Heilige Feuer 5 (festival's report).

Oppressive and turbid depression, unfulfillment and all those feelings pressing one after the hard disaster when the flaming games of doom were finished and only the outcomes and bitter conclusions remain that must be endured, perceived and outlived in future. Truth and reality already revealed. There is no secret, mystique left. From this moment, time and endeavour would be spend only to accept this rough openness of reality, to sustain and to hold the hard glare of eternal subsistence as a sign of severe and dark experience.

These words I would refer to one of the darkest “industrial” albums I’ve ever heard – Reutoff “Prime”. Made in Russia. I’ve brought it from this country and I find it being the best reflection of mood felt by every sense of my body as I was visiting Russia – the biggest “industrial” festival of this country arranged in Moscow, “Heilige Feuer 5”. There is no reason to guess I was treated wrong there. Nothing like. I was greeted as a king. Still I couldn’t find the righter words to define that abstract atmosphere overfilling the whole air of Russia. Do not consider it as a reproach to such dangerous, threatful empire or certain attempt to diminish it in someway. It’s only a tribute to another reality I was hungry for. I needed to feel that, to touch that directly; it wasn’t last for me to watch safely the extreme show on blue-lighted TV screen and feeling peaceful and quiet to accumulate the noxious cholesterol by moving jaws in my organon. I preferred the dangerous surrounding in alien space and I would displace cholesterol with another deadlier alcohol, one of its features being to transfer psychedelic, gloomy euphoria (how pleasing it would be to feel such exultation in my time of dying).

For these reasons I changed “Wroclav Industrial Festival”, the “grand industrial” festival arranged in Poland in November/2004, to “Heilige Feuer 5” in Moscow. With the help of Russian arrangers I solved the accommodation and festival entrance solutions spontaneously but rather with expedition. At the dawn of day X, sharply at midday, I’ve already was going by bus, scratching nervously different parts of my body on a hunch of the long and particularly tedious trip as there were no special irritants for my eyes looking through the dirty bus window. Only the endless, especially gloomy fields were covered by snow. As the dusk descended, we entered Latvia. The irritant for my imagination was the prison in Daugpilis I saw through the dirty bus window; other sights of Daugpilis also reminded me of the communistic childhood, which was the prison anyway (though it didn’t seem like that). Multistoreys were flashing in the dark, spreading the dirty yellow light (sometime before it was the perfect pill for sustained depression). At this moment, the shocking thoughts were flashing through my mind revealing I was affected not by Daugpilis, but Russia, boundless and forthcoming, which seemed to me as imminent as death. My nose was stuck in the book of Cesare Lombroso, “Genius And Madness”, for reducing the pressure and my thoughts were sunk in the multi-analogy analysis I often manage to adjust to myself. It seemed that two voices had been whispering in my mind. One of them was saying: “You are either a genius or a madman”. Another: “You better don’t admit that, otherwise you would be failed”. Their dialogue brought the smile into my face; and as the hostess was asking to fill in the travel forms, to gather one’s personal stuff and to step out of the bus I’d realized we came by the Russian border.

We fell into rank in the green coloured premises for checking. While I was waiting for my turn, I explored plenty of posters showing the importable and exportable amounts of tobacco, alcohol, currency, explaining the actions to be taken when noticing the suspicious thing, person or suspecting something’s going wrong at all…In set terms, you could notice the signs of war just by the borders of this country. I liked that. I had been traveled for that. The checking procedure was smooth and without excess. Later at the fuel station I decided to spend my first roubles… Certainly, for the Russian beer I’ve founded sweeter than honey in the evening as in the morning the same beer was flavorless, sharp and whatever but not drinkable. However, every beer is the same in the morning. Sipping the beer I was looking across the immense fields of Russia with the tiny little hope to discern the slim light somewhere. This hope was strong and enduring, but as the beer finished I steeped into the odd and anxious slumber showing the huge amount of time passed by from the beginning of my trip – from my childhood. I couldn’t manage to see the light in the endless forest landscapes of Russia.

