moscow doesn't believe in tears

2009-04-28T00:56:00.000-07:00

Hi, everyone. Cow dead. Send milk.

-MDBIT

The Holiday Formerly Known as Halloween

2008-11-03T12:16:00.000-08:00

In the midst of a grave world-wide economic crisis shaking Moscow like a Yahtzee box, my greatest fear was still a lackluster Halloween. In some ways it came true, though I’ve taken the noose down out of the closet. A little bit of history: Halloween is traditionally a big freaking deal on the club scene, up there with New Year’s in terms of fireworks-and-glitter related fatalities. Call it a litmus test for how good things really are in Moscow.

Results came back mixed. The parties seemed fun and people dressed up, but none of them looked like the world was ending, which is the going standard for Halloween in Moscow. Club XII’s annual bash was full of people who cared enough to rent nice costumes, even if it meant taking out a loan. Thanks for giving a damn, guys.

“Freak International 3” also had a strong showing, despite being held at warehouse club Gaudi Arena, a long, cold marshrutka ride away from civilization. But that’s kind of cheating because candy ravers already dress like it’s Halloween and probably didn’t even realize it was a holiday.

Look! Zhenya's going as your bored girlfriend

Pretty much all the other big name clubs didn’t, ahem, Rai-se to the occasion. The party was there, but barely distinguishable from any other night. Those bitties who did come in costume looked like they were headed to SAE Theme Thursdays, an uninspired assortment of skank nurses, slutty brides and promiscuous policewomen we've seen before.

Kappa Theta Ikra

I know, America is bad, right? Gotta spank it

Labelfucker was supposed to have a good Halloween thing going on. In fact, so good that it was shut down by the police before midnight last year. At least, I think that’s what the wasted people streaming out seemed to be screaming about. When an overgrown schoolgirl with vomit on his chin barreled at me, I didn’t stick around to find out. Unfortunately this year Labelfucker held its party at the clinically depressed Justo Banya Douche. Might as well have sprayed it with Party-Be-Gone.

But if history has taught us anything, it’s that the spirit of Halloween can overcome anything, even a shitty venue. Clubs are just the container, man, what really matters is the people. Making Halloween costume pie takes equal parts creativity, enthusiasm and willingness to act a fool. Which brings me to the main point -- feis control goons, where are you when we need you? For pete’s sake, stop letting people in without real costumes. Four dudes should not be able to ride in one on hat they bought off a malnourished 17-year-old soldier for 100 rubles.

FAIL

Haha. Prokhodite

Nyet

Pass. And run for your life

Borderline. At least they didn't go blackface

Ooh. Tough call. I feel like someone is going to Hell for this, but they did take a concept and run with it

I don't care if she just spent too much time on the bed at Mesto Pod Solntsem, She looks rad, let her in

It's not like Moscow don’t know how to dress up. In fact, the scariest costumes of all weren’t seen on October 31 but a few days before at the Moscow Fashion Week closing party. The punch line is that there wasn't even a Halloween theme, but I guess you already got that.

Just tell me these people don't drink the blood of the living.

Photos: 44100.com, geometria.ru, labelfucker.ru, adensya.ru, mainpeople.ru

Der Untermost, or the Day the Shitty Techno Died

2008-10-14T13:28:00.000-07:00

The global economic meltdown has claimed another subset of victims -- Moscow elitny clubgoers. At least that's according to the Telegraph, which reported of a half-empty Most. Even if it's not entirely true, when the golden club is letting in pasty British reporters, that's a sure sign times have changed.

Falling into conversation with one patron, an impeccably dressed man in his late thirties who introduced himself as the owner of another nightclub, I asked him where everybody was.

"They are sitting at home drinking cheap vodka and thinking about killing themselves," he replied.

In other words, doing what MDBIT does on Friday nights anyway. The reports of Moscow nightlife's death have been greatly exaggerated though. While the $32,000 VIP booth above the waterfall at Rai may be going at a slight discount, there's no shortage of people lining up for 800 ruble Long Islands at The Most, as these photos from October 3 contest.

What do you think: is this self-delusion or deserved confidence? Are they playing the fiddle while Moscow burns, or just trying to have fun after a £400 billion stock market dive?

Yaaaaaaaa! Kill it! Kill it!

To be honest, it kinda reminds me of the last days in Hitler's bunker. But if the world capital of excess goes on the dole, what are all of us parasitic nightlife bloggers going to do? Move to Istanbul and start ghostwriting college apps for rich kids? Waaaaaaa!

Photos: mainpeople.ru

It's a Very Zverev World

2008-10-03T07:43:00.000-07:00

Everyone hearts Jocelyn Wildensteinian reality television star, singer and man-about-town Sergei Zverev. Broadly speaking, Russians hate and fear gays on the street, but love their celebrities camp as a row of tents, and so Zverev floats above homophobia, a shining silicone he-she. He even melted the heart of thugtastic Chechnyan leader Ramzan Kadyrov, who stated he finds the anthropoid creature "companionable" and gave him a 100 thousand euro watch. (Read all about it the GQ interview between Kadyrov and...Ksenia Sobchak, proof that reality is much stranger than fiction.)

You read so much about Zverev's extracurricular pursuits, like recieving wristwatches from scary tyrants, that you may have forgotten his original calling – male hairdresser. September saw the grand opening of his Celebrity beauty salon, which, given the popularity of the tranny aesthetic among biological women in Moscow, will likely do quite well. I except to see an army of Zverev lookalikes take over the world just before Armageddon.

To celebrate the opening, here's MDBIT's tribute to the many looks of Sergei Zverev, because no one embodies the spirit of retarded fabulousness better than him. Good night, and God bless.

Celebrity, 10 Nikolskaya Ulitsa, Metro: Lubyanka, Tel. 721-3524

Photos: mainpeople.ru, blesk.ru, the deep recesses of the Internets

Freakonomics, or In Defense of Fair Trade

2008-09-25T01:59:00.000-07:00

It occured to me recently that the Moscow bar scene is a perfect example of "race to the bottom," a trade theory usually applied to sweatshops. That is to say, competition between countries (the women attending the bar) over attracting investment (male attention) leads to the reduction of regulations (standards of social conduct). Ultimately, it is those who abandon all vestiges of dignity who survive.

This is not an uncommon scenario: You rock up to the bar with Lena and Katya from work and predictably, there are about 3 eligible bachelors in the place.

Sasha, Sasha and...Sasha

The female-male ratio standing at 25-1, the air is thick with tension. Women start nervously preening and bending their bodies with unnatural rigidity to display their sexual organs. Conditions are bad, but they're about to get much worse.

Enter topless go-go dancers, the match to the gasoline. When these lithe animals start shaking their ta-tas on the bar, you lean over to Katya and Lena to suggest "fuck this place, let's get the fuck out of here" only to find that they have taken to the dance floor. To keep up with the go-go dancers, they are doing some sort of freaky deaky kick dance.

When it becomes clear that the naked chicks are still recieving far more attention, rather than give up, Lena and Katya become more and more determined. By the time you finally drag them off of each other, they're already... doing THAT.

Throughout all of this, Dima continues calmly smoking his kalyan, bored, trying to watch football on the plasma screen.

The point is that in this economic model, no one wins: not the desparate chicks lezzing out on the dance floor, not the guys who have become dizzy and nauseated of women as if they ate too much sugar, and certainly not the MDBITs who go home to write about it in their blogs. However, with a little solidarity, some grassroots organizing, it can be overcome. Si se puede!

Photos: mainpeople.ru

Bright Lights, Big Moscow

2008-09-10T05:04:00.000-07:00

It’s snowing hard in Paparazzi Bar, the heir apparent to Mix. Good, because scruffy Moscow club kids were lacking in recreational options beyond alcohol and cough medicine. The rich and fabulous can get yayed up ten ways from Sunday at their Dyagilevs and their Rais, but what about the little people? Can’t they get theirs?

"OMG, I'm falling in a k-hole"

Drug proliferation is the perhaps the greatest testament to the existence of a Russian middle class, you know, that great void between Roman Abramovich and the pensioners farming beets in permafrost with plastic McDonalds forks. If the unwashed hipster masses can afford narcotics and nice places with chairs and doors in which to do them, then things might not be so bad after all.

The nods

Bono and Naomi Campbell love Paparazzi Bar

This kid sold drugs in my junior high PE class

Kurt Cobainov

Don't forget to hydrate!

Return of Abnormal Circus! Kids...don't do drugs

“OMG, I love everyone!!”

"Shaddup, you don't know meeeee"

Paparazzi Bar, 3/4 Pyatnitskaya Ul., Bldg. 1, Metro: Tretyakovskaya, Tel. 953-1620

Photos: lookatme.ru

Rai'd or Die

2008-08-22T08:45:00.000-07:00

Sexton was founded by feared Soviet motorcycle gang the Night Wolves in the mid-nineties. Ten years and change later, it continues to party on, Wayne. Who'd have guessed the hog & hiefers lifestyle, with its binge drinking, violent beatings, down-for-whatever chicks and white pride, would resonate so well in Russia? Just doesn't add up.

At any rate, three cheers! Sexton is a welcome breath of stale beer from the tired elitny club scene. No where else can you breeze through feis kontrol in a pit-stained Kiss t-shirt -- unless it's Simachev Bar or Solyanka and you are firmly, visibly, unequivocally steeped in irony.

Normally, biker bars are a good place to get your head bashed in non-ironically. But now that the Night Wolves are upstanding middle-aged Putinites, there's much less chance of gang rape, much more chance of fun.

Viva la Lucha Libre!

Predictably, Rai saw how much fun Sexton was having with biker kultur and wanted in on the action. From the looks of their 2,000 euro Ducatti jackets and gleaming D&G belt buckles, it seems something was lost in translation.

It's not the size of your bike, it's how many Rai hoodrats you can fit on it.

"The South will Rai'se again!"

Sexton, 110 Nizhniye Mnevniki, Metro: Oktyabrskoye Pole, Tel. 8 926 4097149

Photos: geometria.ru, mainpeople.ru

Step Back from the Light

2008-08-21T12:43:00.000-07:00

Young man, do yourself a favor and don’t attempt Soho Rooms. I mean, you won’t get in anyway and, moreover, they’ll publicly humiliate you at the door for having the gall to try to breach Moscow’s magical elitny club scene in A+F. (What the fuck?! This is the biggest day of your life and you’re wearing army print cargo shorts!)

"Come towards the legggggs"

But, on the freak chance that you do speak the correct incantation to Pasha Feis Kontrol, before rushing forward towards secrets kept since the dawn of time, ask yourself, “What good will it do for my life?”

Gurgle gurgle

What lies beyond: Hyper-sexualized nymphs rolling on top each other. Supermodels eating up every awkward drunk thing you day like it’s the Holodomor famine. Zero competition by other menfolk.

Is this real life? Have you finally arrived at a place where beautiful women appreciate your natural worth and charm, and reward it with sexual favors in the bathroom? Or is it an alien race, punishing the hubris of man?

"Auggh she's mind-melding!"

Some people’s faces melt off on contact with Soho Rooms, like Raiders of the Lost Ark. Those are the lucky ones. The rest have to go on living knowing that a place like this exists in the world and they can’t live there.

Neenu Neenu

Having to live among uppity, pear-shaped women with memories of Soho Room still fresh in the mind, they eventually drives awls into their own eyes.

You flew too close to the sun, killa.

Soho Rooms, 12 Savvinskaya Naberezhnaya, Metro: Sportivnaya, Tel. 988-7474, sohorooms.com

Photos: mainpeople.ru

Justo Banya Death

2008-08-04T14:38:00.000-07:00

Sauna-turned-apathetic nightclub Justo Banya Dush seems to have fallen in with wrong crowd in the past year. That is to say, no crowd at all. After a mega-impressive opening, Justo rested on its laurels as one of the самый закрытый (most closed-est) clubs in Moscow, never deigning to do the one thing it was supposed to do -- bring the party. Sad, but we have no one to blame but ourselves.

Gave it enough rope to hang itself with

We went out of our way to find its silly unmarked door. We stood in the cold when they couldn't find our name on the list. We paid 3,000 rubles for tables in an empty club. We made excuses to our friends for Justo's failure to perform. We all believed what we wanted to believe -- that it was the harbinger of new generation of Moscow clubs, cool not corny, where hoodies reigned supreme and hoochies were kicked to the curb.

Head tattoos? Really? As Chris Rock said, you can drive a car with your feet, that doesn't mean it should be done! (Also, you can't catch a crackhead in a footrace)

But alas, shuttered behind a steel door, the Great Hip Hope has turned into a haunt for pasty freaksi. Even TimeOut, a cheerleader for Moscow's elitny club scene, described the vibe at Justo as "melancholy." A great place for, like, wristcutters meetings.

"Down the road, NOT across the street, guys"

So these are photos from a White Trash For Cash party night at Justo. Now ask yourself, would you rather be drinking here, or in Bittsevsky Park, killing grounds of the Bittsevsky maniac? At least the latter don't have men in formal shorts.

