'Seems to me that the only problem our lousy band has is you, Astaroth,' I thought while listening to our frontman's vague complaints. At first, I figured something serious had happened, like urgently needing to replace snapped strings or that our geeky fan got plastered with those long-haired rockers and now shares a stall with punk Goose in the local restroom. But it turned out that Astaroth just wanted to rant. Apparently, I left without telling anyone, and that's no way to handle things, especially on such an important day with our performance still up in the air.
"Dude, chill out already," I said after enduring his long-winded and nervous tirade about nothing. "You're our guiding light, so we need your nerves in good shape."
"I just don't get how you can…" Astaroth started his spiel again.
"Shh!" I pressed a finger to my lips. "I'm back now, aren't I? We'll sort everything out, don't worry. Otherwise, your makeup will run."
"I did Kiryuha's makeup, looks awesome! Check it out!" Belphegor chimed in, dragging over a blushing geek. The "Kiss"-style face paint on the honor student looked wild, no doubt. It would've been even better if they'd left him in his old outfit and neat side-parted hairstyle. But Belphegor had already messed with his hair—teased it into a scruffy imitation of a mohawk. The first impressions were holding up: our redhead was the most useful and upbeat member of the band.
"Maybe we should swap shirts?" I suggested. "I'm not performing, so let Kiryuha wear the official one."
"Sure!" Belphegor and Kirill eagerly agreed in unison.
Astaroth brooded silently. His face showed that he really wanted to stir things up and command everyone to line up in three ranks, but he'd run out of complaints, couldn't think of new ones, and didn't want to repeat himself. Yet he craved attention like crazy.
"You guys really prepped well," I said, pulling off the band shirt. "Astaroth is practically a prince of hell."
I gave our tense frontman a pat on the shoulder. Honestly, I wanted to punch him in the jaw. And maybe slap him around a bit. He's acting like a little shit. I still don't get how he became the leader of even a far-from-stellar rock band like ours. So far, all I've seen from him is whining, failed plans, and third-rate vocals. Plus, his songwriting skills are mediocre at best. I decided against telling them about my bathroom adventure with the "Fern" band for now.
"Alright, guys, I have an idea," I waved everyone over to huddle up. "The first set is about to start, and we're definitely not playing in it, so sitting here seems stupid. Let's head to the hall and have some fun, yeah?"
"But the makeup…" Astaroth frowned.
"We'll have time to touch it up during the break if needed," I waved it off nonchalantly.
I instinctively grabbed the resisting Astaroth by the elbow and dragged him toward the exit. The others followed us on their own. I felt like a kindergarten teacher right now, taking care of these twerps, wiping their noses, and solving their problems. The thing is, they're really nothing to me. I met them for the first time this morning when I woke up with a hangover.
I could've just skipped rehearsal and this whole event. I could've gone home, tried reconnecting with the real family of this guy whose head I now occupy, and started thinking about my situation and future plans. Instead, I'm babysitting a hysterical Astaroth because he has to perform in an hour or two, and I need him to catch some vibe and at least sing something. Otherwise, he might bail out in a fit of cowardice.
Because, judging by his slips of the tongue, that's exactly what he was considering.
Why am I playing nanny for them instead of taking care of my own business, huh?
This morning marked the beginning of a new life for me. I'm young again, it's 1991, and the country is still technically called the Soviet Union. Soon, though, it'll be the time that many people my age will later look back on with nostalgia and regret for missed opportunities. This is the era of freedom, a time of change! The wild market, the initial accumulation of capital, and all that. Right now, I have the chance to shape how I'll meet the year 2000, completely different from how it turned out in life version 1.0.
I could ditch this miserable gathering, find my home address, sign up at the nearest gym, cut off this ridiculous mop of hair, and start doing something serious.
Anything.
"Hurry up, 'Fern' is starting!" Belphegor shouted, darting past Astaroth and me, rushing ahead.
But I knew I wasn't going to leave, no matter how much common sense was telling me otherwise. It's hard to explain why. Am I responsible for those I've tamed? No, that's some cheesy, saccharine bs. Out of respect for zthe guy whose identity I've somehow replaced? After all, if he's here, this must've been important to him. These are his friends, his team. You could even say, his family. Yeah, family—that's the word. I was practically born today, and they just happened to be nearby. It probably isn't a coincidence; you don't choose your family. You love them, care for them, and protect them. Besides, they're just hotheaded teenagers. I'm still a man hardened by life, having gone through fire and water. All that's left are the brass pipes…
For some reason, I imagined the legendary rock festival, the one my old buddy Gena was so nostalgic about that he threw his own event where my past life ended, to be grander, more crowded, and more epic. But in reality, there weren't that many people. At least not nearly as many as there were in 2023. In the foyer of the cultural center, a few lonely stalls stood. One was selling round badges. Some had photos of rock bands, both ours and foreign ones, others featured symbolic designs like the "peace" sign or "anarchy," and still others had silly slogans like "Darkness is a friend of youth" or "Good people should multiply." The second stall had homemade zines and books. The remaining two stalls were split between cassette tapes and vinyl records.
