"Not a Step Back!" Global confession of the global group Rock Unit 227

— I’ll speak for myself. Indeed, after having to say goodbye to my previous project, the band “Forpost,” I was in a kind of half-collapsed state. Not that I was completely broken, no. I understood that I wanted to do something, that I needed to do something, but taking the first step was hard. It was difficult for me at first because echoes of the old band were still ringing in my head, considering the number of performances and the caliber of musicians I had played with.

And I remember our drummer, Anton, said at the time that you could sit in such a state forever, but right now you just have to take and do. After that, he introduced me to Danil, to Andrey Fure, to other musicians. At first, we only had five songs we’d made, and we still didn’t know where our work in this new lineup would lead, how it would be.

But when we in the “227” team actually finished those five tracks, that’s when I realized we had to go only forward from there. Not a step back.

— Remember, we had that conversation about the name? I don’t even remember the first option; I remember we settled on “227.”

— I wasn’t even surprised that you named the group exactly that.

— Yes. It felt so natural, as if there was no other option.

— It’s a reference to the most severe order in the history of the Great Patriotic War — Order No. 227 “Not a step back!”, which was issued at the most critical moment of the Battle of Stalingrad, in July 1942.

— After a great tragedy — a human tragedy, first and foremost — our guitarist, Oleg Sadovsky, died. He went to Lithuania to get new equipment, and on the way back, the driver lost control of the vehicle. Unfortunately, three people died, one person was left disabled. After this tragedy, I tried to somehow reassemble the old lineup, I said we had to continue, we had to keep working, so much had been done… But, unfortunately, we could no longer come together again.

— Formally, our collective plays in the style of heavy metal, heavy-power. But that’s formal. In reality, we have elements from here and there. Honestly, such a clear gradation by style is most likely made simply for the convenience of finding a group in music stores. For that, such gradation works. I believe the more versatile a musician is, the more styles they encompass, the better it is for the listener. But again, one can experiment to a frightening extent. It happens that a musician in their experiments even steps outside of music because the performance becomes more important to them than what they are performing.

And, as I said, we have an acoustic program. It’s more chamber-like, for a wider audience, because not everyone listens to heavy music. Again, an important point: this is by no means an attempt to please everyone; it’s simply that both that style and this style are close to us.

— To be honest, the group’s path is a continuous ‘not a step back.’ We’ve endured so many rotations, so many lineup changes, that sometimes it seemed — that’s it, this is the end. Unfortunately, we couldn’t keep our ‘golden lineup,’ and that felt like an amputation. During the pandemic, when the whole world froze — it seemed the music within us had died too.

But, let’s say: misfortune turned out to be a blessing in disguise — thanks to all these events, we got a second program. Before, when we played heavy metal, if someone dropped out of the collective, everything stopped. Now we have an acoustic program with which we also perform. At some point, we decided to try keyboards, by the way, the group Nightwish gave me the idea for that. And that’s how we got a person in the collective who plays keys — Irina.

— By the way, for me, the group ‘227’ became a new stage. When Vladimir said he wanted to incorporate keyboards, I was very surprised and at first didn’t even believe it was possible at all.

— When I was just starting my path in heavy music in Kaliningrad, Vladimir Oboroten was already a noticeable, prominent figure in the music scene. I went to concerts of the group “Forpost,” we crossed paths, then I left music and returned, later I had my own solo project, and I was sure I wouldn’t work in a band anymore.

When I was offered to join the group “227” as a keyboardist and backing vocalist, it felt as if the band I had loved since my youth was calling me to become a part of itself. So I decided to come to a rehearsal, just to “take a look,” and that was it — I immediately had the feeling that I had come home. I just walked in and stayed.

Before, I might have been willing to endure difficulties, to force myself to find common ground in a collective, but now — no. A shared wave, mutual understanding, willingness to collaborate, that friendly ease — it’s important. And, of course, shared tastes, interests, and one goal. When you’re looking in the same direction — that decides everything.

— It means that no matter what happens, we, in any case, do not stop and act with the forces we have at this stage. Yes, unfortunately, we are understaffed, but few collectives can boast of having gone on tour with such a minimal lineup, traveling to the Special Military Operation zone, and still being in demand.

— You know what’s telling? No matter what lineup we perform in, no matter what program we play, the most common feedback from the audience, from colleagues, from those who approach us after a performance, sounds like this: “You look, you function like a team, like a single, well-coordinated organism, like people who have some kind of connection, who understand each other, hear each other, who are in sync.” I think that’s a huge plus for the group, and I believe that even in a state of being understaffed, this is a major victory.