"Rater, cruer worrd!" -- Justo

Justo Banya Dush, 3 Teatralny Proyezd, Metro: Teatralnaya, Tel. 625-6836

Photos: adensya.ru, mainpeople.ru

Sic Semper Tyrannis

2008-06-13T07:04:00.000-07:00

Every once and a while there comes a club that humanity is so much gayer for. This time it’s Famous, from the promoters who did yesteryear hotspot First. It was known for being a) opposite the Kremlin and b) really douchey.

Gaymous

I like to think that Russian nightlife is moving in the right direction – towards democracy and good fashion sense, albeit following a different beat (shitty techno). But with developments like these, it seems that's just a bedtime story told to little bloggers.

There are reasons Moscow clubs have fire problems

Questions abound. How did a club this mid-'90s cheesy survive into the 21st century? Were we lulled into a false sense of security by a string of respectable openings? Is this our punishment for getting too cocky?

While positioning itself as elitny megaclub, Famous lacks the self-introspect and playfulness of Rai and Dyagilev which could push it over the brink to pure camp pleasure. So it’ll just carry on being fascistically exclusive, pointlessly expensive, criminally tasteless and ultimately joyless -- except for, I guess, 1990s club nostalgists.

Klaatu Barata Nikto, man

80s cokehead power couple -- this is complete atavism!

Sadly, he is in her league at Famous

It's Teeeeeeeeeeam Date Rape

As the first big club to open in the Medvedev era, Famous could be a harbinger of bad things to come. Perhaps under that friendly liberalist chipmunk façade, he's an even badder bitch than Putin.

Oh no! Make way for Crazy M

Every cloud has a silver lining, I guess, as the Famous photos have a little something to increase your chances for a successful clubbing experience. Listen up: The wiseguy with the cigar is Alexei Gorobiy, who started the wildly decadent Zima/Leto/Osen franchise. (Read more about him in this indispensible Vanity Fair piece.) And the one doing the devil fingers is the fabled Pasha Feis Kontrol. By day he's a dentist who lives with his mother (unsubstaniated rumor I chose to spread as fact). By night he wields the God-given authority to deeeee-ny your ass. Combined, these two men have the absolute power to make or break your night, so tread carefully. The guy in the middle, disregard.

"You scuffed my Puma! You'll never club in this town again!!!"

Famous, 15 Rochdelskaya Ulitsa, Metro: Krasnopresnenskaya, Tel. 255-5354

Photos: mainpeople.ru

Kheppi Byerthday, Mr. Simachev

2008-06-02T07:08:00.000-07:00

The Moscow club scene suffers from an alarming infant mortality rate. Remember Versus? Neither do we. After a gradiose opening last September, it quickly faded into relative obscurity. Even my mother could get into Versus now. If the right backs aren’t scratched, bureaucratic brouhahas over liquor licenses, building permits, pool permits, etc. can easily suffocate a baby club . And “accidental” fires (RIP Dyagilev), the preferred means of solving shareholder disputes, claim an unsettling number of victims.

Burn, baby, burn

With this depressing backdrop, cheers to club survivor Denis Simachev Bar, which celebrated its 1st birthday in May. Maybe it’s the new photographer I’m working with, but the bar also seems to have morphed into a happening place you’d actually want to be in. Back when it opened it was the target of severe anathema from, uh, me for using a hipster disaffected veneer to hide a terminally New Russian heart. That is to say, monstrous feis kontrol, overpriced cocktails and golden youth club kids hiding under cardigans. And above all, Denis Simachev’s facial hair is a bit too Megans Law for my taste.

Hide the kids

So it's hard to place why Denis Simachev Bar seems so appealing these days. The photos from the birthday party verify that the place is still very small and very congested, like partying in an ironic shoebox.

Also, what kind of Russian club doesn't have this waiting to slice you open on the dance floor with her razor-sharp pelvic bone. (Sounds of people across the world booking flights to Moscow.) Boring.

I guess its only real acheivement (but one that can by no means be denigrated) is they have hot Russian men, a mythological species. And not just one, but several. I've been at this game for a long time and have yet to see more than two attractive men in the same club. Once, it seemed true, but there was just a mirror in the room.

And if you think that's unusual, get this: They also managed to snag a lesbian for indie street cred. Not a Girl Gone Wild (those are falling out of trees in Moscow), but a real Sapphic powerhouse.

Finally, the man on the left is a Grade A asshat for not letting me in with my cupcake print rainboots. But be nice to him because he mans the door at Simachev Bar.

Photos: uaixblog.com, mainpeople.ru, mixtura.org

Denis Simachev Bar, 12 Stoleshnikov Per., Metro: Teatralnaya, Tel. 629-8085

If You Bring Shoes, They Will Come

2008-05-30T16:06:00.000-07:00

So Marc Jacobs visited his boutique on Petrovka for 45 minutes.

In the words of Adam Sandler, "Whoopity-doooooooooooooooooo."

Who cares about the fey American designer and his beautiful, beautiful shoes. What’s really important here are the colorful human fauna an event like this brings out of the woodwork. And not just the skeezy hipster fashionistas! Also the ones who are married to billionaires and lezz out on MTV and stuff. If you can't get excited about this, the world doesn't hold much more for you.

Let’s have a look.

Whoa, a rare live sighting of Darya Zhukova and Polina Deripaska. These bitties landed Forbes’s second and first richest Russians, respectively. Curious that they still shop at Zara.

Tatu’s Julia Volkova: At least she wore underwear. Note the interestingly hardcore shin tattoo. Does she work at a junkyard?

The real stars of the show were the slim princes, those slips of gay men with a gleam in their eyes and a glass of champagne in their hands.

Danila cut his hair! How cute is he with his little flourecsent tummy showing

Eerily Dorian Grey-ish MTV Russia VJ Vlad Lisovets

Designer Dima Loginov, who looks like a Kraftwerk Michael Ian Black

Vogue's Most Fashionable DJ (whoops, I mean Vogue Russia) in his element. As you can see indoor sunglasses are in, in, in, my friend!

Marc Jacobs was excited about it all as we were

Who let the freaksi in?

Mwah mwah! Air kiss

On a related note, all it takes to win my heart are size 38 Marc Jacobs flats. What size? 38!

Photos: mixtura.org, mainpeople.ru

Marc Jacobs, 16 Petrovka Ulitsa, Metro: Kuznetsky Most, Tel. 624-2023

One Night in Moscow

2008-05-22T07:02:00.000-07:00

Big ups to Paris Hilton, who appears to have made Moscow her second home. She was just in town last month to visit roosky BFF Kiira Plastinina, the heinously rich teen-cum-heinous fashion designer. (I wonder what that last sentence will do for my Google hits…) This week Paris came back with that guy from Good Charlotte to promote her sexy new fragrance Can-Can Cocktail. (Again...)

Paris and Kiira ride ~~the short bus~~ the elevator at Yevropeisky shopping mall

Most Western stars are far too prudent to venture east of Cannes, and with good reason. A bad night in France ends with herpes and a sugar hangover, not missing organs and a ditch in Butovo*. Also, many customer service mainstays we take for granted in the West have not yet reached the former Soviet Union. Like human rights. And TiVo.

But I guess some people have a taste for extreme tourism. And you better believe Paris is getting real paid every time she shows her face in these parts - $1 million a night, if you read the Russian tabloids. Ow, ow! For that money, few people would kick Moscow out of bed for eating crackers. Certainly not me, with Long Island Ice Tea prices at 500 rubles and rising.

Paris about to get feised at her own party

Paris was last spotted at Wall Street Bar, the new and thoroughly weird conflation of all things English speaking. In the neo-modest tradition started by The MOST, it is touting itself as a not entirely depraved place for serious businessmen to meet other serious businessmen and stupidly attractive women. Seriously, looking at the girls in these photos, Paris Hilton comes off as about a 7 and me a feral gypsy child.

The Russian PH knockoff -- plastic smells weird, causes headaches

Wall Street Bar frequenters work hard and play hard. And get paid hard and pay hard (450 rubles for a mojito). There’s Bloomberg TV on the plasma screen cuz the Asian markets open at 3 am. Buy! Sell! Buy! Jackpot!

Checkin' her stocks

The ol’ co-opting-a-famous-name-sans-any-connection trick reminds of a scam language school Garvard Inglish which operated in Moscow in the early naughties. They flew in hordes of teachers from the First World then kept them as indentured servants in Russia, raking all the dough without paying the help. I knew some of these forgotten victims -- Americans and Brits who came with a dream to see the world and exploit innate language skills rather than get a real job. They were left destitute and malnourished, without enough money to cover the rounds at Silver’s. Since the expat.ru servers crashed, there’s no one left bearing witness to this atrocity but MDBIT.

But anyway, unlike that naughty Garvard, we trust Wall Street will provide refreshing beverages and invaluable business connections.

*Moscow suburb you never want to end up in. May as well be Afghanistan, because there’s no sushi and kalyan.

Wall Street Bar, 9/1 Volkhonka Ulitsa, Metro: Kropotkinskaya, Tel. 7(495) 916-5731

Photos: Paparazzi.ru, elite.ru

Twipster 'Do-'Do

2008-05-09T05:15:00.000-07:00

Mysteries of Russian indie steez revealed! Twipster (Third World Hipster) internet portal Look at Me now has step-by-step instructional videos on how to do your hair like a Moscow club kid. Featured are the vaguely Latin "Idalgo", the ironic '90s throwback "Luke Perry" and the "Decembrist," named after revolutionaries who tried to overthrow the tsar and were exiled to Siberia. History remembers both their revolting and their revolting hair. Noticeably absent from this hair collection is the mythological mullet. Perhaps it was all just a bad dream?

Eagle-eye readers will recognize this крутой stylist from a previous episode of MDBIT.

That's right, it's the Karl Lagerfeld impersonator from last summer's Thriller party! Thanks for playing.

Photos: lookatme.ru

Firsto de Mayo

2008-05-06T07:50:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time, Oleg Gazmanov was the lone ranger waxing nostalgic about the CCCP. Senile as he is, he kinda has a point. Some of my favorite people were born in the Soviet Union (then fled immediately). If you filter out all the bad shit, you come up with a pretty neat set of things: chess, cosmonauts, torpedos, spies, “big science” (our favorite, too). We’d add that ambisexual Mickey Mouse knock-off Cheburashka and those medical bars for kids made of dehydrogenated cow blood to the list, as well.

The original O.G.

Nowadays, when journalists are accidentally getting deaded and history textbooks are giving a more patriotic look at the past (Stalin was a great micromanager), nationalism is just the safest hand to play, even on the club scene. Opera’s Pervomaika (1st of May) party resurrected that old proletariat spirit, and showed the world that a monstrous regime is a pretty sexy beast when it lets its hair down.

Now most Opera frequenters were born in the Yeltsin era, not the Evil Empire. Having never been forced to endure long queues and pointlessly circuituous beauracracy for basic supplies (unless you consider sushi and kalyan basic supplies, in which case every weekend at Etazh), they have a somewhat glamorized version of the not too distant past. It's less about Lenin and Marx, more about free vodka shots and STDs.

I survived 80 years of oppression and all I got was these stupid rigger grandkids?

Keeping it really real: gulag chic

Surely the Soviet Union wasn't this bad

If you want a vision of the Moscow future, it's a stiletto stamping on a human face. Forever.

Photos: geometria.ru

Faster, Stronger, Bigger Veranda

2008-04-13T12:16:00.001-07:00

Ah, spring. It doesn't get any better than this. The snow's thawed to reveal all sorts of interesting animal, mineral and vegetable. All the metro dogs have that special look in their eye for you. And you've just got out of paying any taxes back home because you made waaaay below 84K this year (damn you, flaccid dollar).

Oh deer. It's this time again.

Moreover, just surviving the brutal spiritual washboarding of a Moscow winter is thrilling. Like winning a Darwinian marathon. The weak of spirit all gave up ages ago and went back home or to Eurasian safety zones, like Turkey. It's called the Great Winter Sucka Dropping. The strong remain in Russia to get the spoils of good weather: verandas.

Pagan spring veranda goddess

"Suck it, Zimaaa!!!" Ubermensch

There's no happier time on the club scene than "Goodbye Winter" party season. For one, greeting spring is a testament to the human will. And with thinned out crowds, there's more room to get freaky deeky. These photos are from a Vesna party at Emporio Cafe, where the beautiful and seski Survivors emerged from the tundra to take what's theirs. RWARRRR!

Photos: Mainpeople.ru

The Friksi Come Out at Night

2008-04-04T08:04:00.000-07:00

Being a freakazoid is tough goings in Moscow, where not wearing the right seasonal stockings is enough to put a babushka's panties in a firm knot. Drinking vodka at 4 p.m., demanding exact change, answering your cellphone during dinner/symphonies/sex -- all socially acceptable. But exposing your legs before June 1? You degenerate.

Luckily, Moscow's subaltern experimental hipsters have a voice in photographer/party orgainzer/super attractive man Ja'Bagh Kahgado, who is coming out with a CK1-y photo book, Moskva Raw, of all the skinny tatooed people with weird hair you'll find perculating in the mix at the city's underground clubs (all three of them). His company Brainstorm Management throws/helps throw/threw Idle Conversation, which kickstarted, love it or hate it, the Novy Rave movement in Moscow (RIP); New Wave Fridays, where it was finally cool to be gay, or at least dress like it; and Labelfucker, which makes homesick expats feel less bad about a terrible life decision (Moscow); as well as bangin' secret parties that weed out all of the unattractive freaks and leave just the freak babes. Once, a few years ago, I got into one, but it was definitely an accident.

