The Long, Strange Trip of Boris Grebenshchikov

The Long, Strange Trip of Boris Grebenshchikov

By Michael M. Bowden

 

Boris Grebenshchikov is relaxing backstage in Boston on the third night of his first US club tour in nearly ten years. The Russian singer-songwriter is currently enjoying one of the most creative periods of his 25-year career, and he’s pretty sure he knows the reason why. “Not long ago,” he recalls, “I was playing in London late at night in some club, with some old black guy doing his blues. And I was feverishly thinking, ‘What the hell do I play after him? Because, you know, what he is doing, it’s the real thing.’”

Grebenshchikov, 44, drags deeply on his third cigarette of the interview, taps the ash carefully into a paper plate and continues. “So it’s my turn to play, and I’m taking the guitar, still thinking, ‘What am I to do?’ But then I just found this minor chord – which is what Russian music consists of, basically – and suddenly there it was, in my own roots. The Russian blues.”

He smiles, running a hand through his closely-cropped hair, appropriately dyed an arresting shade of blue. “I guess that’s why I’m not concerned with aging, absolutely not concerned. Because now I know where I have my blues, and I know it’s not going to go away. I can go on playing like this indefinitely.”

The first time Grebenshchikov played the States, back in 1989, he was a media sensation. His story was told and retold in countless articles and interviews: After years of toiling in the gray realms of the USSR’s rock ‘n’ roll underground, Grebenshchikov – a brooding, lyrically gifted, musically innovative bard – suddenly found himself a poster boy for glasnost. His illicit, homemade recordings were officially released by the state record label, Melodiya, and sold millions of copies. “BG,” as he is popularly known back home, became Russia’s closest equivalent to a rock superstar.

About that time, a group of American promoters was canvassing the erstwhile “Evil Empire,” looking for ways to cash in on the wave of Soviet chic then sweeping the West. In the charismatic, English-fluent Grebenshchikov, they figured they had found their man. A contract with CBS Records followed, then a slick English-language album, a documentary film (The Long Way Home), videos for MTV, interviews with Rolling Stone, press conferences; the works.

Grebenshchikov spent the late summer of 1989 blasting his way across the American club circuit, backed by a raucous band of Western studio musicians. The quiet, intense artist and his subtle, often mystical lyrics were almost totally lost in the din of synthetic, highly amplified pop music. But what did it matter? The walls between East and West were crumbling; the Cold War was over. Long live rock ‘n’ roll!

But as the tour wound down, so did the hype. Soviet chic had become passé. Grebenshchikov went quietly home to Russia, and his much-lauded “American album” was relegated to the cut-out bins.

 

Back to Boston, 1998. Boris is in town again, but this time there is no media entourage, no press conference, no English lyrics; in fact, there has been hardly any publicity at all. But word-of-mouth has done its work in grand Russian style. The dark, smoky environs of the Karma Club are swarming with fans, from teenagers to forty-something’s. Most are Russians now living in the US, though there is a healthy minority of local university students and world-music connoisseurs. All break into deafening applause as Grebenshchikov climbs on-stage carrying an acoustic guitar. He is followed by lead guitarist Alexander Lyapin (a figure almost as revered in the annals of Russian rock as Grebenshchikov himself), a bassist, a keyboard player and a percussionist. Boris counts off and the band kicks into his latest hit, the jaunty blues-rock number, If It Weren’t For You:

 

äÓ„‰‡ ͇ʉ˚È Ô‡ÓıÓ‰, ÒıÓ‰fl˘ËÈ Ò ˝ÚÓÈ ‚ÂÙË – íËÚ‡ÌËÍ,

äÓ„‰‡ ÍÓχ̉‡ – Ï‰‚‰Ë, ‡ ͇ÔËÚ‡Ì˚ – ¯ÛÚ˚,

à ÔÓÚ Ì‡Á̇˜Â̸fl – ÌË„‰Â,

ü ÒÓ¯ÂÎ Ë Ë‰Û ÔÓ ‚Ó‰Â

çÓ fl ·˚ Ì ۯÂÎ ‰‡ÎÂÍÓ, ÂÒÎË ·˚ Ì Ú˚.

 

When every ship that leaves the harbor is called “Titanic,”

When the crewmen are bears and the captains are fools,

They don’t reach any ports anymore,

So I wandered off along the shore,

But I’d never have gotten far if it weren’t for you.

