A remarkable feature of the work of Sergei Shnurov is the obvious uselessness of any discussion about him. The music of "Leningrad" is obvious; elevating a team to the rank of a cult group or reducing it to a yard team is equally useless. Having bought a disc, you can listen to it day and night. And you can send it to the trash can as not corresponding to your level of spiritual culture. To go into a detailed analysis of the content of texts/music notations means to introduce meanings that were not originally contained in them. It seems that this is the very quality that allows you to distinguish the group from the background of numerous musical groups that fill the radio and television airs.
eningrad” is a very special group.
Especially today, when the cloned pop-rockers of our time act in chorus in one glorious tradition, founded a few years ago by Ilya Lagutenko. Completely lost in the snares of their own consciousness, the authors have lost all connection between words and life. Modern lyrics, an esoteric stream of consciousness with a suspicion of nonsense, have multiplied with bad Britpop in terms of music. That's all love.
Cord appeared and said his word. It was the word "x..y". (Sorry to the ladies.) The happy combination with the horn section filled the band's performances with an unaccustomed sense of life.
"Summer residents" of Shnur, having avoided the empty metaphors from Pavich's novels, so common in Russian rock, bribed with sincerity and simplicity.
The ensuing admiration-indignation of the musical and other public did not lead to proper reflection on the origins of the outbreak of popularity. It is not true that the mat was the system-forming framework of Leningrad creativity. He, like a merry trumpet with a trombone, is only a means. If Shnurov had limited himself to recklessly drunken tunes with connotations referring to the criminal-camp component of society, there would be no Leningrad. The extra-linguistic reality of "Leningrad" creativity contains something more - the sensations of a new space, the contours of which are becoming more and more clear in the surrounding reality. Behind the text is an inexorable postmodern. Cords becomes the embodiment of the social unconscious. His music is almost the only modern one.
Unfortunately, sudden success has a sad tendency to cheer and relax. After listening to Sergei Shnurov's new album, one would have to sit down and write a long devastating review with malicious headlines: "Leningrad" is experiencing a spring flood - "Pirates of the 21st century" travel in a sea of obscenities, "Pirates are making an indecent remake of themselves."
Let's say briefly: behind the obvious futility of cheap accusations in the "Pirates" that replaced the "Dachniks", Cord made a mistake. In the image of a bastard from the outskirts, a loser husband was lost. Lively and touching. Celebrating the New Year with the unloved. Missed a birthday (digging beds in the country). The profanity that came to the fore turned into obsessive bravado. “I would like to go to heaven ...” is the only, perhaps, worthy composition. Triumph of tanatic instincts. Obscene hopelessness.