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Сегодня получила мейл от Сергея Девяткина, менеджера и покровителя ИВАНОВА ДАУНА, со ссылкой на прекрасный опус Ника Глоссопа о его поездке в Киев почти двадцать лет назад.
О Нике я вспоминала как-то у себя в ЖЖ, но без подробностей. А тут вдруг спустя столько лет такая весточка из веселого боевого прошлого! :) Наверное, нужно будет попробовать Глоссопу написать-откомментировать...

История с канализационным люком произошла, когда я и Ник искали служебный вход для проникновения в клуб "Интонация". Я впечатлилась не меньше Глоссопа! Ибо выковыривать хорошего человека, который еще вдобавок был иностранным гражданином, если бы он провалился в люк, пришлось бы мне...
На концерте в "Интонации" тем злосчастным днем Ник участвовал в джеме ГОДЗАДВА И ИВАНОВА ДАУНА.  В качестве вокалиста проекта ИВАНОВ ЗА ТРИ. Он пел на чистом английском: "Куда из наших магазинов уплыла колбаса?" :)
А позже был еще один проект - НИК И РОКЕНРОЛ.

В гостинице "Славутич" на втором "Полном Гудбае" Ник проживал по паспорту скрипача ГОДЗАДВА Шуры Старовойтова. Дабы избежать наездов насчет валюты со стороны наглого персонала...

После выселения из гостиницы, когда фестиваль уже закончился, организаторы убрали оргкомитетовский номер, вынесли несколько сумок с пустыми бутылками и пошли в ближайший пункт приема на Русановке это добро сдавать. Ник, имеющий бледный вид после бурного ночного возлияния, сопровождал нас. В руке у него была веточка мимозы... :)

"Я у вас научылся пыть водку из стаканов..." - скажет он потом полушутя. На своем прекрасном русском с прибалтийским акцентом...

А еще он любил покупать пирожки у лоточниц. И было дело, как один прохожий дядя принял его за прибалта.

Я очень рада видеть Глоссопа хотя бы в Сети. :)

Soviet Manholes - a travel story

This travel story is transcribed from Backroads, an alternative travel and outdoor adventure radio program on CJSR 88.5 FM

1991. In 1991 I was a graduate student in the M. Lit. program at the Institute of Soviet and Eastern European Studies at the University of Glasgow. When I first arrived there I was lucky enough that—it just sort of happened that Glasgow was the European “City of Culture” that year and they hosted a festival of Soviet art as a part of that—I ended up being a translator for a number of the artists and performers who came to town. Along with cellists, puppeteers and whatnot, there was also a showcase of Soviet rock and roll, which was actually what I was studying at the time, researching the underground music scene and all the issues pertaining to that. So three bands were brought over, and I ended up translating for all of them. That involved showing them around the town, taking them shopping, helping them buy Queen records and stuff like that. Guitar picks. So I met a band named Ne Zhdali from Tallinn, and one from Sverdlovsk called Agatha Christie. (Sverdlovsk is back to its old name Ekaterinburg). And a band called Kollezhskii Assessor from Kiev, who I already had heard of because I’d been in Russia in ’89 and collected tapes at that time. They were pretty pleased to find someone who not only knew who they were, but had one of their tapes, and I had one of their homemade badges. Back in those days the rock scene was pretty DIY in every respect. People printed up their own T-shirts at home. They made their own badges out of cardboard and wire, and I had one of these. So I hit it off quite well with Kollezhskii Assessor right off the bat.

A few months after the festival I managed to get some cash together and went over to Moscow to do some more research, collect tapes, fanzines and work towards my Masters. I only had a Visa for Moscow. These were the twilight days of the Soviet Union, and it would be later that summer that the whole thing came crashing down with the anti-Gorbachev putsch and all that. The last days of the Soviet Union, and I had this Visa on the terms of which I was never to leave Moscow, but I had an invitation to see an underground music festival in Kiev. I was invited by my friends from Kollezhskii Assessor. So I went. I got a Muscovite friend to buy a Soviet ticket for me. In those days if you were a foreigner you had to have a tourist ticket, which meant paying about ten times as much, and also having to produce appropriate documents, which I didn’t have. So I rode the train to Kiev on a Soviet ticket and the festival organizers booked me into a hotel, where of course, you are supposed to show your passport, documents, and what-have-you. But once again, it was a happy Soviet citizen who booked me into the hotel under his passport. I was feeling pretty espionage-like, as I rolled into Kiev.

