the most final
concluding work

After applying for the VIA contest, we came to the Club Director, Pavel Mitrofanovich. We made it clear that for holding aloft the honor of Club at the City Contest we wanted a mere trifle, really, those couple of black speakers from the portable movie projector, together with their amplifier, because we had no place for rehearsals, nor a single item of the drum set.

Flaring his already flushed face under the crisp curls of a natural merchant, Pavel Mitrofanovich blared out that for the guys from the Settlement, Club would do all and everything and then everything and all over again. That is the meaning of slotting negotiations in the appropriate moment of a person's daily schedule.

Director ordered Club House Manager, Stepan, to pass us the room of the Variety Ensemble until after the contest. The Ensemble musicians led by their Head, Aksyonov, moved their instruments from the room, including the double bass and saxophone, to an unknown destination. For an indefinite interval, Aksyonov stopped appearing in Club at all. In the room, there remained only a giant desk, a piano and "the kitchen"—a drum set made up of a kicker, a snare, a hat, and two tom-toms under a wide crash. The clickety-clak, taps, dubs, bangs, clangs of the kitchen filled the room and the outside corridor for hours because Skully was practicing to give out the rock beat with all of his hands and feet.

The technique of beating the beat was shown to him by Anatoly Melai, a Settlement dude recently demobilized from the army who, before he was drafted, played the horn at the Variety Ensemble. Besides, he showed us the chords to "The Yellow River" by the rock group Christie. That song topped most of the European music charts then. We knew about the fact from the station "The Radio-Sweden" who were broadcasting in Russian one hour a week, on Sundays, and the ours did not block it with the usual static noise because they talked exclusively about rock music omitting any anti-Soviet propaganda.

Anatoly even knew the Russian adaptation of the lyrics in "The Yellow River":

"We roamed at the Yellow River

The flowers blossomed all 'round us

By the river of my dream –

Alloverida!"

And then there followed the chorus which oddly enough avoided rendering into Russian:

"Alloverida! Alloverida!

Yuza mom-ma! Yuza mom-ma!"

We started to rehearse it as the number for the contest. At some point, it dawned on me that if the song was called "The Yellow River" then the chorus also should sound "Yellow River!" but not like that fuzzy "Alloverida". So, it was not in vain that Alla Iosifovna at her English classes was driving it home to me that "London is the capital of Great Britain". Anatoly peevishly wrinkled his nose but had no trumps to ward off my stock of knowledge. To reward my linguistic feat, Chuba let me sing the backup in the chorus:

"Yellow River! Yellow River!

is in my mind and in my eyes."

That immensely inspired me, because in our VIA I had the very necessary but so inconspicuous role of the rhythm guitarist.

For the second number, we chose "Paint It Black" by The Rolling Stones. We knew the chords to the song and even its true title, but we did not know the lyrics and just were using dummy "doo-wop" like some seasoned scat singers:

"Doo-wop doo-wop doo-wop doo-wop

Doo-wop doo-wop pá-ba-baá

Yet, knowing the name, you could guess what the song was about and if you know the lines meter then – full ahead!

"Black clouds towered in the sky over the city

The drops of falling rain are black as coal tar

No stars reflected in the puddles: nor big, nor bitty

Black fog has stolen them and hidden way too far…"

Before the VIA competition, we rehearsed for days on end leaving Club only to have a midday meal at the pavilion "Meeting" by the Station square where we ate dumplings, flushed them down with gulps of beer from a bottle of Zhigulyovsky shared between the 4 of us and considered ourselves cool dudes who could play rock.

Precisely one day before the contest, our rivals—VIA "The Kristall" from Loony—dealt us a preemptive blow. They came to our school to play the trash at the graduation party of our class. Earlier, we offered the school management our music services for the pram dance free of charge, however, the proposal was turned down and they hired The Kristall instead. In our native school, we did not pass for musicians! Like prophets never heeded in their native lands, indeed…

Of course, The Kristall had a well-established reputation. Sasha Basha, educated at the piano class of Music School, played his organ very competently – both "seven-forty", and waltz, and rock'n'roll, but it, still, hurt.

The revenge took place at the contest because we had hidden reserves. Firstly, Pavel Mitrofanovich let us grab for the occasion the 50-watt amp. And secondly, we carried the day even before making any music, our looks when appearing on the stage showed at once who were predestined winners.

Okay, suppose you've got an electric organ and music education plus a team of musicians trained at "playing trash", but who would care a damn about all that crap the moment when:

"…And now in this cozy Central Park Summer Cinema, we invite on stage the vocal-instrumental ensemble… The Orpheuses!!."

At which moment, there came out four dudes with three (!) horned (!!) guitars!!!

And, on top of everything else, each of them, all the 4 rigged…

…IN WHITE PANTS!!!..

Oh, my! There is no way to bring over the meaning of white pants in Konotop of 1971, kinda divine trappings and you can’t put it any clearer because our triumph came to pass before the world-wide rise of the denim civilization.

Where had so snazzy outfit come from? In Department Store opposite Main Post, they were selling the so-called "canvas for household needs", 1 ruble 20 kopecks a meter. After the very first wash, the fabric turned into gray saggy burlap, however, we appeared on stage in pants in their pristinely virgin, unwashed, state.

Mother made them—all the four—with her sewing machine, two days before the performance. The ongoing pants fashion of the day rejected the wide waist belt in favor of no belt at all, the stylish dude's pants then started at the middle of the hips. One meter and ten centimeters of "canvas" were more than enough for a pair of trousers.

The only bad news was that I screwed up my part in the "Yellow River" vocals.

During the rehearsals, Chuba kept frowning at my third in the chorus backup, and in the knock-up chant before going on stage in the Central Park's Summer Cinema he just grabbed his head in despair. So at the moment when we had to yell together into a single microphone, "Yellow River! Yellow River!" I only opened my mouth without producing any sound at all. It was the same trick as singing "The Internationale" at the All-School Komsomol meetings or in the make-believe performing of "Jericho" at a CJR game.

Chuba made round eyes on the other side of the mike because I left him without the third, to no avail though. The Orpheuses convincingly carried the day but on my vocal career, there was put the final cross. Still and all, we did it!.

~ ~ ~