Kino - The post-punk of perestroika

Backstory – spring rhythms and the black market

“Vesennie ritmy, Tbilisi-80!”: this is the title of the festival that in 1980 changed the face of Russian culture. Until that spring, rock in the Soviet Union was strictly forbidden, and only state musicians, tightly controlled, were allowed to release anything resembling it, however watered-down and essentially harmless.

There were several bands aiming to play rock without the leash of the authorities, but they were forced underground and almost always performed with acoustic instruments to avoid being tracked down by the police (the penalty for offenders was arrest). The Communist Party of Georgia, however, decided to change the rules of the game when, between 1978 and 1979, it found itself facing a long series of student protests. Fearing the situation might spiral out of control, an event was created capable of channeling the needs of the younger generation, so as to calm their restless spirits. Thus was born the first Soviet festival dedicated to rock music.

For the first time, bands outside the state circuit were not only allowed to play in public, but were invited to do so. The festival was a success, and from that moment the authorities' approach to rock music changed radically. The state label continued to reject rock bands, fearing their subversive power, but the ban on performances was lifted. There were two immediate consequences: the birth of a thriving concert circuit that stretched from Leningrad to Siberia, and the chance for those bands to distribute their own music.

Until then, the harshness of repression had discouraged most bands, but with the chance to perform every night in front of dozens of people (soon turning into hundreds, then thousands), recording an album and handing out a copy on cassette or reel-to-reel tape to anyone in the audience who asked for one became a moral imperative. Duplicated by whoever had bought them at a show, then passed on to friends and acquaintances, those tapes spread like wildfire across the entire country. This is why, when discussing Soviet rock of the Eighties, an album's release date is taken to coincide with the moment the band let its tape start circulating, even though officially the album didn't exist at all. A genuine black market, which effectively allowed rock music to become popular.

Soon, “illegal but tolerated” bands proliferated. Among the many formed just months after that festival, however, there is one that, more than any other, came to play a central role in the history of Russian music: Kino. Their legend is entirely bound up with their singer and songwriter, Viktor Tsoi, a charismatic figure who, even today, a quarter of a century after his death, still fascinates many young people across the nations of the former Soviet Union.

45 (1982)

The son of a Russian teacher and a Kazakh engineer of Korean descent, hence his distinctive features, Viktor is still a student when he starts playing as a duo with guitarist Alexey Rybin, in the spring of '82. During some shows at a club in Leningrad, they meet Boris Grebenshikov, who would himself go on to become a legend of Russian rock as the leader of Akvarium. Grebenshikov, several years older and considerably more worldly, would prove a decisive influence on the course of their career. In any case, in 1982 Kino are essentially a folk duo that, despite the leader's undeniable talent, has yet to find its own path.

Grebenshikov offers to produce their first album and brings them into the home recording studio set up by another key figure of that scene, Andrei Tropillo. The budget, however, is shoestring, and the band limits itself to a set of acoustic songs, with arrangements pared down to the bare minimum, despite support from some members of Akvarium.

45 is an immature work and – aside from Tsoi's vocal timbre – lacking in personality. More than the music, it's the lyrics that draw attention: metaphors on the monotony of bourgeois life and the need to escape, criticism of the conformity imposed by the regime, natural landscapes as symbols of freedom, and so on.

The duo's harmony, however, doesn't last, and after a series of arguments Rybin disappears from Kino's radar. Tsoi considers quitting, but Grebenshikov convinces him to look for a replacement, who materializes after a few auditions in the shape of Yuri Kasparyan. The young man studied cello as a child, but according to Grebenshikov he can't actually play guitar, and the producer tries to convince Tsoi to look for someone better. The singer, however, senses a deep chemistry with the new member and confirms the choice, on account of a melodic sensibility he considers distinctive, and in the hope that his technique will improve with time – which indeed it will.

Nachal’nik Kamchatki (Начальник Камчатки) (1984)

Actually, shortly before this second album, another tape became public knowledge, titled 46 and containing some of the same songs, in versions that left Tsoi unsatisfied and that should never have seen the light of day. However, in an era when records can exist without really existing, it can happen that a mischievous hand puts a tape into circulation without its owner even noticing. That hand belonged to Aleksey Vishnya, sound engineer and friend of Tropillo, who would later go on to produce many major names of that scene.