 

Grebenshchikov delivers the ambiguous lyrics in a cracked, Dylan-esque monotone, undercutting their serious tone with a wide grin as Lyapin launches into an upbeat, virtuoso solo. Then the band rolls into the slow country riff of From Kalinin to Tver, in which Grebenshchikov imagines a surreal train journey between those two locales – which are, of course, merely Soviet and post-Soviet names for the same city:

 

èӂӉˈ‡ ÔÓÒÚ‡, Í‡Í ÑÊËÓÍÓ̉‡,

à ÔËÚ¸Â Û ÌÂÈ Ò·˘Â ˜ÂÏ Ï‰¸;

à Ó̇ Óڂ˜‡ÂÚ Á‡ ͇˜ÂÒÚ‚Ó ¯Ô‡Î

à ˜ÚÓ ÌËÍÚÓ ÌËÍÓ„‰‡ Ì ÛÏÂÚ

åÂÊ‰Û Ì‡ÏË – fl Á̇Π ‡Ì¯Â,

êfl‰ÓÏ Ò ÌÂÈ ÓÚ‰˚ı‡Î ‰ËÍËÈ Á‚Â¸;

Ä ÚÂÔÂ¸ Ó̇ ÒÚÂÎÂÚ ÌÂÊÌÂÂ, ˜ÂÏ ÔÛı,

èÓ ÔÛÚË ËÁ ä‡ÎËÌËÌ ‚ í‚Â¸.

 

The conductress looks like Mona Lisa,

And to drink with her is a sweet thrill;

And she speaks of the railroad’s high-quality ties

And the fact no one’s ever been killed ...

Just between us -- I knew her a long time ago,

Like a beast I was wild in her lair;

Now she floats along light as a feather

On the way from Kalinin to Tver.

 

This smooth melding of American and Russian elements is pure Grebenshchikov. Throughout his career, he has taken diverse foreign musical forms – rock ‘n’ roll, the blues, Celtic and Middle Eastern folk traditions, and countless other sources – and transplanted them firmly into a Russian context, both lyrically and instrumentally. Introducing Grebenshchikov to a French audience in 1994, the critic Alexis Ipatovtsev explained:

 

Like Pushkin in the 19th century, Grebenshchikov play[s] the part of “interpreter” of foreign cultures. ... It is said Pushkin complained about people repeating that there could be no poetry in the Russian language. The same affirmation was made about rock ‘n’ roll. Grebenshchikov’s great merit is his ability to fully assimilate and adapt rock ‘n’ roll aesthetics to the peculiarities of the Russian language and culture. Like Vysotsky and especially Okudzhava in the ‘60s and ‘70s, Grebenshchikov is the Russian bard of the ‘80s and ‘90s.

 

Grebenshchikov first achieved fame as leader of the legendary underground rock band Aquarium. Founded in Leningrad in 1972, Aquarium was a diverse, constantly shifting coalition of friends, skilled musicians, guest players and assorted hangers-on, united mainly in their determination to approximate a laid-back, Western hippie lifestyle deep within the decidedly unhip confines of mainstream Soviet culture.

Back in the ‘70s, when the majority of Russian youth were bopping to the tepid pop of “official” Soviet groups like the Jolly Guys, Boris and his comrades were serious rockers, grooving to the subtleties of Lennon and McCartney, Dylan, Zappa, Jethro Tull, Bowie, Lou Reed and the Grateful Dead – music that was nearly impossible to come by in the Brezhnev-era Soviet Union. “When I was stuck in Russia, I was trying to recreate something of that vibration,” Grebenshchikov said. Aquarium’s mission was not merely to entertain but to enlighten – to offer young Russians a window on the true spirit of rock ‘n’ roll.

It was a tall order. In a popular early song called Young Punks (åÓÎÓ‰‡fl òԇ̇), a frustrated Grebenshchikov declared, “I’m tired of being the ambassador of rock ‘n’ roll / In a country that can’t feel the beat” (ü ÛÒڇΠ·˚Ú¸ ÔÓÒÎÓÏ ÔÓÍ-Ì-Óη / Ç ÌÂËÚÏ˘ÌÓÈ ÒÚ‡ÌÂ). But Aquarium’s skill and reputation continued to grow, until, in 1980, following an offensive (by Soviet standards) performance at a national music festival, the group was officially banned. Grebenshchikov was branded an anti-Soviet agitator, fired from his position as a computer programmer (he holds an advanced degree in applied mathematics) and forced to accept part-time work as a janitor.

