes” from Kino in Kino (1988)

“Changes” was, if anything, a call to battle to push for political reform in an effort to break free from the binding chains of Soviet life. On the track, Tsoi sings:

Our hearts require changes,

Our eyes require changes,

Into our laugh and our tears,

And into our pulse and veins

Changes!

We are waiting for changes.

The song functioned as more of a call to enact change within individuals, rather than the government. Tsoi was encouraging people to consider the way they behaved, the way they conformed, and the way they accepted their fate. This, he believed, was the most effective way to create lasting differences on a larger scale. The song was a tremendous success, and soon became the unofficial anthem of Perestroika.

• “I Declare My Home …[a nuclear free zone]”  from This Is Not Love (1985)

Although Tsoi’s past political views had already gotten his group banned by the authorities, his political views and anti-militarist stance became even more obvious with this song. 1985, the year of the song’s release, was also the sixth year of the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan, which was claiming the lives of several thousand Soviet soldiers. Soviet propaganda at the time emphasized the cliché idea of “fighting for peace,” which Tsoi and this song stand in direct opposition of.

Boris Grebenshchikov and Aquarium

Boris Grebenshchikov was born on November 27, 1953 in Leningrad. He was the co-founder of the group Aquarium, along with his childhood friend Anatoly “George” Gunitsky. The first six years of the band’s history followed the Soviet equivalent of a hippie lifestyle: Grebenshchikov and his bandmates drank cheap port-wine in freight trains and played in apartment jams. Such philandering behavior was heavily frowned upon in the Soviet Union, which dictated that all people must have jobs or else they would be charged with “social parasitism.”  While the music of Boris Grebenshchikov and his band, Aquarium, was not completely political, their songs gained political significance in the USSR. In reference to Aquarium’s significance, Russian rock critic Artemy Troitsky states that, “In a totalitarian regime the significance of something truthful was utterly different. Then it was dangerous and important. Now, it’s only entertainment.” Though the band members of Aquarium donned ripped jeans and black motorcycle jeans just like the punkers on the other side of the Iron Curtain, the social role of these Russian rock stars varied greatly from their colleagues in the West. Their music was the nation’s truth, and they were able to put the nation’s dusha, or spirit, into words. Their song’s aim was to find meaning in the world around them, and to try to find justice when sometimes there simply wasn’t any to be found. Their lyrics were literary and intellectual, swapping “sex, drugs, and rock’n’roll” for “Pushkin, Gogol, and Dostoevsky.”

• “This Train’s On Fire” from Equinox (1987)

“This Train’s On Fire” is an anti-war song with lyrics inspired by Leo Tolstoy and Bob Dylan. It tells the story of a colonel who travels to the front line with his young and beautiful wife to send his soldiers home after fighting a war against themselves for 70 years. The ballad went on to become an anthem for perestroika-era Soviets. The song is an essential part of Russian rock, a genre that has always been concerned with lofty topics like seeking out truth and finding justice for the common people. This song has drawn recent controversy when Russia created a video montage set to “This Train’s On Fire” several days prior to their annexation of Crimea.

Garik Sukachov

Garik Sukachov was born in Moscow in 1959 to a concentration camp survivor and a military man. Garik Sukachov stands out from many other participants in the Soviet Rock era in that he graduated from a technical college. From the 1970s through the mid 1980s, Sukachov hopped around from band to band, before finally forming Bravo with singer Zhanna Aguzarova. Two years later he formed Brigada S, which he personally described as “proletarian jazz orchestra.” During his career he was highly outspoken. In 1989 he organized the Rock Against Terror event where he gave a speech defending the rights of sexual minorities, one of the first speeches in the Soviet Union ever given on the topic.

• “My Grandmother Smokes A Pipe” from Night Flight (2002)

Although this song is from after the collapse of the Soviet Union, it’s too fun not to include. Sukachov’s energy on this song is nothing short of electrifying. Never has Soviet music been so enunciated, so punctual. Sukachov screeches out his lyrics in such a manner that at times it’s valid to question if he is about to lose his voice. The song is about Sukachov’s grandmother, who smokes very black tobacco and downs fire rum until she’s only got three rubles left in her pocket. Not only that, but she steals port-wine and sells it to the nearby brothels in her less-than-safe neighborhood. But don’t worry, this grandmother spares old people and children when going about her wicked ways — she’s a good person.

DDT

DDT (or ДДТ) was formed in 1980 in Ufa, Russia, borrowing their title from the pesticide under the same name. They remain one of the most influential and important Russian rock groups from the 20th century. The band’s music was not censored until 1984, when they released the album Periferia (Periphery). Some of the band members landed on a KGB watch list and were subjected to government persecution. There were serious repercussions for DDT’s existence as a “nonconformist group.” It is, if anything, a miracle that DDT were able to keep themselves afloat as a band. The band became notorious for giving secret performances in apartments, bomb shelters, and even kindergarten classrooms in order to avoid the wrath of the authorities. Although they performed numerous concerts and released many albums, they received little to no money for their work. In 1983 DDT performed at a three-day festival called “Rok za mir” (Rock For Peace), but their performance was eventually edited out of the concert footage being broadcast on national television. Today, the band members remain outspoken critics of the Russian government’s recent political decisions, as well as popsa — Russia’s highly manufactured commercial pop music.

• “ Ne Strelyay” from I Got This Role (1981)

Ne strelyay means “Don’t shoot.” The song is about a teenage boy whose extracurricular hobbies include shooting innocent animals. The people around him find concern in his anti-social behavior, and tell him:

Don’t shoot at sparrows, don’t shoot at pigeons,

Don’t shoot from your slingshot for no reason.

Hey, kid, don’t shoot and don’t brag to others,

That you can hit living targets without missing.

You cleared the whole shooting gallery, shocked the crowd,

You received prizes as a sharpshooter,

You fired with a smile, randomly, reflexively, and from the hip,

And everyone around said: “There’s a lucky man!”

But then something happens: the boy is sent to fight in the war, just as he had always “so dreamed about.” He was sent to a “burning spot of the planet,” but what is odd is that once he finally returned home, “he avoided the shooting gallery.” In an interesting twist of fate, while he and his friend are enjoying a couple of drinks, he hallucinates that his friend has a gun and yells out, “Don’t shoot!”

• “Born in the USSR” from Born in the USSR (1991)

This song reminds me of my childhood. I know the lyrics ridiculously well because it became the opening credits for a talk show of the same name I would always watch with my babushka. The song talks about how great the USSR used to be, and how it is now practically nothing:

What will hope give us?

What will beauty save?

Yesterday you were the chief (Of the Empire)

And today you are an orphan

The release year of the song is important for context, as the USSR’s impending collapse occurred that year. The song accurately put into words the crushed hopes and dreams of the thousands of young adults across the nation.  

For people young and old in the Soviet Union, the songs included above were not just something to be played in the background at cocktail parties. These songs had infinite meaning to these people and they served as anthems for the common folk making a name for themselves amidst the confusion the Soviet Union era consistently brought about. The music of these artists helped to clarify the times these people were living in, as they attempted to make sense of the oppressive political turmoil that surrounded them.

Article by Erika Badalyan