If we're to respect Tsoi's wishes, though, it can't be considered a true Kino record, unlike the tape titled after Kamchatka.

It's an important moment for the project, which from here begins turning into a proper band, and for the first time – again on Grebenshikov's advice – Tsoi decides to take on international musical sounds. A huge fan of David Bowie and Gary Numan, the producer steers Tsoi towards new wave, but the result couldn't be more lopsided compared to what Western ears are used to associating with that movement.

Also recorded on a shoestring budget and therefore marked by some rough edges in sound engineering, the record nonetheless doesn't come across as an unlucky cousin of its Anglophone counterparts, as sometimes happens with bands from the German and French post-punk underground. For Kino, the lack of resources was never merely a financial matter. They were denied access to a professional studio as a matter of course, and that condition of inferiority effectively fuelled their hunger to prove themselves, as has often happened with artists forced to find ways around the constraints of a dictatorship. It's no coincidence that, despite all its restrictions, the Eighties are still regarded as the golden age of Russian rock. And however threadbare the album may seem, it's packed with ideas, suggestions and songs well worth noting.

The arrangements are richer than the skeletal individual sound lines might suggest. The biting bass lines are the work of Aleksandr Titov of Akvarium, who until 1986 would be an effective member of both bands, at least in the studio. One of the dominant instruments is the Casio VL-1 keyboard, with its delightful video-game-like beeps, played by Grebenshikov and by the late composer Sergey Kuryokhin, who guests on a couple of tracks. Also lending a hand are jazz saxophonist Igor Butman, whose contributions colour the canvas with a vaguely noir urban atmosphere, and drummer Georgy Guryanov, who plays on three tracks and appears on the cover, though he'd have to wait until 1986 to become an official member of Kino.

The opening track, "Posledniy geroy" (Последний герой), was destined to become one of their anthems. The off-key synth and the grating drum echo don't undermine its instantly catchy melody or the power of a lyric that rails against the greyness of routine: "The night is short, the goal far away. At night you so often feel like drinking, you go into the kitchen, but the water here is bitter. You can't sleep here, you don't want to live here, good morning, last hero."

In "Syuzhet dlya novoy pesni" (Сюжет для новой песни) the synth indulges in an elaborate solo that heightens its anxious mood, while in the reggae hybrid "Trolleybus" (Троллейбус) and the metronomic "Gost'" (Гость) you can hear the first creative sparks of Kasparyan's guitar work, amid granite-solid patterns, epic riffs and muffled distortion. Worth mentioning too are the solemn, slow "Trankvilizator" (Транквилизатор) and the more relaxed tones of "Progulka romantika" (Прогулка романтика).

Eto ne lyubov'… (Это не любовь…) (1985)

Recorded at Vishnya's home during a break from Tropillo's studio, this is Kino's jangle-pop album. Despite the tape prank of a couple of years earlier, the producer stayed on good terms with Tsoi, and happily put her own resources at his disposal. The track list shows, without any hesitation, Tsoi's infatuation with the two albums by Smiths, illegally imported from Britain. Their influence, though, is a little too heavy-handed. Even if the sound is well put together and the recording quality decent for the first time, all the tracks seem to be viewed from the same angle: eleven pop-folk chants tinged with swirling electroacoustic textures. There are, however, some particularly successful ones: the joyful "Muzyka voln" (Музыка волн), the more tense "Ver' mne" (Верь мне), propelled by elongated bass notes, and the title track, which would sit comfortably alongside "Reel Around The Fountain".

Tsoi, Kasparyan and Vishnya, who programs the drum machine, are the only people present at every session, while Titov, particularly busy with Akvarium, records all the bass parts in a single day.

Noch' (Ночь) (1986)

There are several reasons why this album marks the cornerstone of Kino's career. It's the first album recorded as a quartet, with Titov on bass for the last time and Guryanov back on drums, this time as a permanent member. It's the last album recorded under Tropillo's wing, whom Tsoi would decide to leave behind after years of mounting tension (the final mix was handled by Tropillo without the band present, after Tsoi had walked out of the sessions in exasperation). It's the album through which the wider public became aware of the band's existence, having until then remained confined to the underground. In fact, it's also their last illegal album, and two years later it would become the first of theirs officially released by Melodiya, the Soviet state label.

