How I was shot in a rock club in 2007

A chain on self -torn jeans, earrings in the ears, cheap beer and endless "Seychens". The author of a story about hatred of cops left a stolen phones in the past to become a real informal, began a new life, but still received a bullet. We return the 2007th history of take-off and the fall of one provincial rock club.

The same story is a section that transforms our readers into authors. You can also tell your story to our editor Kostya Valyakin .

“How am I going home? What will mom say? "

I lay, hiding behind my hands, on the floor of a smoked club under the feet of three strong guys, who, by the way, looked like exemplary gopniks. Funny: Five minutes ago, we looked at each other with my former girlfriend, sitting at the bar. Now three pairs of other people's shoes were held for me, and I only thought about not to grab it from my mother.

The body ached, the eyes swam, the chain on the jeans tinkled from every blow. Turning a little, interfering with each other to kick me, the guys finally parted. Through the blood I saw the muzzle of a pistol and heard a loud cotton.

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00. Intro.mp3

In 2007, I was 16 years old, problems with the cops and stolen mobile phones remained in the past. I have long forgotten my kids Zadkidons and chose the path of an informal. I loved heavy music since childhood. This passion was transmitted from the father. Then he served and washed down, we almost did not see each other, but I got his records and cassettes with all sorts of Hevi-Metal. Now I wandered through the streets in the company of hairy, hung with chains and earrings. We did not have any special classes, like money, to regularly go to the “Seychens” in clubs and arrange a slide under the noise of the columns. Therefore, we staggering the streets, yelling songs and looking for a trifle for a drink.

Usually the smallest went to business. It was necessary to approach a passer -by and with a compassionate voice to ask for 5 rubles for travel. Once, a girl from the company approached two guys who immediately realized that she did not need any passage. Then she openly said why she was money, and one of them went to the store and bought her beer. And then she proudly carried this jar, slowly sipping.

For six months in a “uniform” party, I met a musician. A tall guy of twenty years put his foot on a bench, poured a guitar on his knee and loudly thickening the songs in the courtyard between the house of culture and the old dormitory. A calm, quiet and friendly son of intelligent parents-at home, on the street he turned into a rock star. My mother also did not know about my adventures, this brought us closer.

The musician once dreamed of opening a club once, put a powerful party around him and invite the legendary pilot group to our wilderness. My desires were much more mundane: every day I thought about how to drink and walk under the spring sun. Nevertheless, we both did not have money, and it was impossible to hide on the dream of my new comrade.

01. Credit for his girlfriend.mp3

By the fall, everything changed, and the musician’s dream suddenly became a reality. On one of the drunkenness, he became friends with a guy whom everyone around was called the Sultan. A tall, elegant, in a constant black coat and glasses, he clearly hunted with some crime, which was clearly made to understand the handle of a pistol behind his belt. The Sultan turned out to be an ardent fan of heavy music, and he immediately sunk into his soul the idea of ​​opening a club. The Sultan himself, despite his entire formidable appearance, seemed to be not there either. But he had a girl - twenty -four -year -old Tamara.

The newly identified friends somehow lit her the idea of ​​opening, and Tamara, like the oldest, went to the bank-take a loan and open an individual entrepreneur.

The loan was not approved immediately. An employee of the First Bank refused to novice entrepreneurs, despite the mournful nagging of the musician: “Why? You can’t come to our club then! ” Nevertheless, in the second bank, they still issued money. Having purchased farting speakers and leasing a nested room on the outskirts of the city, they began to prepare for the opening.

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Then it seemed to be so important that it was impossible to miss. The whole company helped: we staggering through the streets for two weeks and handed out flyers to those who at least a little like an informal.

The discovery turned out to be grandiose. A hundred and fifty people got into the first Seine. On a city scale, it is like a concert “Metallika” on Red Square, where instead of “Metallica” is a local group of “Death Angel”, and instead of Red Square - a glass, hastily lined with siding.

I remember how that day we yelled in turn into the microphone:

- What did I know about Janka?
- Jast Funk!
- Junk is me!
- I am Jank!

Even strong guys from the bar, in the opposite, looked at the noise a couple of times, in which Gopniki companies gathered every evening-however, they quickly left the room: “seriously talk” with someone a path on the street at the entrance was more interesting.

02. Walked skin on your dance floor.mp3

For the first month, the owners were in euphoria. Yes, and many who visited the club in those days seemed like our Woodstock, blazing among the urbanist Demolian, would not end. Never.

Basically, the musician steamed everyone. It was he who agreed with groups, printed tickets and flyers and bought beer at the bar. But all the responsibility lay on Tamara, on which a loan hung for equipment and rental of the premises.

