Fruktovyi Kefir: A New Album, Novel Fundraising, and Decent Fans

The Russian phrase “Fruktovyi Kefir” can be roughly translated as “Fruit Yogurt.” In the given context it refers to a band from the southern town of Rostov-na-Donu, who have now been based in Moscow for several years. The time spent working between these locations is already quite substantial, since the group was formed in 2001.  Although most members of the outfit have an educational background in jazz, they now consider themselves exponents of “jazz, funk, grunge, art-rock, and hip-hop.”

None of these, however, seems a terribly useful – or serious – attempt at self-definition. It would be more productive, perhaps, to throw out some terms along the lines of “knowing, self-referential, and frequently ironic pop-rock.”

Whatever the suitability of such tags, they’ll always remain plural in number, since the group’s name alone speaks to a happy muddle of styles. It comes from a famous song by late-Soviet rock band Time Machine (Mashina vremeni): “…And his life is like fruit yogurt.” That line, in turn, refers to a fictitious character who once lived “without a home, friends, or enemies,” in other words open to all manner of fleeting contacts and attachments.

Life, like jam within yogurt, was all mixed up. Nothing was black and white.

This desire to remain multifaceted is clearly underscored by the following PR text from the group, which we’ve translated into English. “There’s a certain phrase in the Russian language: ‘oxymoron.’ It means a deliberate combination of contradictory notions, such as ‘living corpse,’ ‘white crow,’ or ’squalid luxury.’ ‘Funky-punk’ would be one of the oxymorons surrounding the band Fruktovyi Kefir. They embody a kind of ‘resonant silence’ or ‘retiring sarcasm.’”

“There’s one key notion from a Fruktovyi Kefir song that reads as follows: ‘Everything easy is tough; every ‘No’ is a ‘Maybe.’ That idea works as a leitmotif throughout the band ’s work. It emphasizes the fact that everything in this world is relative. Fruktovyi Kefir are one big oxymoron. They’re a kind of ongoing intrigue, leading listeners towards the sorts of feelings and emotions we all know… yet cannot express with words.”

“If you really want to get a sense of the band’s full range, though, you need to attend a concert. Each of those gigs is a [paradoxical/oxymoronic] mix of pantomime and poetry readings… It’s a chaos worthy of punk rock.”

The difference between stagework and life, however, is considerable. Enormous gaps of “resonant silence” extend between each of Fruktovyi Kefir’s major projects. They’ve released three albums over eight years; tracks from the newest (December 2009) LP are included in this post. Called “The Checked [or Checkered] Album,” it helps to break the general peace and quiet that also pervades the band’s website. The “News” rubric on that site contains nine brief news stories… over a five-year period. No wonder the emphasis is placed upon live shows in the band’s PR: very little time, it seems, is spent in the studio.

Consequently, when this new LP came out in December 2009, the members of Fruktovyi Kefir were looking forward to making a few pennies… until web-based pirates came out from behind a monitor – and put the LP up online. A sad-sounding message appeared on the band’s page at Vkontakte: “Hey, guys – if you’ve got the new album already, or you’re going to buy it – we’ve got a big request to make. Please don’t upload the album [onto a public site]. If that needs to be done, the band will handle things themselves. Please  understand our point of view… or the fourth album will have to be delayed for quite some while. Thanks for your understanding – and enjoy the new LP.”

The inconsiderate workings of online piracy are enough to make you weep.

These issues of a delicate diplomacy between well-behaved fans and the more fickle members of the public arose in a recent interview with Fruktovyi Kefir’s frontman, Aleksei Busurin. On the heels of “many festival performances and a ton of concerts,” the interview began with a question regarding the long delay between CD releases. Busurin admitted that the barren periods in the band’s discography had become increasingly worrying, but the musicians had recently instituted a new approach to raising funds for studio work. They had turned to selling “badges and other stuff,” all associated with Fruktovyi Kefir.

Had the marketing campaign worked? “The idea of raising money this way really appealed to us… and to some degree it was a success…” He pauses for thought: “The experiment itself ran smoothly enough, but I wouldn’t say it was a 100% victory. The money we did raise was spent on demo-materials. The tracks that we’re working on now are being funded by a record company.” In other words, the sale of DIY “peripherals” had produced enough cash to bridge the gap between a hopeless demo and something decent enough to impress a corporate investor.

It let the band be heard.