This last photo of Ja'Bagh's, it's not from the book, but enjoy anyway.

Bumping caviar -- something we've all wanted to do for a long time.

Photos: Brainstorm Management

The Weekest Link

2008-03-29T12:32:00.000-07:00

Moscow fashion -- no longer an oxymoron? Places like The MOS T created a new market demand for dignifıed, pretty things you can wear on the street without your lady pieces falling out. At this year's Russian Fashion Week, designers Alena Akhmadullina and Terexov spearheaded a revolution in sartorial understatement, forgoing peacock colors and FM boots for gray tweed and sensible shoes.

The new rank-n-file dyevushki -- elegant, timeless, boring as fuck.

Goodie Sveta in Akhmadullina's Pilgrim collar.

But who cares about them. Certainly not MDBIT, who cares only for the zeniths and nadirs of human achievement. And for every Terexov and Akhmadullina, there's ten more Russian designers pushing the bill on what can be worn in public.

Sergey Zverev for Ilya Shagin. Schwing!

Nationalism sellz: Two Gun Towers' flag cape will be the season's hit

Sergei Efremov Doesn't Believe in Pants.

Carnie chic

Fuck.

As an amateur social anthropologist, Konstantin Gayday's Russian folk print ghoulie faces Muslim keffiyah just made my head explode.

Honorable mention: After all that bad press they got for being rapey, Slava Zaitsev makes being a Cossack cool again.

Good evening, bitties!

Recess tip hats

Taking the fug cake is the 2008-2009 fall-winter collection of Kira Plastinina, the teenage daughter of dairy magnate Sergei Plastinin. A high-powered corporate father and an independently sucessful daughter -- so much talent in that family, it's not fair.

Ma'am! You dropped your vag.

Photos: Geometria.ru

No Oirish Need Apply

2008-03-26T00:06:00.000-07:00

The Oirish have a right to drink. Not only has the proud Celtic culture been reduced to Lucky Charms and theme bars, you have places like Rai in Moscow Effing Russia co-opting their sacred holiday of the apostle St. Patrick saving all the potatoes from leprechauns. And making it really skanky. Jameson, you Uncle Tom!

Riverskank

You think that everyone loves the Oirish but look how many of them made it into Rai. A sea of Slavs without an O'Drunky in sight. What the hey, Rai. The Oirish are fun, too. So cute you want to feed them cereal out of your pocket. Moreover, now they're all at Silver's, feeding me Long Islands and making me sing folk songs about hating the Engrish until I can't stand anymore.

Barman! I'd like a refreshing beverage...

Can you recommend anything?

Just to wet my beak.

What to have, what to have...

What am I here for again?

I'd recognize that dewy Northern European alcoholic facial slick anywhere. An Oirish slipped inside -- get him!

Don't be fooled. That elephant always has green lasers coming out of its eyes.

As usual, Andreas takes it completely beyond the Pale with his fashion choices.

"Boobs," the Opera

2008-03-07T11:37:00.000-08:00

In light of the insiduous Puritanism of Soho Rooms and The MOST, thank Bog there are still places like Opera, where funky-ass hos can roam free.

You forgot your....nevermind.

Photo: Geometria.ru

A Return to Modesty

2008-03-05T15:14:00.000-08:00

Watching the Moscow nightlife scene has always been morbidly fascinating, like watching a large bruise change colors, but this current shade of yellow-green is particularly unbecoming. What happened? Is this the last stage on Moscow's teleological journey? Before it goes straight? Before it abandons pleasuring you in the bathroom for high-necklines and non-alcoholic beers, like the rest of the world?

I'm talking, of course, about the advent of The MOST and Soho Rooms. These places, now dominating the elitny nightlife scene, are cast from the same mold: sophisticated, uber-exclusive pick-up joints that cut out all of the fun stuff, namely lasers, midgets, glitter and hoochies a go-go. The MOST boasts a "no hos" door policy and Soho Rooms claims not to be interested in anyone under 25.

It seems reasonable that oligarchs don't want to wade through all the carnival trash and tubby Americans before they find a diamond. But that's all the fun. Sure, you can meet Roman Abramovich at The Most. But will you be able to wear your favorite FM boots? No, sister.

After a few raspberry cordials, a tender embrace with a bosom buddy at Soho Rooms gets out of hand.

It's not like the options are getting better. For the girls, that is. Rather, it's stripped the fabulously degenerate, all-or-nothing club scene to its most basic porportions: smokin' babes, malformed men and shit music. Boo.

SOHO ROOMS -- a place where Nastya, achingly beautiful Nastya, can finally find her sponsor and be home by 11 pm.

SOHO ROOMS -- where a genetic failure can buy Katya a mojito and still be 90% sure she'll respond to his text messages by next weekend because she's 28 and can't be arsed with this club shit anymore.

Call it disillusionment. Call it growing up. Call it Medvedev onset. But Dyagilev will always be the President of my heart.

Photos: mainpeople.ru
The Most, 6/3 Kuznetsky Most Ulitsa, Metro: Kuznetsky Most, Tel. 660-0706, themost.ru

Soho Rooms, 12 Savvinskaya Naberezhnaya, Metro: Sportivnaya, Tel. 988-7474, sohorooms.com

C-Rai-Mes of Fashion

2008-02-21T10:28:00.000-08:00

Russian clothing line Orby designs clothes for kids with young, hip parents. You know, the kind who aren't afraid to leave them in the Hummer with the driver while they get their drink on in a club. Like Britney Spears. So it makes sense that Orby would debut its collection at Rai, where the laws that govern adult behavior (and fashion) in the rest of the world do not apply.

Irresistible and confusing urge to punch a child.

Girl, they wanted a cat.

Did you know you were gay before they dressed you?

Sometimes when Mommy drinks she makes bad decisions. Mommy's sorry.

Yea, your jeans are cool, but your girlfriend has horsey face.

Forget the silly clothing. Your parents left you alone with Sergei Zverev? They must really hate you.

Say what you want about belittling children, the fact of the matter is that all these fuckers got into Rai, and we didn't. Waaaaaaa!

Photos: fashiontime.ru

Dyagilev Self-Immolates!

2008-02-07T06:24:00.000-08:00

Contrary to popular reports, I was not playing the fiddle while Dyagilev burned, nor did I have any hand in it. I am not even in the country anymore, an issue I will address at a later date when there are not nightclubs to eulogize. At noon on February 6, Interfax reported that Dyagilev, the city’s legendary elitny mega-club in historical Hermitage Garden, the one that sadistically split up groups of friends between the club and the showers, the one that told supermodel Natalia Vodianova to home and change at the door (she did), was en fuego and not in the Corona-sponsored Spring Break sense. In the end, they managed to evacuate Anka and all the acrobats, giraffes and midgets in ass-less chaps from the premises, but Dyaga itself shuffled off this mortal coil. (No, actually, the fire was started by welders doing set decorations during the day.) Nightlife photography website Geometria.ru responded by immediately posting images of the smoldering club on its society photos page. Klass.

Yet many had long expected the demise of this particular nightclub. At two years old, it was a toothless crone in a city that continually defects to the fresher, hotter and more fascistically exclusive. On the down-for-anything front, Rai had it pwned, and new oligarch clubhouse The MOST had siphoned away all the truly sophisticated beauties looking for husbandry. Which meant that all Dyagilev really had left going for it were obscure theme parties, impressive silicone artistry and carnival hoochies. In light of these physical facts, it’s not hard to believe any number of conspiracy theories. Did Sinisha Lazarevich torch his own place for insurance money? Or had the nightclub sensed its own demise and courageously choose to go out in a blaze of glory rather than jump the shark? Or did someone just leave the fire torch on? In that case, Dyagilev died as it lived -- fabulously retardedly.

History will remember Dyagilev for raising the bar for human humiliation with $40,000 tables and people with the surname Feis Kontrol posted at the door. Katie's panties will remember Dyagilev for being ditched in its bathroom at the behest of a minigarch. We'll all remember Dyagilev for learning us good what it means not to believe in tears.

Photos: kommersant.ru, 44100.com, geometria.ru

Peddler of Russian Flesh

2008-01-28T22:34:00.000-08:00

Good morning. Google Analytics informs me that the majority of MDBIT visitors arrived at my blog for reasons less pure than an interest in nightlife anthropology. Unfortunately, the searches for RUSSIAN WHORES and WHERE TO FIND WHORES IN MOSCOW and with alarmingly increasing frequency, SERGEY ZVEREV NUDE, usually come up empty-handed. (See that little trick right there? 40 more visitors a day.) But, this time I'm pleased to be able to give the huddled masses what they actually want — SMUT. For your homoerotic viewing pleasure, here are DIMA BILAN'S BUTT and DANILA POLYAKOV STRADDLING A PUSSY. Enjoy.

Exhibit A.

Exhibit B.

Photos: Brian's Myspace, community.livejournal.com/nespat

Your Sex Is No Good Here

2008-01-25T05:39:00.000-08:00

As I reported before, Moscow takes its leisure very seriously, and its annual Nightlife Awards is about as important as the Oscars. At this venerable ceremony, it was officially decided that no one can manufacture the oontz oontz better than DJ Smash.

There’s no love lost between me and shitty techno. Nonetheless, DJ Smash smashed into my heart like the fist of an angry god. Because he knows how to pick a theme that’s dear to the hearts of Moscow clubbers, condense it into a phrase and then loop it endlessly. It’s a formula for success I've even copied. When Lochamer and I briefly DJ’ed as I Hate Your Endomorphic Girlfriend, it was just that over and over.

DJ Smash's first hit was “Pasha Face Control,” after the legendarily dick door control guy at Leto. Have a listen. He concisely sums up the capital’s club entry policy: “Sex Nye Predlagat” (Don’t Offer Sex.) Ditto for tears, ‘cuz Moscow doesn’t believe in them.

His new joint is called “Moscow Never Sleeps,” and it’s pretty much just those words sung like a Soviet anthem, which works like a charm for rousing city pride. It even inspired two kids to shoot a video about how much they like Moscow. Look for one flashing the killer M around 2:35, then go home and practice.

I love this silly clip because it recreates the thrill of zipping suicidally around Moscow by gypsy cab at night. The only thing that’s missing is the hand creeping up your thigh, even though you’ve told the driver repeatedly you’re a pregnant leper nun whose husband is waiting at home with a shotgun.

Photos: djsmash.ru

Bros Hug

2008-01-20T22:41:00.000-08:00

My homos are always complaining that being in Moscow messes up their gaydar, because you’ll have guys, like pop star Mitya Fomin, Zhanna Friske's ex, who seem gayer than a handbag full of rainbows.

Because they wear see-through windbreakers and enjoy the company of transvestite performers.

And non-repentantly worship Dolce & Gabbanna.

And laugh really gay.

And have the kind of friends that wear lavender turtlenecks.

And lovingly embrace these friends in public.

But, after all this, they still have a retardedly hot girlfriend and are for other intents and purposes, not gay. So it’s confusing.

Photos: mainpeople.ru

Mo’ Money, Mo’ Mustache

2008-01-17T03:56:00.000-08:00

Local boy makes good! Denis Simachev debuted his 2008-2009 Cossack-inspired winter collection for the high-end hipster at Milan Fashion Week. The designer fell back on tried and true elements from his past collections — khokhloma folk print, sassy Cyrillic sloganing — and upped the ironic mustache factor like whoa.

Simachev shares his 'stache

A bit of mustache history: only pedophiles and Latvian men wore them prior to 2005, when they were co-opted by the international hipster movement. (As usual, Moscow’s a little slow on the uptake). But MDBIT says better late than never. The handlebar, the walrus, the Edgar Allan Poe — bring them all on!

Also coming soon to a Moscow near you: bow ties and man dresses!

Photos: fashiontime.ru

I Heart Hate Moscow

2008-01-12T11:57:00.000-08:00

Everyone hates Moscow. Everyone except the people who just got here, with a degree in Russian History and a fresh copy of Dostoyevsky in their back pocket. And even they are beginning to realize that the waitresses are mean and it's hard to cross the street.

Non-Muscovite Russians really hate Moscow. My Russian expatriate friends think it unites the cruelty of feudalism with the foolish excesses of capitalism. Which is, like, so embarrassing on the world's stage. The soldiers in my cabin on the train back from Petrozavodsk hated Moscow because the people have no manners or heart (and they have better cell phones than them). "Moskva ne Rossiya! (Moscow isn't Russia!)," I learned. Then we returned to translating their ringtones. And while I am interested by Moscow, in the way I am interested in the carbuncle on my boyfriend's back, I most certainly do not heart it, because the girls are way prettier than me.

Happy New Year, bitches!

If you have spent significant time in Moscow and still think it rocks, you either a) were born here and don't know any better; b) are a Central Asian gastarbeiter living out your wild bachelor years while sending money back to your hovel; or c) are a bottom-feeding expat who couldn't get laid back in Johannesburg. And even the latter two will concede that their hometowns have much better food.

