I guess (or at least hope) that everyone reading this knows what kind of city Mariupol is, and if you don’t, well, either you are from a different planet or you have been sitting in a bunker somewhere for the last 244 years. The thing is, after erefiia’s (that is, russia’s) first incursion into the territory of Ukraine and the partial occupation of the Donetsk and Luhansk regions, many young people who had the resources and could think critically left the occupied territories for what was probably the most heavily industrialised city in Ukraine: Mariupol. Since then, Mariupol has been a real mixed bag, societally speaking; walking down Metalurhiv (Metalworkers) Avenue, you can easily spot a punk and a factory worker hanging out together. Or a factory worker, who’s also a punk, on his way to hang out with someone else. In general, you’ll spot more factory workers than punks, but that’s not the point. There is a reason why I’ve been using the word “punk” so frequently in the last few sentences: punks are the first lot of people I want to tell you about.

I first came into contact with this social stratum long before I got into subcultures and forms of self-expression. Guess where it happened, though? I bet you three hryvnias you’ll never guess. It happened in the largest Ukrainian supermarket network, popularly known as ATB. In our goddamn ATB in Skhidnyi microdistrict! And no, it wasn’t a random group of people or a couple of friends out shopping: it was the security guard. So here I am, standing in ATB and trying in vain to reach sanitary pads on the top shelf, because it sucks being just 165 centimetres (5 feet 4 inches) tall, and for some reason there are no step stools around. And who is it that helps me get the pads down but the security guard! Covered in tattoos, with long hair and a bunch of piercings in his face, a generic blue shirt complemented, instead of a tie, with a patch saying “Anarchy in the UK”. The patch is staring me straight in the eye. I look at it and, stunned by this incredible sight, instead of thanking him I ask him like a total fool, “UK, zat’s zee yunaitid kingdam, yez?” And he says, “Nah, zat’s Ukrayina”. And on that note, we part ways.

A week later, I suddenly saw him a second time. He was eating pink kids’ jelly from a cup using only a knife on his way home, and after that our paths never crossed again. My next encounter with punks occurred during the summer of 2021, when I somehow became part of their group. I’d like to take this opportunity to say hi to Bassist, the most outrageous person in the whole mob (pictured right). Hi there, Bassist.

Our “Union of Perverts”, as we called it, comprised segments of society as diverse as K-Pop fangirls and skinheads. Oh, I  would definitely not like to have been in the shoes of someone who bumped into us in a dark alley on their way  home from work. So, yeah, punks. This is the best shot I have:

Basically, all we did was sit on the grass near Teatralna (Theatre) Square, on a carpet (yes, a real carpet, dragged there every day by a guy we called Vanya Azovets – the Azov Vanya – for obvious reasons: he is from the Azov Regiment), sometimes listening to music through an amp, although, I know, it’s so fucking anti-social, but we’re punks, so we don’t give a shit, and we scare passers-by with the way we look. On days when we were too bored to sit in one place, we wandered around the city, and on one such occasion, about a year ago, my friends used ketchup to draw an anarchy symbol on the wall of a building. It’s still there, but last time I saw it, the circled letter “A” looked like it marked the site of a ritual murder. And I think this is exactly the result we were going for when we spent twenty-four hryvnias on that Torchyn ketchup.

I’ve never heard of any punk parties in Mariupol, but it would be nice to have some. And, despite the stereotypes, since we live in the twenty-first century, punks do wash their hair (at least Ukrainian punks do, although not all of them).

This conversation about punks leads us to another original category of people from Mariupol’s “Union of Perverts”, namely garage rockers, as they call themselves. In order to write something interesting about this group, I even conducted a mini-interview with the guy whose garage was where the most exciting stories unfolded, so what follows is mostly Denis’s words.

Once upon a time, in days of yore, the band Pivo Na Troikh planned to record a demo, and because these guys are from Mariupol, they know how to do things on a shoestring budget, and know it from birth. That is, the group had no money, so they recorded in a garage, and, as far as I understand, the making of that demo turned into perhaps the most harrowing experience in the band’s life, because no one has ever told me anything so emotionally and with such vivid commentary:

