Русское зазеркалье (двуязычная версия)

Ilya Kormiltsev once said that he abhorred the time of band’s popularity, just because the audience understood as much as perhaps ten per cent of the collective’s artistic message. I am not in a position to judge whether it was true—‘misanthropic’ seems to be an appropriate word to use when we speak of Kormiltsev’s character—but I frankly admit that many a song of the band is obscure to me. The Wikipedia uses the word ‘philosophical’ to describe their lyrics of the later period. I wonder, though, if ‘philosophy’ is a correct term here. Today, anything that rises above the level of ‘Baby Don’t Hurt Me Don’t Hurt Me No More’ goes by the name of philosophy. Such compositions of the band as ‘The Ways Full of Diamonds,’ ‘The Fallen Angel,’ ‘The Black Birds,’ or ‘The Prince of Silence’ do not contain much philosophy, but encapsulate a lot of what I vaguely refer to as ‘mysticism.’ What is mysticism? It is, to use a definition from lesson two, the product of the nocturnal — the intuitive — side of human mind. ‘Fine by me,’ you would say, ‘but is this product valuable enough that we purchase it? What is mysticism in its essence?’ I have not the faintest idea. I believe, too, that any of the great mystics of the old times, someone like Meister Eckhart or St John of the Cross, would give you exactly the same answer.

On the contrary, other songs by the Butusov-Kormiltsev duo are quite simple in terms of what the artists are trying to say, which fact doesn’t make them less important. Such single-pointed songs as ‘Tutankhamen,’ ‘The Shadow,’ or ‘The Wings’ resemble didactic essays, or ethical teachings for beginners, or perhaps little sermons. The subject of these little sermons is mostly easy, but it is the sort of ease that we tend to associate with the eternal truths of the Gospel and that we weak (and wicked) people of today, over-complicated as we are, tend to forget.

‘Tutankhamen’ is probably the most convincing example of what we agreed to provisionally call ‘a little sermon,’ as the song tries to deliver to its audience one very simple thought: if you drink in a company of thieves, take care of your purse. (According to Ilya Kormiltsev, the artists were threatened by real bandits after the song was released: a meaningful fact which shows what true art should be. Are you ready to face immediate danger because of what you want to express as an artist?) ‘There is only one truth, ever,’ Ilya Kormiltsev goes on to say, ascribing this saying to Tutankhamen who was a pharaoh in Ancient Egypt. A very one-sided approach, you might want to reply. The idea of the possible coexistence of multiple worldviews has long ago become a truism. I dare say, though, that its recognition as true prevents us from making decisions and taking actions. Imagine that an enemy invades your home country or that a foreigner consciously desecrates a church your mother and your father regularly attended. To be certain, both offenders are motivated by their own worldview or maybe by their religion that, too, can be recognised as partly true. Don’t you think, though, that the very acceptance of the partial validity of another point of view in this particular case robs you of your responsibility to fight the enemy and to punish the desecrator? Don’t you think that the very concept of ‘tolerance,’ ‘broad-mindedness,’ and ‘multiculturalism’ has become a cheap excuse for our cowardice, meaning both our lack of individual courage and our collective cultural impotence? A great question, posed by a song of a Russian rock band.