— Exclusively. The music is usually a product of our collective creativity, while the lyrics and the main melody are typically mine.

— The process of composing is simple for us, without any highfalutin concepts. I come to rehearsal, play the bare bones of a future song on guitar for the guys, and then they give me that “creative kick.” Not in the sense of “it’s all bad,” but in the sense of a healthy, energetic push: “Now go and make a demo out of this that we can hear and dissect.” I record a demo, and with that material in hand, the real work begins: we sit down together and start molding this raw mass, trimming something, strengthening something, finding an unexpected turn somewhere. That’s the point where my idea stops being just mine and becomes our joint creation.

I need to make an important aside here. I’m surrounded in the band by people with serious musical education. The only one who doesn’t have it is me. And I am endlessly grateful to them for not being shy about saying directly: “Buddy, sorry, but this part is total nonsense. Let’s turn it this way.”

— Well, you haven’t had any nonsense yet.

— No, but you still make corrections, for which I thank you from the bottom of my heart, because without them, our music simply wouldn’t exist.

I remember how I used to bring some new composition to rehearsal, and our guitarist, unfortunately the late Oleg Sadovsky, at one point just put down his guitar and said: ‘Until you start learning musical notation, I have nothing to talk to you about.’ And he really forced me to study and learn music theory.

— It just has to please everyone.

— I agree with Anton. A song is ready if you want to sing it. That’s it.

— That feeling probably relates more to live performances.

— Yes, Anton works as our ‘constructive brake,’ because my improvement-tinkering doesn’t always work constructively. It works more like an anchor, and that’s why we have things that aren’t performed but could sound very beautiful. I admit, I sometimes need to be stopped and told: ‘Alright, stop, that’s enough, we’re leaving the composition as is.’

— I’ve learned to switch off. I used to be a big fan of soul-searching, but over time — maybe age, maybe professionalism took over.

After a concert, I give myself time to digest everything, to rest, saying: ‘Today we did the maximum possible.’ I postpone all assessments until tomorrow, and tomorrow could be anything. You can watch the recording and be happy: ‘Everything was excellent,’ or conversely, see that very distance for a running start, what you can still strive for.

Yes, there are times when you feel you gave it your all and it was awesome. And the opposite happens — that it could have been better. But now I approach it without tragedy. It’s a live performance, we’re all human, we’re all learning: a year ago you were a bit worse, in a year you’ll be a bit better. Did I become less demanding of myself? No. Strictness is when you squeeze everything out of preparation, out of rehearsals, out of soundcheck, you do as well as you can right now. And towards everything else, yes, I’ve become more loyal, more lenient.

So, I believe it’s probably for those peak moments, when you walk off stage thinking, ‘Today was pure bliss,’ that it’s all worth it in the first place.

— Yes, there have been such situations. It was funny when I heard one of my compositions as a ringtone on someone’s phone in the Moscow metro. Honestly, I didn’t believe it at first.

Once, someone even tried to teach me how to play my own song, not suspecting it was mine. In such situations, I usually prefer to show the person how it really is and tell them the composition is mine.

Regarding the music we make, I can say this: ‘Folks, listen for a fee, listen for free, come to concerts, download from the internet, listen! We have something to say, and if you’re listening to it, I’m grateful to you for that.’

— It’s an indicator that people like these songs. Popularity is a very conditional thing: you can go out on a city square on City Day in front of a big crowd and moon everyone, you’ll become popular immediately. But is that kind of demand what you want? But when people like what you’re doing — that’s much more valuable.

— From a process standpoint, I can say completely without emotion: every rehearsal of ours is technically perfect, because at rehearsal we do what we’re supposed to do. At rehearsals, we rehearse, meaning we work on music.

— I can’t say I’m proud of it, but during our run of acoustic performances, I’ve smashed four tambourines.

— Remember, we once had a concert where there were only four people in the hall?

— Yes, yes, there was a situation. It was an emergency concert rescheduling, and only four people showed up. To which we said we’d perform for those four. And it turned out very soulful.

Sometimes it’s better to prioritize quality over quantity, because you might fill a stadium, but what you’re doing won’t reach a single listener. Or there might be three people in front of you, but a real explosion happens. As a person I greatly respect, Udo Dirkschneider — the German rock musician, vocalist and one of the founders of the heavy metal band Accept — said: “If there is one person in the hall, I will play for him.”