Around the 05.30 am we entered Moscow and the first impression of it ruined any myths telling the Moscow had become the luxurious, well-groomed and successful city. There was not even a small sign of these myths. Showcards and lightings appeared pompous and lumpy. I felt no entity of this city. No detail harmonized with the whole. We were packed off as the dogs from bus at 06.00 am in the train station and I was staying hopeless for I knew the hotel registration should start at 12.00 am. Outside there was a terrible cold with piercing humidity to the bone; there was no bar near around (it’s more likely that at 06.00 am the bars are still closed); I haven’t got any friends to meet me in Moscow (I came alone); my shoulders were pressed by the awkward bag, hangover in my head, there was a taste of crapper in my mouth. I looked around and I noticed the only shelter for my body exhausted from the drunk slumber was the underground passage leading directly to the metro, which was just opened. I bought the ticket and I was going down by escalator to the deep vault. My head was spinning because of the height, but the pleasant male voice floating from the loudspeakers and instructing anyone to inform the police immediately in case of noticing the suspect persons and forbidding touch the suspicious things as it could emerge to be a bomb, forced me to gear up and to look around with distrust. Going down to the underground I explored plenty of advertisement posters once again, one of them deeply stuck into my mind. There were listed all the advantages of life received when you are employed at metropolitan as electrician and many other occupations, the titles of which suggested no idea of the type of activity. As I’d got into the train I started the Moscow city map research, which seemed at first quite confusing. Certainly, I got it later and finally my doubts were settled by the kind advises of locals. As the locals, in fact, do not seem to look kind and warm. They appear saucy and prosy in a view, but this impression is ruined just when you’re approaching to them and asking for help. Actually, in Moscow there are many persons I wouldn’t dare to ask for help. Such are orientals of different eye shapes, gross-headed policemen appeared in my association as the gigantic watermelons or rottweilers. The latters were tracking the first mentioned in every metro station and in all city sites hardily looking for the direct contact, which may subject (according to locals) any results, even lethal. Following my instinct, I was avoiding meeting both of them, the first and the second ones, so in every possible way I tried not look into their eyes neither in the metro nor in the streets.

As I was approached the proper station I lifted up to the overground of Moscow and saw my hotel complex emerging. Three huge buildings, each of them had at least 40 storeys. I entered into my one hoping to shelter from damp in the hall. Trying my fortune I asked the hotel worker provocative question about putting me in my accommodation right now (it was about 07.00 am). And I was heard by the fortune. I was in. Granted for the Russian comprehension, warm shower, clean bed and 8 hours disturbing sleep with the horrible nightmares. I woke up in the afternoon. As I was terribly bored I ran to look around the day Moscow. I saw the Red Square, though there was nothing red in it. I failed to see Lenin as mausoleum is highly reserved by locals; they close immediately just after opening it as a small coffret with something precious inside. It seems that the opening hours of mausoleum are from 10.00 am till 13.00 pm. I felt hungry, so I started to look for the restaurant. After the half-hour wandering I found the house specializing in the Hungarian cuisine and my stomach was pleased with lamb goulash, game soup melting in the mouth and unique flavorful white Austrian beer “Edelveiss”. While I was stuffing these things into my body there were happening different scenes in the restaurant uncovering the reality of life in Moscow. The administrator of restaurant was vomiting curses of russo-tartarian type at waiters stepping straightly to the “small customers” (as they suggested) and asking them to change the seat in exchange for the cup of coffee, to free the place for the “solid” new Russians, getting both, the administrator and the waiters, crawling on their knees. The answer must be “yes”. I was sitting in the corner falling from any context of Russian reality. I felt as a stranger for my modest clothing wasn’t matching with the price of the ordered meals. So the staff had been going safely away after they finished servicing me. Having eaten my dinner I came back to the hotel carefully as a wild beast. On that day I didn’t even thought about going into the city streets. Sitting in my hotel room I began the Russian TV research. Actually, it could be called of the highest quality and comparing the Lithuanian one, the latter appeared as a shabby infusoria. The variety and excitement of Russian TV news as well as cognitive shows were so huge I hadn’t even notice I drank one and a half bottle of whiskey. The unique distinction of Russian TV – the numerous of news and movies are made on crime topics. That supports the fact of extra-vitality of such subculture in Russia. I have no scene of the end of this evening as well as I couldn’t remember who have switched off the TV. I woke up in the morning surrounded by the great amount of plates with the food scraps and I couldn’t manage to identify my image in the mirror. Later the situation was getting worse and I was possessed by the bad feeling I won’t appear in the festival. Having consumed the amount of medicaments and summoned all the remains of my strength I entered the dark and depressive Moscow to look for the club “V pochiote” (In esteem). I went to the underground station the arrangers indicated to me and got on the street. Then I was going nowhere following my eyes. Soon I noticed the local youngsters of the industrial indications, although not fully expressed. They were dragging somewhere. I followed them and got into the club “V pochiote”, where the festival “Heilige Feuer 5” should be arranged. The ticket price for two festival days was defined as 50 dollars, but the attendants could feel the typical generosity of Russian organizers there – these 50 dollars could be spent inside in any way preferred by the comers, ex.: for buying the beer, the records or anything else. I entered the hall. It made a strange impression to me. Although this hall was referred as a club, for me it was a kind of restaurant hall from the Russian movie of “Mesto vstrechy yzmenyt nelzia”. The same hall, where Fox pulled down a pair of workers of “petrovka” and jumped out of the window. The hall was filled with red colour, there were portraits of communist-dictators hanging on the walls and every passing to other premises was divided by the mysterious curtains. And the toilet mounted with sinks, urinals in a very high taste, richly-ratty grey walls and big antiquarian mirror evoked the catharsis for me (I wish to have such a toilet at home). Though the acoustics and technical equipment were not perfect, still the club was the ideal place for the feast of phantasmagoric music, for the gourmets of decadence.