For that reason I'd like to direct our attention away from the great She-Bitch to Norilsk, the northernmost city in Siberia, formerly a slave labor camp and recently named one of the Top Ten Most Polluted Places in the World. (Life just kept getting better!) The entire city is dying from toxins kicked up by the factories of Norilsk Nikel, owned by Russian brazillionaire Mikhail Prokhorov (who is also known for the minor international escandalo of flying planeloads of prositutes into French ski resort Courchevel). But even freezing, atrophied little Norilsk knows how to party. These are from the New year's Eve Bash at "Tornado." We're not in Moscow anymore, Toto.

Fuck dropping $400 on cocktails at a shitty Moscow club. In Norilsk, $20 buys you enough Sovetskoe Shampanskoe to kill a horse

One boy and one girl for every able-bodied man in Norilsk!

Grease your hair back, unbutton your shirt and pump your fist in the air, because you ARE the life of the party, Mr. Sparkles

Yes! I've searched for months for a photo of one of these in the wild: the provincial male "all bangs" 'do! I thought it went extinct in 2003. I see you, brother!

Shaving squigglies onto your scalp? Also still cool

Unfortunately, other Moscow hair fads have contimated Norlisk like so much nickel and arsenic in the air

And the girls are still smokin' hot. I guess nowhere's perfect

The best part of getting outside Moscow? No feis kontrol!

Photos: Geometria.ru

Saty-Rai-con

2007-12-27T01:00:00.000-08:00

I’m trying to shake the winter doldrums by looking at photos from Rai, which takes it back. Waaaay back. Pagan, naked, super-camp — humankind hasn’t partied this degenerately since 99 AD.

Fellini couldn’t make this shit up. Drenched with sexual juices, rolling in glitter, Rai is a terrifying glimpse into the ancient depravity that exists in each and every one of us, if we can just get past face control.

Somewhere between heaven and hell, this Rai, although last weekend’s inclusion of Boy George tipped the scales towards the latter. Who better to take part in the pre-Christian orgiastic fury than a man recently charged with false imprisonment of a male hustler. If Rai could get R. Kelly up in there, it would be quite an interesting afternoon.

Doesn’t promoter Andreas look like a fun-size Caligula? Doesn’t he just?

Close the window! Go back to from whence you came! Once you realize there’s a place on earth you can indulge every perverse fantasy, including bug-eye sunglasses, you can never feel pleasure again!

Enough. I’m nauseous of boobs and lasers.

Photos: geometria.ru

I Less Than Three DJ Anton Ms

2007-12-26T04:33:00.000-08:00

In the tradition of MDBIT half-heartedly stalking bizarrely coiffed fashion queens, let me introduce DJ Anton M, who is certainly no Danila, but turns up on this website so often I am proud to finally get an ID on him.

Lurking in the background of every high-fashion event, Anton M stands out for his aggressively asymmetric bangs, ambiguous sexuality and little Asian dudeness.

Laying down the beats at Solyanka

Laying down the beats at a children’s furniture exhibit opening

This is a man who has spun everywhere from East Moscow to Ukraine, from the opening of TopShop in Yevropeisky Mall to some party at Respublica bookstore. Named Harper Bazaar Russia’s “Most Fashionable DJ in Moscow,” still Anton maintains, “I’m not a DJ, I just play music my friends like.”

Photos: anton.m.pdj.ru, geometria

Suck an Egg! MDBIT in MT

2007-12-25T23:29:00.000-08:00

Some at the Moscow Times are, like me, fascinated by the dizzying highs of Moscow at play. The holiday season brings in a special wave of short bus-riding elitny ridiculousness: corporate parties. Since it's already mid-December, people have left for the holidays and no one is paying attention to what's going in the paper anyway, I was able to make my debut as an authoritative nightlife anthropologist correspondent.

Na, kartoshka:

"Companies skimp on health benefits, toilet paper and coffee creamer for an entire year for the ultimate holiday blow-out," nightlife blogger Moscow Doesn't Believe in Tears, or MDBIT, said in an e-mail interview. She declined to give her real name because she said a corporation owns her and could easily withhold her lunchtime blogging privileges.

Companies are also willing to pay top dollar to bring a famous face to a party. "They don't do much more besides smile confusedly and pose for photo ops," the nightlife blogger, MDBIT, said in e-mailed comments.

"Remember Gwyneth Paltrow? Academy Award-winning actress Gwyneth Paltrow? Martini paid to have her in a cage at one of its parties" MDBIT wrote. "If Moscow history has taught us anything, it's that anyone can be bought."

"The presence of a celebrity validates the affair under the principle that if you throw enough money at something, it becomes truth," MDBIT wrote. "Also, it's a middle finger to the rest of civilization: 'We OWN you, bitches!'"

For the record, it was a Facebook, not email, interview, but the AP style guide doesn’t yet accommodate that medium.

The big news of this season is that Oleg Deripaska rented Rihanna for a Russian Aluminum party, and invited fellow brazillionaire Roman Abramovich. Actually, Tvoi Den put it better: “Deripaska Gives Black Woman as Present to Abramovich for $500,000.” Ah, oligarch love.

All for you, Roma: Rihanna performs at Club XIII

Back on earth, corporate parties are less about human trafficking, more about scamming halyava (free shit), especially alcohol. I am told it is the case with corporate parties the world over, but for reals, everyone at my corporate party was dry-hump-the-secretary, put-on-an-afro-and-pull-a-nylon-over-your-head-“Look-I’m-black”-dance drunk.

Here are some poor Russian’s corporate party photos, because I didn't take any of my own. But it looked pretty much the same, down to Igor filming it all for Monday morning retribution.

Photos: Tden.ru, picasaweb.google.com/Filimonenkow

Fashism

2007-12-13T04:10:00.000-08:00

Youth brigade Nashi held a fashion show by Red Square to drum up interest in the Putin 4-Eva movement. After all, nothing says slavish devotion like stripping down to your panties in sub-zero weather.

Vova, my crotch is with you. The dark gas elf is too short to lead!

Thanks to Scraps of Moscow for the tip-sky.

Photos: goblin-gaga.livejournal.com, yagoda-kalina.livejournal.com

Mittens Are for Estonians

2007-12-10T03:55:00.000-08:00

Rasha is effin’ cold. Plus, there are plenty of other things to worry about (maintaining nation’s birthrate, getting a table at Rai, not being eaten by bears.) For these reasons, little sway is given to the concerns of Western animal rights activists.

The annual “Fire & Ice” fashion event shows “what’s up” in the world of fur and leather. I’m posting photos from last year’s event because they’re much more fantastische. Also because I remembered seeing them back then and feeling a peculiar swell of emotion then ultimately resulted in the creation of this blog.

Nothing comes between me and my mink flapper dress.

Screw You, PETA.

Of course, you have to come to “Ice & Fire” swinging your biggest fur accessories.

But if you really want to know what captured my heart, and sent me down the path to Moscow nightlife anthropology blogging, it was the fellow above. He had me at jewel-encrusted eye-patch.

Photos: elite.ru

Burnt by the Sun and City

2007-12-07T06:36:00.000-08:00

I’m scabbing my own strike. If there’s one person out there who wants to know about Moscow’s fabulously retarded nightlife, then I guess that’s enough. Especially since I found a crop of party photos that need to be released into the wild: “Sun and City” at club Opera.

Just when you start posting things like “Moscow is becoming cool” and new oligarch club The MOST uses its “no skanks” policy as a selling point, something happens to make you realize it was all smoke and mirrors. Moscow is still Mars, Moscow is still Hell, Moscow still wears sunglasses at night.

Opera, fashioned as elitny hip hop megaclub, is in itself inherently ridiculous, but coupled with “Sun and City,” it provided a lens of uniquely fabulous retardedness through which to view the city. Sun and City is a poplar solarium. Hell, I’ve been there. Tanning is something dangerous for your health you have to do in Moscow to fit in, like driving without a seatbelt and having unprotected sex.

But indoor sunglasses? Let me just jump in my spaceship.

Note use of blackface and black people as promo for a solarium.

That’s really tan!

The remainder of the photo series is just called, "When You Were Leaving The House Tonight, Girl, Someone Lied to You.”

Girl.

Someone.

Lied.

To YOU!

Opera, 6 Trekhgorny Val., Metro: Barrikadnaya, Tel. 205-9822

Photos: mainpeople.ru

A-Rai-yan Nation

2007-12-04T08:04:00.000-08:00

Something in the water at Rai? It's starting to resemble "Village of the Damned," or perhaps Hitler's grooviest vision of the future. These photos are from last weekend's Bob Sinclair concert, where your corny endormorphic girlfriend and her friend were playing Olsen Twins.

In other news, I'm going on strike until people start posting more comments. I have a Statcounter; I know I'm not just writing this for myself. Russia, United Arab Emirates, Korea, Davis — you take and you take and you take of the MDBIT and you gives nothing back. But, no one rides for free. Look, I don't make any money off this thing. All I want is attention. And expensive panties.

For My Sisterz

2007-11-29T04:46:00.000-08:00

On November 23, the hallowed Altai marble halls of Ritz Carlton were tarnished by the ass-ugly spring/summer 2008 collection by Via delle Perle, an Italian fashion house. Allegedly an Italian fashion house, as I have a very, very hard time swallowing that this clothing did not originate from somewhere in the post-Soviet bloc. Cut-off tops circa 1991, leopard print bodysuits and neon baseball caps — at very least VDP vacationed in Sochi for inspiration.

(MDBIT Fun Fact: The singer's name is Anesthezia.)

Even the MC looks like he stepped out of Color Me Bad video. However, this is all at odds with dominant critical theory on Russian fashion. Fellow social anthropologist and RUSSIA! magazine contributor Julia Ioffe recently told Gawker:

“They've only had about 16 years to catch up to us, so they went through all these phases really fast. Like, two years of disco, two years of cokehead 80's ... they're just starting to get the appeal of subtlety.”

According to her estimations, Moscow’s now at 1999. Wrong! Girlfriend, we are still in the roaring “I’m NOT a Common Girl” attitude baby tee early '90s.

Russian girls. Ah, Russian girls. They are the stare that hangs on too long, the cup of tea with too much sugar. But to be fair, its hard to stand out, so you kinda have to dress like a peacock. By some cruel hiccup of fate, there are 8 of these:

For every one of these:

In the kingdom of the blind, the lumpy, pasty dude is king.

Ritz-Carlton Moscow, 3 Tverskaya Ul., Metro: Okhotny Ryad, Tel. 225 8888

Photos: Elite.ru, adensya.ru

The World is Not Faire

2007-11-29T00:40:00.000-08:00

Oh, man. Moscow Doesn’t Believe in Tears lives for one week a year, and that’s this one, which lassoes the Supreme Luxury conference and the Millionaire Faire into one diamond-farting extravaganza. Here are scenes from last weekend’s Millionaire Faire, in case you were starting to believe “Market Maturing Toward Tasteful Luxury.”

Vladimir Vladimirovich! So great to hear your voice.

Kids! Get in the helicopter. We’re going to McDonalds.

Keeping up with the Ivanovs.

When in doubt, castle your crazy marble, diamond encrusted Aztec totem.

Fantasy adventure Olga, you look divine.

But is there room left for the microwave?

Come to think of it, I wouldn’t kick the Ivanovs out of bed for eating crackers.

At last! A car to match my 17-year-old girlfriend’s Sony Ericsson.

Where am I?! Ah, yes.

You fool! I found the same 4 icelink rims with Bentley Coupe and 24-hour bodyguard down the street for $2 million!

Children, release those fistfuls of worthless dollars! Now it is the ruble that is doing the fucking.

Stay tuned for the Chocolate Salon at Gostiny Dvor next week, which is all of this, except CHOCOLATE.

Photos: Elite.ru, adensya.ru

Moscow Believes in Tours

2007-11-23T05:02:00.000-08:00

Extensive coverage by The Guardian, Gridskipper, Usemycomputer.com, Brentschulkin.com, The eXile and other online and print publications has helped Moscow Doesn’t Believe in Tears achieve massive popularity in only a few months. Our stat counter shows hundreds of visitors checking in daily everywhere from Davis, California to the United Arab Emirates. World, what’s clear is that you’re hooked on Moscow nightlife. And we’re going to go out on a limb and say that rather than just reading about the city’s exclusive clubs, endless vodka rivers and minigarchs with personal monasteries, you’re tempted to buy a ticket and live it. By all means, “Gopher it!” Don’t just be a voyeur. LIVE COURAGEOUSLY. Every other weekend of the year can be spent in tofu, beige, tapioca Davis -- give one to Moscow!

But, don’t be a fool. Hell is a very scary place, especially at night. Try it alone, and you will end up in a ditch in Butovo, ruined by bathtub vodka and venereal disease. It is integral to your health and nightlife success that you take an experienced sherpa, which is why we designed this special program for all the friends we have not even met yet.

Our jet-set Moscow Believes in Tours package is custom-tailored to the Client's needs.