Most of the crowd had already moved to the auditorium, which still retained the indescribable charm of Soviet congresses and meetings. The rockers did their best to set up a dance floor in front of the stage, but most of the heavy seats were bolted to the floor, and they only managed to push aside the first two rows.
A banner reading "Rock Province — 1991" was sloppily hung at the back of the stage, and that was about the extent of the organizers' decorative effort. The rock festival ended up looking more like an amateur talent show.
"…and we're proud that 'Rock Province' has turned Novokinevsk into a rock capital, even if just for a little while!" a short guy, with such a huge forehead that it was hard to tell where it ended and the bald spot began, finished his speech and waved at the crowd. The audience roared, and "rock on" hand signs shot up over the sparse crowd in front of the stage. Ah, there he is, the cult figure for all Novokinevsk rockers. Yevgeny Bankin. I wouldn't have even known about him if Gena hadn't droned on endlessly about his supposed uniqueness. Apparently, the guy worked at a local history museum by day and spent his free time elevating Russian rock to unattainable heights.
He really did look like a museum nerd. Some bland sweater, no rock gear, no long hair. But then again, who would let him work at a museum if he showed up looking inappropriate?
Then "Fern" started playing. With flutes, some whistling and jingling instruments, and a tambourine.
After half an hour of music from the stage, I realized my snide mental comments were totally off base. Yeah, it's shabby, sure. The sound isn't great, and the lighting is even worse. But on the other hand, where would they get luxury or good equipment? Bands rotated in and out, and before singing, the musicians shared how they got there. Some took commuter trains, some hitchhiked, and one group had to hide their drummer in the luggage rack because they couldn't afford tickets for everyone.
There was something... charming... about this whole ragtag setup. Some kind of mischievousness, an anticipation of something magical, a buzz of freedom... I vaguely remember feeling something like that in my late teens, but the memories are blurry. The war nearly erased those adolescent memories.
And now I was seeing it all again.
In the narrow space in front of the stage, the lucky ones who made it there first were "going wild." No security or visible guards. I didn't see any special badges on anyone either.
I looked at my "Angels of Satan." They were sitting on the backs of seats, singing along, waving their hands. Their eyes were shining, even Astaroth had relaxed. Good, that means it's working.
"Hold on, don't move, let me just touch up your makeup!" Belphegor fussed around Astaroth, who was sitting on some crate. After the break, we returned to the dressing room, then crawled backstage to wait for Sveta's signal. I ran into her a few more times; she was rushing back and forth, busy with something, though it seemed like everyone was past caring at this point. Bankin's emceeing was, to put it mildly, unprofessional, and who knows what those cardboard numbers were supposed to mean. Maybe there'd be some kind of voting later. The order of performances changed three times right in front of my eyes for the most "legitimate" reasons: the keyboardist ran to the bathroom and hasn't come back, we can't find the bassist—he's around here somewhere but vanished—or "Wait, we just wrote a new song, give us five minutes to rehearse!"
"This is a nightmare…" Sveta-Claire's heels clattered backstage, then her head poked out from behind the curtain near us. She looked at the "Angels of Satan" with confusion, as if she had no idea who they were. Then her gaze focused on me.
"Yes, these are the guys," I nodded. "Is it time to go on?"
"Yes!" she blurted out. "As soon as 'Helicopter Khrushch' finish their song, you guys go on!"
"Yes, ma'am!" I gave a big grin and saluted. Sveta's head disappeared, her heels clattered away in the opposite direction. I turned to my group. "Well, you heard the orders! We finish listening to the song, and then it's go time!"
"Oh dear…" Belphegor whispered, eyes wide with fear.
"Finally…" Astaroth grumbled. "We've been waiting for an hour…"
"I'm so hungry my stomach's stuck to my spine," Behemoth whined.
Only Kirill was silently gazing at everyone with adoring eyes.
"Come on, give this place a taste of rock!" I encouraged them, clenching my fist. "I'm gonna run to the hall and watch you from there."
I didn't bother going around the audience; the concert vibe was so loose that you could just ignore those formalities. So I simply slipped out from backstage and went down the side stairs straight into the crowd in front of the stage.