So he took Aquarium underground, and a legend was born. “The best thing that ever happened to me was when I lost my job,” Grebenshchikov later recalled. “I was free to make music all the time.” Following the ban, Aquarium produced a long series of self-made “cassette albums,” covertly recorded in primitive two- and four-track studios around Leningrad. For distribution purposes, they’d make 100 or so cassettes from the master tape and then, as an American friend of the group wrote, “cast them out on the vast Soviet sea like messages in a bottle.” Copied and recopied by fans across the Soviet Union, “those little tapes multiplied like viruses.”

Over the years, Aquarium developed a compelling sound all its own, with acoustic guitar, cello, flute and violin swirling lightly over a solid electric rock background, all overlaid by BG’s soft, urgent, seeking vocals. The band’s following eventually resembled nothing so much as America’s Deadhead cult, but with a broader appeal and the added cachet of complete illegality.

Occasional live appearances, advertised by word of mouth, attracted ever-growing crowds. One Aquarium concert might consist of Boris sitting alone with an acoustic guitar, playing by candlelight in someone’s packed apartment; another could involve a dozen musicians creating barely controlled chaos on some makeshift concert stage. “That’s the best way to hear rock ‘n’ roll for the first time,” Grebenshchikov once observed. “When it’s illegal.”

By 1987, however, it wasn’t illegal anymore. Having earned a tidy profit by officially releasing old songs from Aquarium’s cassette albums, Soviet authorities now invited the band to record an album of new material, its first in a professional-quality studio. The resulting disc, Equinox (ꇂÌÓ‰ÂÌÒÚ‚ËÂ), captures Aquarium in full flower, with Grebenshchikov’s lyrics gleaming sharp as a razor:

 

å˚ ÏÓΘ‡ÎË, Í‡Í ˆÛˆÛÍË,

èÓ͇ ¯Î‡ ÚÓ„Ó‚Îfl ‚ÒÂÏ,

óÚÓ ÚÓθÍÓ ÏÓÊÌÓ ÔÓ‰‡Ú¸,

ÇÍβ˜‡fl ̇¯Ëı ‰ÂÚÂÈ ...

 

à ̇¯Ë ÓÚˆ˚ ÌËÍÓ„‰‡ Ì ÒÓ΄ÛÚ Ì‡Ï.

éÌË Ì ÛÏÂ˛Ú Î„‡Ú¸,

ä‡Í‡ ‚ÓÎÍ Ì ÛÏÂÂÚ ÂÒÚ¸ ÏflÒÓ,

ä‡Í ÔÚˈ‡ Ì ÛÏÂÂÚ ÎÂÚ‡Ú¸.

 

We were silent like dogs

As they sold off all they could sell,

Including our children …

 

And our fathers would never lie to us.

No, our fathers don’t know how to lie,

Like a wolf doesn’t know how to eat meat;

Like a bird doesn’t know how to fly.

 

And this on the state record label! Aquarium had originally been banned for a lot less, but the times, they had a-changed. Glasnost was in full swing, and censorship was no longer a state priority. As long as Aquarium’s albums were raking in the rubles, their lyrical content was of no particular concern. And it was perhaps inevitable that, just as the Soviet system began to unravel, so did Aquarium itself. Deprived of their common enemy, band members fell prey to petty squabbling about money and artistic direction. “Aquarium dissolved because it had served its purpose,” Grebenshchikov said.

And so, a newly solo Grebenshchikov went West, teaming up with the Eurythmics’ Dave Stewart to record the English-language album Radio Silence. Early in the collaboration, Stewart advised Grebenshchikov to drop his Aquarium-era practice of interpreting Western rock. “That helped me a lot,” said Grebenshchikov. “Dave said, ‘I understand that you like the Beatles, but do you understand that now that you’re recording here, your record is going to be on the same rack as the Beatles? So people will have to choose, and maybe you’d better do something apart from the Beatles imitation.’ I thought about this, and it seemed reasonable. And that made me much freer than I’d been before.”

