Yaroslav Zhuk. Anti-Rules of Life
Musician. Vocalist, guitarist, and leader of the band Смоляное Чучелко. 43 years old. Moscow.
I don't like people. Especially stupid people. I laugh at them and humiliate them. It amuses me. That's why I write music that reflects the way I prefer to communicate. It's not the best way to achieve success if you're in a rock band.
Grunge is a punch to the face. Not a martial arts philosophy. Grunge is like walking up to someone and just punching them in the face.
Singing grunge is like having sex with a torn-up dick. It hurts, and it feels good at the same time.
We all must know that one day we will die. Our entire existence is meaningless. Each person must create this meaning for themselves. Like Sisyphus knows that the stone he lifts to the top of the mountain will inevitably roll back down. Sisyphus knows this but continues his work because in it he finds his own path. A rebellion against the absurd. Through rebellion, we create value, we create, we become free. Only in this does the true meaning of existence manifest. Knowing in advance that you will fail, yet continuing to move forward. Like an unarmed military drummer. The madness of the brave.
The psychologist said my problem is that I get too fixated on what I do. I think that if everyone were fixated on what they do, did it well, and didn’t poke their noses into other people’s business, people would finally receive their divine grace.
Those who are still trying to find meaning in my songs, can barely find their own ass to wipe it.
I never speak seriously, and I never joke. I'm like a power chord — not major and not minor. Everything I say has no coloration, so everyone is free to interpret what they hear as they see fit.
The underground in Russia exists. A real underground. Poor and unclaimed.
The essence of modern sound recording is that, work only begins at the mixing stage. If you want to get a truly live sound, then mixing should only be about balancing. The real work happens when the band is recording in the studio and ends when the sound engineer turns off the console.
All of Russian rock is one big, stinking pile of pig shit.
I love asking what is the most important thing in music? People answer: 'Innovation, style…' No one has yet said that the most important thing in music is melody. Perhaps this is the problem of modern pop culture.
People living in Russia, display all types of depressive disorders. Simply put — they are all mentally ill.
I used to think about how to get laid, now I think about having to die. Seems like I missed the intermediate stage where people think about something else. In reality, everyone thinks about death; they just get dogs or kids to distract their brains with something.
It was in elementary school. We had to write a composition based on pictures from a textbook. A boy catches a fish. The boy lays the fish on his chest and sunbathes. The boy, with a fish silhouette on his chest, happily walks home. I remember how the Russian language teacher was trying to get an answer from two of my classmates. They were twin sisters: ugly and cross-eyed. Why was the middle picture missing from their compositions? They had written something like: the boy caught a fish, the boy is very happy, the boy walks home… So many years have passed, but I still remember this case. Every day I see people looking at something and not understanding what they are seeing. Not understanding the meaning of what is happening. Not understanding what is expected of them. Not understanding anything at all.
I've stuttered since childhood. I thought that was the root of my problems. One day, I stumbled upon a portal dedicated to stuttering. Like a support group. All these tearful stories of people forced to ride public transport to the last stop because they were too shy or unable to say their stop out loud. In the end, my fellow sufferers kicked me out of that site for disrespect, profanity, and inappropriate behavior. At the very least, I realized that this was no longer my problem. I think my stuttering is divine providence — a chance for people not to hear what I might have said to them.
I played the violin in restaurants for two years. Celtic music. No one got Celtic music, so I had to change 9 or 10 bars. By the end, I had learned to play drunk, with a cigarette in my teeth, and my violin reeked of smoke. Our last gig was a banquet for Police Day. First, we played for prosecutors and judges. Then we went down to the basement and played for the middle ranks (someone was awarded a medal there, and we were given a bottle of vodka as a gift). After that, we played in the bar for the regular officers. After that, I decided I’d had enough.
High-speed porn-broadband internet has proven what was once only suspected — most people have absolutely nothing to say, even when they speak.
I don’t believe in talent or giftedness. If a talented person decides to ski jump from the highest ramp without preparation, they will either break their bones or die. My first songs were terrible: the music was awful, and the lyrics were even worse. I came up with hundreds of melodies before they started sounding at least somewhat decent.
Station for the Control of Animal Diseases. My first creative job. The smoking room was covered with photos from corporate parties, and there was a dog skeleton standing there with a cigarette in its teeth. You could also hear things like: 'Let’s go watch them drown puppies!' I tried to blend into the team: got a haircut, started wearing a suit and tie. At one corporate party, when I was laughing at other people’s jokes, an old security guard was staring at me. When we were alone, he said, 'You’re lying!' and started choking me. I got out from under his bulk, staggered into the main hall, and while everyone stared at me with bulging eyes as I rasped that the guard should be fired, he burst in, gun in hand, fired, but missed. Of course, I was upset that I nearly died twice in five minutes, but worse was realizing that I’d never fit into any team. Not this one, nor any other. And even if no one shoots at me or strangles me, who I really am will be as obvious as the sky on the sunniest summer day.
Human life is a game with a set of rules, by strictly following which, a person gets a chance to win this game. As in any game, there is an element of randomness. No one can explain the nature of randomness. Why does a brick fall on someone’s head and not on someone else’s? This is where the roots of religion lie. Religion is categorical; at its core is punishment. But the devil himself does not suffer. He feels neither remorse nor guilt; he cannot be harmed because he is evil itself. In this sense, I see no difference between black and white. A drawing on white paper is made with charcoal. To make a drawing on a slate board, we use white chalk.
Everything depends entirely on how you look. Once, I was completely shaved due to scars on my head and dressed all in black. A sad sight. A skinhead riding with me in a minibus mistook me for one of his own, and we spent half the night drinking and chatting. If your intelligence is above average, you can easily support any conversation. The main thing is that you look like your opponent.
I went to gyms starting from basements, where instead of windows there were holes in the walls, and instead of a shower—a hose with cold water, and ending with places where you are given a clean, white towel for free. Nowhere else have I seen such a concentration of insecure men per square meter. But when I had my legal practice and attended my first operational meeting at the homicide division of the police at 7 AM, and saw all these guys who had recently returned from Chechnya… I sat down on a chair, and my ego said: 'Thank you all. We’re done here.'
I was about 18 years old, once I was recording a track at a studio at night and needed a bass part. A drunk man was sleeping on the studio floor, in the hallway — I was told he was a good bassist. I woke him up and convinced him to record the bass for me. Then we sat outside in the early summer morning, sipping beer, and he asked me: 'What do you want?' I answered: 'To become famous.' And then he said: 'Becoming famous is very simple — just put up pictures of yourself with a bare ass on every lamppost and bus stop, and by morning, you’ll be famous.' So I’m keeping that option in reserve for now.