The weirdest personas dumbly observed by the guards with suits  were tramped in both, the hall and by the bar. I tell the truth, I haven’t seen any goths there. The hall was packed with the audience I’d rather ascribe to the strange and nondescript human category. Perhaps, they could be anarchists or non-fetishing punks. Some freaks wearing the classical style suits were lounging about and dumbly observing the audience. I was trying to evaluate them visually and at the same time I was reverting to the same conclusion – they were from KGB, even perhaps from GRU. I met some friends from Belarus and Latvia and we were waiting for the begging of performance in pleasant conversation. The first artist was Reutoff, I reckoned as the darkest “industrial” team, which made the biggest mark in Russia. I was intrigued for the Reutoff records were of the highest quality. Smoothly floating odd psychedelic beat and the weird video-ground was on. Still it was lacking for something. Perhaps, it was the result of my hangover; or perhaps my demands are higher than just a good music or high video-ground and I expect something more, some “action”. Reutoff guys were simply standing and controlling their PCs passively. Or maybe I didn’t catch the right moment of empathy. Actually, I have a remark to arrangers. It’s absolutely unadvised to introduce such groups as the Reutoff in a very beginning of the festival. The expensive wines should be served at the latest, so the pigs could luxuriate in taste and not filling up the throat. It must be the certain introduction to the main dishes. Still I wasn’t frustrated for the Ruetoff performance. Just the situation wasn’t right for them to unroll. After the heavy brake it was the Les Bruits Russes turn. Their performance was theatricalized; there were many persons on the stage; the “noise” mixed with cries was spreading to the hall. Somehow I couldn't manage to get rid of the impression of this performance was the attempt of metal music followers to create the electronic music. I was still waiting for the electric guitar sound, so there would be everything in place. Plus I thought that another reason for such impression was the longhair show artists. Yet I prefer the more conclusive version – I was familiar with all these things from the assumed Lithuanian “industrial” scene life when the metal heads are declaring themselves as the creators of “industrial” music and in fact, they have only the “dance” beat. Though I found their performance intolerable slow, Les Bruits Russes would be the perfect project for the metal Lithuania. After the brake, the melomans received the new dose of music. At this time the quality was considerably higher. There was an idol of alcoholic delirium – Lina Baby Doll aka Deutsch Nepal – standing on the stage and driving as usual the hypnotic poisoning “ambient-industrial”. It seemed that during this performance, the first seats were occupied by the Russian girls exclusively; certainly, their brains were washed away. The infinite blocks of thanks and hot kisses of the Russian girls were directed to Lina (wherever he was going) for his uncompromising charisma to the last minute of the festival. Deutsch Nepal is likely the most universal formula of the industrial music in all world countries. The Deutsch Nepal set was accompanied by the applause and sorrowful sighs of the Russian girls. After the brake there was a Danish artist on the stage. His project name written in the festival list was the last stone moved me towards the Russia. Projekt Hat, the grey prince of Brighter Death Now, the secret weapon Jacobs, the bonds between the latter and Roger Karmanik are likely as close and unclear as the relations between the Papay and spinachs in cartoons. My suspicion was confirmed by the music of Projekt Hat and I was confused and nagged by curiosity trying to define which one of the projects is affected by the other. Which one is the real source??? Projekt Hat and BDN are likely the Siamese twins, but if BDN is considered as the aggression, obsession when the Projekt Hat – the shadow, deep, bad feeling, atmosphere. BDN – open, naked and insolent, Projekt Hat – occulted, intuited, dangerous. BDN and Projekt Hat complemented each other astoundingly. They reminded me of the magic pair of Castaneda warriors – stalker and dream-sighted, jen and jan. Projekt Hat performance left the strange psychedelic feeling inside of me. Another brake and after it – Grey Wolves. Traditional video-ground of “Tetsuo” fragments, Mike standing by the equipment, Dave – near the microphone. Anarchy and revolt diluted with the high dose of “power electronics”. At this the performance was rather faint than I saw it in Berlin, but later I found the reason – the coppers came to the hall and threatened to terminate the performance for the “power” was disturbing the sleep of Nikita Michalkov’s son living in the next house. Actually, after the coppers’ visit the sound was faint, no vocal heard; the hangover and fatigue forced me to think about the hotel. I didn’t remember the end of the evening. Together with Lina and Albin I drove to the hotel where we had the short champagne party. Lina demonstrated the true Spartan asceticism there – if you really want to sleep, you can do it even on the pan.