I went there for a weekend and ended up staying for a month. I only lasted about a week at the hotel though because of harassment from the staff.  They couldn’t figure out who I was. They’d show up at seven in the morning demanding that I give them back their teapot, which I had supposedly borrowed, and stuff like that. They stuck a note on my door demanding payment for international phone calls that I hadn’t made. I remember once a guy came in with his little clipboard and his job, he said, was to check my electrical outlets, and that involved wandering around and counting the number of plug-instructor I had, meanwhile snooping in my suitcases, trying to figure out who I was, where the hell I was from. My Russian is not great , but my accent is good, so I can pass for a few sentences at least. I can pass as someone, who if not Russian, is perhaps from the Baltics or Czechoslovakia or something like that. I’m pretty sure I kept them guessing. (Kiev may be the capital of the Ukraine, but everybody speaks Russian there).


I stayed for a month because the scene in Kiev, the music scene, was really exciting and lively. There were a lot of cool bands and really cool hangouts. It was a much nicer place to be than Moscow. And so I stayed and became something of a fixture in the coffee shops. By the time I got there, the band that had invited me, Kollezhskii Assessor, had broken up, which was kind of a sad thing because they really were a great band. I’d compare them, maybe, to the Thinking Fellers Union—the only band that in anyway sounds like them over here. Highly intellectual and peculiar. But the lead guy, Vassilii Gaidenko had pretty much lost his marbles—in a really Russian way. He was walking around with a Raskolnikov hat and beard, a bible under his arm. In fact, the first time I met him, in Glasgow, his first question was: “Are you a believer?”  A pretty strange question. I said, “Well, I have my own personal God, I guess.”  He didn’t like that and pointed out that, “God is one.”  So he was well on his way in that direction already, and that amongst other things, ended up breaking up the band. Gleb Butusov, who was the other guitarist and my principle host in Kiev, had formed another band called Godzadva.  I saw them play a few times, sort of quirky pop with violin, which gave them a distinct sound.  They were trying to move in the direction that a lot of bands were at the time, trying to sing in English. I kept telling them that it was a bad idea, because it was just going to erode what was special about them, it wouldn’t help them sell in the West, but they were hell-bent on it. I actually ended up writing lyrics for them, which later got recorded and released on LP over there. I don’t think they were too successful. But I never claimed to be a poet.

After I had been in Kiev a few weeks, this festival called Intonatsia (intonation) occurred. The general mood of the place was pretty cynical, so it was immediately dubbed Impotentsia. It was going to be a one day thing, a whole bunch of bands were going to be playing. It so happened that on that particular weekend Gleb Butuzov was away visiting his father in Kherson, on the Black sea, so Godzadva were incomplete. So too were Ivanov Down, a local band who sounded like, or claimed to sound like, the Butthole Surfers. I told them that they didn’t. While maintaining that they had their own unique musical conception, they insisted that if they had the right recording apparatus, they would sound exactly like the Butthole Surfers. They were pretty good. But they were short a couple of members for Intonatsia. Opportunities to play were few and far between and big festivals were pretty much the only chance you had. The bigger the festival usually the worse the organization. Quite often bands would get invited to go to another city, and they’d arrive only to find there was no accommodation, or that the organizers were expecting them to pay to be able to perform rather than getting paid for their performance. Also a lot of organizers were worried about scandals on stage, about allowing the bands free reign. They would insist on performances that were po fonogramu, as they say, which meant miming to recorded music. That’s the way it was often done at that time. But for Intonatsia the bands would be playing live. It was small scale.

The Godzadva guys and Ivanov Down really wanted to play, so they decided to merge. Of course they had never rehearsed together, they planned just to get up there and jam. Which is what they ended up doing. I arrived early in the morning to take in the music. Sasha, the violinist, came up to me and said, “Ty v kurse?” (“Are you on the ball?” or “Do you know what’s going on?”) I said, “Yeah, yeah, sure I do.”  Only a half hour later did I figure out that what he meant by his question was did I know that I was supposed to do the singing? (Something I have never done and have no aptitude for).  So I was essentially been Shanghai-ed into providing vocals for a band that had never rehearsed. They said, Don’t worry about it, we’re just going to play, so you just sing. Don’t worry about anything, just make noises into the microphone. No one here understands English anyway, so sing in English, even if it is nonsense. They’ll love you. But I insisted on having some vodka before I would get up on the stage, it just really wasn’t my thing. In those days vodka was hard to come by. You had to go through the taxi drivers or the black-market, or you had to have a huge book full of ration cards and had to stand in line for three hours or more. But my rock star pals were well connected, they knew where to go. There was this fellow dealing booze out of his apartment in one of the student dorms at an institute nearby. I offered to pay. I had the cash. In those days you could get 50 rubles or more for a dollar, and 250 rubles was the average monthly salary. For one buck, then, I had the fifth of a monthly salary. I could afford vodka enough for everybody.

