This year, the Taliban regained control of Afghanistan, effectively disregarding all the efforts by the Americans to establish order there. For decades, this country has been engulfed in war, serving as a battleground for various forces.
In the fall of 2001, journalist Alla Shevelkina traveled there as part of a team from a French television channel. During her stay, she decided to keep a diary, documenting the events of each day. Of course, over the past 20 years, the country has experienced much, but the diary shows that even then, it was a shocking medieval world for people from so-called civilized nations.
I came across this book on the recommendation of Viktor Shenderovich, just a few days after the Taliban entered Kabul. Again.
From the description, it promised to be an honest and profound immersion into that very medieval reality during the days when the Taliban last ruled Kabul. I was very curious to get a glimpse of life in the country, not through official news reports, which often craft stories for dramatic or sentimental effect (sadly, this is true).
It so happened that I discovered Vasya Oblomov only this year. I mean, I knew the song “I’m Going to Magadan”—it was impossible to miss it back in the day unless you were completely tone-deaf. But I never remembered who performed it and never showed any interest in Vasya Oblomov’s work.
Then, this summer, I listened to a few of his songs and completely fell for them. I understand that his music isn’t for everyone, but in my case, it hit just the right spot. Most of his songs feel like they’re about things you encounter every single day.
Among them, there’s one that stands out for its sheer energy in performance, thanks largely to the incredible Garik Sukachyov. The song is “Bloody Shame.” I’ve heard it performed by Vasya Oblomov himself—it’s good, but Garik is Garik!
Watch how he lets loose in the music video for this song. Vasya Oblomov plays the humble musician in the background.
Well, the “Tales of Old Rus” project kept growing and evolving, transforming from a hobby into a remarkable universe with its own artbooks, lore, and bestiary. Naturally, the first fictional novel set in this world followed. “The Battle for Lukomorye” was originally planned as two books, with only the first part released so far and the second on its way. Since I’ve been immersing myself in the world of Old Rus quite actively this year, I read the first novel almost immediately after its release.
There is, however, some confusion regarding the authorship of the book. In many stores, it’s listed as having two primary authors: the universe’s creator, Roman Papsuev, and the well-known writer Vera Kamsha. Yet, the book itself also credits three additional writers: Tatyana Andrushchenko, Alexandra Zlotnitskaya, and Elena Tolokonnikova. It’s impossible to discern who contributed what. The book is presented as a collection of novellas, but no individual authors are credited for specific sections. Whether they collaborated on everything together or each worked on separate parts remains unclear—for now, the story doesn’t say.
Ray Dalio is a highly prominent figure in the world of venture investing. The company he founded, Bridgewater, ranks among the top ten largest private hedge funds globally. Ray Dalio is also known for his management approach, based on meritocracy and algorithms. His entire life and work are imbued with a set of principles and methods he has developed over many years and tested in real-world scenarios. Frequently sharing his ideas at conferences, Dalio has stepped away from direct management of the company but aims to make his accumulated knowledge—the fruit of decades of reflection—accessible to others. This led him to write the book Principles, where he outlines his views on life and management.
As an individual, he has greatly influenced other notable figures. For instance, the Russian edition of this book opens with an introduction by Herman Gref, Chairman of the Board at Sberbank of Russia. Additionally, the cover features a quote from Bill Gates, the founder of Microsoft.
The book Principles: Life and Work spent quite some time on my “to-read soon” list, even though I wouldn’t consider myself an ardent follower of this manager. However, I’ve heard plenty of praise about him from acquaintances. While reading the book, I got the impression that opinions about Ray as a person and his work are quite polarized. Some practically idolize him, while others see him as tedious and excessively overhyped. What’s my take? Let’s dive in.
Sometimes it happens that a song written decades ago suddenly re-enters the charts and becomes a massive hit. Sometimes it happens again, and sometimes—for the first time with such overwhelming success (like the case with “Trololo”).
After Eurovision 2021, this fate befell the song Beggin’, originally released in 1967 by the American band The Four Seasons. That’s 54 years ago!
However, I first heard and knew this song from a later 1974 version by the Dutch band Shocking Blue, also known in the USSR for their hit “Shizgara” (actually the song was titled “Venus,” but since most people in the USSR didn’t know English well, they referred to the song by the phrase they thought they heard in the chorus, “Shizgara,” which was actually “she’s got it”).
But back to Beggin’. I really like the version of the song performed by Shocking Blue, and I like the original 1967 version significantly less. So why now, and what does Eurovision have to do with it? The reason is that in spring 2021, the Italian band Måneskin won Eurovision with a completely different song, of course. But the band’s journey started on the Italian version of “X Factor,” where they performed their variation of Beggin’ during one of their appearances. Although this song was never released as a single, after their Eurovision victory, everyone started looking up this “Måneskin.” That’s when their performance from “X Factor” resurfaced, and unexpectedly, this song began climbing the charts again—perhaps even overshadowing their Eurovision-winning track. This is one of those cases where Eurovision really helped the winner. The band’s fame skyrocketed, and it turned out they had quite a few good songs in their repertoire.
Måneskin’s performance of Beggin’ is very emotional and captivating, stylistically much closer to Shocking Blue’s rendition than to the original by The Four Seasons. In short, the song has earned a spot in my playlist alongside the Dutch version.