Having been recorded more or less around the same time as Eto ne lyubov'…, these songs also contain indie-pop elements. Overall, though, the arrangements show a return to new wave territory and an attention to sound that's drawing ever closer to Anglophone standards. Kino is by now a grown-up, mature project.

"Tvoy nomer" (Твой номер) leans towards gothic rock, with mournful choruses, hammering bass and liquid-sounding guitar, which Kasparyan unleashes in a cacophonous solo worthy of Adrian Belew. "Fil'my" (Фильмы) is syncopated post-punk with calypso-flavoured keyboards. Thanks to the fretless bass and slide guitar, the title track seems to build a bridge between Siberian frost and Hawaiian sunshine. The energetic pop of "Zhizn' v stoklakh" (Жизнь в стёклах) has at least three rhythm guitars chasing each other on the off-beat. "Igra" (Игра) is an intense ballad woven from electroacoustic interplay, fretless bass and a melancholy flute solo. Closing things out is the funk of "My khotim tantsevat'" (Мы хотим танцевать), featuring a children's choir, dissonant samples and sax flourishes.

There are, however, three other tracks that really struck a chord with the public. One is the new version of "Posledniy geroy", infinitely more energetic than the 1984 original, almost punk-folk in feel. The second is the all-out indie-pop of "Videli noch'" (Видели ночь), with refined guitar figures that show off Kasparyan's unmistakable technical growth. The third is "Мама Анархия" (Mama Anarkhiya), Kino's punk anthem, complete with an instrumental intro straight out of the Sex Pistols playbook. The lyric is a genuine slogan: "The soldier was walking home down the street and saw these kids. 'Who's your mother, kids?', the soldier asked the kids. 'Mother anarchy, father a glass of portvein!'"

The tape spreads at lightning speed and the band becomes one of the most in-demand live acts around. Tsoi then takes on a new bassist, Igor Tikhomirov (already a member of the prog-jazz collective Dzhungli), who completes what would become Kino's definitive line-up.

Assa (Асса) (1988)

Buoyed by the growing success of their concerts and the spread of Noch', the band begins to attract the attention of a few filmmakers. The first is Sergei Solovyov, who wants Kino in his film "Assa", shot in 1987 and released the following April.

In the final scene Tsoi is hired to sing in a restaurant, so he joins his bandmates on a small stage and throws himself at the microphone. What comes out, however, is not background music but a passionate invocation, delivered by Tsoi almost like a cry of pain: “The pattern is simple, and there’s nothing else, it’s all found within us. Cambiamenti reclamano i nostri cuori, cambiamenti reclamano i nostri occhi. In our laughter and our tears, and in the pulse of our veins, change!”.

The words stand out against a post-punk backdrop with a galloping bass, western-tinged guitar repetitions and mysterious keyboard drones. The track is called "Hochu peremen" (Хочу перемен) and quickly becomes a huge hit, going on to become a sort of anthem of perestroika. In terms of impact, power and meaning, it's probably the greatest rock song ever produced in Russia. The vinyl soundtrack release mostly features music by Akvarium, but those five minutes are enough for Kino to make history.

Gruppa krovi (Группа крови) (1988)

1987 flies by in a whirl of intense touring, a few recording sessions left unfinished, and the shooting of "Assa". At the start of 1988 Tsoi gets involved in another film, Rashid Nugmanov's "Igla", in which he plays the lead role. For a few months the band takes a break, during which Kasparyan records some material with Petlya Nesterova, an obscure Leningrad band he's friends with and supports.

With Tsoi's return, the final touches are put on the tracks recorded the previous year, and the new album is put out as an independent tape. By now, though, it's no longer accurate to call it an illegal release: Kino have become too famous, their concerts fill sports arenas, radio stations play them non-stop, and they even appear on TV. Melodiya then decides to satisfy public demand and officially release one of their albums. The choice falls on Noch', which sells two million copies, becoming the record industry story of the year.

