Moscow is the city full of posh decorations. Like a black hole, it’s gorging clouds of chaotic ideas. Madly fast, it’s flooded with shallow hippies, jealous dealers and susceptible artists. Everyone desires to have its own piece of luck, looking for the shortest way to some easy life. Most of the nomads arrive from the capital suburbs and other big cities of immensely corrupted Russia.
Everyone can tell a tale from outskirt. Senseless rivalry and art falsity together make the special demands: your tale has to amaze, to inculcate; you must do something notable, freaky one and truthful. To dare to let it. There are no any rules. Your voice has no matter, the only important is a sales skill. The local scene is tired of identical copying outside world’s standards. Thereby the more your approach is unacceptable, the more valued is it. But the more it’s valued, the faster it will depreciate. The glossy shell with cheap content is the way to survive in such a tight plexus of cruel love, substance abuse and electronic music.
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