I came every evening, sat down at the table and sipped from the mug. I liked to follow what is happening around: among high-haired men in leather jackets, I felt truly mine and adults. I did not have a jacket, therefore, having stumbled with penny clutches, I “reinforced” the old windbreaker and belt to match the environment. Here I pierced my ear for the first time. “Masters” often worked right at the table, disinfecting the pin with beer and lighting light.

Since we were familiar with the musician before the opening of the club and I voluntarily helped him at the first time, we became even more close, and I became a regular. And then they even stopped taking money from me for the entrance.

Around the people scurried around, who quickly became embarrassed. There I found new friends. But many appeared only one or two times and quickly disappeared.

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It is not surprising that the club itself was like an eatery. No chains, skulls, gramples and guitars on the walls. Two rooms are “bar” and “dance floor”. The bar has four tables and several chairs. And on the "dance floor" - independently, like in a Soviet school, a scene with a drum installation knocked out of the boards. That's all the attributes. Even a beggar, I did not have the opportunity to boast of leather Cossacks or an expensive kosukha, was more like an informal than this place. I even had a chain. It was only then that the musician hung two flags over the bar: the RSFSR (for some reason) and his favorite “pilots”.

Having flashed brightly on the gray map of the city, the club immediately began to fade away. The old party -minded people, of those who were still in the nineties repeatedly, were bits for shaving the Iroquois or growing their hair, cooled to the club right away. The outskirts of the city, there is a redneck between the collapsed two -story barracks around, only local groups are on the stage, and at the doors there are minor emecios, begging on a mug of beer. In a word - not the hard. But the young informal shoots simply had no money to attend concerts every week. What can we say about the purchase of alcohol in the bar. In addition, local skinheads were loved to visit the club. Grounded after a wild team, they caught and mercilessly pushed one or two non-fors on the street. True, once they ran into it themselves: a gopot from the tavern opposite ran and broke her face to one of the skins. The rest for the race for some reason did not intervene.

03. This is dreary September.mp3

- What is it? -Mom shook in the air with a piece of paper, which at the next Seychena some kind of skin put me. On the sheet there was a fat swastika and a mocking inscription: "Congratulations on the Holocaust."

I began to sit up for beer more and more. I had to lie to my mother, why late I return home, and bashfully turn away to the side, if only she did not smell the smell of alcohol. Then I finished the ninth grade and boldly walked the technician, which my mother did not know for the time being. She plunged into work so much, trying to feed me and herself that there was simply no strength for the trial. But soon the first scandal broke out at home.

“Yes, I don’t know,” I tried to grimacing, remembering how just put a piece of paper in his pocket and forgot about it.
- Grandfather went through the whole war, to Berlin, and you, a pig, allow yourself this! He went to his coat until his death even in the summer, because he left his health in the swamps, and you ... - Mom almost cried.

Grandfather, or rather, my great -grandfather I did not remember at all. Therefore, it was even a little offensive that they reported me.

The next scandal happened when I crawled home "on the horns." I had to lie that they celebrated the birthday of a new friend, but I could not call. I drank a glass of wine at the festival - so it became bad for me. Mother believed. Or pretended to believe. But now I was often alarmed.

September burned. Cold. The people in the club increased, but only because it was uncomfortable to wander along the street. People came to warm up and chat and drank their diluted alcohol under a noise. It was at that time that the musician and Tamara made the first conclusions: there is no income, even at zero at such a pace cannot be released.

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Desperate experiments began.

- And let's invite and put the price tag above from other cities of the group.
- And let's arrange a microphone as in the Comedy Club.
-And let's arrange a rap party.
- And let's ...

None of the ideas brought success. At the next Seine, the clubs of the club closed, letting people out only by tickets, and a couple of dozen people were hardly recruited inside, half of which passed by acquaintance, for free. If earlier, for example, here it was easily possible to meet a teenager in a holey jacket that is trying to put an Iroquois with beer and rushes to the stage to throw out the clips from the berets, which are great for him, now people came a little older. Those who had a hundredth for a ticket and a couple of hundred parts for beer, and there were very few of them.

In despair, Tamara persuaded the musician to still arrange a rap concert. Then everyone was very afraid that a bunch of rappers would run and a hunkering with punk would have tied. But at the appointed time no one came. Neither Panka, nor lovers of hip-hop. On the stage, two girls in wide pants struck and blew into the microphone in front of an empty hall.

In the end, one of them, unknown to me, left a bra in the club. He was hanged over the entrance as a trophy.

04. Lyubov love us like a magnet.mp3

At some point, I felt that I pulled me into the stuffy rooms not only love for booze and rock music. Something made me come to the club daily and look for a reason to look at Tamara once again.

Her boyfriend, Sultan, was always here either, did not notice me, and almost did not pay attention to her. He drank vodka with his friends, bursting with loud, like a predatory croaking, laughter. He laid out a gun on the edge of the table, making it clear to others who is the master here.

