Outlaw in a place where Outlaw is more than just another pose
Our bud S47 hips us to the punk and metal haps in Rooshya, Kazakhstan, and Georgia. Damned intriguing stuff, if you dig this sort of thing. Which, y’know, I do, actually. This offhand remark caught my eye but hard.
I think this next band is from Novosibirsk or someplace like that, reminds me a lot of Fetchin’ Bones, a band from North Carolina back in the 1980s:
Fetchin’ Bones, HA! Although her musical tastes, interests, and proclivities never much coincided with my own—too jangly-pop and avant garde to suit me by a long yard, meaning no offense if that happens to be your bag—I’ve nevertheless been good friends with F-Bones vocalist Hope Nicholls and her bandmate/hubby Aaron since just about forever. Friendly, warm, unpretentious, soft-spoken; they’re good kids, boih of ‘em (Kids? Hope was born almost exactly a month before I was…OOF!).
Years ago, I read a similarly-themed article about the punk rock underground in some of the more obscure corners of the old USSR, can’t remember where. Kerrang!, Spin, Maximum Rocknroll, perhaps? Some other glossy mass-market publication or hand-Xeroxed, stapled-together fanzine? Creem? Circus? Tiger Beat? Rolling Stone, Gawd help us?
Wherever it was, I must say the grim, true-life accounts of quasi-legal obstacles; constant harassment and/or abuse by omnipotent authorities; unpromoted small-venue shows being shut down by platoons of nameless, faceless, truncheon-wielding goons; arrest, incarceration, vicious beatings, etc made me feel like a contemptible, spoiled little dilettante by comparison.
After expending scads of time and effort convincing oneself how horribly you’ve suffered and sacrificed for Your Art, learning about people who have really had it tough can make one feel mighty dang small.