Leonid Fyodorov: Mir

I see that I’m quoted on the web all the time in connection with Shaman and other bastards. Yes, I have had to write a lot about them in the line of duty. But it would be a shame if I were to die tomorrow and be remembered for only this. I want to share something more interesting with you, music I’ve been listening to lately. Oddly enough, there’s very little outward political protest in this music.

Leonid Fyodorov has released an album entitled Mir [which means both “peace” and “world” in Russian]. Yes, I do recall that it [peace? world?] is a forbidden word. We understand what Fyodorov’s stance [on the war?] is, although he doesn’t say anything outright, but then again he is not a person who can be measured in terms of his [political] stance — his music is much more interesting. His music is always strange, chockablock with dissonances, avant-garde twists, noises, and sudden pauses. He doesn’t write songs that are not odd.

And this is despite the fact that Fyodorov is an amazing melodist, one of the best in Russia. But he creates melodies of astonishing beauty, sings them in his magical voice, and in the middle of the melodies he inserts unbearable guitar scrapes or something of the sort, as if he wanted to show that he didn’t believe in the very possibility of harmony. I once asked him about it, and he said something like, “It’s the times, I guess. I feel it’s the right thing to do.”

I got so used to it that I was expecting the same thing from every new album. Yes, the album was going to be great, but it was clear in advance exactly how it would be great. Even weirdness can become familiar and predictable.

Suddenly, over the last few years, I see that something has changed. I listen attentively: almost ubiquitously in Fyodorov’s songs there’s a perfectly even, constant rhythm and repetitive bits in the arrangements. In our country, however, even when I was at school, this has been considered a sign of bubblegum pop. There is nothing to it, in point of fact: you turn on a simple drum machine track and out comes fucking “White Roses” or “Svetka Sokolova.” There’s no creativity involved.

But a craftsman of Fyodorov’s stature doesn’t do anything for no reason. If he had wanted to make the rhythm more complicated, he would have made it more complicated. So he has to do it: he’s trying to say something.

I close my eyes and suddenly I see a river flowing. It flows swiftly, swiftly, and birds of prey circle above it. They are shrieking, trying to scare it, but it cannot be stopped. But they are really trying to scare it with all their might, and at times the music is quite scary.

And the lyrics have become different. Fyodorov used to employ lyrics (most often penned by Dmitry Ozersky) like a musical instrument. He had little interest in their meaning: he was mainly interested in how they sounded, how they fit the music. There was a lot of cosmic absurdity, a lot of onomatopoeia and, again, a lot of weirdness. They were lyrics, not poems.

What do we hear now? Almost the entire album consists of perfectly regular couplets with proper rhymes. The lyrics are eminently intelligible and designed to be listened to carefully.

На вопросы есть ответы.
Бедный мальчик, где ты, где ты?
Сам как будто маленький,
Но как будто старенький.
Было грустно, стало пусто.
У меня такое чувство,
Что зачем-то, почему-то
Мы не нравимся кому-то.

[Questions have answers.
Poor little boy, where are you, where are you?
You look like you’re little yourself,
But you look kind of old.
I was sad and now I’m empty.
I have this feeling:
For some reason, for some reason
Somebody doesn’t like us.]

The strange thing is that the music is quite sad, restrained, and expressionless. [Fyodorov] sings as if the jig is up and there’s no point in trying. But the music goes on anyway, and you can’t stop it. Fyodorov’s strange fluidity gives hope for life and peace. You can defeat man, beast, and the state, but you cannot defeat water.

The link to the album is in the first comment.