Anton and I have traveled to the Special Military Operation zone several times, where you simply physically can’t gather many people. But when the guys after the concert ask: “Guys, stay a bit longer. More guys are coming, they need to hear this.” My personal opinion: the main thing is that the relationship between you and the audience is honest.

I’ll admit, we have this little vice: we’re spoiled by usually getting the audience on their feet, meaning we always manage to get a hall moving. But at one concert — silence. We play one song, a second — bam! And there’s no response. We think: “Well, okay, let’s wrap up the set.” And then on the last song, the hall stands up…

The main thing is to be honest. If you came to say something, say it. Just go out and do it. If you’re wrong, you’ll see it immediately from the audience’s reaction.

— Well, I wouldn’t say that. Human coolness is a rather conditional thing. As a musician, I still have room to grow. Usually, in all the collectives I’ve worked with, I’ve been surrounded by professional musicians, educated people, and I didn’t always measure up to them — I’m saying this directly and frankly.

In every composition, I try to convey a certain meaning, I try to tell a particular story, transmit the specific experience of that story, to tell how this story passed through me personally. I wouldn’t say the number of my compositions is overwhelming, because I try to focus on quality, not quantity.

— Honestly, I don’t react very well to any comparisons. Well, first of all, to even compare our appearances with Valery Alexandrovich, you need, excuse me, a very vivid imagination.

People have a strange notion that if you want to sing something really great, truly powerfully, you need to do it exactly as another person did it, and then it’ll be cool. No, guys, that’s not cool. It’s cool if you’ve put your material through yourself and sung it your own way, just how you can. That — is cool. I can sing certain songs by Kipelov; that’s the technical part. But is that a reason to compare us?

— Technically, he can sing anything.

— Yes, Artur Berkut and I performed one of our compositions together on stage. What can I say? We did it, we performed it. I was very pleased that he performed our composition with me. I respect him greatly as a person. Not just as a musician, but as a person.

— To be honest, it’s a story that happens every day. And every day it leaves no choice, and every day it says, just calm down already. But apparently, I haven’t said everything yet… Some people move forward because of something, others move forward in spite of something. In my case, it’s more the latter, because I feel sorry for all the effort, all the losses that were on this path. And to admit that all these efforts were in vain? No, I won’t agree to that.

— We have a composition called “He Was.” It’s a song about those who are no longer with us. And during this song, I always ask people, if there’s someone to remember, to light any kind of little lights, any light sources, anything. I understand that flashlights are beautiful, and they look like an element of a show, but our goal isn’t to create a show. Most often, during this song, that moment of unity with the audience happens; we become one whole. It often happens that after this, the entire setlist flows in a completely different direction.

— Yes.

— My comrades used to kick me for this regularly at first. Then they realized it was useless. I watch the audience, I see what they need at that moment.

— With the group “227,” a concert is more of a dialogue for me, so the program can vary right on the spot. For me, this is a very important point, and I’m learning freedom from Vladimir — the ability to hear the audience without words.

— To go strictly by the setlist is called “working.” In our collective, there’s no such thing as just “working.” Sometimes people want dynamic songs; sometimes, on the contrary, people want to feel a bit melancholic.

— Honestly, the most important word, the single word, is when people come up and say thank you. The most important, the most honest.

From the perspective of musicians, people on stage, the most pleasant thing, of course, is when they ask for an encore or ask for a particular composition. That’s nice; it’s an indicator that we managed to convey to people what we wanted.

But when the spotlights go down, when people simply come up and say thank you, and not just to me, but to each one of us — that’s the most important thing.

— It all depends very much on the audience. Sometimes you see people, you catch someone’s gaze, and contact arises. Other times you don’t see anyone at all, for example, at seated concerts when you can only see silhouettes and spotlights. It’s clear that during a concert, the spectator doesn’t tell you directly about their impressions, but they tell you with their reaction. Someone shouts a word of encouragement from the hall, someone raises a little light, someone’s gaze changes, someone simply stays instead of leaving. Sometimes I see people crying, and at that moment, the most important thing is not to start crying yourself. It doesn’t always work.

— Yes, Yekaterinburg, Omsk, Tyumen.

— That choice was made for us by the tour organizers, for which I’m very grateful to them. In our city, Kaliningrad, there’s a genuine rock ‘n’ roll spot called “Bastion.” The people who run that venue are originally from those parts, they’re from Tyumen themselves. And they decided, so to speak, to introduce us to the world. This tour made a lot of things clear, gave a lot to think about. And, of course, the energy received from the audience was priceless.

