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«Motopunk»

(Instead of a foreword)

Do you think ruff(1) is some kind of fish?

Mix beer with vodka – what a wish!

Or pour them the other way round…

You’ll get a killer drink, I’ll be bound!

– Fedul Zhadny

My first encounter with the «Yorsh» gang took place in Ulyanovsk in the spring of 2008. At the time, I was actively promoting Fedul’s creative work among bikers. It happened during the opening of the motorcycle season, organized by the Simbirsk biker club «Seven Winds». We’d been invited – «we» being Fedul Zhadny, Ded Kil'dos(2), Pavel Krasnoseltsev (founder of Rock Arena newspaper), and myself.

Through half-sleep, I could hear raindrops drumming against the canvas of our tent. In that drowsy state, memories of the previous day drifted back. Yesterday had been a good day —sunny and dry. There’d been a gleaming procession of chromed motorcycles parading through town, various contests, a rowdy, beer-fueled celebration, an all-night vigil by the campfire, vodka, and baked potatoes.

The vodka had clearly been a mistake. My mouth felt parched. Today was supposed to feature a rock concert – would the rain cancel it? I needed to get up. I wondered what time it was. My head throbbed. The famous saying popped into mind: «An alcoholic’s sleep is short and restless». Immediately afterward, I recalled the poet’s lines:

«Little son came to his dad,

and the tiny tot declared:

‘If last night you drank your fill,

then this morning you’ll feel ill!»(3)

I no longer felt like sleeping – but neither did I want to leave my warm sleeping bag. Unfortunately, yesterday’s beer was making its urgent presence known.

The rain had slackened. I crawled outside. The tent camp, situated on a half-built racetrack on the outskirts of town – between a suburban dacha village and the ring road – stretched endlessly through the morning mist. A light drizzle still fell. The roadside and dirt tracks were washed out, and mud squelched underfoot. Like me, others, driven by nature’s call, began emerging from their tents, filling the spaces between them and stirring the camp to life. Soon, my drinking companions from the night before appeared as well.

Bits of fragmented memory blended with eyewitness accounts to reconstruct the recent past, and as clarity returned, it inevitably brought its share of «friction». Conflicts erupted all around —and we weren’t spared either. To avert an all-out brawl, we had to mobilize quickly. It turned out not everyone had slept that night… Amorous Kil'dos hadn’t wasted his time: he’d seduced a young woman. The irony? This frivolous «Helen of Troy», as we nicknamed her, had actually been brought along by a biker himself. Exhausted from excessive drinking, the man lay fast asleep, oblivious to the betrayal unfolding right beside him – while our very own Ded Kil'dos and his new companion delighted in each other’s company mere feet away. I can’t say for certain which argument ultimately saved Kil'dos from harsh retribution: his insistence that everything happened consensually, or simply the fact that he had backup (us). Either way, Ded Kil'dos walked away unscathed.

By midday, the weather had fully cleared. The hosts brewed a giant cauldron of solyanka stew over the campfire. Hungover revelers gathered around – it hit the spot perfectly, and they generously served it to anyone who wanted some.

A new group of motorcycles rumbled into camp: mud-splattered IZh Yunkers, weathered but still recognizable modified Ural sidecars, and a well-worn Minsk bike that looked like it had seen better days. The riders’ soaked quilted jackets, mud-spattered canvas raincoats, and worn, filthy leather boots stood in stark contrast to the bikers’ sleek leather gear – just as this battered Minsk, catching my eye, differed so dramatically from the shiny Hondas, Yamahas, and Harleys. Clearly cobbled together in makeshift conditions, the Minsk bore a crudely painted slogan in oil-based paint across its fuel tank: «For Rock!» It looked less like a motorcycle and more like a bucket full of bolts.

Meanwhile, Fedul Zhadny, Krasnoseltsev and I found ourselves by the campfire where the presidents of various biker clubs were seated. We happily savored that very same excellent solyanka stew. Someone offered pickled cucumbers and vodka. Krasnoseltsev and I declined —we’d be driving later that evening. Fedul, however, readily accepted a shot. He exhaled his signature line: «Damn good!» and loudly, satisfyingly crunched into a cucumber. Everyone present was in the most cheerful of moods.

We were already on our second helping when a strange figure ambled up to the fire – a man wearing a black leather executioner’s mask over his head.

«Who here wanted to see me?»– he asked, voice brimming with defiance.

«Who the hell are you? Take that mask off!»

«Batya Vol’nyy Opossum! » – declared the masked man, then turned his back contemptuously toward the fire and everyone gathered around it.

Splattered with rain and soaked to the bone, his canvas raincoat bore what appeared to be a crude parody of official «club colors»(4) – a carelessly stitched rectangular patch of fabric featuring a crudely drawn «Wind Rose»(5) at its center, with the word «YORSH» in bold capital letters above it and «Drive Moto Brotherhood» below.

Crouching down with exaggerated theatricality, Opossum drawled,

«Need to dry my ass off a bit! »

Steam rose in little clouds from his sopping clothes.

«Bold move! Seriously full of yourself!»(6) – slowly remarked a biker standing near us.