NECESSARILY INCLUDES

Pre-trip Skype briefing session to identify the Client’s specific preferences. Think of it as the part in Total Recall when they choose the components of the memory that will be planted in Arnold Schwarzenegger’s brain. Cab or metro? Elitny or expat sports bars (popular option)? Straight or gay? Entirely up to you.
Dinner and drinks at some of the hottest Moscow nightlife spots. We’ll be honest: entry into the absolute top tier clubs is never a guarantee, due to the unpredictable, draconic practice of “face control,” which is often one of the hardest things for the visitor to wrap his head around. However, good-looking, smooth-talking and connected folk that we are, your chances are certainly increased with MDBIT. What IS guaranteed is unforgettable, vodka-saturated memories at places that you, as a visitor, won’t be able to tell aren’t the best.
Sparkling conversation. MDBIT has a degree in Phenomenology and strong, half-formed opinions on a range of topics after only one Long Island Iced Tea. Katie has a degree in Public Relations and an accent from the British Commonwealth that many people find ATTRACTIVE.
Wingman/translation assistance to facilitate romantic success. Moscow is home to legendarily beautiful women who really open up after a few drinks. Not all of them are prostitutes! A few years ago just speaking English sealed the deal, but NO LONGER. We’ll gladly explain to anyone that you’re the son of a wealthy Chilean diplomat looking for a serious girlfriend.
Protection from the unsavory elements of Moscow nightlife. Any number of things can ruin a night on the town: unreasonable bouncers, lost coat check tag, aggressive prostitutes, etc. MDBIT is there smooth over life’s little inconveniences.

CAN INCLUDE

Pick-up at the airport
Excursions to the ballet, museums, Red Square, souvenir markets and other cultural shit
Holding your passport when you get too drunk

Prices are negotiable and depend entirely on the amount of personal attention needed, but expect around $300 Agent Provocateur e-bucks per weekend, prepaid. Note: The fee does NOT include visa, airfare, cabs, meals, drinks, souvenirs, bribes, prostitutes or any other expense/service than the knowledgeable consulting and nightlife accompaniment of MDBIT. As promised before, an additional fee of 3 (three) Long Island Iced Teas can sometimes buy a spot on Katie’s foldout couch. Availability is entirely subject to MDBIT’s caprice and whether Mr. MDBIT is on a business trip.

THIS IS NOT A SCAM!

Our Moscow Believes in Tours program has already been up and running in beta mode for close to two years, with many satisfied customers. One of these is Scott, 26, a consultant for Qatar Airways, whose first time in Moscow was a success thanks to our services. Read his testimonial:

MDBIT met me at the Sheraton Palace, drained the minibar, picked out a dress shirt for me to wear, expertly hailed a cab with Moscow-style casual low hand extension (rather than up in the air as prevails in the Western world – brilliant!), negotiated a reasonable fare and got us to this restaurant Bon, where she’d made reservations. Let me tell you, the atmosphere was unreal. There were supermodels everywhere and skulls wearing jewelry and not a bottle of wine under $120. Food tasted like shit, but it was worth it! Then we crossed the river to Rai for the quintessential Moscow experience of being “face controlled.” And she was right: when we strolled up, a fat, pockmarked dwarf told us there was a “private party.” Love it! So we moved on to a warehouse club called 1171, and spent the next few hours getting wasted on Long Island Iced Teas and making fun of people on the dance floor. Finally, she took us to a chill neighborhood bar Help, ordered beers the sizes of our heads and, when it was time to go, helpfully gestured in the general direction of our hotel before lurching away to flag her own cab. Thanks for showing us around town in Moscow! Let me know when you make it here to Doha!

His AP e-vouchers went to these Fantasia control briefs with suspender clips.

Book your Moscow Believes in Tours trip IMMEDIATELY ensure a spot this hot clubbing season. Our calendar is rapidly filling with tourists who are leaving boring 9-to-5 behind and saying DA! to life.

Next up this month Michael, a San Francisco investment banker who takes leisure very seriously. Having read MDBIT religiously since its inception, he’s finally taking the plunge. The only thing he’s worried about is whether he’ll be able to maintain his carefully cultivated tan in gray Moscow. The answer is YES. Because Michael told us in advance, we were able to book him appointments at Mesto Pod Solntsem, a VIP solarium in central Moscow.

We’ve already directed his prepaid e-vouchers towards this flattering halter neck swimsuit.

Michael is living courageously. ARE YOU?

UPDATE: SPECIAL WINTER HOLIDAYS DISCOUNT. I WILL NOW BE LEADING TOURS FOR RAIN BOOTS, WHICH AREN'T THAT EXPENSIVE. I WILL ALSO ACCEPT THEM AS FAN GIFTS. ANY OF THESE FROM CHOOKA WILL DO ALTHOUGH THE ONES BELOW ARE PRETTY COOL. I AM SIZE 39.

Banya of Douches

2007-11-19T03:34:00.000-08:00

Moscow nightlife is many things — namely an expensive, decadent, exciting, confusing, unappetizing accelerant of spiritual decline — but, until recently, cool wasn’t one of them. Then all of a sudden everyone developed a sense of ironic distance. Gone is the conspicuous consumption. Gone are the spotlights and the fanfare. The underground elite's favorite clubs are password-encrypted and behind unmarked doors. The newest of this breed is Justo Banya Dush, housed in a converted sauna in the vicinity of Red Square. Which door? Well if you don't know already I'm not going to tell you.

That sign would be a lot more helpful if it was on the outside.

But if you do find it, and can convince the doormen you’re close with Dima Nowslurhisnameov (works like a charm), you’ll enter a true hipster Utopia. In addition to looking really neat and nudge-nudge ironic, its vibe is totally chill. No sloppy drunk people, no ridiculous posturing by your corny endomorphic girlfriend, just a lot of cool cats posted up in the corner with hoodies.

$10 beers seem a little out of place for heaven, but what can you do? Moreover, despite that whole face control business, JBD has serious aspirations to egalitarianism. Which means letting (1) celebs rub elbows with the (2) really rather thick and ordinary, yet well-connected, upper-middle class.

(1) Timati, a.k.a "the Black Star"

(2) Justo-nother yuppie in crowd.

JBD — a club for social climbers of all ages and creeds, a place where grandfathers can take their granddaughters. No one is judging, man.

But there is trouble in paradise. DA (nee Doroshchenko, Anatoly) works for illustrious club photography site Geometria.ru. For him, if there's one problem with JBD, it's that there's no carnival trash eye candy milling around like at Dyagliev or Rai. He wants to take photographs of things that look visually interesting, not self-congratulatory hipsters who transcended the fray.

That’s he's why he's stuck in the bathroom, snapping pics of himself. So, help DA out. For example, bring a prop. Like a flower.

Simple hand games also work. Anything so you’ll stand out.

DA made this girl retake the photo with her pinkie jammed in her mouth three times in order to capture the perfect degree of whimsy.

Then again, if you’re a hot bitch who’ll flash everything she has, that always works, too.

Justo Banya Dush, 3 Teatralny Proyezd, Metro: Teatralnaya, Tel. 625-6836

Photos: geometria.ru

Rashn for Dummies

2007-11-14T04:17:00.000-08:00

What are the kids saying these days? Free weekly Bolshoi Gorod published a double plus good lexicon of newspeak in Moscow’s dangerously jaded fashion community. Can’t say I’ve heard many of these neologisms in the wild, but then again this is a rarefied crowd we’re talking about. Below are MDBIT’s official summary translations.

Блядопровод — Blyadoprovod
Literally “ho pipeline,” in the oil & gas sense. Used to refer to fashionable Moscow establishments frequented by professional women looking to pick-up johns.

Вертушка — Vertushka
A Vertu cellphone. Also the name of an old Soviet phone network system connecting government lines.

Деревня — Derevnya
Literally “the village,” referring to Baravikha Luxury Village, a focal point for the fashion crowd.

Данила — Danila
Synonymous with freak, a “strange passenger.” The term derives from red-haired Danila Polyakov, who successfully models both man and female lines. Possible to use in the neuter gender — i.e. “polnoe Danilo” (completely Danila) — which is extraordinarily convenient in our new gender-ambiguous world.

Дяга — Dyaga
Russian national nightclub Dyagilev decorated with the Order of the Red Banner. Frequent visits lead to rehab.

Минигарх — Minigarch
Also know as “Oligarch Lite,” “mini-oligarch” or “ruble millionaire.” The term refers to men worth somewhere in the vicinity of $50 million. Not really hip Russian newspeak, since it can already be found in Webster’s dictionary.

Рубль — Ruble
Rublevo-Uspenskoe highway and the surrounding area, which is a natural reserve for Forbesmen (those listed on Forbes Magazine's 100 Richest list).

Тюнинг — Tuning
The main past time of women in the “antique erotic” category. “Zhetskii” (hard) tuning indicates over-saturation with Botox.

У Дини — U Dini
Nickname of Denis Simachev’s bar-café-store on Stoleshnikov Pereulok. Also doubles as a password for feis kontrol — “Is Dinya there?” categorically disarms guards.

Russian — Russian
Describing grandeur and flamboyance, rarely of a constructive type.

Again, THEY SAID IT, NOT ME!

Photo: denissimachev.com

Neverland Ranch

2007-11-12T10:00:00.000-08:00

When it's not occupied hosting concerts for aging divas whose stars fell in the rest of the world a long time ago (Gloria Gaynor, David Guetta), elitny megaclub Dyagilev can't resist a good theme party. Here's the Top 5 of the Fall 2007 club season. (Note: these aren't my made-up titles. Like a depraved creative writing summer camp, no theme is too abstract for a game of Let's Pretend at Dyagilev.)

1. "Betty Ford Clinic" (Nov. 9), in which all the skank nurses from Halloween night rise again.

2. "Candidate for President" (Nov. 4), in which Putin's Plan has something to do with bras and shitty techno.

3. "Seven Princesses and You Under a Blanket" (Oct. 26), in which I can only count six princesses. One must be suffocating under the blanket.

4. "Oxygen Boom" (Oct. 18), in which gusts of O2 send maidens into raptures.

5. "Rock & Roll Forever" (Oct. 12), in which the euro humps all other currency. No need to rub it in!

Photos: Geometria.ru

Ochen Horrowshow

2007-10-30T04:50:00.000-07:00

Given the city's predilection for Bacchanalian excess, it makes sense that Moscow would take to Halloweeen, a non-organic holiday, like a street dog to an abandoned toddler. Russian girls have embraced a fundamental truth known by American sorority girls for quite some time: Halloween is a great excuse to dress like a ho. With enough care, even the most banal costume can be skankified.

Skank Nurses

Bride of Skankenstein

Skangel

You don't understand the infinite sadness that comes from spending hours meticulously wrapping yourself in Ace bandages treated overnight in black tea for that special 2,000-year-old mummy look, only to be turned away from XIII in favor of this girl.

In general, guys come up with better costume ideas, as they're not afraid to experiment with different world cultures.

I refuse to believe he went there. Perhaps its a bad tan. Perhaps he was out of conditioner.

Perhaps the star got stuck to his uniform in the dryer.

But Halloweening as Holodomor victim? That's tasteless.

Finally, Russians spend years trying to undo a black PR campaign that bears roam freely on the streets of Moscow, then this guy fucks it all up.

Club XIII, 13 Myasnitskaya Ul., Metro: Chistiye Prudy, Tel. 925-3550

Photos: Geometria.ru, moscowfaces.ru

A Very Special Episode

2007-10-23T02:56:00.000-07:00

With magical blogging, you can wish things into being. Such as Fresh Art’s Russian Fashion Week party last weekend, which assembled 4 out of 5 of our plastic surgery train-wrecks in the same room, plus a handful of other recurring MDBIT characters. If Danila Polyakov had shown up, I would have shut down down this dangerous, dangerous voodoo doll of a blog.

This is Fresh Art. They used to go to my gym. Now they look sort of human, but there was a time when they ran around in ass-length gold dreadlocks and blue contacts. They are a Russian design trio. What do they design? Oh, everything.

Homo-erotic underpants.

Butt-ugly shoes.

Babies.

They also excel at soft lens photography of backwards multiculturalism; shooting music videos with wax figurine Liza Sharikova; and hella socializing. When Fresh Art threw a party — a Fresh P-Arty, hehehe — at Elysium, the concert hall wing of Rai, on October 20, everyone came.

Rai promoter Andreas pays homage to Fresh Art's early-'90s, irony-less cool by shaving patterns into his flattop.

Holy crap, those Dyagilev chicks weren't even famous before, just an Internet meme. Now they're hanging on the corpse of Sergei Zverev.

Fresh Art can't leave home without Sharikova's mummy.

Even Sasha Feis Kontrol heeded the call.

Some new stars of the plastic surgery world were born.

Looks a little bit like the last days of Hitler's bunker.

I guess I'll round this off with photos of one of the Fresh Artists mauling a dancer. Don't call him gay!

Rai, 9 Bolotnaya Nab., Metro: Polyanka, Borovitskaya, Tel. 767-1474

Photos: freshart.ru, geomteria.ru

The Old Man & the Cheese

2007-10-17T04:52:00.000-07:00

Haven’t you heard? Looks like we’ve been eating poo (a lot of it). Good one, Moscow.

But mastication stopped being fun a looong time ago. I, for one, lost my appetite somewhere around Etazh, a nasty little cafe chain that’s managed to harness the city’s worst restaurant tendencies: face control, tacky design, shameless misrepresentation of the rich culinary traditions of Japan, Italy and Mexico. Also, it’s loud, and the waiters are mean.