On one such autumn evening, they had a fight, and Tamara went home earlier than usual, and I got to her.

A taxi rolled us along the illuminated night streets, and from one poverty we got into another - a military town where she lived. We stood at the entrance for a long time, hiding his chilled hands in his pockets. I recognized her better. It turned out that she herself never attributed herself to the informals and did not even listen to such music. A modest girl who graduated from a pedagogical institute, lived all her life in a rickety house in a military town. Mother, grandmother and black and white photography of the father in the frame were waiting at home.

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She met the Sultan and fell in love, because he is "a real man who can protect." Having trusted him, she got into the idea with the club at his request, and now he showed that she was indifferent to him. We walked around the house for several hours and chatted about life, parents and its relations. I think that conversation would be enough for three books by Bunin fuckers. I listened to her and at the same time nervous, trying to drive away teenage indecision. The evening ended with a kiss, and I walked home, almost jumping from emotions.

The next week, Tamara and I sat in the back room for hours. After a conversation on increased tones, the sultan disappeared, and we constantly spent time together.

Things in the club itself went worse. By November, people completely stopped coming, preferring to sit in the porches in bad weather. Even local groups refused to play before the empty hall. And those who agreed sometimes brought more problems. There were no locker rooms in the club, and the musicians of Rock Banda known in narrow circles were waiting for their exit, sitting at the bar. During this time, one singer got so drunk with his mouth that he could not get up for a long time from the table, and then scolded from the stage immediately after the first song.

I didn’t care about such trifles. I enjoyed life: I had a girlfriend, constant access to drinking and the opportunity to visit Seychens for free. In addition, one of the new acquaintances - it seems that his name was Phil - treated me with pills and told me which drugs should be bought at the pharmacy so that it became even better.

The musician studied at the medic, and he suddenly started the time for tests and preparations for the session. Now the club was completely on Tamara. Since the business plan with the opening of a rock-yarn did not bring anything except the head and debts, she had to get a seller in the clothing store, where she stuck out from morning to evening. I took her keys to the club, and Phil and other guys from the party festivated in an empty room in the morning.

The musician periodically visited the club to see how things were going. But there was nothing to look at. Around the club there were a dozen people left, half of which still went to rare Seychens, which now happened once a month, for free. The rest of the time was empty. Then the cunning student decided to make a move of the horse. He persuaded sellers in the store through the road to give him overdue beer at half -price. The calculation was simple: this beer is cheaper and takes faster. True, the reserves did not go to their intended purpose. There was no one to buy.

The bottles lay under the counter for three weeks, and once the musician and I launched them. They rolled each other in the evening around the district in a stolen cart from the Magnit, drinking a delay of throat and shooting from a slingshot along the drunk crows and pigeons. This is the last funny memory.

People completely stopped coming, preferring to sit in the porches in bad weather

In mid -November, the Sultan returned to the club and as a magnet led to new people. The people reached out into the club again, some sales appeared, and on weekends, Seychens again went.

He, as before, laid out a gun on the edge of the table, threw up his head and laughed deliciously. But now next to him was a young girl from a local hereditary proletariat, cheerfully and out of place giggling after sweet cocktails. The Sultan hugged her waist, ordered a drink and demanded to make music louder.

It seemed that everything was getting better: we were with Tamara, the Sultan found a new toy and we even used to drink all together. But the club still increased tension. The new couple did not last long, soon they quarreled and fled loudly, and the Sultan suffered, quit drinking and, it seems, even cut his veins. For several weeks he walked gloomy and no longer laughed like a bird.

05. I care for me, mom.mp3

My ruffs baked my mother, and she waved her hand at me. Live - and okay. She still could not cope with me, but I did not hide anymore. Now I am ashamed, but then I was not ashamed. It seemed to me that I hold the world in my hands. In general, everything is on the shoulder, why are you teaching me life? I myself did not see anything but work - let me see me at least.

I pulled black jeans with a broken blade, tried on the chain to the pocket and, tinkling with an endless amount of earlings in my ears, went to the club again.

By December evening, after the next failed Seine, a sultan with friends came to the club. Actually, Tamara already wanted to close, only waited for the last guy to finish beer and wash off. Recently, she grabbed every penny to launch her right away to pay for a loan. There was not enough money, the musician barely scrape the premises for rent.

This time the Sultan was angry. I felt in advance: something is wrong-by the way he looked in our direction.

He laid out a gun on the edge of the table, flashed a bandage closing cuts on his wrist, and lit a cigarette. Everyone was silent. The stuck nephor was blown away by the wind, and Tamara and I were left alone with the Sultan and his friends.

Tamara was silent, and the four opposite her gaze. For all the time of the club I had no conflicts. The skins did not touch me, since I was familiar with many. Immediately I felt what the matter was going on. Bully, bald, in leather jackets - the friends of the Sultan looked like lumped gopniks.