So we scooted on up and bought a couple of bottles. On the way back the trail to the hall passed through a bit of a muddy industrial wasteland, which you’ll find all over the place in big socialist-constructed cities. And I stepped on a manhole. A Soviet citizen will never step on a manhole. They know that putting your faith in that manhole cover being the right size for the hole is a very foolish idea. You should never do that. It’s just plain silly. They couldn’t believe that I had done it. Anyway it flipped over and I fell down. I didn’t die though.

While rescuing me from the manhole they said, “U nas anekdote.” (We have a funny story about this) Russians have funny stories about just about everything. This particular anecdote involves an American who comes to the Soviet Union and falls down a manhole. So this is what they told me while I was being extricated from my own manhole:

An American comes to Moscow, steps on a manhole, falls down, and break his legs. They start dragging him out and he starts making a lot of noise. He’s yelling and screaming. He’s in pain. His holiday is ruined. He’s really angry. A crowd forms to find out what all the fuss is about. The yelling and screaming continues, and up comes this militia man.

Militia man: What’s the disturbance here? What’s the problem?

Yank: Well, I fell down this manhole. I broke my legs! My holiday is ruined! What’s wrong with you people? What’s wrong with this country? Blah blah blah.

Militia man: Can you keep it down please, sir. You are causing a disturbance.

Yank: No I will not! Where I come from, if a place is dangerous, if it is a danger zone, they put a red fence around it. They put up these red flags so that people know it’s dangerous and they know not to walk there…

Militia man: Well, excuse me sir, but when you crossed the border into the Soviet Union, you saw the big red flag, did you not?

That’s it. Kind of sums up what Soviets thought about their own country. Anyway, I was extricated from the manhole, I didn’t break my legs, and while the guys jammed a bunch of King Crimson nonsense behind me, I yelled out a bunch of Patti Smith lyrics, which was the only thing I could think of at the time.

Взято отсюда:


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10 comments or Leave a comment
Nicholas Glossop From: Nicholas Glossop Date: January 13th, 2011 06:51 am (UTC) (Link)

Soviet Manholes

Kryto. Hello Tatiana Ezhovo, Nick Glossop
lehautparleur From: lehautparleur Date: January 17th, 2011 01:14 am (UTC) (Link)

Re: Soviet Manholes

Nick, I sent you a couple messages on Facebook...
Nicholas Glossop From: Nicholas Glossop Date: January 13th, 2011 07:07 am (UTC) (Link)

Soviet Manholes

Kryto. Hello Tatiana Ezhovo, Nick Glossop
lehautparleur From: lehautparleur Date: January 13th, 2011 03:49 pm (UTC) (Link)

Re: Soviet Manholes

Hello, Nick! :) I am glad to see you!
Do you still remember Russian and Russians in Kiev? :)
Nicholas Glossop From: Nicholas Glossop Date: January 14th, 2011 05:50 am (UTC) (Link)

Re: Soviet Manholes

Of course I remember my Russian friends in Kiev (although I have forgotten most of my Russian) how is Mr. Underhill?
lehautparleur From: lehautparleur Date: January 14th, 2011 05:29 pm (UTC) (Link)

Re: Soviet Manholes

Oh, your Russian was so great... Maybe it's time to refresh it? :) Almost all your friends from Kiev are sitting in Internet - LiveJournal, Facebook etc.
Who is Mr.Underhill? My memory is not good, unfortunately... :)
And there is one more about you in my LiveJournal - this is interview you gave me. :) I'm not sure that you saw it because it was published at October 1991.
I hope you will be able to read it. :)
Nicholas Glossop From: Nicholas Glossop Date: January 15th, 2011 01:02 am (UTC) (Link)

Re: Soviet Manholes

Now I am going to have to dig through my old cassettes and find some K.A. and I.D. to play on this week's radio show. You can listen to my radio shows at Thee Ipso Factory web site.

Mr. Underhill is the traveling name used by Frodo Baggins to evade the forces of Sauron. It is also the pen name used by Kolya Yezhov to evade the forces of SoVok.
Nicholas Glossop From: Nicholas Glossop Date: January 16th, 2011 04:51 am (UTC) (Link)

Re: Soviet Manholes

lehautparleur From: lehautparleur Date: January 16th, 2011 03:55 pm (UTC) (Link)

Re: Soviet Manholes

Thank you! :) I don't remember those people or, maybe, I didn't know them. But this is nice story also. :)
lehautparleur From: lehautparleur Date: January 16th, 2011 03:37 pm (UTC) (Link)

Re: Soviet Manholes

I'll try to find this radio shows. It's very nice to read about "old cassettes" with Asessor and Ivanov Down :) I still have bunch of them too.
Do you remember word "ХОРОШО" (Khorosho - Horror Show)? :)

I forgot that Mr.Underhill was my brother. :) Kolya was very glad to hear about you after so much years... He asked to say "Hello!" to you.

10 comments or Leave a comment