Kropotkin Vodka

December 1, 2011

Today, the punk band Pussy Riot releases a new video based on the second series of performances at illegal and prohibited venues in Moscow. The concerts took place in places where wealthy Putinists congregate: in the capital’s boutiques, at fashion shows, luxury cars, and on the roofs of bars close to the Kremlin. In honor of the elections on December 4, we publish a video for the song “Kropotkin-vodka”, in which we call for a coup d’etat in Russia. The performances included arson and a series of musical occupations of the capital’s glamorous venues.

TELL US ABOUT THE NEW SONG “KROPOTKIN VODKA”

In our composition we sing the praises of Kropotkin Vodka, a revolutionary drink that has a dual effect: it is good for protesters, but it brings deadly poison to the authorities, granting them a meeting with President Kennedy.

In the song we propose a new reform of the Ministry of Internal Affairs, during which Russian citizens will be offered to seduce battalions of police girls. We also realized that no matter what clothes are offered to the cops, they will all fit poorly, so we propose introducing a new uniform: it consists of no clothes at all. A policeman, being naked, will become kinder and more sexually liberated, freed from the pressure of a gray state robe.

We also sing about moving the capital of the Russian Federation to Eastern Siberia. We urge Muscovites to move the warmth of the hearth, the comfort of a familiar place, satiety and soup to Siberia. Political activity in Russia is so weak, among other things, because the entire socio-cultural life of the country is concentrated in one region. Our program for the political rehabilitation of Russia is to move the capital every five years. We propose starting with Siberia.

WHY DID YOU CHOOSE THE MOST GLAMOROUS PLACES IN THE CAPITAL FOR YOUR CONCERTS?

Our last tour took place on the sites of Moscow’s public transport, where we agitated people to free the cobblestones. This time we decided to perform in places where there are the most wealthy Putinists. Depoliticization and consumption of mind-numbing chic created the phenomenon of “Putin glamour” in the 2000s, which has become an important factor in modern politics based on passivity, conformism and non-interference. The victims of our concerts were such people, so valued in the Russian conciliatory cultural crowd, as the artist Nikas Safronov and the designer Denis Simachev.

ABOUT A NEW SERIES OF ILLEGAL PERFORMANCES WITH THE SONG “KROPOTKIN VODKA”

Before the performances, we were puzzled by the problem of what to wear. Realizing that we had nothing to wear, we decided to go to a boutique to enjoy the chic of expensive clothes. After wandering around Moscow shops, we stopped at the concept store “Podium” on Kuznetsky Most; it was a four-story boutique with gilded furniture, twisted chandeliers and white columns. We showed up at “Podium” in T-shirts and tights, expecting to get dresses for the performance on the spot. Our calculations turned out to be more than correct. We got not only dresses, but also a couple of chic fur coats. Apparently, it was a fox.

Having dressed, we staged a concert in “Podium”, taking out our instruments and starting to shout: “Fucked sexists, fucking conformists!” “Fucked sexists, fucking Putinists!” the store employees sang along with us. At some point we just hung in the air in these fur coats, inspired by the arctic fox and its price.

Right during the concert, Garaja decided to have a snack, finding some kind of sandwich on the floor.

By the end of the song, during the final slam, when our brains had finally been properly shaken, it dawned on us that using the fur of arctic foxes and other animals did not correspond to our animal rights views. We angrily threw the coats to the store workers and quickly left the establishment. At Podium, everyone was so happy that we had finished singing and left the arctic fox alone that they completely failed to notice that we had left in their dresses.

Walking along Kuznetsky Most to Stoleshnikov Lane, we discovered an unusual construction: a glass aquarium with a luxurious car inside. Looking closer, we realized that it was a Jaguar, the favorite car of the United Russia party members. Delighted with the new concert venue, we immediately climbed in there with all our equipment, hung out a banner and began the performance. Spectators began to arrive.

Our first verse –

Occupy the city with a kitchen frying pan
Go out with a vacuum cleaner, achieve an orgasm
Seduce battalions of police girls
Naked cops rejoice at the new reform

– attracted a group of girls under a red umbrella, who watched us with excited faces throughout the song. Apparently, they imagined their intimate communication with battalions of police girls.

At the beginning of a performance, we always bend over and start shaking our heads vigorously to warm up the muscles and vocal cords. “Life as Art,” read the sign on our outdoor stage.

As is well known, Stoleshnikov Lane is the center of the most expensive and prestigious boutiques in Moscow. Security guards with walkie-talkies poured out of the boutiques, tensely studying our performance.

The glass under our feet was bending, shaking and cracking, and at some point it seemed that by the end of the show only a wet spot would remain of the Jaguar. Fortunately, Garadzha had been on a cleansing fast all November, and so the car remained intact.

Between verses, we like to go for a jog. We trotted along on the Jaguar, testing its durability.

“Whoever doesn’t jump is a fucking Putinist!” Pokhlebka began chanting in rhythm with her jogging. “Whoever doesn’t jump is a member of United Russia!” Garadzha echoed her.

Our next performance was at the Terranova store near Red Square. Inside, families were crowded together, snapping up clothes at the New Year sales.

You threw mountains of T-shirts and underwear off the table and climbed onto the wobbly, weak table. Tyurya climbed into the Terranova shoes on the table. “Fuck, I’m going to fuck myself in these heels! This is sexist! Destroy the heels!” Tyurya screamed, starting to swing her feminist whip over her head.

Then a Terranova security guard came up to us and suggested that we wear their brand of suits for the performance. “Our clothes are better! Try this garnet sweater,” he insistently handed the item to Tyura. She responded by screaming “Sexist!” and lashed the guard with a feminist whip.