To be honest, I was expecting to feel some intense secondhand embarrassment. I'd heard how my guys sing and play, and their level is, to put it mildly, questionable. And here they were, in front of an audience and everything. I expected Astaroth to freak out and start squeaking in falsetto, Behemoth to drop a drumstick at the worst moment, and Kirill to freeze up and stare at everyone with wide, terrified eyes. That's what I was anticipating. I was even ready for it.
But reality was kind. Either I'd already gotten into the local vibe of anarchy, permissiveness, and nonchalance, or the embarrassment just never hit. Even when Behemoth dropped his drumstick before he even reached the drum kit.
I'm not sure where I was looking more—at the stage or the crowd. The people in the front rows seemed like they no longer cared what they were listening to. They were jumping and shouting even louder than the musicians. My guys performed… well… let's say they did okay. Better than I feared, at least. No one threw down their instrument and ran off in panic. By the end of their performance, I even started feeling proud of them. Kirill, getting more comfortable on stage, threw in a few complex riffs that weren't in the original songs, earning a roar of approval.
When Astaroth said the final "Thank you!" into the microphone, I almost got a little teary-eyed. It was a kind of fatherly pride, I guess. After all, I had a hand in making this performance happen, and the guys got their moment of fame.
When I got back to the foyer, there was a buzz of activity. There were two main hubs of excitement—one around the "Fern" band that had come out to mingle, and another near the TV crew. I wasn't worried about my guys anymore; they were busy acting all important around some shaggy-haired girls. I went off to find something non-alcoholic to drink and somehow drifted over to the TV crew. There were three of them—a cameraman, someone with a mysterious-looking bag, and a young woman with a microphone. She was looking into the camera, delivering her report.
"Dear viewers, we are reporting from the Palace of Culture of the Novokinevsk Chemical Plant, where today a significant event for our city is taking place—the Rock-Province festival," she said with a coy smile. "We've already seen performances from a wide variety of bands, both from Novokinevsk and other cities. According to the organizers, the festival's reach surprised even them—rock bands have come from all over, from Moscow to Magadan. And now, we'll talk to some festivalgoers who've just taken a break and can share their fresh impressions."
"Vova," someone's hand landed on my shoulder from behind. "Is that you?"
"Clair?" I turned to the girl. "Need help with something?"
"Huh?" she replied absentmindedly. "No, it's pretty much all done. Wanna step outside for a smoke?"
"Of course, why not," I nodded, and we headed toward the exit. This time through the main entrance. "Need some fresh air? People are smoking right here anyway."
"Yeah," she nodded. I looked at her sympathetically. Poor thing, she was exhausted. Organizing an event is a real headache. Everything that can go wrong does go wrong. We stepped outside onto the porch. Sveta pulled out a crumpled pack of "Yava" cigarettes from her pocket, shook one out with trembling hands, and put it in her mouth. She offered me one, but I declined.
"You know, Vova, I once dreamed of being a singer too," she said pensively. "That's why I joined the rock club. I thought I'd find a band, become a lead vocalist… I was so happy about the newfound freedom. I thought, finally, people will see how talented I am. I listened to Zhenya like he was a god. Made him coffee. Helped with everything. Always."
She fell silent and swallowed her tears. I wrapped her in my jacket and held her close.
"Sometimes I think this is all a sham," she said, staring into space. "I keep running around, doing things, but in the end, no one notices me. It's like I don't even exist. Zhenya doesn't even always remember my name. Only when he needs something. He promised to listen to my music. Yeah, sure…"
"Look at it this way, Clair," I said. "If it weren't for you, this festival wouldn't have happened, right? There wouldn't be TV crews here. And those reporters over there with notebooks—they're covering this because of you. People will remember this festival, so it wasn't all for nothing."
"But I'm not even here!" she sobbed. "I'm not even on the list of organizers! Just some girl that someone brought along! I was the one herding them around like kids to get them on stage on time…"
"No one knows the names of all the builders of St. Isaac's Cathedral in St. Petersburg," I smirked. "But it wouldn't stand without every one of them. People will remember this festival even thirty years from now. Maybe even a hundred."
"Hard to believe…" she sighed.
"I'm telling you, it's true!" I squeezed her a bit tighter to cheer her up. "Let's say I'm a time traveler who just came from the future to tell you how things turn out."
She sighed, this time with a hint of a smile through her tears, and rested her head on my shoulder.
"You know, I could almost believe you're my guardian angel," she said softly. "Maybe we should exchange phone numbers?"