Radio Silence turned out to be a good, if uncharacteristic, Grebenshchikov record. And its lyrics, penned in English by Boris himself, are impressively fluent:

 

There’s only one way out of prison,

Which is to set your jailer free;

But then it’s just another bunch of pretty words

That stand between the sailor and the sea …

 

Unfortunately, the album failed to sell. While recording demos for a second album in London, Boris learned that Sony had acquired CBS Records and dropped him from the label. He returned to Russia to face accusations that he had “sold out” by taking his act West, and to hear jeers that he had failed to wildly succeed there. Ignoring his critics, Grebenshchikov put together a new band (originally called the BG Band, later dubbed the “new” Aquarium), developed a new sound, and embarked on an extended tour of the Russian heartland. Nearly two years later, he resurfaced with the follow-up to his ill-fated “American album” – a record he defiantly called The Russian Album (êÛÒÒÍËÈ Äθ·ÓÏ).

Opening with a strident blare of Slavic bagpipes and laced throughout with flitting accordion, mandolins and balalaikas, the album, arguably Grebenshchikov’s masterpiece to date, is a breathtaking tribute to the Russian soul in a time of upheaval. “As far as I understand,” Grebenshchikov explained, “Russia has always been in a state of chaos, either more or less concealed. During Soviet times it was more concealed, but the chaos was there, and there was corruption. Now it’s less concealed, but our people are used to this.”

 

ÉÓÒÛ‰‡˚Ìfl ...

ëÚÓθÍÓ ÎÂÚ ‚Ò ÒÚÓËÎË ‰ÓÏ –

燯‡ ÎË ‚Ë̇, ˜ÚÓ ÔÛÒÚÓÈ?

á‡ÚÓ ÚÂÔÂ¸

å˚ Á̇ÂÏ, ͇ÍÓ‚Ó Ò ÒÂ·ÓÏ;

èÓÒÏÓÚËÏ, ͇ÍÓ‚Ó Ò ÍËÒÎÓÚÓÈ ...

 

Your Ladyship,

So many years we built this house;

Could it be our fault that it’s hollow?

But now it seems

We’ve known the way that silver feels,

And now we’ve bitter acid to swallow.

 

Subsequent albums built on The Russian Album’s sturdy foundation, adding musical elements from far and near – the crystalline sitar strains opening The Flyer (ãÂÚ˜ËÍ), the lilting Celtic pipes of The Great Railroad Symphony (ÇÂÎË͇fl ÊÂÎÂÁÌÓ‰ÓÓÊ̇fl ÒËÏÙÓÌËfl), the Mexican-flavored bridge of Eye of the Cyclone (ñÂÌÚ ˆËÍÎÓ̇). Yet it all remained undeniably Russian in spirit, and it was all unmistakably Grebenshchikov. But could it still be called rock ‘n’ roll?

“I think playing what you want is rock ‘n’ roll,” Grebenshchikov replied. “Because rock ‘n’ roll is not a music, rock ‘n’ roll is an attitude. And the attitude is, I feel free to do exactly what I want, without limitations. I feel free to share what I feel. That’s rock ‘n’ roll for me. Like right now, I’m listening to early Miles Davis, classical Indian music, Celtic folk music, young Elvis, Beck, Screaming Trees, Prodigy. All this stuff comes into the pot, and it’s boiling, and I don’t know what’s going to come out of it. If I like it, it’s mine.”

In 1993, Grebenshchikov – long a dabbler in Eastern religion – formally converted to Tibetan Buddhism (“The saints of the Orthodox Church decided I was asking too many questions,” he said. “So they told the Buddhists, Take him, he’s yours!”) He now makes several pilgrimages to Katmandu each year, has met with the Dalai Lama several times, and has become a respected translator of Tibetan Buddhist literature into Russian.

Eastern spiritual influences have also left their mark on Grebenshchikov’s lyrical imagery. In his 1995 song, The Graveyard, for example, a Hindu ascetic “smears himself with deadman’s ash” at sunset and surrenders to the spirits of the cremation ground. By morning, he has been “purified” by the terrifying ritual – and Grebenshchikov wonders if Russia’s ordeals will lead to a similar salvation:

 

ëÚÓθÍÓ ÎÂÚ – ‡ ËÏ ‚Ò χÎÓ.

çÂÛÊÂθ Ï˚ Ú‡Í „¯Ì˚?