The guard, dodging the whip, stepped aside. The song was coming to an end, we collected our equipment and left the store.

It was getting dark. On the way to Lubyanka, we caught sight of the sparkling display window of the extra-expensive boutique “Filya Plein”, which was located in the elite shopping complex “Nikolskaya Plaza”. Inside the plaza, we found a buffet, where a company of rich people were drinking alcoholic beverages and gorging themselves on marbled cheeses. Having tasted champagne and eaten our fill of cheeses, we regained our strength. We decided to hold our next performance right there, without leaving the plaza. Not finding a good location in the buffet hall, we went to “Filya Plein”, where we climbed onto a snow-white pedestal for mannequins.

Cozily nestled just behind the “Fall-Winter 2011/12” sign on the shop window, we set about energetically setting the season’s trends: electric guitars, feminist whips, bright balaclavas and anti-Putinism. Diamond skulls and crystal chandeliers sparkled behind us.

The saleswoman at Fili Pleina, not knowing what to do, hysterically squealed something about the police and security. Ignoring her, we finished our composition and left the plaza.

That same evening, we went to a private fashion show in a luxurious mansion. The cream of the capital’s bohemia had gathered there, all of whom, as if handpicked, were fans of Putin, members of the Big Government or even the United Russia party itself. In a word, fucking conformists. A special surprise had been prepared for this crowd.

We burst onto the stage during the show. Pushing aside loudly indignant models, we cleared the stage for our performance and screamed the first verse of the song “Kropotkin-vodka”.

Meanwhile, it’s time for the second verse, which sings of the fatal poisoning of the Kremlin bastards. We decided to demonstrate the explosive effect of anarchist Kropotkin vodka on Putinists and conformists.

Kropotkin vodka splashes in your stomachs
You feel good, but the Kremlin bastards have
it A revolt of toilets, fatal poisoning
Flashing lights won’t help, Kennedy will meet

“Fuck the cops fucking bosses!” – Garadzha screamed and took out flammable powder, starting to sprinkle it on herself, the stage, models and the bohemians sitting around.

Frightened cries came from the audience. A low male voice insistently asked: “Where is the exit, where is the exit?” We continued to shout: “Move your soup to Eastern Siberia, so that the riot becomes sufficiently rude.”

Tyurya reached for her portion of flammable powder.

The fire quickly engulfed the podium, approaching Tyura and Garadzha. “They’re burning! They’re burning!” – they shouted in the hall. But Garadzha continued to sing:

It seemed like she slept, the day was to oppress again
Brass knuckles in her pocket, feminism is sharpened

The artist, holder of the Order “In the Name of Russia” and the Order of St. Anna of the 2nd degree, Nikas Safronov jumped up from his seat and began to demand that he be taken out of the hall. Safronov’s table neighbor, some people’s artist, on the contrary, fell into a stupor from fear.

The fire engulfed Tyurya and Garaja. The audience watched the performance in stupefaction. Then Tyurya realized that it was her turn to perform a verse, and she reached out of the fire to the microphone.
The fire burned Pokhlebka’s hands, but she continued to play feminist chords.

Having finished the song, we hurried to leave the glamorous mansion amidst the hustle and bustle and panic, and quickly disappeared through the back door while the guards were leading out the hysterical Nikas Safronov.

The next day, at a group meeting, Garage put forward a proposal: always carry fire safety equipment with you.

We started the morning of November 30th in our favorite Stoleshnikov Lane for rich conformists. This time, we entered the lane from the other side and saw a shimmering glass building right in front of us. It was a shop and bar by designer Denis Simachev, known for his abnormal love for Slavic glamour.

A New Year’s tree was being installed nearby. The workers were using a healthy three-meter ladder. We approached them and, smiling, said that there was a fire nearby and we urgently needed to climb the ladder to the roof. The workers, surprised by the girls’ courage, willingly gave us the ladder.

The roof turned out to be a very successful and convenient concert venue. We got out our giant pneumatic clappers “Veselaya Zateya”, which, according to the instructions, shoot 30 meters.

Having barely activated the tight “Merry Idea”, we found ourselves under a rain of streamers and confetti, made in the colors of the LGBT flag.

The sound of the firecrackers and our stomping brought an interested cook out of the bar-restaurant. The cook stood a little further away, afraid to come closer. The restaurant’s work was suspended, indignant hungry people looked out of the doors of “Simachev”.

Garadzha spent the entire first verse spitting towards the Cartier display case, trying to hit it. In the end, she kept missing, drooling onto the Simachev security guard, who was waiting, angry, for the performance to end. Tyurya howled in ecstasy something about seducing police girls.

At some point, Tyura thought it was time to get out the fire extinguisher. Pulling the pin, she began to spray the powder on the spectators standing below.

The female customers of the Cartier store quickened their pace and, hiding from the streams of fire extinguishers under the store’s awning, complained about their ruined fur coats.

The security guards of the neighboring shops, contrary to our expectations, did not interfere with the performance. On the contrary, they stuck to the doors of their boutiques, watching the punk concert.

The whole of Stoleshnikov was covered in smoke. Powder lay in a thick layer on the cobblestones of the alley.

When the alley was properly immersed in smoke, we realized it was time to get out. Having quickly descended, the Pussy Riot team began to leave through the alleys.

Having completed an illegal concert tour of iconic glamour spots, the Pussy Riot soloists were satisfied. We realized that it was time to put together a good video, which we did while relaxing after the performances.

We hope that our new video will put you in a state suitable for organizing Tahrir on Red Square. Don’t disappoint us.