It's the new tape, though, that ends up on everyone's lips. Recorded at Guryanov's home, Gruppa krovi finally makes use of advanced technology such as the Yamaha RX-11 drum machine and the Prophet 2000 sampler, sourced thanks to the contacts of Kasparyan's new wife, the American Joanna Stingray.

It's still the most famous rock album in Russia today, containing at least four massive hits. The biggest is the title track, a martial post-punk number in the vein of "Xochu peremen", though less raw and distinctly more symphonic, especially when the wash of keyboards kicks in during the chorus. It's the song in which all of Kino's most recognizable traits reach full fruition: Tsoi's voice drops lower, losing its rough edges and gaining in power, while Kasparyan shows off for the first time one of his distorted riffs tinged with folk and ancestral colors. Everything is aimed at building a dark, towering wall of sound.

More driving, "Zakroy za mnoy dver'" (Закрой за мной дверь) is marked by the crystalline virtuosity of Andrey Sigle's piano (today known as the producer of Aleksandr Sokurov's films). Pierced by saturated guitars and driven by a torrential bass, "Mama my vse tyazhelo bol'ny" (Мама мы все тяжело больны) is a pit of depression mixed with rage (“Squarcia il mio petto, guardami dentro, vedrai che tutto è in fiamme [...] Ecco, stai davanti alla riva, e pensi, mi tuffo o non mi tuffo? Mamma, siamo tutti gravemente malati, mamma, lo so che siamo impazziti”). "Spokoynaya noch'" (Спокойная ночь), on the other hand, is a midtempo number dripping with epic grandeur, with Tsoi's baritone worthy of the great classics of decadent rock, the guitar rising in pitch toward the end, and insistent synthetic gusts. The lyrics paint a nocturnal scene as a backdrop to the movements of men in search of freedom: “I was waiting for this moment, and this moment has come. Those who kept silent have stopped keeping silent, those who have nothing left to wait for are mounting up. You can’t catch them, you can’t catch them anymore”.

The remaining tracks may not be quite as famous, but they boast a fierce cult following among the band's fans, particularly the reggae number "Boshetunmay" (Бошетунмай), the gothic funk of "Voyna" (Война) and "V nashikh glazakh" (В наших глазах), the lopsided "Dal'she deystvovat' budem my" (Дальше действовать будем мы), and the closing "Legenda" (Легенда), one of the most unusual moments in Tsoi's songwriting. Against an ambient backdrop of rarefied guitars, ever-shifting drones and dying pulses, barely sketched images of soldiers fall alongside a series of natural landscapes of such romantic power they could pass for a Friedrich painting. “And how the black tribe of crows beat its wings, how the sky laughed, and then bit its tongue, and the hand of whoever remained alive trembled, and all at once the instant turned into eternity, and the sunset looked like a funeral pyre”.

Le dernier des héros (1989)

In 1989 the band records an album for the French label Off The Track. The record passes unnoticed in France, however, and won't reach their homeland until 1991, as "Posledniy geroy". Needing to introduce the band to an audience unfamiliar with them, the track list is made up of songs from previous albums, re-recorded from scratch. It's by no means an unpleasant listen, yet none of the new versions surpasses the originals. Just to be clear, despite the target market and the title, the songs are sung in Russian.

Zvezda po imeni Solntse (Звезда по имени Солнце) (1989)

Meanwhile, in Russia, the new album of unreleased material is being passed around, once again through unofficial distribution channels. The band has no interest in signing with the state label, partly because it was already clear things were about to change, and partly because they still hadn't seen a single ruble of what had been earned from the massive sales of Noch'.

“Pachka sigaret” (Пачка сигарет) is this record's immortal track, a solemn ballad that acts as a crucible of sounds and emotions. Kasparyan perhaps reaches his peak here, with superb interplay of harmonics and reverberated arpeggios. While the sounds of his guitar overlap like the chiming of crystal, Tsoi digs into the listener with ever-deeper tones, chasing himself through canon-like harmonies, once again narrating the frustration of young Russians of the era: “And no one wanted to be guilty without guilt, and no one wanted to gather the embers with their hands, but without music it’s not even good to die in public, but without music you don’t feel like losing yourself”.