— We managed to bring back a clear understanding that not all is lost: in the age of the internet, people still buy concert tickets and leave their homes to listen to music; people are still interested in live performance. Moreover, I came to this conclusion not only based on our performances but also on those of the other collectives performing with us.

And the very fact that people play music, and most importantly, that they play their own original music, is especially inspiring. So, this trip made me understand that everything we’re doing, we’re not doing it in vain.

— For me, the most memorable, the most vivid, and most importantly, the most real performance was for our guys on the front line. We performed right in a dugout, where the guys sit with weapons, in their uniforms, in muddy boots. That was the most memorable, the most important performance for me, because there, everything is honest. They won’t pat you on the back just for showing up. You came? Show what you’ve got! People of different ages, different musical tastes, different statuses all become equal there, and none of them will be hypocritical towards you. There, if you’re doing something wrong, they can just get up and leave. That’s it. But I can say that in our experience, that hasn’t happened.

In one unit in Donetsk, I experienced a moment that forever changed my understanding of what it means to “play for people.” We performed for the fighters not after, but before their departure on a combat mission. That’s a huge difference. You understand that your concert isn’t a rest point in their schedule, but part of the combat timetable. Imagine: they sit in front of you, listening, while their hands mechanically load machine-gun belts. The dry clinking of bullets against the backdrop of guitars.

All formality burned away in that moment. All that remained was an urgent, human desire: to be on the same wavelength with them. Not to “perform,” but to create an atmosphere containing both support and resolve. You play, looking into their eyes, and think only one thing: for our music to become that very warm, firm send-off that gives them the strength to do what lies ahead. That’s the most responsible and most piercing concert of my life.

— It has transformed: from that initial format, it has naturally moved into a completely different quality. That’s a normal phenomenon. But there are a couple of changes that I don’t like: it stopped being real. Rock became loud, it became high-quality because technical possibilities now allow that. But rock stopped being honest, stopped being genuine. Rock has changed, but, as I said, it cannot help but change. Because everything changes.

This is my personal opinion, I’m not imposing it on anyone in any way, but what’s left of rock is a reconstruction. The external appearance has largely remained, some concert elements are still there, but they’ve lost a bit of the very essence. Not all of it.

— First, I’d tell myself to listen less to outside opinions and trust the opinions of friends less. They lie. There is constructive criticism, and there is non-constructive criticism. Constructive criticism is when they not only tell you you’re an idiot, but also explain why. Or the opposite, when they start buttering you up from all sides and telling you how awesome, how amazing you are. No, guys, that won’t do.

I can listen to everyone’s opinion, but the final word must belong to one person. Because, as I’ve said many times, a car where five people grab the steering wheel won’t get far. Listening to everyone is unacceptable; it’s a dead-end branch of a collective’s development.

— I would tell myself: “Don’t leave music.” At the time when the guys were starting, I was actually on a break from my musical path. Perhaps it was necessary, because sometimes you need to leave in order to return. Now I understand that leaving won’t work. I’m sorry I wasn’t present in those historical times when the group was forming, but I witnessed other interesting times when a new wave began, when a new lineup emerged, a new perspective.

— I would say you need to listen to yourself more and listen to others less. Rely more on yourself and your inner feeling. And evaluate yourself soberly.

— Yes, that’s very well put. Indeed, evaluate yourself soberly.

— To complain about the world, about how cruel it is, is foolish. Disappointment is when those close to you can’t accept you, when they don’t accept what you’re doing. That’s the hardest moment for me, akin to a stab in the back. No one is obliged to accept me, adore me, etc., but they just need to understand that this is a part of my life, a huge part. Music, like any other endeavor, takes a lot of time, and that time, indeed, may not be enough for those nearby. And I’m not talking about a choice now — I disagree with that stance as well. The worst is when loved ones present such a choice: either, or. What if, both? When my time comes, I ask only one thing: to give me that time. I try not to snatch it from family, but that time is mine. And I want to spend it precisely on this — on what I have been doing practically all my life.

As for concerts, again, it has become harder to gather people now, because practically everything can be found on the internet. But here you just have to make an adjustment for the times.

— It taught me to love history, to have a more respectful attitude towards it.