None of us had any money for a decent studio, so we recorded in the drummer’s garage. Let me paint you an approximate picture of what it was like: a pile of cans of god-knows-what on the shelves, car repair tools, some herbs (parsley) in a box and a lonely bag of potatoes that indicated very clearly just how wearisome it found its existence in this world, especially side by side with us fucking idlers who interfered with its alienated being. So anyway, a few words about the process. To begin with, you need to lay down the outline: guitar riff, bass line (we wrote it with the bass off), drum pattern. This time, thank God, the bass guitar was recorded first… Why am I saying that with such relief? Let me briefly explain. The guitars are DI’ed, so it’s not that much of a ball-ache, but the drums… A nightmare. My backside starts twitching when I recall that. Imagine you are a thief in some movie stealing some big-ass diamond or a golden loo roll. So here you are, demonstrating all kinds of acrobatic feats in order not to trigger the laser sensor, but at some point, despite your best efforts, you are detected and that’s it, it’s all gone tits up. This is how you feel when you are trying to sidestep heaps of wires, microphones and other stuff. So anyway, on the day of the recording everyone was tense and extremely serious. Even if you madly wanted to smoke, that was no excuse for a five-minute break. We sat there for a long time, listened a lot and did loads of takes in an effort to record something decent. But our problem was, we frequently changed our mind. We came up with loads of ideas when we were supposed to be recording the material we’d already prepared. As a result, the entire recording session turned into improvisation (admittedly, not in a particularly elegant way). What we came out with from our sessions never corresponded to the original plan, and that time was no exception.

Re-reading everything written above, I think that Denis could make a good stand-up comedian. Anyway, all of that suffering was for the sake of recording a track the band called “Amnesia”. By the way, if you search YouTube or Spotify for Pivo Na Troikh and “Amnesia”, you can hear the result of their labour for yourself, and it’s not half bad. Have a listen, it can’t hurt. I met up with those guys a whole bunch of times, and every time felt like the first time. If I had to rank all the groups of people that I hung out with, these lads would come second. Not first, because that place is reserved for the folks I will tell you about now.

These people probably had the greatest influence on me because they appeared at the moment when I needed them most. There was a period in my life when my leisure activities, if they could be called that, consisted of sitting on a bench with my girlfriends and getting deep and meaningful, and if I was very lucky, downing a bottle of beer at the same time. I was sort of fine with all that, but then I received a message from my friend who lived in the centre, and it said, “Olia, listen, this kinda interesting thing’s going to happen, maybe let’s go?” and included an Instagram post forwarded from the account of @tu_mariupol. The post announced the opening of the Os art cluster. And from that moment on, bright, good and wonderful things entered my life, because the rising tide of contemporary art washed over me and locked me in its embrace, covering me so fully that I had no chance of  escape. And besides, I can’t swim.

When I first came to that art cluster, I thought it was a dream or something out of this world, because never in all my life in Mariupol had I seen anything so free and, in a certain sense, scandalous. Spoiler alert: as it turns out, loads of people in Mariupol are interested in the arts. Consequently, there are quite a few different events, because here, unlike in russia, people are used to taking matters into their own hands to answer a need when a need arises. Here you have your three-day seaside music festival, your GOGOLFEST, your raves, your theatre festival, and that’s not the half of it. So anyway, what was I talking about? Ah yes, the Os art cluster. It’s the sort of space which enables self-expression, a space where you can do anything and everything. Literally EVERYTHING, that is, within the bounds of the law. You want to learn how to make collages? Sure, go ahead! You want to play the guitar? The speakers are next to the stage. Want to organise a witches’ coven? Let’s have a think how we can make that happen.

On one occasion, I came with the “Union of Perverts” to the art cluster’s open day and, after hanging out with the main crowd for a while, we occupied the toilet. Yes, it sounds a bit weird, but we didn’t call ourselves the “Union of Perverts” for nothing, you know. What happened was more prosaic than it maybe sounds. Since it was an art space, the design of the restroom followed the general trend of the place; you could see all kinds of posters, announcements, inscriptions there, as well as – who knows why – the lower part of a mannequin.

Perhaps I should say that we organised a performance, but in actual fact no one really knows what was going on in our heads when we formed two lines to the left and right of the toilet door and applauded everyone who emerged from it. At first it was just a queue, but we were in the midst of such a riot of emotions that the queue could have easily turned into a rally, which luckily it didn’t. That day made a lasting impression on everyone who attended the event, and I am not just saying that, because besides having a great time at Os we also got to know a hell of a lot of people.

To enhance the impact of these stories about life in Mariupol, I will also add a couple pics. I don’t want to write in the past tense yet because I believe that someday we will live there again, and live even better than before. Someday.