Imperial gray frock coat

The Vremya publishing house released a collection by Alexander Bashlachev

With all the variety of names and styles in the controversial phenomenon called “Russian rock”, there are a number of undisputed personalities. There are people whose scale is greater than any genre. In mass perception, they are inseparable from the corresponding legends, definitions and/or labels. So, Mike Naumenko and “Zoo” are a real rhythm and blues, Gradsky is a real voice, Grebenshchikov is a real philosopher, Tsoi is a real charismatic, Shevchuk is a real sarcastic fanatic... In this series, against the name Alexandra Bashlachev stands as a “real poet.” Just a poet without any discounts, reservations or apologetic prefixes and applications like rock or songwriter. Bashlachev’s case is unique: here the song, without ceasing to be a song, is perceived even better by the eye than by the ear. Bashlachev’s poems collected under the cover of the book “Like a Blade” make a stunning impression. And not only tape hits like “The Time of the Bells”, “Ward No. 6” or “Everything from the Screw”, but also things that are not very well known.

In contrast to the wingless pre-perestroika ditties on the topic of the day, in Bashlachev’s poems of the same time we can feel a true flight of fantasy. This is a surreal legend about the Russian soul in Soviet reality. Everyone understands that life in the “Russian field of experiments” is not easy, but for many the problem is limited to the lack of sausage and sugar (then) and money (now). But poets have a different opinion: it’s not about the sausage, but about the inner world of people. Bashlachev developed this seemingly trivial topic so deftly, freshly, unexpectedly and poetically that the most adequate response to the book “Like a Blade” seems not to be any review, but... a reprint in a newspaper of several texts - amazing the fusion of irony, despair and hope is palpable in literally every Bashlachev stanza. His texts surprise him with some almost excessive care, despite what is known: they were composed quickly, sometimes impromptu. Precision in handling words is not a hindrance to linguistic richness: neither archaisms nor birthmarks of street modernity seem unnecessary or deliberate.

Don’t let your soul be lazy, / Hit the devil in the heat of the moment. / The soul must work / In the production of bricks. These lines clearly parody Zabolotsky’s well-known poems, but this is not an empty joke, but an experience of talking about the eternal in the language of his era. The most important thing is that when reading Bashlachev, you do not think about times and genres, but laugh and mourn, admiring his witty and accurate observations. Bashlachev’s thought invariably develops, making a circle and reaching a paradox. In “The Griboedov Waltz” (the song “as a folk song” was covered by the folk group “Seventh Water”), the village idiot Stepan Griboyedov imagined himself as Napoleon. He didn't go crazy - the guy was just hypnotized. It would seem like a joke, if not for the ending: ...and at them, the water carrier Griboyedov,/ Smiling, looked out of the noose./ He looked with blue eyes./ The cocked hat fell from his hands./ And he was wearing an imperial gray frock coat, stained with tears. Flexible stitches live, breathe, move.

It remains to add that Alexander Bashlachev, the Cherepovets bard, who did not live to be thirty, wrote all the best in two years. The book “Like a Blade” will be read and re-read for much longer.

Alexander BELYAEV