In the morning I had a shower, breakfast, some beer in the snack-bars of Moscow. Later big company of us went to the famous rat market of Moscow; obviously we all were chiseled out there, but pleasing what not made us to forget their true value. Some purchased the old pin of “Dinamo” football club, some – matrioshka dolls with the best-known faces of terrorists, some – tuning porcelain Russian Orthodox Church, and some – magnet attaching to the fridge and picturing the soldier of the Russian Red Army kissing hungrily the old man (the NAROD). Lina purchased the poster showing the young man repulsing the short away from him and crying “NET” (NO). On the second day my form was excellent, no obsessing hangover and our evening plans were built in the club “V poshiote” again. The French team Circle Of Tribes couldn’t manage to come to the festival, so Albin Julius was satisfied by the improvisation of Reutoff, which proved the regularity of the Reutoff guys. One of them was playing the accordion (wauw), the other was controlling the electronic loops. Though the sound was lacking, everything sounded perfectly. After the brake there was Ritual Front standing in the stage and playing the Russian equivalent of the Death In June. I wasn’t in the hall at that moment still I was listening to music sprawling on the lounge. I felt no great effect, but I would lie telling I was palled. In its background I had a by-talk with some Russian guy representing the concepts of the left ultranationalists of Russia. It was very interesting to hear the steady attitude of people regarding us, Lithuanians, as VRAGI (ENEMIES). This guy made the sharp impression rarely experienced in ordinary life – just a thoughtful conversation with the intellectual person having his faith. Later the longest break was following during the festival. There was a feeling of something thrilling and extreme is going to happen. And I was right. The hall was prepared for the hit of Brighter Death Now, the posters with the provocative slogans were hanged. Jacobs from the Projekt Hat was connecting the equipment, Lina – this time being as Monica – was drinking, Roger transferring to unpredictable maniac during the BDN performances was hovering over the stage up and down. You could notice freaky and hardily comparable expression in his eyes just before the beginning of the performance. Something heavy and unpredictable was hiding in this small person beyond his eyes of indefinite colour. I couldn’t get rid of the description of this person as unreliable and subliminal. The dirtiest psycho was hiding under the quiet and preserved set-up and dumbly tramping on the stage. The mobile rang. It happened to be the Roger's phone. Roger answered the phone and found out his wife was calling. I was wondering whether it was the coincidence or fake however, but in fact, it was the start of the show. After the call ended, Roger put the phone on the table. It rang again. Then Lina answered the phone and stated loudly that there was Roger’s wife calling and wondering whether her husband is with whores. And Jacobs turned on the strange and anxious “noise“. Roger was stepping up to the audience and kicked gently some person from audience. The latter stroke at Roger, but Roger retreated and declared in a thin, freaky voice perverted with effects: “I’m so funny”, and then in a thick and sick voice: “I’m so horny”. That’s how it started – the wild roundabout of Brighter Death Now. Some turned on the monitors at full possible sound, Lina put on the nightclothes and the periwig, got off his pants and having his cigarette lighted and the few beers done was tearing aggressively the bass guitar. So that’s how Monica rolls. As it happened, Roger also got hot. He was shouting at the hall in a freaky voice: “I’ll fuck you” and approaching to Monica he was lifting up her nightclothes and touching hungrily her rear, her genital and imitating the sexual intercourse. Monica didn’t seem to object or to struggle. Some present in the hall were laughing, some of them were shocked and Roger showering with beer or touching his genital with microphone stand offered to suck it for everyone he heard saying something. Such unrestricted performance was lasting for 40 minutes and Brighter Death Now was holding everyone in such obscurity and shock, so nobody could perceive the show was over. The hall was whooping jointly and admitted this was the greatest show of these two days. The audience was asking Roger for bis, but he preferred the beer and Monica, already retreated from the stage and looking for her black pants. Forestalling the events I would rather notice that no such impression have been made after the BDN performance nor before. The conclusion I came purposely was that perfect productions and effective video-ground are insufficient for the high class “industrial”. The performers must be the perfect actors; they must have strong image and high-acting on the stage. Only the outstanding personalities may achieve that. BDN team proved this to the audience in Moscow. There was a break after the BDN performance and then the British Con-Dom turn. I also found their performance more impressive in Berlin. I missed the video-ground. On top of that, there was something wrong with the equipment. So I did not wait to see the show’s ending. Hladna was the final project of the festival. I found it to be the most interesting out of all delivered by the Russian front. And though tiredness was getting a hold of me, manipulations with tamagochi-produced samples and insolent or even aggressive structural “noise-electro” made a strange impression that the performance was being delivered by an alien, an extraterrestrial. Music was in a way reminiscent of Econocon, Error. It was sharp and very synthetic. I couldn’t wait to see the end of the show and this may be the reason I have nothing to throw back at the performer. We caught a taxi outside. Courteous driver, as it surfaced later, was a policeman and told many interesting things about the reality of Moscow. For example, countless casinos are owned by the Russian government, while the largest network of apothecaries is controlled by Kabzon – capo of Russian mafia. He also stated that Russia will subsist with its own oil resources for another 15 years and it’s difficult to say what will happen after that. As soon as we arrived to the hotel, I scurried off to my bed. I did not even find any interest in prostitutes they pimped me.