Screw you, Etazh.

When eating is a constant struggle, it’s easy to lose hope. For guidance, many turn to an expat eating club. Such as:

Journo Clusterfuck Thursdays — When you were young, energetic and could still fit into size 4 jeans, you went to Propaganda Thursdays to make friends. Some of them were even Russian. Now that you can’t be bothered with new people and all you want is a chimichanga and a margarita, you go to Hemingway’s, even though chances are high you’ll be trapped at the end of the table with “Francis” from “Element.” I mean, "Matt" from "Jew News." I mean, I love you guys.

Wednesday Evening Food Critics Association of Moscow — The Skull & Bones of the Moscow expat social world, WEFCAM is governed by intricate set of dining rules, such as “Teresa must always pay 1,000 rubles.”

Turkish Women’s Association — Rumor has it they eat tartines at Le Pain Quotidien on Mondays.

Cheezeburger Klub — I’m not only the president, I’m also a member. The club generally convenes at McDonalds Pushkinskaya, Starlite Diner Mayakovskaya or my kitchen Aeroport. Contact me if you want in.

Then again you may not want to eat with expats. They’re mostly cheap, fussy bastards, like this joker who did amateur undercover reporting into Hemingway's lack of chili cheese.

If you really want to lose your lunch, check out his riveting "Four Russian Hookers" documentary. It's like Spike Lee's "Four Little Girls," except starring an aging expat loser and his hookers.

Hemingway's, 13 Komsomolsky Prospekt, Metro: Frunzenskaya, www.hemingways.su

Field of Dreams

2007-10-12T05:06:00.000-07:00

You remember Kolomeskoe from Afisha Picnic (You remember it all very clearly because you were wet and sober). On the expansive grounds of this historical park, Russia's No. 2 investment bank Troika Dialog managed to do what a bunch of lazy hipsters could not: throw a fucking party.

To be fair, Troika Dialog had more funds to play with. A long time ago, CEO Ruben Vardanyan promised that if the company's worth exceeded $1 billion, he would give away $10 million in bonuses to everyone from top executives to the cleaning ladies. Everyone was real thrilled about that. What they didn't know was that Crazypants McGee also planned to parachute into his own killer party if they hit the mark.

Well, they did, and he did.

On the last Saturday of September, Kolomenskoe was transformed into Troika Dialog's "Gorod Mechty" (City of Dreams). Life at an investment bank sucks — you work like a dog, do a lot of stimulants and then blow your entire 75K bonus on a stupid green watch. Some people think you've become a sociopath. But it all becomes worth it when you get to go to a company party and send your friends text messages that say, "Holy fucking shit Prince is on fucking stage."

Prince, the world's most erotic diminutive pop star, at a Moscow corporate party. You'll have to visualize that yourself though, because the only photos from the event to be found in the Internet ether are promo shots of "human decorations," and the above party snaps from what looks to be an arty secretary. Russian business lacks transparency?

SCRATCH THAT. A MDBIT reader who wishes to remain anonymous just sent in this hazy cellphone pic of what appears to be Prince in some sort of concert venue. Rock-solid evidence, My work here is done.

Photos:elite.ru, youha.livejournal.com, that one guy

Wazzup Rockers

2007-10-04T08:17:00.000-07:00

Shit, I thought I had my finger in every hole of teen culture. But I missed last weekend’s Trendy Candy 2 party at Proyekt Fabrika, which is some unholy union of White Trash for Cash, 9 Lines internet magazine and a bunch of arty LiveJournalists, to say nothing of Trendy Candy 1. For shame, MDBIT.

Hey, you misspelled, ah — nevermind.

An old-fashioned high school party in an industrial warehouse, where people are staggering around drunk, snapping each others underwear and shotgunning Sovetskoe Shampanskoye, makes for great Larry Clarky photography. In fact, the entire party was staged in order for people to take high-contrast photographs for their blogs.

Like this:

What I like about this party is that it’s overrun with gay guys and riotously drunk, well-dressed chicks, both of whom would be unwelcome in any other nightlife establishment in the city. Maybe that’s why they’re partying in a paper mill. If I were a boy, I would be all over this scene. By 3 a.m., it must be like shooting fish in a bucket.

I mean, shit.
Cheers to the chick in blue vinyl, because there are definitely not enough of her in Moscow. I was going to lie and say she was me, but I already said I wasn't there. Rats. Brother of mine, you have my blessing to marry fair Abnormal Circus. Let's look at her some more:

Photos: 9linesmag.com, abnormal-circus.livejournal.com

Proyekt Fabrika, 18 Perevedenovsky Per., Metro: Baumanskaya, Tel. Uh...

I Can Has Art?

2007-10-03T23:25:00.000-07:00

Who said that blogging doesn't get you anywhere? In August, window blinds magnate, art collector and avid LiveJournalist Igor Markin opened a populist gallery in downtown Moscow. Art4.ru has late hours, furniture to lounge in and pretty girls on staff instead of ancient crones. People place stickers next to the pieces they like best.

Ich bin ein freewheeling arty playboy millionaire!

Markin has taste for noncomformist art, which means that Art4.ru is the kind of place you’re likely to find Oleg Kulik waving his naked butt in people’s faces. But he’s also a patriot: Art4.ru recently hosted a contest for a Yelstin monument, mostly to stop the much loathed Tsereteli, Mayor Yuri Luzhkov’s pet favorite, from doing it. (Markin has also set up a Fund for Dismantling Monuments created by Zurab Tsereteli.)

The Internet portal of Art4.ru is a great way to track where free champagne will be, and what's going on in the greater art world as it pertains to Russia. For instance "Moscopolis," an exhibit of Russian artists' representations of Moscow running at the Louis Vuitton space in Paris until Dec 31.

Cardboard Mausoleum

From a brilliant series: In Moscow of the Future, the Russian government is housed in the Malevich Building, a black monolith.

The Big Russian Soul is physically located! We always suspected this would happen eventually. It's a Huge, Flying Ball of Russian Spirituality (2416), which hovers above the city.

Had a suspicion about this as well. But where are all the Shokolodnitsas?

Photos: art4.ru

Art4.ru, 4 Khlynovsky Tupik, Metro: Arbatskaya, Tel. 660-1158

Top Five Plastic Surgery Disasters

2007-09-20T22:16:00.000-07:00

5. Sasha Feis Kontrol. His voluminous, marshmallow lips are probably natural, but he turned me away from Leto one too many times...

4. Muz-TV host-turned-LDPR Duma deputy Masha Malinovskaya

3. Singer Flilip Kirkorov. What big eyes you have!

2. Liza Sharikova — actress, model, Fresh Art groupie and frozen in time. Once she shaved her head and tried her hand at singing. Neenu, neenu!

1. The Western world should really know about Sergei Zverev — hairdresser, reality TV star and recipient of our lifetime achievement award. You go, girl!

But these are all celebrities. To witness real collagen in the wild, go to Dyagilev. Oh, we have seen these sisters before. (Cute! That was back when MDBIT hadn't ironed out its grave formatting problems.) Are there two? Three? Four? I can't tell when it bleeds into the next set of girls or when it stops being Dyagilev, but it's a great ride.

Finally, it's good to see we have a sense of humor about things!

Photos: 44110.com. elite.ru, nightparty.ru, geometria.ru, lizasharikova.ru, and myriad other sources

Tales from the Crypt

2007-09-19T23:25:00.001-07:00

Sextogenarian Iggy Pop played B1 Maximum on September 11. How much does old man rawk cost? Just $75 a head.

B1Maximum, 11 Ordzhonikidze Ul., Metro: Shabolovskaya, Tel. 648-6777

Photo: Geometria.ru

Welcome to the Jungle, or the One about Feis Kontrol

2007-09-18T22:40:00.000-07:00

Dyagilev? Dyaga-dead. September 13 saw the opening of another elitny megaclub contender, "Versus." According to its press release, the name means "against" in Latin, but all of Moscow is very "for" this club. It allegedly has 1,500 person capacity, Venetian-themed go-go girls, two dance floors and a pool which they threaten to fill with sharks and champagne. (While this seems like a joke, it most likely is not. I will alert animal control.)

Versus doesn't want your money. Versus wants to lick your salty tears.

All of this is unsubstantiated, however, because all the people I know were turned away from the opening. Moreover, in the twenty minutes they were out there, crying, they didn't see anyone let in either. Spotlights, cue-ball headed bouncers, fanfare, but no entry. An interesting move, Versus. Most clubs will sadistically extend to you the option of sacrificing half your crew, the ugly ones, to get inside. Which you, of course, gladly accept. What can I say? In the words of Guns and Roses, ya learn to live like an animal in the jungle where we play.

This is for the rest of the world, which is used to getting into places without human debasement: In Moscow you can be arbitrarily denied entrance to everything — clubs, Kofe Haus, libraries, whatever. I was once notably feis-kontrolled from an elevator, and no amount of lies and chicanery would get me to the 33rd floor. All this functions to make you want what's inside real bad, even when you know it's just going to be a lot of this:

Wax replica of Sergei Zverev.

She looks like the inspiration for my former musical project, I Hate Your Corny, Endomorphic Girlfriend.

Caligulan dwarf "Andreas" of Rai.

Ha! He got in, not you. Might as well go hang yourself in the bathroom.

Which reminds me. Special for MDBIT readers: There's a hot new club opening up in the underpass by Aeroport metro. It's called Kiosk. Password is "Jaguar," but rumor is no one gets in. Keep this on the down low though, they don't have their liquor license yet.

Versus, 15A Oruzheiny Per., Metro: Mayakovskaya , Tel. 225-1913
Kiosk, 59 Leningradsky Prospect, Metro: Aeroport

Photos: adensya.ru, www.happyland-drink.ru

Burn, Kofe Haus, Burn

2007-09-12T04:06:00.000-07:00

Cue a primal, Arsenio Hall hoot of "USA! USA! USA!" My opinionated, fanny-packed brethren sent us Starbucks on Sept. 2 to wipe out the capital's miserable coffee-joints. The most expensive drink on Starbucks' menu may be 270 rubles, but it's undoubtedly better that the thimbles of slop we got by on before. Look, I'm not the only one that feels this way. The design studio of Art Lebedev posted this cute little message on its blog:

Dear Starbucks! Do what you have to do to put Kofe Haus and Shokolodnitsa to death

Add Zen Coffee, Coffee Bean and especially Kofemania to that list, to make the Great Purge complete. Here's the contact if you want to join the movement: my_job@starbuckscoffee.ru.

Photos: flickr.com/photos/joemclaren, artlebedev.ru

Starbucks (inside Mega Mall), Khimki, Tel. 648-9466 , starbuckscoffee.ru

FAQ You, FAQ You, You’re Cool, FAQ You, I’m Out

2007-09-11T23:53:00.000-07:00

There was I time I hated myself for being so poor I had to hang out at FAQ Cafe, a D.I.Y. bohemian place which looks ready to cave in on itself at any moment. Then I learned to stop worrying and love the arty, free-spirit-or-else of it all, because at least it’s not as bad as the rest of the club scene.

Or is it?

OR IS IT?

It all brings back bad memories of being in high school, taking Basic Photography and then showing it to people and writing poetry and then showing it to people. Plus, even if they’re hippie lesbians, the girls at FAQ still get nakey on the bar after two cocktails, which undermines everything, I think.

ArteFAQ, FAQ’s sophomore project, opened this summer on the other side of Tverskaya and is way more sophisticated. While FAQ Café is still getting scrounging money for shots of bathtub vodka, ArteFAQ enjoys imported beer and is writing a PhD dissertation on how to food is performed in the Soviet experience. If I don’t meet my husband in a bookstore poetically reaching for the same copy of Foucault’s “Discipline and Punish,” like I always imagined since I was a little girl, then it will be at “Gastrololiya,” a series of talks hosted at ArteFAQ about the critical theory of gastronomy.

The décor’s also a big improvement: overflowing bookcases, sundry old photographs, a fire crackling in the fireplace and a homemade Roy Lichtenstein painted on the ground. Basically everything people think academia will be like, before they realize they’ve condemned themselves to a life of poverty.

The best part about peeing there is that there’s a giant, quivering TV eye in one of the stalls.

Photos: faqcafe.ru, artefaq.ru

FAQ Cafe, 9 Gazetny Per., Bldg. 2, Metro: Okhotny Ryad, Tel. 629-0827;
ArteFAQ, 32 Bol. Dmitrovka Ul, Bldg. 1, Metro: Tverskaya, Tel. 650-3971

Gimmee a Break

2007-09-05T00:14:00.000-07:00

I was on the Other Side.

Did you know that the rest of the world has beautiful vistas and fresh, flavorful food? Strangers treat each other with dignity and warmth, and public art is able to exist for the delight of all without being pissed or vomited on. Women don't dress like transvestites, and men are just taking numbers to rub sunscreen on your boobs.

Rave New World II

2007-08-21T23:42:00.000-07:00

Oh God, the colors. They are still there when I shut my eyes.