According to this amateur fund-raising system, those fans who purchased the promo-goods were not so much giving the musicians any financial excess or profit in terms of “wages,” they were instead making the very songs themselves a possibility. Small-scale fan-driven funding was turning hopelessness into modest, virtual potential(s). Those same fans, as a consequence, might reasonably demand greater degrees of feedback, contact, and gratitude from the musicians.

Busurin said on this issue: “We always maintain a kind of ‘invisible’ link with our followers, especially those who’ve bought the new album. All they have to do is put the CD in a player and that link or connection continues…” What began as an apparent reference to social networking quickly turns into a standard sales pitch. Perhaps as a result of this back-peddling from anything resembling digital romanticism, the journalist asks Busurin whether he keeps up with the band’s fan-clubs and their reaction to songs, videos, or concerts. “It’s impossible to keep up with them all,” he replies. “In essence we listen to our instinct when it comes to these things. But we do listen to our fans, too… through that same invisible connection.”

Things sound rather depressing at this point, but after a certain twist in the argumentation, Busurin saves the day. When asked what he has read of late, he said: “I don’t know what to recommend, but I can suggest how to read. Take any book. Read it to the mid-point, and then imagine the remainder of the story in your head. It’s something that requires real willpower.  But you’ll never be disappointed.. if, of course, you were in a good mood to start with.”

In other words, rather than lay grand or arrogant claims to the conclusion of any narrative, Busurin suggests that subjective, open-ended and virtual connections (those imagined) are better than anything physical or “conclusive.” Imagining is better than doing; feeling is better than finishing; possibilities are prime. His ideas are starting to rub off on the fans, too – especially the “invisible” ones online…

Distant, desirous followers of Fruktovyi Kefir, it seems, have been well prepared for virtual forms of interaction by the band’s minimal funds and difficulty traveling far from home. This year has seen gigs primarily in and around Moscow, so fans beyond that catchment area have developed their own interpretation of “virtual progress.” When the songs in this post were published a few weeks ago, fans in various web-venues debated whether or not they should actually pay for a copy. This was especially true when it became known that the main outlet for the discs would (only) be the Moscow-based chain of book and music stores, “Respublika.” What were “provincial” followers to do?

Disorder and despair seemed inevitable.

Some fans were willing to go to great lengths: “Where’s the autograph session for the CDs going to be? In Moscow, too? Can you give me the exact address? Or the nearest metro station? I’m off to sea on a ship in January… I’ll be passing through Moscow [en route to the port]. Maybe I can fly by a bookstore and buy the CD..?” A respondent said this sailor shouldn’t bother, since the songs can be found online. He, in turn, was quickly interrupted by another reader, who explained that bands need at least some income to “record high-quality music,” though this final speaker also conceded that uploading has some advantages. “It’s a shame that you’d want to upload the music [for free], but on the other hand people in towns far from Moscow want to hear the CD, too. Ultimately, whatever the situation, the band asked us not to upload anything, so we should respect that wish. They didn’t make the request for nothing.”

Although Aleksei Busurin slips on occasion into the kind of rhetoric that suggests only purchased discs matter, we can sympathize with his logic, given that the money up for grabs is minimal. We’re not dealing with the avarice of the super-rich. Fans of Fruktovyi Kefir realize this, too. They do not begrudge the band its desire to sell, rather than share. They know that their meager rubles bridge the gap between nothing and possibly something.

Fans, even at the poorest of levels, turn hopelessness into hope. This album is living proof of what can be done by selling badges alone! It all gets a half-decent demo tape into the hands of better-funded studios.

All in all, this knowledge of DIY achievements gives the followers of Fruktovyi Kefir an air of surprising pride and decency. The following viewpoint is very rarely heard in Russia today: “First time I heard this album it was downloaded illegally. Then I thought about things, and went off to buy the disc, too. It really is something else! You get a CD, DVD, lyrics, and info about the band… plus a two-sided poster. I must say, though, that the quality of the poster wasn’t great… the ink from one side seeped through to the other   All things considered, it’s beautifully put together. So… if you’ve got the chance, don’t walk – run to the record store!!!”

Presuming we’re not cynical enough to attribute this text to an undercover PR man, we can see how – paradoxically – the reduction of artists’ income to zero has foregrounded the importance of any audience input. Little people and small sums can do a lot now; they can help to produce a most appealing album such as this, full of the wit and wisdom that so much primetime pop lacks.

Little funds, therefore, can gain a big footing; some people clearly need that help to stand on their own two feet – and actually make music.

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