The title track stylistically ties back to the previous album, with a rigid post-punk gait, metronomic guitars and melancholic touches of piano. Its pacifist lyrics make it one of their manifestos: “War is a young man’s business, a cure for wrinkles. Blood red red, in an hour it will be nothing but earth, in two grass and flowers will grow on it, in three it will be alive again, warmed by the rays of a star called the sun”.

The third big hit is “Stuk” (Стук), which in any Western country would at most have become a goth-disco anthem, with its dark, relentless bassline, saturated guitars, and sinister metallic tolling that accompanies Tsoi at the end of every verse. But in that context, with an audience starved for someone to show them the light, it becomes a symbol of hope for an entire generation: “A strange beat invites me to leave, maybe it’s my heart, or maybe someone’s knocking at the door. And when I turn around on the threshold, I’ll say just one word: believe!”.

Here too the remaining tracks are less famous but all more or less revered. The opener in particular, “Pesnya bez slov” (Песня без слов), is breathtaking. The Yamaha RX-5 drum machine, programmed by Guryanov, delivers a killer beat (nothing this massive comes to mind except in Sisters Of Mercy), while Kasparyan holds down two guitar lines, one made up of minimalist repetitions and reflections, the other distorted, repeatedly climbing into a superhuman riff that seems to want to set to music all the severity and harshness of centuries of Russian history.

The mastery Kino had achieved by this point is fully laid out in the sonic extremes this album touches. On one hand, “Mesto dlya shaga vpered” (Место для шага вперёд), their first dance track, a little pop gem of synthetic programming, featuring one of Tikhomirov's most intricate bass lines. On the other, the ancestral folk march “Aprel'” (Апрель), where choruses rooted deep in the mists of time punctuate some of Tsoi's most vivid verses: “And the snow falls like a wall, and the snow falls all day long, and behind that wall there is April. It will come and bring spring with it, and scatter the ranks of grey clouds, and when all of us look into its eyes, melancholy will look back at us from its eyes”.

Kino (Кино) (1990)

On June 24, 1990, the band reached its peak, performing at Moscow's Luzhniki Stadium in front of sixty thousand people. It would, however, be their last concert. On August 15, while driving back from a day of fishing in Latvia, Tsoi died in a car accident. The nation suddenly lost the embodiment of a freedom that was by then just a step away from being seized. For thousands of young people, their greatest point of reference vanished; some even went as far as taking their own lives. Guryanov, Kasparyan and Tikhomirov responded by deciding to complete a series of voice-and-guitar demos Tsoi had recorded before his death. They built instrumental backing suited to those songs and, by the end of the year, released an album with a black, untitled cover. The band then disbanded in January 1991.

With the state monopoly now collapsed and Melodiya broken up into several smaller labels, Kino became the first album by the band to be officially distributed in real time, selling one million two hundred thousand copies in its first year alone.

Curiously, the first edition of the album didn't even list the song titles, which were only revealed with the 1994 reissue. Not that the lack of titles stopped “Leto” (Лето) and “Kukushka” (Кукушка) from becoming among the biggest hits of that era.

The first part races along at full speed with Kasparyan's distorted riff, by now the signature of one of the most singular guitar styles in rock history. The memorable arrangement, with the second verse crossed by a keyboard ostinato and the third by a series of distortions, accompanies one of Tsoi's most despairing lyrics, almost a premonition of his untimely death: “It’s been raining for four days, even though they said on the radio, that it would be warm even in the shade […] The tape recorder broke, and I sit here in silence, which I’m quite happy about. I’m waiting for an answer, there’s no more hope, summer will soon be over, so…”.

The second track softens the impact, favoring atmospheric sounds, echoes and pastel tones, though the lyrics are no less dark: “Ma dove sei ora, libera libertà, con chi aspetti l'alba carezzevole, rispondi! It's good with you and bad without you, head and shoulders patient under the whip."

Curiously, though it's never been pointed out before, some tracks on the album bear a sound quite close to the more dance-oriented side of New Order, particularly on “Muraveynik” (Муравейник), perhaps a bit too obviously so, and “Krasno zheltye dni” (Красно жёлтые дни), which, conversely, nails an exhilarating hybrid of the two bands' sounds.