éı, ÒÍÓÂÈ ·˚ ÒÓÎ̈ ‚ÒÚ‡ÎÓ

燉 Í·‰·Û˘ÂÏ ÏÓÂÈ Ó‰˚Ì˚ ...

 

Ages have passed, and the spirits still hunger;

Is the blood of sin still on our hands?

Oh, how I long for the sun to rise

Over the graveyard of my Motherland ...

 

While Grebenshchikov develops the music of his future, others are busy preserving his past. Aquarium’s old “cassette albums” are currently being restored and digitally remastered from the original master reels. Over the past few years, most have become available on CD, gratifying fans who previously heard the group’s music only through the hiss of tenth-generation copies. In 1994, a French label released an impressive compilation of “new” Aquarium recordings, which has since gone out of print. Boris hopes another Western label will eventually release “something along the same lines, but with wider distribution. There is definitely a [non-Russian] audience out there, but it will take some effort to reach them. An important step, I think, is to have a CD released here.”

He certainly has a few connections in the business. Ex-Beatle George Harrison contributed to Grebenshchikov’s 1997 album Hyperborea (ÉËÔÂ·ÓÂfl). Former Rolling Stone Mick Taylor handled lead guitar duty on 1995’s Navigator (燂˄‡ÚÓ), and 1996’s Snow Lion (ëÌÂÊÌ˚È Î‚) boasted the drumming of Dave Mattacks, late of Fairport Convention and Jethro Tull. The latter two albums were co-produced by Kate St. John, a respected English singer and studio musician best known for her work with Van Morrison and the mid-‘80s group Dream Academy.

Last summer, after a hugely successful series of 25th-anniversary concerts with members of the original Aquarium, Grebenshchikov decided to fly solo once again. He wrote a new batch of songs with a fresher, simpler rock sound. Through a friend in Manhattan, he arranged to record them in Woodstock, NY, with members of The Band (a group famous both in its own right – as documented in the film, The Band’s Last Waltz – and as Bob Dylan’s classic 1960’s backup ensemble). “I thought it would be too expensive, but the next day they called and asked me again,” Grebenshchikov recalled, adding with a wry smile: “Who am I to blow against the wind?”

The resulting album, named Lilith (ãËÎËÚ), has received excellent reviews. As Sergey Chernov of the St. Petersburg Times wrote:

 

The songs are philosophical, social and beautiful. Though Lilith borrows heavily in structure from Dylan, Grebenshchikov has managed to create his own native rock culture [using] his perceptions of the Western one. His work, in other words, does not feel borrowed, and his cosmopolitan approach has helped Russian rock to overcome its provincialism. Indeed, the album bears comparison to the acoustic albums of Grebenshchikov’s own Aquarium, evoking the smoky feel of illegal underground concerts and Russian rock’s reliance on the spiritual experience of those times.

 

Grebenshchikov said he is gratified by the positive feedback, but insists that commercial success has never been the driving force behind his work. “When you’re actually doing this, you’re in a different universe,” he explained. “And that universe doesn’t have these ideas about what’s popular and what’s not popular, and whether anybody’s going to listen to it or not. If I were a poet, I would say it’s enough if there are angels out there who are listening.”

Closing his two-hour Boston set, Grebenshchikov reached into his back catalog for an “old chestnut” from 1981, long before his name and reputation had spread across Russia, back when his songs were still “messages in a bottle” for whoever happened to find them. With sweat pouring down his face, Lyapin playing by his side in a drooping pair of spectacles, and the crowd bouncing and cheering below, Grebenshchikov smiled as he sang the final lines of his now-classic Railroad Water (ÜÂÎÂÁÌÓ‰ÓÓÊ̇fl ‚Ó‰‡):

 

ü ÔË҇ΠÂÚË ÔÂÒÌË ‚ ÍÓ̈ ‰Â͇·fl,

ÉÓÎ˚È, ‚ ÒÌ„Û, ÔË Ò‚ÂÚ ÔÓÎÌÓÈ ÎÛÌ˚,

çÓ ˝ÒÎË Ú˚ ÏÂÌfl ÒÎ˚¯Ë¯¸,

燂ÂÌÓÂ, ˝ÚÓ Ì Áfl.

 

I wrote these songs at December’s end,

Naked, in the snow, by the light of the moon,

But if you can hear me,

Maybe it wasn’t in vain.