Without turning around, the «Yorsh» figure retorted,

«Well? So what? It’s warm and cozy!»

In an instant, the biker who’d started the exchange grabbed the uninvited guest by the scruff of his neck and began booting him away. The intruder resisted, and a scuffle broke out – they both tumbled into the mud. Members of «Seven Winds» charged with keeping order barely managed to pull them apart, dragging each man off in opposite directions.

«We’re sitting here eating, and this guy shows up just to warm his ass!»– fumed the instigator of the brawl.

«Like you’re some kind of big shot!» Batya Vol’nyy Opossum shot back as he stomped off.

The incident shattered the peaceful mood that had reigned until then, leaving an unpleasant aftertaste. We headed back toward our tents.

«If we were comparing this to music», I said, «bikers are probably rock – and that «Yorsh» guy? Pure punk rock».

Agreeing, Fedul and Krasnoseltsev picked up the analogy, calling the whole scene unfolding here «rock ‘n’ roll».

A short while later, I spotted that same «Minsk» and «Izh Yunker» – the ones that had arrived at noon – splashing through puddles again. Behind the handlebars of the Minsk, I recognized Opossum. The motorcycles carried their riders away from the camp that had clearly offered them no welcome – and perhaps even hostility.

Near the stage, bikers and musicians bustled about under the sound engineer’s direction, setting up and fine-tuning the audio equipment. Preparations for the upcoming concert were in full swing.

Suddenly, a wave of chaos surged through the tent camp – an attack by local villagers from the nearby settlement. They came running, armed with lengths of rebar and wooden stakes.

«They’re from Soplyakovo!» – shouted one of the Ulyanovsk bikers, charging toward the flashpoint like an enraged bull. «Seven Winds» quelled the neighbors’ aggression swiftly. We never quite figured out how they managed it – whether through sheer physical force or persuasive diplomacy.

Either way, we saw no wounded. What had triggered such a sudden assault remained a mystery to us. Rumor had it the whole thing started over a village girl who’d joined the bikers the previous day – and I personally leaned toward that explanation.

As the French say: «Сherchez la femme!»

Pavel Krasnoseltsev, however, held a different view. He believed the «Yorsh» gang had sent these villagers to exact revenge for the earlier humiliation.

«The Yorsh isn’t just a prickly fish – it’s slimy too, » he mused. «Clearly they’re from the same village. Their bikes are cobbled together from two or three machines, and that Minsk didn’t even have a license plate – you only see rigs like that in rural areas. »

The rock concert, headlined by Fedul, wrapped up long after midnight. We packed up our tents and headed back home to Samara.

Later, at one of Fedul Zhadny’s performances in the Tolyatti cabaret «Blue Melon» – owned by the Al-Kashi biker club – Dmitry «Gor» invited me to the Snow Dogs biker rally, which he organized.

Every winter near Tolyatti, in the Fyodorovskie Meadows area at the «Alye Parusa» (Scarlet Sails) recreation base, races for unimotos took place across the frozen surface of Lake Elektron. It was there I saw the «Yorsh» gang again – they were among the few who’d actually shown up on motorcycles in the dead of winter, which alone commanded respect. Moreover, the «Yorsh» crew had dragged along a steel bathtub mounted on runners and staged an outrageous, theatrical performance. That’s when I learned the «Yorsh» were from Samara – our own locals.

The following May, I received a call from the self-proclaimed «troublemaker and ideological leader of the ‘Yorsh’» (as he'd introduced himself over the phone), inviting Fedul Zhadny to perform at their festival, «Motodetonatsiya» («Moto Detonation»).

I met with him in person – and though he wasn’t wearing his mask, I immediately recognized him as the very «Yorsh» I’d seen in Ulyanovsk. Assuming the memory of that scuffle at the season opener might embarrass Opossum, I kept quiet about having witnessed the whole affair.

Only later did it occur to me that I’d actually crossed paths with Opossum even earlier—two summers prior, back when I was still managing the band «Antiminor». He’d approached me then with a similar proposal, but nothing came of it at the time.

Fate kept stubbornly throwing me together with the «Yorsh».

Fedul eventually formed a kind of creative alliance with them across several projects. I began communicating regularly with Batya Vol’nyy Opossum and the Drive Moto Brotherhood, gradually learning far more about this complex, enigmatic character – and the «Yorsh» crew themselves…

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(1) – In Russian, the fish «ruff» is called «yorsh». This word also refers to a popular Russian alcoholic cocktail made by mixing vodka and beer, and – quite differently – it designates a stiff-bristled or needle-studded cleaning tool (often cylindrical) used for scrubbing deep holes or narrow tubes.

(2) – Stage name of the guitarist who performed with Fedul Zhadny at the time.

(3) – A parody in the style of Vladimir Mayakovsky’s poem «What Is Good and What Is Bad».

(4) – Patches on outerwear indicating a biker’s affiliation with a particular club.

(5) – A stylized eight-pointed compass star.

(6) – Here and throughout the book, the author has prudently replaced the spicy folk expressions actually spoken in dialogue with tamer – though more literary – equivalents.