While the torrential pulse of “Zvezda” (Звезда) finds Kasparyan leaning ever more openly into the folk element, with Tsoi showing off one of his most ethereal melodies, the pleasant indie-pop of “Kogda tvoya devushka bol'na” (Когда твоя девушка больна) serves up a healthy dose of lovesick longing.

Kino's career closes with one of their most intense songs, “Sledi za soboy” (Следи за собой). Guitar weaving between jangle pop and funk, a bass that's dark yet melodic, emotional crescendos built on orchestral keyboards, pan flutes pushing the drum machine along, distant thunder and a final fade-out that drowns the listener in the meaninglessness of existence. “Stanotte sopra di noi è passato un aereo, domani precipiterà nell'oceano, moriranno tutti i passeggeri. Tomorrow somewhere, who knows where, a war, an epidemic, a snowstorm, the black holes of the cosmos. Bada a te stesso, stai all'erta, bada a te stesso!”.

The Legacy

Viktor Tsoi is now a national hero: besides stamps, monuments, squares and streets, entire walls in various cities have been dedicated to him, where fans still write his name or lines from his songs. Many places tied to his life - the places where he worked, the sets of his films, his grave in St. Petersburg - have become pilgrimage sites. Even today it's easy to come across street musicians who play nothing but his songs.

Many of those who never came to terms with his death have cooked up conspiracy theories about it - chief among them, assassination at the hands of the secret services - which have gained considerable traction. Granted, we're talking about a country with a long list of suspicious deaths among inconvenient public figures, often dispatched through summary proceedings, so it's no surprise that most people distrust the official version given by the authorities (a fatal moment of drowsiness at the wheel). Consider that just the following year, two other legends of Russian music would die under mysterious circumstances: Igor Talkov, shot after a concert, and Yanka Dyagileva, found in a river, stripped of her clothes.

After the band split up, Kasparyan spent the Nineties contributing to various artists' albums, only returning to the forefront in 2001 as guitarist for the U-Piter project, led by Vyacheslav Butusov, former singer of Nautilus Pompilius.

Guryanov, meanwhile, became one of the leading champions of house music in Russia, organizing numerous raves in the first half of the Nineties and designing their flyers. He then established himself permanently as a painter, producing works with a strong homoerotic undertone. Sadly, hepatitis and liver cancer got the better of him in July 2013 - a shame above all because it would have been fascinating to see an energetic, defiant artist like him confront the Putin government's homophobic stance. Certainly, had Tsoi still been alive, he would have written a new "Hochu peremen" against a political move that has set Russia back by many years.

Coming back to the music, Kino remain a reference point for anyone in Russia interested in making pop-rock with a shred of dignity. What has made them a symbol, though, is their artistic integrity more than their actual style, which hasn't been widely imitated among the big names - partly because of Tsoi's distinctive vocal timbre, partly because continuing to offer post-punk to a mass audience, at least from the Nineties onward, wouldn't have made much sense. Kino themselves would probably have moved away from that territory had they carried on. Among more underground musicians, however, it's easier to find names that echo their sound, especially considering that post-punk in the former Soviet Union never really died out as a niche current, flowing on as an unbroken stream right up to today.

Despite a career cut short just as it was reaching its peak, Kino produced an impressively large body of songs to pass down to posterity. In a hypothetical world where languages weren't an insurmountable barrier, and where only English was accepted alongside one's own tongue, their story would be known to everyone and their legacy regarded as a precious heritage and a cross-cultural symbol of freedom. Thanks to the internet, however, the cult following has slowly begun to spread beyond Russia's borders, and one can only hope the trend keeps growing in the years ahead. Since the quality of their music is beyond question, and now that translated lyrics are easy to find, there's really no excuse left for looking the other way.

Notes: 1 - To make it easier to search for songs and albums, both the transliterated titles and the original Cyrillic have been included. As for the names of bands and musicians, only the transliteration has been used, so as not to overload the monograph. 2 - Cyrillic can be transliterated in several ways; for convenience, the most widely used international transliterations have been chosen.

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