There are currently two video versions of the song: an official music video made by Måneskin after their cover unexpectedly gained popularity, and a recording of their performance on “X Factor.” I honestly can’t decide which one I like more. I’ll share both.
Let’s start chronologically, with the live performance:
In September, I already wrote about remarkable songs from rather mediocre films. But since songs and films are now inextricably linked, today I want to write about a few songs (or melodies) that received a second chance (and sometimes an even stronger one) compared to their original versions. Sometimes it’s just an interesting cinematic arrangement; other times, it’s an entirely new “reading.” I’ll share examples of what I believe are very successful adaptations. And I mean specifically movie (or TV series) adaptations, as there are plenty of amazing covers out there, but we won’t count those today, or we’d simply get lost in them.
So, my criteria were simple:
The melody or song featured in the film existed long before the movie’s release and was already well-known.
It was released as part of the film (soundtrack).
To me personally, it seems very interesting and, in some ways, even better than the original.
I’ll start with a film that is truly rich in such “second winds” — Hipsters by Valery Todorovsky (oh my goodness, it’s already been 13 years since its release, but it feels like it was just yesterday!). Every musical number in the movie is outstanding, so I’ll highlight just three of the absolute best.
Recently, Shimun Vrochek wrote a book about his Soviet childhood. Since his childhood and mine happened during the same years (he was born on November 1, 1976, and I was born three months later, on January 28, 1977), I was very curious to see how someone from my “generation” experienced it, but in a different part of the Soviet Union. He was born in Kungur, in the Urals, and grew up in Nizhnevartovsk, while I spent my entire childhood in Minsk.
I even had the same school uniform as the one he wears in the photo, though it wasn’t so easy to find in Minsk—my father brought it from Moscow.
The book originated from notes that Shimun wrote in his blog (at least some of which could be read individually). Eventually, those notes were compiled into this book. That’s why it isn’t a sequential narrative but rather a collection of short memories about various things, with no clear structure or connection between chapters. Sometimes, this approach works very well (just think of The Un-Chekhovian Intelligentsia or The Life of Remarkable People and Animals by Boris Akunin).
Even though there was a great distance between me and the author, many of the feelings and experiences resonate, making the book truly transport me back to my childhood. Like Shimun, I believed I was living in the best country in the world, where everything was wonderful, and a bright communist future lay ahead—a future of fairness, with no poverty, and so on.
For bringing me back to those years, I am truly grateful to the author.
When I was in school, I absolutely couldn’t stand the German language. It always seemed awful to me, grating on my ears. Like the sound of chalk screeching on a blackboard.
I studied English in school (though all I really got out of it was “My name is Vasya”), while my mom had studied German and knew it quite well. She used to say that German was a very beautiful language, and she had come to appreciate its beauty thanks to an excellent German teacher in her school. But I just couldn’t understand how anyone could find it beautiful!
Later on, I worked for a German company for seven years, spending a lot of time on business trips to Dresden and visiting many other German cities. And, you know, over time, I got used to the language. I learned a few basic phrases, enough to comfortably buy groceries, talk to waiters, and shop for tea in specialty stores (there’s a funny story about that, but I’ll save it for another time). I even began to sense a unique kind of beauty in the German language. It really does sound very different from many other European languages, but the chalkboard-screech feeling eventually disappeared.
Around that time, I also got into the band Rammstein, right when their album Mutter (“Mother”) came out in 2001. I didn’t understand the lyrics at all (apart from a few individual words), but that was never all that important to me. I’ve mentioned before that, for me, a singer’s voice is just another instrument with its own unique sound. I often don’t even pay attention to the lyrics.
Rammstein has always been known for their extravagance and provocativeness, which made their lyrical ballads, performed in Till Lindemann’s powerful, raspy voice, all the more surprising and captivating.
The album Mutter was supposed to include such a ballad, Ohne Dich (“Without You”), but it ended up being released on their next album, Reise, Reise, in 2004. Unlike many of their other songs, I at least understood the title of this one, so I could guess the theme. But I never really looked into the lyrics (I recently read them—nothing particularly special).
Still, it’s one of my favorite songs. And the music video they made for it is absolutely fantastic—no knowledge of the language is needed; the visuals say it all.
So, if anyone hasn’t seen it yet, I’m excited to share this wonderful ballad with you.
I can’t quite recall when I first heard (or read) the name of Hodja Nasreddin. However, I can definitely say that his most famous mention is the parable of the talking donkey. In this story, Hodja Nasreddin promises a padishah that he will teach his donkey to speak like a human in 20, 30, or even 40 years (the timeline varies depending on the version). He then points out that within such a timeframe, either the donkey, Hodja Nasreddin himself, or even the padishah might die, making the whole process of teaching the donkey unnecessary.
Where did I first encounter all this? I honestly don’t remember! But the name of this witty and resourceful wanderer from the East has become universally known. So, I finally decided to read the most famous literary work about him, translated into numerous languages worldwide—Leonid Solovyov’s two-part series, The Tale of Hodja Nasreddin.
But first, let’s start with the figure of Hodja Nasreddin himself. To this day, it’s uncertain whether such a person truly existed, but parables and anecdotes about this character began appearing around the 13th century. They spread across Central Asia and the Middle East and became part of the folklore in some Caucasian, Balkan, and Mediterranean countries. There are even several places claimed to be Hodja Nasreddin’s burial site, the most famous of which is a tomb in the city of Akşehir, Turkey.