New Rave's origins in Moscow are hazy, but some say that two hipster pilgrims from New York, Brainstorm Management's Zak and Ja'Bagh, brought it over last year, much like the smallpox-infested blankets that killed the Aztecs. They shouldn't take all the blame though, especially since what they were originally responsible for was New Wave parties. This is no mere slight of the tongue, but an entirely different palette. Fliers from the end of 2006 show youth of ambiguous sexuality, sure, but no traces of the neon that would eventually stalk Moscow like a big neon stalking thing.

Where did these people come from, with their flamboyant fashion, asymmetrical hairdos and aggressively bright clothing? I believe in historical materialism: it was the arrival of Topshop's Day-Glo spring collection that sent Moscow down the path to New Rave. At any rate, some point in early 2007, New Wave Fridays at Krizis Zhanra gave way to the Idle Conversation nights at Propaganda. A YouTube video dated March 22 shows a complete New Rave onset.

Lost in Red Square: Novy Ravers YogoYogo

As the New Rave's popularity swelled to a crescendo in summer 2007, the Idle Conversation promoters have themselves became celebrities. This month's issue of Hooligan carries an interview and photo spread with main Idle-logue, 24-year-old Roman Mazurenko, and the rest of his flimsy-sunglasses-wearin' crew.

In August, the In Wave party series emerged as a direct competitor for the young and colorful. The main difference is that they're into that whole minimal — sorry, mnml — microhouse thing. Don't trash the wardrobe just yet! The neon is still there, only now the music feels like you're swimming in pudding. New Rave on ketamine. Leave the ironic facial hair, too. These photos are from In Wave's "Muddy Mustache Naked Mistake" on August 11 at Sixteen Tons.

Sixteen Tons, 6 Presnensky Val Ul., Bldg. 1, Metro: Ulitsa 1905 Goda, Tel. 253-5300

Photos: community.livejournal.com/inwave, community.livejournal.com/i_conversation

Me Me Me, Yay!

2007-08-19T01:53:00.000-07:00

Gods are timeless and immutable, but restaurateur-diety Arkday Novikov symbolically marked a birthday anyway at Galereya, his pet favorite glitterati hotspot, on July 28. Where mortals see birthdays as an opportunity to treat their friends to bathtub vodka and a DIY sandwich bar, He took it all the way "there" with a modern-day Trimalchio's feast. And in true Novikov fashion, branded the fuck out of everything. What's my name!

Novikov or Bust!

Having trouble digesting under the dead shark-like gaze of Novikov? Then use his abounding self-likenesses as an opportunity to do anything you ever wanted to him.

I don't care if Sergei Zverev is becoming Jocelyn Wildenstein, homegirl has a sense of humor.

People did the same thing when WinZavod ran the "Four Seasons of Putin" exhibit earlier this summer. Такого как Путин!

Galereya, 27 Petrovka Ul., Metro: Pushkinskaya, Tel. 937-4544/4504

Photos: Geometria.ru

The Good Ship Probka

2007-08-17T06:15:00.001-07:00

Say what you will about Moscow being unkind to women, I've pulled more times at Propaganda's Student Night than any other time/space nexus on the planet. Something about the dreamlike artificial fog, pure techno cacophony, 90-ruble vodka shots and mutually acknowledged desperation of clubbing on a Thursday sends people hurtling into each other like elementary sex particles. The face control goons stopped letting me in ages ago after I threatened to "bury" them, but I'm kind of glad, because now I have my Friday mornings back.

Geometria.ru puts Propaganda into a sparse, new club photo section — "Underground." Now, everyone with a Lonely Planet guide knows about Propaganda, the city's oldest nightclub. But the label still fits because it's physically underground, with an edgy air raid bunker decor. And, it's relatively cheap, the way that Moscow's underground isn't. How riptarded is a $10 well drink, Mr. Simachev? Propaganda is where the real fashion is at: Summer 2007 marks the emergence of Telnyashka Chic.

Photos: Geometria.ru, Englishrussia.com

Propaganda, 7 Bol. Zlatoustinsky Per., Metro: Kitai-Gorod, Tel. 624-5732

Brown: Out

2007-08-13T21:22:00.000-07:00

Gastarbaiter B. Droitcour prepared to shuffle off this Moscow coil with a birthday blowout at summer’s white-hot underground indie venue, Shashlychnnaya at Ekaterinsky Park. Reigning king of the Third World Hipsters (ahem, twipsters), he wowed the crowd with aggressive karaoke without browning out once. When it was all over, many vodkas had been shot, many brews attacked and much cutlery cast into the miasmatic Ekaterinsky Pond. Goodbye B., but we will not cry for you, because Moscow in tears does not believe.

Shashlychnnaya, inside Ekaterinsky Park, Metro: Novoslobodskaya

Back II School

2007-08-09T05:33:00.000-07:00

Department store TsUM's fall advertising campaign: where no irony and hyper-irony intersect?

Girl: Back to school for me! Now I'm interested only in clothes. And I don't need the two of you old and ugly freaks.
Bear: It was bound to happen.
Rabbit: Wowsa!

Girl: I'm the only one in the class. Really just me. Everyone else exploded from jealousy.

Girl: I'm a princess! You're an animal.
Bear: Holy shit!!!!

Girl: Daddy! If you really love me, Buy! Buy! Buy! The shoes, the dress, the hat.

Girl: Who's not in Prada, [censored]?

Girl: You're too old-fashioned. Farewell.

Girl on left: Mom and her girlfriends constantly chatting about TsUM, like it's the most happening and cool place.
Girl on right: They're witches! The Devil wears Prada! I'm afraid!
Bear: You're both right.

Girl: Mirror mirror on the wall, tell me: Am I the prettiest in the whole school?

Girl: Everyone's normal, but I'm wearing Burberry.

Boy: I wanna grow up and be rich, drive a Bentley and shop only in TsUM.

TsUM, 2 Petrovka Ul., Metro: Teatralnaya, Tel. 933-7300, 292-5308

Photos: nl.livejournal.com

Bust a Cap

2007-08-09T00:45:00.000-07:00

Anton has been wearing a skullcap for TWO YEARS. What's wrong with his head?

Club XIII (October 2005): Anton Charges Headfirst into Moscow Nightlife.

Club XIII (December 2005): Beginning of Anton's Blue Period

Dyagilev Opening (March 2006) End of Anton's Blue Period.

Club XII (August 2006): An Airy, Summer Skullcap.

Rai (April 2007): & the Beanie Resurfaces.

Photos: havefun.ru, 44100.com

Wet Hot Russian Summer

2007-08-02T06:19:00.000-07:00

You could say that summer culture festival Afisha Picnic, hosted by hipster semimonthly Afisha last weekend at Kolomenskoe Park, is like Woodstock, minus the booze, counterculture, drugs, public sex acts, rock & roll, social harmony, hope or fun. That is, it's muddy and tickets are free. Though in the spirit of not wanting to poop on everything that Moscow does, you could also say that Afisha Picnic turned out nicely for some people, like the American guy who made 11,000 rubles selling his retired club clothing (vintage!). But go back to that first point to understand why it was a doomed from the get-go: no booze. Alcohol was forsaken, spurned, cast by the wayside.

Fields of Pills: You lie, Afisha!

But maybe sun could have saved it. Had it been like Victory Day or City Day, the Picnic could have been a lot more fun. There was a lot of promise: lawn games, an old Soviet arcade, cardboard village, food stands, live musical acts, a special little pit for the Nu Ravers, take a blanket and spread out on the lawn with the kids and a refreshing non-alcoholic beverage. But the Air Force wasn't seeding any clouds for a bunch of hippies. The result — 30,000 soggy, sober, shifty people.

Or drugs. There weren't any, despite the flier promising rolling fields of pills. This guy had the right idea, he brought his own stash, then took off into his own world to the envy of all around. Once, candy-flipping, I grasped for a second how trance music, shamanism, string theory, singular consciousness, lucid dreaming and the objective experience of DMT where everyone sees aliens who tell them to save the planet, are all interrelated. Then I lost it.

Happiness is a Wet Hill.

Idle Conversation groupie shirts: "I Want to be Intimate with (promoter) Dima Loginov" "Be Sweet to Me Danila Polyakov," etc.

Nu Ravers confined to their own ecstatic little pit. The way it should be!

Photos: 44110.com, lookatme.ru

Firecrotch Spit Paralyze

2007-07-31T04:01:00.000-07:00

MDBIT has truly arrived! We were put in the Guardian's inaugural Top Ten Travel blogs, which is a weekly ranking, by the paper's official Travel blogger, of other blogs. Kind of masturbatory of the whole blogosphere. Here's what he said:

In a world of spies, diplomatic wrangles and general pseudo-cold war skulduggery, it's nice to find something to do with Russia that's a bit of fun. MDBIT is a quite sexy-looking guide to nightlife and cool stuff in Moscow.

If you find a deep spiritual malaise sexy, be my guest. Note: it's listed after the jump, and quite hard to find, which may be why the Guard only accounted for 5% of MDBIT hits last week. No the largest share (44.3%) were poor souls who stumbled in from Google searching for something else, usually whores.

Top Ten Google Searches of July 22-28 (That Did Not Involve Whores)

Moscow is Not Swayed By Tears. Nice try! You had this vague idea in your head that the city hates crying, and it paid off.
How to Get Drunk on the Relative Cheap without Drinking Antifreeze. Hey that's my line! I wrote that a month ago. Luke Harding? Say it ain't so.
How to Cut Costs Running a Nightclub in Moscow. House it in a fort?
Black Star Timati's Girlfriend. I wouldn't say we're dating yet.
Moscow Best Bars on Wednesday. It's kind of a black hole.
Osen Moscou Face Control. Too late, my French or possibly Catalan friend. Osen has been closed for a couple years now.
Raccoon Spit Paralyze. Why am I No. 2 on the search for this? I mean, only No. 2.
Music From Moscow Doesn't Believe in Tears. i feel bad for all the first year Russian students looking for stuff about the Soviet classic and instead coming face to face with Danila Polyakov's firecrotch.
Danila Polyakov Firecrotch. Sir, you're a freak.
Skinny Jeans with Codpiece. I am definitely not in the first handful of pages for this one, which meant that someone rifled through a lot of codpieces.

Red or Dead

2007-07-27T04:50:00.000-07:00

In a land of legendarily beautiful women, Slavic male beauty is unsung, to say the least. A lifelong male figure skating fan, I had been duped into thinking I'd be arriving to a land of Ilya Kuliks, but instead it's Evgeny Plushchenko after freaky Evgeny Plushchenko. So it makes sense that Russia's top male model is a red-haired Skeletor named Danila Polyakov.

Long auburn hair, neon white skin, Karen Carpenter thin — a biological aberration, Danila. Only 300 years ago, he'd have been put to death by frenzied hordes of villagers with torches. Once he sidled on me in Five Star and I nearly choked on my club sandwich. Fashion photographers have a habit of dressing him up like a girl on account of his flowing mane, but he's reportedly not gay, despite abounding photos like this:

And videos like this:

He's not just Russia's top male model, he's Russia's only male model. Prolific internationally in his younger days, Danila is now the go-to guy for anything Russian fashion related — Afisha spreads, Simachev shows, even contemporary art.

Let the Ginger Go!

That's from the mixed media series "Action Half-Life" by Russian art collective AES+F Group (artists Tatiana Azamarzova, Lev Evzovich and Evgeny Svyatsky plus glossy photographer Vladimir Fridkes). They celebrated 20 years together with a retrospective that opened in the secret Triumph Gallery on July 19. It featured a new project "Othello," all about a black man trying to molest a blonde. Oh my.

Before you log off, don't forget to decorate your instant messenger with Danila Polyakov avatars.

And join the Danila Polyakov livejournal community. And buy from his fashion line, 100% Vanilla, modeled by the world's whitest man below. His sports shirts are on sale at the boutique Chic Blesk Krasota/Emperor Moth starting July 26.

And here's some more hot Danila Polyakov action ganked from the deep recesses of the internet.

Triumph, 40 Novokuznetskaya Ul., Metro: Novokuznetskaya, Tel. Its a Secret
Emperor Moth, 16 Mal. Bronnya Ul., Metro: Pushkinskaya, Tel. 290-3888

Photos: mainpeople.ru, aes-group.org, stormmodels.com

Dance Dance Revolution

2007-07-27T00:58:00.000-07:00

Kronstadt is creepy. The island is located a rickety 30-minute bus ride away from St. Petersburg and is best-known for being the site of a bloody sailor's rebellion against the Bolsheviks called, in fact, the Kronstadt Rebellion. Today, Kronstadt hangs in an eerie, Stephen King-movie state of neglect, despite being inhabited by 45,000 people. Like everyone just dropped what they were doing, and walked away. Multiple times. Prisons, churches, arsenals — all falling apart. Once, some shifty townies broke us into an abandoned morgue, and there were still scalpels on the autopsy table, and body parts in jars of formaldehyde. Yoohoo, you forgot your pickles!

My artist friend Lara lived in a house there in order to take full advantage of Kronstadt's creepiness. Her summer culminated in a final art installation with girls hanging in white cocoons and a bald man playing the cello. For reals, it was so creepy.

