Rock and roll survives in a restless, evolving world
The line from Boris Grebenshchikov once echoed: rock and roll is dead, yet I am not. Since then, the genre has not only rotted away but has risen—like figures from a game turned into zombies—refashioned by time and technology.
In the car, a person might switch on Our Radio and be greeted by a nasal voice discussing kitchen life and solitude, or by a woman convinced she is Zemfira, pitching a hair transplant clinic to listeners who know the show well. The broadcast landscape feels stuck in time, with repeats running endlessly, as if a forgotten track from two decades ago keeps looping, and a craftsman’s random rhymes about rain, war, autumn, loneliness, spring, and love have been tagged onto the air by a restless community.
New works from the speaker’s youthful idols often resemble funeral portraits of worn-out heroism, a troubling sight as older voices balk at warmth and genuine politics.
There is a clear stance on Russian rock: a lifelong affinity and a critical eye. The narrator grew up swatting away rival genres and defending a music-criticism degree earned in the ’90s, studying samizdat Russian rock from the 70s and 80s, a memory that stings with nostalgia and disapproval.
Today, the rap scene in the country seems to have carried the day. The moment of realization arrived during a public disagreement between Purulent and Oksimiron, two artists who command attention across generations. Oksimiron is exceptionally bright and skilled in literature, its texts and passion rivaling the era of the Leningrad rock club, the poetry of Yevtushenko, Akhmadulina, and Rozhdestvensky. Even when opinions diverge, the artistic bravura remains undeniable, and the juxtaposition of Gumilyov with Mayakovsky in a contemporary clash feels like a cultural anomaly amid a backdrop of mainstream pop.
Another recent exchange involved a diss aimed at a foreign agent Morgenstern. Both artists are seen as opinion leaders among younger audiences, with Morgenstern attracting a distinctly younger following. The critique of Morgenstern is sharp, yet it cannot erase the recognition of talent that remains a bright spot in Russia today.
Discourse, seen as a form of art, often crosses lines into disrespect, pushing boundaries with phrases and provocations. The historical lineage is not forgotten: BG once dedicated Cardboard Hero to Konstantin Kinchev, a move that could be read as a personal statement. In today’s terms, it reflected dissent and a willingness to challenge prevailing norms.
Oksimiron’s response to Morgenstern is an extravagant demonstration of artistry—though not flawless, its fiery energy resonates with the younger generation. The satire is bold, and the question of authenticity—“be yourself, but where is the reference?”—rings true. The result is both provocative and compelling, a quality that endures in satire when it aims to illuminate rather than merely mock.
What remains striking is how living Russian language thrives in the hands of young rappers. It is not about polished pop rhetoric or forgotten rock forms; it is about the vitality of real speech and emotion expressed with directness. The scene breathes with life, not simply with noise.
There is a sense of loss, yet the conversation continues. The music may shift, but the sentiment endures: rock and roll is not merely dead, it has transformed. The cultural conversation evolves, and the voices inside it keep pushing forward.
As the dialogue evolves, it reflects broader changes in the country’s artistic landscape and prompts readers to consider how art communicates identity, resistance, and memory in a dynamic era. The narrative remains a personal perspective on a shifting soundtrack, presented with candor and a touch of melancholy. The records may fade, but the discussion goes on, inviting new voices to join the chorus.