Another morning, shower, ritual on a toilet bowl and a final walk in Moscow. Leaving the hotel one could notice a massive pillar of smoke. Locals shared that someone has yet again put the market of Vietnamese on fire. The view was sweet rather than surprising. It was Russia, Moscow, after all. Later on we stopped by the same Hungarian cuisine restaurant to have some excellent dishes, yet Austrian “Edelveiss” was thinned down this time around. We overstayed in the restaurant so I had to gallop back to the bus. I shot off from underground passage and had to charge to the middle of the street to stop the leaving city-liner. The drivers floundered but allowed on board once tickets were presented. And such was the start of the tiresome yet nice trip back home to pseudo-European and dull Lithuania. Beer was dormant. Tolerance was too high and attempts to sot were a failure. However, stupid movies shown in the bus proved to be tasty for the sodden brains. I was little concerned with the surroundings since outside were endless stretches of forests with rare occurrences of militia block-posts which were more like border customs due to their buildings, barbed wire and bars. I could not believe such control is possible inside the country, but the surprise waned upon remembering that the country is constantly at war. The bus entered soggy Vilnius in the morning and as I saw grey Lithuanians I was struck by another paradoxical thought. In the course of 15 years of independence we haven’t achieved that much. Grey scars of communism are visible on a face of every elderly person. Yet such scars are fading and our reality will never again be such exotically dark, dirty and unforgiving as it is in Russia. Our glances, senses, and belief ran shallow to understand the primordial entity which is equally noble and dangerous. This is evidenced by knowing that such artefacts of art as Reutoff “Prime” couldn’t have been created anywhere else outside Russian Empire which is equally vast and isolated.

Written by Lashisha, translated by Ruta: 03.01.2005