Russian Rock, which developed underground in the illegal footprints of its Western influences, is, to say the least, an interesting genre. Part folk and part ’80s, it donned the mantle of a hyper-modern rock sound while preserving the lyrical soul of Russia’s hyper-literate cultural tradition.
Kino, arguably the genre’s brightest light, captured this combination perfectly in the title track of their 1989 record, “A Star Called the Sun.” Frontman Victor Tsoi, grounding the aesthetics of Joy Division and The Smiths in a stripped down, Soviet context, sings poetically of cities, wars and the indeterminate value of life. His painfully elegant lyrics carry the weight of a generation, the band’s deadpan delivery of their message calling that much more attention to the irony of their passion:
(rough translation)
White snow, gray ice
in a patchwork over cracked earth.
A city in the noose of a road.
And clouds float overhead,
blocking out the heavenly light,
while over the city there’s a yellow smoke-
over this city, two thousand years old,
living on the light of a star
called the Sun.
And two thousand years of war,
war with no special reasons.
War is the task of the young,
a cure for growing old.
Red, red blood,
after an hour, is simply earth.
After two it’s topped by flowers and grass.
After three it lives again,
warmed by the rays of a star
called the Sun.
And we know that this has always been so,
that Fate has more love for
one who lives by different laws
and takes his death in youth.
He remember neither “yes” nor “no.”
He remembers neither rank nor names,
brightly reaching towards the stars,
not considering that they may be a dream,
and he falls, burnt by a star
called the Sun.