Source: Yan Shenkman (Facebook), 16 June 2024. Translated by the Russian Reader

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Следите за нами, смотрите за нами,
Идём в путешествие между мирами,
На лестнице странной находится вход,
Чтоб прыгать обманно, ногами вперёд.
Дверь спрятана в мире 134,
Здесь люди похожи на крем на зефире,
Мы здесь никого ни о чём не попросим,
А спрячемся в мире 178.
И тут же ныряем в созвездие Звон,
Здесь звон геликоновый с разных сторон,
И мы принимаемся сразу за дело,
Чтоб громко гремело и звонко звенело.
Приятно орудовать палкой железной —
И звук интересный и опыт полезный.
А в мире 14 дяди и тёти.
Они сразу спросят: «А где вы живёте?
А как вас зовут? А конфетку хотите?
Уходите? Ладно, тогда уходите…
У нас здесь не любят врунов и смутьянов!
Здесь мир тараканов и мир хулиганов!»
Планета 15, и смотрим мы на…
Здесь нет ничего, здесь одна тишина.
На это приятно смотреть и занятно,
Что нет ничего, лишь какие-то пятна.
Есть мир номер 8 и мир номер 3,
Здесь 5 человек заблудились внутри,
У них не осталось ни воли, ни мнений,
И скорбно блуждают в тени отражений.
И плачут во сне, и глаза прикрывают,
Кричат: «Нам противно, таких не бывает»,
Кричат: «Уходите!», и машут руками,
А это они отражаются сами.
Планета 14-76!
Здесь что не придумаешь — всё уже есть.
Приятно девчонкам, приятно мальчишкам,
Здесь весело — очень! Но, тоже, не слишком.
Есть Розовый Штрудель и Мир Голубой.
Где люди бессмысленно спорят с собой.
Они отрицают, что есть и что будет,
И спорят с судьбой. Интересные люди.
На лестнице странной, в созвездии странном,
В краю безымянном, в щели под диваном,
Есть радостный мир, под названием «Где-то»,
Здесь море и солнце, и вечное лето,
А рядом, конечно, находтится «Что-то»,
Здесь только дремота, тоска и зевота,
И петь неохота, и лень веселиться —
Я чувствую: что-то должно приключиться…
Бежим — нас преследует Мир Сорок-дыр!
Он ловит детей — это призрачный мир!
Здесь только часы, и нельзя оставаться,
Здесь можно в себе навсегда потеряться
Здесь всё забываешь, и сны и мечты
И сам не узнаешь, что ты — это ты!
И будешь ходить и дрожать еле-еле…
Успели, наверное… Если успели.
Есть мир Вычислитель и Чёрная Кошка.
Приятно, что каждый из них понарошку.
Есть мир Колесо и созвездие Спящий.
Ужасно, что каждый из них настоящий…
Есть мир Крокодил и вселенная Горе.
Пожалуй, заделаем дырку в заборе.

Follow us, watch us,
We’re going on a journey between worlds.
On a strange staircase the entrance is such
That you leap deceitfully, feet first.
The door is hidden in World 134,
Where the people are like the fluff in a marshmallow.
We won’t ask anyone here for anything,
But we’ll hide in World 178.
And then we dive into the Ringing Constellation:
There’s heliconic ringing from every corner,
And we get right down to business
Loudly rattling, jingling and jangling.
It’s nice to wield a rod of iron —
It’s an interesting sound and a rewarding experience.
There are uncles and aunties in World 14.
They’ll ask you right off the bat, “Where do you live?
And what’s your name? Would you like some candy?
Are you leaving? Okay, then go away…
We don’t like liars and troublemakers here!
It’s a world of cockroaches and a world of bullies!”
Planet 15, and we’re looking at —
There’s nothing here, there’s only silence.
It’s nice to look at and entertaining
That there’s nothing, just spots and specks.
There’s World No. 8 and World No. 3,
There are five people lost inside,
They have no will, no opinions,
And wander mournfully in the shadows of reflections.
They cry in their sleep and cover their eyes,
They shout, “We’re disgusted, such people don’t exist.”
They shout, “Go away!” and wave their hands,
And that’s them reflecting themselves.
Planet 14-76!
Whatever you can think of, they’ve got it all.
It’s nice for the girls, it’s nice for the boys.
It’s a lot of fun! But it’s not too much fun either.
There’s Pink Strudel and Blue World,
Where people argue senselessly with themselves.
They deny what is and what will be,
And argue with fate. Interesting people.
On a strange staircase, in a strange constellation,
In a nameless corner, in a crevice beneath a sofa,
There’s a joyful world called Somewhere,
There’s sea and sunshine and eternal summer.
And next door, of course, there’s Something.
Here, there’s only slumber, languor and yawning:
You don’t feel like singing, you don’t feel like having fun.
I feel something’s going to happen.
Come on, we’re being chased by World Forty-hole!
He catches children, it’s a ghostly world!
There’s only hours and you can’t stay here.
Here you can lose yourself forever.
Here you forget everything, your dreams and your hopes,
And you’ll never know you’re you!
And you’ll walk around shivering.
They must have made it. If they did make it.
There’s the world of the Calculator and the Black Cat.
It’s nice that each of them is made-up.
There’s the world of the Wheel and the Sleeper Constellation.
The terrible thing is that each one is real….
There’s the world of the Crocodile and the universe of Woe.
Let’s patch up the hole in the fence.

Source: Leonid Fyodorov (YouTube), 14 April 2024. Music: Leonid Fyodorov; lyrics: Dmitry Ozersky; video: Lydia and Leonid Fyodorov. Translated by the Russian Reader