Culture as a Road Sign or Traffic Light

I find it hard to answer. All the negative aspects are quite evident: the monstrous war itself, the impossibility of meeting many of my loved ones, the severing of numerous dear connections, the loss of my former home, and the collapse of almost all hopes related to my homeland in the past.

Lithuania is a unique crossroads of geographical zones, cultures, and ethnicities; a meeting place of Eastern and Northern Europe—a multifaceted crystal that reflects various colors and shades depending on the angle: Lithuanians, Poles, Belarusians, Jews, Ukrainians, locals, Russians—from Old Believers to the latest wave of political emigration—I really enjoy this multilayeredness.

Walking, the proximity to wild nature, and the amount and quality of time spent with family—due to distances, traffic jams, and the overall frantic pace typical of megacities, in a big city you don’t even realize how little time is actually left for living. To meet friends in Vilnius, you just need a phone call and a ten-minute walk. In Moscow, you could spend weeks trying to align conflicting schedules and routes in an attempt to meet for a couple of hours.

It was in 2003. We all lived on the same floor of the RGGU student dormitory: I was in room 57, our permanent bassist Sasha Kisly was across from me in 49, and Andrei was next door in 56. Andrei wore baggy pants and camouflage, respected leather jackets and strange blazers (he always called them "lapsardaks"), listened to all sorts of complicated heavy music, constantly introduced us to various Lithuanian and Polish underground music, flaunted unusual words (see "lapsardak") and intricate phrases (he was studying to be a linguist), gave us lessons on the Lithuanian language and slang by translating the inscriptions on his punk patches brought from Vilnius, and generally was our walking window to Europe. We invited him to join the band roughly like this: "Let's play together. And pass the beer around." He talked a lot about Lithuania, passionately and willingly: about the local punk scene, Russian-language borrowings in swearing and slang, the rules for forming Lithuanian surnames, the history of the country, mythology, and so on endlessly. So, it seems I was preparing for the move since I was 18.

That was a bit later, in 2005, I think. I remember the moment perfectly: on February 28, 2022, we received our visas, and on March 2, Andrei and I were already sitting outside near the Mariott Courtyard discussing how to live from there. We never really stopped communicating: we exchanged messages, sent each other new demos from our bands, hung out in the basement of "Kablisas" when I came to Vilnius on tour. He even played one song with us at a concert in "Loftas" once—there wasn't a time when he left the band and we lost sight of each other. He also knows my wife from those ancient times—we all went to the same university. Nevertheless, there was indeed a feeling of a flashback. He really supported me and my family when we moved.

Excitement. I'm very curious about how it will all turn out. I can't imagine it at all yet, and that intrigues me.

So far, my positive impressions only strengthen with each visit, and the only obvious "dark" side seems to be the impossibility of turning Visaginas into a resort town in the foreseeable future—due to its proximity to the Ignalina Nuclear Power Plant, as I was told. It's quite disappointing because everything is there for it. Recently, my friends and I went rafting on the Šventoji River and did some rowing at your training base—it was just great!

My grandfather and grandmother have been deeply affected by the events of these two and a half years. They have aged incredibly rapidly, and it's hard to communicate—not just because of differing positions; it’s literally about being able to hear each other. My grandmother doesn’t always remember what I’ve said to her. She can start repeating the same things endlessly, stuck in a loop. This is a very painful topic for me. I think we will never be able to see each other again. And peace of mind seems elusive to us. But it’s normal that in such times, it is unattainable—such peace in our days I would rather associate with troubling symptoms.

The boys are not hardening; I haven't noticed any teenage nihilism in them yet, but they are emotionally resilient. I believe that in a healthy family atmosphere, empathy and mental strength are interconnected. We have a trusting relationship; I enjoy fatherhood, and we are finding more joy in spending time together than before. We often say to each other, "How great it is that you are mine!" We cook breakfasts together, go hiking, I help with homework when necessary, we chat a lot, send each other memes on Telegram, and humorously rewrite various songs. My younger son occasionally challenges me to freestyle battles out of the blue in the middle of the day. But we can also share sad moments together. Of course, it happens from time to time. The main thing is to be there. Tears are normal. For those who don’t cry on principle, they should try not sweating on principle instead. Like, real men don’t sweat.

Yes, right now I am flying on a plane, and Misha has fallen asleep on my shoulder. I am writing responses to this interview on my phone and trying not to move too much so he doesn’t wake up. This is happiness, for example.

The 2000s—I'm here to ruin your party! Color—red, because all the dials are turned to the right and the sensors are off the charts. Shape? Let it be a dodecahedron.
2016-2022—a curious segment, but for me, it’s not just one era. I would divide it differently: 2010-2014, 2015-2018, and 2019-2022. They are all very different things.
2010 started with me burying my mother. January 3rd. Six months later, I became a father. That same year, one of the most important albums of my career came out—imbued with post-apocalyptic aesthetics, "The Last Album." I began increasingly addressing pressing socio-political issues in my lyrics, found myself behind bars for the first time, and felt how the media operates when you are at the forefront. All of this built up until the Ukrainian events of 2014. The climax of that period was the FSB's persecution for supporting Ukraine and the cancellation of the tour for my album "Hard Reboot" in the fall of 2014. The shape and color—it’s a growing black matte sphere, perhaps.
By 2015, there were so many unresolved political dissonances that I consciously decided to turn my creativity in a completely different direction, just to avoid going insane from it all. From 2015 to 2019, I composed the albums "King of the Mountain," "Orpheus Eurydice," and "No Comments"—all of which are extremely personal lyrical works (with some deviations like "Childfree" and partially "In the Dark"). I participated in political actions, openly expressed my position in interviews and on stage, but wrote songs about completely different things. The color and shape—a sandy-yellow pyramid. It will stand for a long time. The main song of this period is probably "Rakes"—it has been reinterpreted so many times since then in new versions and arrangements, and each time people seem to rediscover it. Besides it, perhaps only "Is the Universe Infinite?" has similar properties.
All of this came to an end in the summer of 2019—after the harsh suppression of Moscow protests, I released "Let Them Die" with Anacondaz and "Everything Like People." It became clear that remaining silent about where the country was heading was impossible, even in songs. This culminated in the album "Exit to the City." This work is of a fundamentally different level; I am proud of it. I think there I found an optimal balance between personal and socio-political themes. The shape and color—a white parallelepiped with a blue stripe along its vertical long edge. A bit like a police van, a bit like BSB (note: possibly referring to a specific group or context).

Well, after February 24, 2022, all my songs are about war, one way or another. I'm planning to start working on a new album in August. I wonder if I’ll manage to write about something else.

There are several close records in this regard: "Mars is Awesome," "Mercedes S666," and the verse about Lyokha-the-Cosmonaut from the aforementioned "Let Them Die"—that’s the first that comes to mind. From 40 minutes to several hours. The lyrics for "Voyager-1" I also wrote very quickly, but the music took several years— from 2015 to 2020. As for the most unusual place for recording vocals—it was a shower stall at a friend's place in St. Petersburg at 5 AM. This was a demo for the song "Acid Rain" from the album "King of the Mountain." It’s quite symbolic if you think about it.

The same as always—a necessary release of what has accumulated.

It’s a road sign or a traffic light. Or lane markings. All these things certainly won’t sober up a drunk driver, but there’s a sense that without all of this, pedestrians would be dying under wheels more often. And drivers would more frequently find themselves in ditches.

I would live right here. I would just travel wherever I want and to whoever I want. And they would come to me.