1 review
In one of the novels of Thomas Mann so powerful a description of consumptive patients is given that it is not safe to read it - the disease threatens infection directly from the text. Such an attack awaits even when listening to the album Fedorov, who produced this record without "Auktsyon", too "correct" and cheerful for this heavy recording. "There will be no winters" is the fruit of Leonid Fedorov's collaboration with the Novozhazov musicians - bassist Volkov, guitarist Kurashov, trumpeter Parfyonov, vocalist and spiritualist Starostin. These people perform a lot of Russian folk music in its most afterlife and, to put it mildly, unconventional version - and therefore the material offered by Fedorov was perceived and arranged by them with truly otherworldly enthusiasm.
The album opens the vocal number of the choir "Sirin" - Orthodox spiritual music in their interpretation looks like the singing of Tibetan monks and generally adjusts the listener to a proper strictly twilight mode. And then Fedorov's songs begin - an acoustic sound composed of whispers, whistles, barely audible cod, scraps of sent-out phrases and interjections, knocking, groaning and mumbling.
In the album there is not a single song that would be allowed to be broadcasted on the radio, and the reasons for this are equally found in both the technical and the conceptual side of the record. If the former creations of Fedorov and Ozersky (the author of the texts) in the "Auktsion" were reduced to "normal" song verses, now only words and pieces resembling not so much Khlebnikov as Kruchenykh remained. A dark, abstruse text is as much an equal part of the music as a double bass or a rustling sound that emits into the rhythm. The last thing - and at all a fragment of the telephone conversation, a song about Lady Diana - a song that Fedorov recites to the answering machine legendary avant-garde poet Henri Volokhonsky.
Another literary association that arises in connection with this album is the prose of Andrei Platonov. Just as the "Pit" by its very existence crossed out most of the victorious socialist realism, "Winter will not be" the eerie, hopeless dislocation of songs that endlessly decay in the ears of the listener discredits most of the available Russian rock music. Fedorov cuts through the living, showing a mournful and uncomplicated thought - much of what we take for serious problems turns out to be a children's morning performance, much of what we take for rock music is in fact nothing more than a sophisticated version of "oh mother of chic ladies. "
Winter may not happen - in the presence of this album, it is simply not necessary.
Dmitry Olshansky
The album opens the vocal number of the choir "Sirin" - Orthodox spiritual music in their interpretation looks like the singing of Tibetan monks and generally adjusts the listener to a proper strictly twilight mode. And then Fedorov's songs begin - an acoustic sound composed of whispers, whistles, barely audible cod, scraps of sent-out phrases and interjections, knocking, groaning and mumbling.
In the album there is not a single song that would be allowed to be broadcasted on the radio, and the reasons for this are equally found in both the technical and the conceptual side of the record. If the former creations of Fedorov and Ozersky (the author of the texts) in the "Auktsion" were reduced to "normal" song verses, now only words and pieces resembling not so much Khlebnikov as Kruchenykh remained. A dark, abstruse text is as much an equal part of the music as a double bass or a rustling sound that emits into the rhythm. The last thing - and at all a fragment of the telephone conversation, a song about Lady Diana - a song that Fedorov recites to the answering machine legendary avant-garde poet Henri Volokhonsky.
Another literary association that arises in connection with this album is the prose of Andrei Platonov. Just as the "Pit" by its very existence crossed out most of the victorious socialist realism, "Winter will not be" the eerie, hopeless dislocation of songs that endlessly decay in the ears of the listener discredits most of the available Russian rock music. Fedorov cuts through the living, showing a mournful and uncomplicated thought - much of what we take for serious problems turns out to be a children's morning performance, much of what we take for rock music is in fact nothing more than a sophisticated version of "oh mother of chic ladies. "
Winter may not happen - in the presence of this album, it is simply not necessary.
Dmitry Olshansky
- alexkinoff
- Mar 17, 2021
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