It is interesting to read

Tamara went into the back room.

- Hey you hear, fuck, let's go out? — бросил мне один из дружков, остановившись взглядом на моих серьгах.

Не отвечая, я встал и пошёл на улицу, повернувшись к ним спиной и уводя их от бара в холл. Я сделал шаг к двери и уже чувствовал свежий зимний воздух, когда в голову прилетел чей-то увесистый кулак. Я развернулся в прыжке, закрыл руками голову и тут же получил в живот, ноги, плечи. Потом падение на пол, пара пинков и пистолетный хлопок.

Выстрелив, Султан тут же выбежал на улицу, за ним скрылись и остальные. Тамара подбежала ко мне и помогла подняться. Она что-то говорила, пыталась обработать ушибы, но я почему-то злился на неё и, отмахнувшись, поехал домой.

Пистолет оказался травматическим. Шарик угодил в рёбра, куда-то под сердце, и теперь отдавался болью при каждом вздохе. Приехав, я не стал спорить и ругаться с матерью. Мне стало её жалко.

Я стоял перед зеркалом и видел заплывшего подростка с подбитым лицом. Почему-то в памяти всплыл момент, когда в далёком детстве мы выбирали с мамой книгу. Я настаивал купить вот эту, с крутым дядькой на обложке. Ведь он наверняка герой. Вот я прочту книгу — и тоже стану героем. Герой из меня вышел, честно говоря, херовый. А сын — ещё хуже. Мне стало жалко себя.

Мы с мамой не говорили о том, что случилось: подрался и подрался. Nothing happens. Теперь вот сижу дома, набираюсь сил. Иногда звонила Тамара, но наши разговоры не складывались. Сначала она была встревожена, потом мы ругались. Но я не ехал к ней, считал правильным остаться дома и успокоить мать. В последнее время она сильно сдала.

Через неделю я всё же выполз на улицу, подставляя лицо в ссадинах зимней свежести. Ранним утром мне позвонили друзья из тусовки и рассказали, что прошлой ночью клуб обокрали.

06.Наш последний дым.mp3

Все были целы. Вынесли только аппаратуру. Решётки на окнах и входная дверь остались на месте и не были повреждены. Пока Музыкант, забивший на затянувшуюся сессию, сокрушался и хватался за голову, Тамара строила догадки об умелых и хитрых ворах, вооружённых суперфомками-отмычками или ещё хрен знает чем. В тот же день они отнесли заявление в милицию. Туда я и подъехал, чтобы поговорить. Мы долго и громко выясняли отношения прямо в отделении — так громко, что, когда она ушла, сотрудница по делам несовершеннолетних задержала меня для серьёзного разговора. Когда я наконец вырвался, то сразу же поехал в клуб, но дверь была закрыта, а моя девушка пропала и не отвечала на звонки.

Следователю потребовалось всего пару дней, чтобы раскрыть дело. Пока я искал Тамару и наведывался к дверям закрытого клуба, он опросил свидетелей и выяснил, что произошло.

Моё недельное отсутствие и проблемы с кредитом утомили Тамару. Долги росли, а в дверях редко кто появлялся. После работы в магазине она приходила в клуб и подолгу сидела одна, перебирая стаканы и бесконечно протирая стойку. Приближалась дата очередного платежа по кредиту, она сдала серьги в ломбард, но всё еще нуждалась в деньгах.

Следователю потребовалось всего пару дней, чтобы раскрыть дело

Вечером, когда ключ уже делал второй оборот, Тамара услышала знакомый голос. Это был Султан. Их видел парень из бара напротив. Они выпили, помирились и, видимо, тогда же решили украсть аппаратуру. Расчёт был простой: инсценировать ограбление, продать технику, расплатиться с кредитом и уехать в закат.

Чтобы дело «потерялось», промахнувшейся Тамаре пришлось дать денег. Не знаю, влезла ли она ради этого в новые долги, но вместе с аппаратурой она и Султан навсегда исчезли. В последний раз я видел её у дверей клуба, когда она передавала следователю деньги без конверта.

Клуб от такого удара так и не оправился. Музыкант ещё какое-то время тянул аренду, но теперь это было просто помещение, где собиралось с пяток человек, чтобы выпить и погрустить, пока за окном метёт пурга. По началу он грозился отомстить, писал заявления, но это ни к чему не привело, и он смирился. Клуб закрылся в марте, наша компания развалилась, Музыкант вскоре уехал в другой город. А я ушёл из технаря, закончил вечернюю школу и пошёл получать высшее образование. Ещё какое-то время я был неформалом, но перед армией остриг волосы и снял серьги. А вот пирсинг в языке и дискография «КиШ» со мною до сих пор.

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