The whole upside to Kronstadt's Andrei Tarkovskian, post-apocalyptic barrenness is that you can occupy whatever space you want, without anyone yelling at you. Even a fort. Fortdance is an annual open-air summer dance festival held in the cracked and peeling Fort Alexander, commissioned in 1845 by Tsar Nikolai. It never saw battle while operant and had a brief stint as a plague laboratory at the end of 19th century. During that time, barely anyone was let in, and the people who did had to pass through a special "Microbe" tunnel. Now it's rented out for parties, like teeth-grinding, pacifier-sucking Fortdance.

Dancing? In a fort?! Let me just get my spaceship.

I was going to post lots of photos from the excitement last weekend, because honestly Geometria dedicated hundreds of pages to Fortdance. But they all look the same. Like this:

Writing captions for photos sucks, but everyone fucking loves Vice so I'll do a few.

Kronstadt's rich naval tradition.

You write it.

A modern Russian club has a fairly good chance of caving in at any second. Fortdance ups that thrill factor mega.

Walking out into the blinding post-club sun sucks. Especially when its only 3 AM and now you have to swim home.

Photos: Geometria.ru

Look at Me! No, Over Here

2007-07-25T01:49:00.000-07:00

Indie exhibitionism has truly jumped the ocean with the advent of online party photo/lifestyle journo Look At Me, Moscow's budding Cobrasnake. The idea is you, well-connected hipster photographer, go to exclusive underground parties and snap photos of people wearing everything they owned in 1989. The problem is, the pool of kids that go for that shit is small, so you're often scraping bottom.

Sieg Hi, Look at Me!

Case in point: last Saturday, as I was walking out of the bathroom of Solyanka, in the throes of a brew attack, they jammed a camera under my nose. As I mentioned before, I'm too old to understand New Rave, but fly enough to understand I'm not part in it. For one, I'm not neon. I was honored, comma, drunk.

My sun was eclipsed by Karl Lagerfield, or the kid who got up that morning with designs to be Karl Lagerfield. The last time we saw him, he was Michael Jackson. At any rate, eminently photographable for Look at Me on any weekend, and hogged all the camera attention.

The other problem is that its a difficult argument that Look At me is pointing its lens on the underground. They're at Krizis Zhanra, at Propaganda, at the places where friksi like Karl and me go 'cuz we can't get in anywhere else. Solyanka's marginally cooler, though. They charge a 300-ruble cover that weeds out most of the bleating cheapskate expats fleeing cheesy techno.

Watch out! The gun has an owl.

Can we coin a word? Ripsters, the Russian hipsters. Indiscriminately, yet warm-heartedly ripping off everything hipster. All it needs is a little bit of judiciousness. Take the owl with a gun, leave the ridiculous posturing.

He's hot, he's well-dressed, but the camera doesn't capture that he's 4'5''. I know, it's confusing. Hot Midge!

Solyanka, 11/6 Solyanka Ul., Metro: Kitai Gorod, www.s-11.ru

Photos: Lookatme.ru

"Sonya" Hacks MDBIT!

2007-07-23T02:03:00.000-07:00

Haters, biters — all of you. I generally don't like to drag petty beefs out into the open, but gotta say one thing: "Sonya," head of the nightlife department at that excrementory expat rag Element (or "element," whatever), has been aping my style for the while now.

I first noticed it after her review of Simachev Bar, "Simachev Subverts Stoleshnikov," which came out after my post "The Sim: Nightlife Edition." Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, compare:

MDBIT: It has the black humor of a Diesel ad, and is perpetually stuffed with the kind of people that "get it" (and wear Mr. Rogers sweaters about it).
element: Everything is reduced to the same darkly humorous level, like in a Diesel ad...Denis Simachyov Bar is for the people who “get it.”

She didn't even have the good sense to leave in the best line! The one about Denis Simachev being full of shit.

The latest offense was her Teknika Molodyozhi review "Perestroika Playground," published July 19, SIX days after my post "Kha! Kha! Kha!"

MDBIT: After years of impenetrable Soviet anekdoty, its potty jokes, boob-honking and impersonations of homosexuals are a breath of fresh air.
element: His stand-up television program, which debuted in 2005, was an instant hit with all those craving fart jokes, boob honks and impersonations of homosexuals after years of impenetrable Soviet anekdoty.

Not the first time she's bit me. Look through the canon of her nightlife journalism, you'll find she's not only yoinking exact turns of phrase, but frequenting the same places I write about, often within the same week. Homegirl better not get too close, or I'll drop her!

Worst. Match. Ever?

2007-07-19T05:58:00.000-07:00

Russia and England – aside from a mutual, irrational love of tea, nothing in common. After the spy rock, Berezovsky, diplomat expulsions and the repeated offense of gaggles of pink expats hitting on 16-year-olds in Propaganda, Russia attacked one of England's beloved pasttimes — polo.

The Dewar's Russian Polo Cup 2007, held on June 8 in Otrada, attracted scores of eager spectators in bastardized aristocratic casual. Interest in the "sport of kings" had lain dormant since the days of Tsar Alexander II, but now Moscow is rich enough for ponies again, and punchy enough to piss off England sartorially.

A Slap in the Face of Public Taste: Simachevwear on the polo field.

Hats.

Hats!

HATS!

Habberdashery.

Ladies Mumpington and Humperscut. Stop, its cultural violence!

I know, her shoes ARE retarded.

White on white? You're not five anymore.

Did you make that necklace yourself? Fuck, enough already.

TKO KNK

2007-07-13T05:24:00.000-07:00

Last month, Kak na Kanarakh (Like the Canarys), Park Kultury's sexy summer pool club, was on the cover of Time Out's "25 Best Verandas in Moscow" issue. On Wednesday, it was shut down by municipal authorities, probably for good, for not having the right zoning permits. Because you can't have a club that close to the river. Fair enough — who'd really want to eat and drink out by the Moskva? But never mind every other riverside establishment in the city...

Watch out! There's water behind you.

In fact, KNK did not grease the right palms greasy enough to earn the official legal status of "club." Two weeks ago, on their website, they began putting forth serious "we're not a club" damage control, based on Afisha's review of the place as a hot nightlife spot. Their arguments include:

There's no feis-kontrol; the tables are just usually occupied, which is why people are turned away.
Mr. Sergeyev and Mr. Magdi are not promoters, they are just people with pools. It's not their fault if people get drunk and party at their pools.
"'Pre-party' and 'after-party,' in their Moscow understanding, as Mix and A Priori call themselves, KNK was not, is not and never will be. People don't dance at KNK, but spend time sitting, lying and swimming."

Not a club. Not a club. Not a club.

Didn't work, though. Pool's been drained; Afisha's pulled their article from their website; KNK has been "disappeared." Expect a similar fate for Solyanka, the hottest indie club that doesn't exist yet, on account of not having a permit. Somebody save Solyanka!

Environmental watchdog Oleg Mitvol personally closing KNK. Dick!

Photos: s-11.ru, afisha.ru, mixtura.org, 9linesmag.com

Kak na Kankarakh, Pushkinskaya Naberezhnaya, Metro: Park Kultury, Tel. 223-1758, www.s-11.ru
Solyanka, 11/6 Solyanka Ul., Metro: Kitai Gorod, www.s-11.ru

Kha, Kha, Kha!

2007-07-13T04:38:00.000-07:00

"Comedy Club" is Russia's "Def Comedy Jam." It airs late night, is dominated by minority comics (Armenian) and is crazy popular with the kids. After years of impenetrable Soviet anekdoty, its potty jokes, boob-honking and impersonations of homosexuals are a breath of fresh air. Nothing gets out of Comedy Club's eagle-eye crosshairs: it was CC's Pavel "Snezhok" Volya who flirted with guest Pamela Anderson's chest at the ill-fated MTV Movie Awards.

Now the Comedy Club has a club. Teknika Molodezhi (Techniques of Youth) opened on June 15 by Belorusskaya metro station with the help of some veteran club-people: Vanya Henson (Parliament Plyazh) and Inna Tundra (30/7, Too Drunk to Fuck, Just Another Bar) and "Denis" from Garazh. The cafe-club's theme is "return to youth": comics on the walls, '80s/'90s music and, according to CC, couches "cozy enough to pukat' (fart) in!" Soon they're opening a Playstation 3 zone.

Despite the club's avowed anti-glamurny stance, they pulled in a pretty high-living crowd on opening night (the kind, at least, with the ability to laugh at itself). Wacky is not something that Muscovites wear well. But they tried. The tides are turning. Let the good times roll. It's the Roaring Naughts!

Sweet Jesus! The fuck is her head?

Photos: comedyclub.ru, geometria.ru, mainpeople.ru

Teknika Molodezhi, 3rd Yamskogo Polya, Metro: Belorusskaya, Tel. 363-2811

Moscow: Canned!

2007-07-13T00:40:00.000-07:00

Grab a can, young man. Graffiti artists convened at Luzhniki Stadium at the end of June for spray-off "Moscow 2057." The theme was “My Moscow;” crews had five hours or so to come up with a design that expressed how the felt about the city they’ll inherit in 50 years.

Bracketing the ominous have-fun-or-else influence and nationalism of the Department of Family and Youth Policy of the City of Moscow, it was good, innocent fun for the whole family. Also it validated something I realized when they started selling spray cans at indie bookstore Respublica: being “street” has grown in currency.

The event was co-sponsored x-treme sports store Nye-Olympiiskiye Igry and new street art magazine Iron Curtain. Expect big things from this publication: Their marketing campaign is aimed at the hordes of restless youth all over Russia with a penchant for petty vandalism. Better that hoods in St. Petersburg, Ekaterinburg, Ufa and Samara are expending the energy creatively than, say, on beating half-Mexicans.

Visual Artifacts shows that, against all odds, there’s actually a growing set of funny and subversive stencil artists and taggers in Moscow.

Aw, cute. I spend most of the day walking around blinded by bloodlust, then she goes and does something like this and I think, we’re going to be OK, me and Moscow.

Photos: ironcurtain.ru, www.visualartifacts.ru

More Like Coolskaya

2007-07-06T06:02:00.000-07:00

UPDATE: Kurskaya — gMapped! Click on it.

Moscow suffers from a marked lack of neighborhoods of consolidated coolness. Or neighborhoods, full stop. Due to high business turnover and lack of zoning, your favorite spots are far apart, which would make nightlife unmanageable if not for a functional Caucasian gypsy cab network. But you never know which one of those trips will end up with you in an icy ditch in Butovo.

All this makes you wax nostalgic for life back home, where hipsters are happy in their own segregated ghettos — Williamsburg, the Mission District and 3rd through 5th streets in Davis. But as always, if you squint real hard, you can see what you want in Moscow. Over the course of 2006, the industrial shantytown around Kurskaya train station transformed into the city’s nearest approximation of a ‘hood.

Here’s burgeoning Kurskaya, in no particular order:

Ikra (8 Kazakova Ul.): What a quality of life increase! Ikra has quality indie acts, and framed fur on the walls. I have my name misspelled on a club card. Katie once had a Puzzywizard cocktail mixed by their German intern, who for four months tried hard to awaken her sexuality. But he really underestimated her vaginal laziness.

Winzavod (1/6 4th Syromyatnichesky Per.) — It was the introduction of this art complex in fall 2006 that really pulled the neighborhood together. Moscow’s Chelsea on the premises of one decrepit wine factory, Winzavod is composed of several exhibition halls, studios and galleries, of which Guelman is the most notable, if only for having once hosted portraits of entwined Putin and Osama nudes. Dmitry Vrubel’s piss-take “2007” is on now.

Cara & Co. — Is a new addition to WinZavod. A “concept store” headed by Russian-Australian re-pat Rozalia Kamenev, Cara & Co. is accelerating the gentrification of wild Kurskaya with sensible, imported clothing that's light years more fashionable than anything else in Moscow.

Gazgolder (6 Nizhny Susalny Per.): The original dope underground club that no one could find, much less get into. That’s the way they keep it looking like a very, very well-filtered house party. As of mid-2007 Gazgolder still has enough friends, thanks.

Gazgallery (5 Nizhny Susalny Per.): Part of the Gazgolder enterprise, this club/gallery is located around the corner in a airplane hangar-sized old factory, which is much easier to lie your way into. Most people don’t understand the distinction and spend the entire night thinking Gazgallery is Gazgolder, despite the 1,000-plus crowd. But I was young; I wanted to believe.

Forkforeva Flea Market (5/9 Nizhny Susalny Per.) — Generally speaking, second-hand treasures get no respect in Moscow — “Vintage 1986 high-tops? Are you a fucking peasant?” — but some people are learning to appreciate the value of a good bargain. Such as a George Benson vinyl where his mustache is scratched off (455 rubles). It’s also a virtual flea market — they post photos of what’s up for grabs on their website, you press “buy” and a courier brings it to you.

+7095.Art (5a Nizhny Susalny Per.) — That’s the Moscow area code, bitch! With art attached. Russian fashion labels Chic Blesk Krasota and Emperor Moth have their pinkies in this studio-gallery, which means whatever they throw pulls in the Very Cool Kids. Like Danila Polyakov. Who’s Danila Polyakov? All in good time.

Photos: mixtura.org, gazgolder.com, gazgall.ru, forkforever.com

Sochi 2014: Dokumenti, Pozhaluista!

2007-07-05T22:27:00.000-07:00

Bosco di Cilegi owner Konstantin Andrikopulos unveils the victory line at July 4th's Playmate of the Year party at Rai.