— The group “227” returned me to the feeling of being part of a team. Because I had become disillusioned with certain creative processes, with teamwork, and I was convinced I could only find myself in my solo project. And it was the group “227” that taught me that creativity is a two-way process, where the collective influences you and you can also influence something, and this can be done in an informal, pleasant format without competition.

— I learned, first and foremost, to value those who are next to me. Yes, lineup instability, yes, other creative and life moments arise that leave their mark. At one point, I also thought it had broken me, but actually, I am now grateful for these events.

I am grateful that now there are people beside me with whom I can share everything — from the joy of tours to the last piece of bread. And I’ll say it again, the “227” project is not just me, it’s us. It’s the work of a team, where everyone performs their function, everyone fulfills their task. And there is support for everyone from everyone.

Also, at the beginning of the creative journey, the measure of our group’s success was the number of people jumping in front of the stage. Now, it’s much more interesting when I see people watching and listening. They are absorbing what I’m conveying, what I’m saying. That is the highest form of gratitude — when a person simply listens, listens for real.

— There is a certain plasticky, artificial quality to the world now, and I consider it a plus that people have started to grow tired of it. Amidst all this noise, glitter, and polish, they want to find some little nook where it’s simply warm and good. People back then created for real, they created honestly, and they believed in what they were doing. Yes, there were side aspects that I personally don’t share, but at any rate, there was faith in what they were doing.

— Such situations happen all the time. For example, we have compositions: “Midnight,” “Witch,” serious, expansive, with a lot of music. But people ask to play “Exclusion Zone,” “Breathe,” “Alone.” Meaning, they ask for compositions that aren’t as dense.

It’s even more interesting with the acoustic program. Let me give a couple of examples from our, let’s say, military experience. We have a composition called “Deserter,” which we have in both an electronic and an acoustic version. But we thought, for instance, a historical song like “Attack of the Dead Men,” which tells the story of the events at Osowiec Fortress on July 24, 1915, during the repulsion of a German gas attack, would resonate. But the people who are directly on the front lines come up to us after the performance and say that the song “Deserter” hit home. You wouldn’t think it. One of the fighters said to me: “Listen, I understand what a bad person the character in this song is, but how you sang about him!”

Another composition appeared about a year ago, one that makes strong, serious men in body armor cry. The composition is called “The Light of My Life.” It’s a song about my daughter. Honestly, I didn’t expect that reaction either.

— Of course, the group “Forpost” is remembered less and less now because time moves on, and if it is remembered, it’s usually certain individual compositions, but generally, they aren’t mentioned. But people, I very much hope, take away a charge from the concerts. They get charged by what we, all the musicians in the collective, do. I couldn’t have done it alone.

When unity happens on stage, only then do people take away a charge from there, and they recognize the musicians of the group precisely from that standpoint. If a collective has managed to say something, then it wasn’t all in vain.

— I would put several of my texts there. Because the themes of our compositions are historical, military-historical, and besides, I speak not only about the events but about the people in those events, how a person experiences them.

Before writing a song about certain events, I try to read and learn about them from several sources to make as few mistakes as possible. Of course, you can’t avoid them completely, but you can make far fewer.

When writing and performing compositions on historical themes, it’s important to keep one thought in mind, especially now. Current events — everyone who can is trying to rewrite them in different ways: everyone is pulling the blanket to their side. But there is what remains objective: what is confirmed by documents, witnesses, and sometimes by individual people who are still alive.

And I want each of my tracks like that to be a time capsule in itself, and for it to contain one simple message, one phrase carved in stone: “Remember your history.” Because those who forget it will sooner or later have their geography corrected.

Actually, honestly, I don’t much like the idea of being sent into some capsule. I want to always be in real time.

— You want to be in real time, you want to be in action. What few things could you put in there? It’s like asking: “Which song do you like best?” How do you even split that? You have to throw everything in there, everything in your baggage.

— Despite the fact that we work for a result — for recordings, for concerts, to be remembered through the ages — there are very valuable moments, genuine moments, that you also want to leave in memory. Moments when there was some kind of interaction, a spark, for example, during those same rehearsals — you want to remember them. And at the same time, you want to be in the here and now. You don’t want to think about the “afterwards.” It’s so blissful when cool things happen in the process! So, probably, that very process is what I’d want to throw in there, if something must be thrown in.

— I don’t want to be in a capsule.

— Teach me to love those who have cursed my home forever.
Those who pray for my death every day, every hour.
Those who burn with hatred and for whom it is too crowded to live on earth with me… Teach me! Teach me to love them.