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A telephone booth. A newspaper decomposing in the street. An apple core tossed from the window of a car as it breezes down the highway. Where some see banality and garbage, multimedia artists and identical twins Maria and Natalia Petschatnikov see potential. Their work focuses on everyday objects so commonplace that we barely even notice them. For example, for their 2009 installation “Sidewalk”, the Petschatnikovs made 100 pigeons from pressed paper found on the street and replicated their urban environment in the gallery, allowing the viewer to enter the typically unseen world of refuse that the birds inhabit. The Petschatnikovs defamiliarize these objects by manipulating their contexts, forcing the viewer to reconsider the overlooked items in their own lives.

The Petschatnikovs were born and received a classical arts education in St. Petersburg. They continued their education abroad, studying in New York, Paris and Rhode Island. Though they currently reside in Germany, the Petschatnikovs are self-confessed addicts of the artist residency. The pair have participated in no less than ten residencies throughout Europe. Rather than using their time to create their collaborative art, they turn the residency itself into source material for future projects by exploring their new environment. The 2008 series “Found Things” evolved from two such residencies in Scotland and Norway. The pair made casts of roadside garbage, like crushed soda cans and drink cups, which they then carefully painted with traditional tartans or Norwegian patterns and returned to the site at which they were found. The delicacy and uniqueness of these new objects captures their hidden national identity and allows them to tell the story of a globalized world.

From “Found things,” painted polyurethane.  Scottland 2008.

Donoschik spoke with Maria and Natalia Petschatnikov about their work, their background and what it means to be Russian artists working abroad.

Donoschik: You often work with materials that are not traditionally considered artistic–plastic bags, roadside litter, paper found in the street. What appeals to you about these materials?

Maria and Natalia Petschatnikov: We communicate with the viewer through specific choices we make. Materials, technique, size, position of objects in a space, are all means of bringing our idea across. Each project calls for its own material, just as different situations call for different reactions. Both “art” and “non-art” materials are charged with information, and we build on layers of meaning they carry.

What kind of art were you exposed to growing up? Do you think the visual culture in Russia at that time has influenced you? Similarly, you came of age at the end of the Soviet Union. What was the art scene like in St. Petersburg then?

We come from a creative family; both our parents were involved with the arts (theater and film). Our uncle William Brui is an abstract painter, who’s been living in France since the early ’70s. We drew a lot, and our parents brought us to the children’s art school of the Hermitage Museum when we were five. We loved looking at Rembrandt, and the ancient Greeks, were fascinated with the museum atmosphere (and still are).

We were too young to be involved with an art scene in Leningrad in the late ’80s. We learned about Pushkinskaya, Timur Novikov and his New Academy later, when we were already studying in the US. It seemed to be quite a colorful scene, with distinct “characters.” Looking back at it, from our today’s perspective, we are more interested in it as a political and social, rather then an art, phenomenon.

As teenagers we knew for sure that art taught in academic context was not interesting to us. We loved literature and theater and couldn’t come to terms with the fact that the only valued criteria in academic art was technique. The first official exhibitions of Filonov, Malevich and Kandinsky were shown in the Russian museum at the time and they left a great impression on us. We started to be interested in abstraction. Russian theater design of the early 20th century was another inspiration at the time. If not for a scholarship to study art in the US, we would’ve considered studying theater design in Russia.

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It’s negative 20 Celsius, another day of St. Petersburg’s coldest winter in 30 years. It’s dark, too, close to midnight, but then it’s dark all day long in winter in St. Petersburg.

In an archway behind a gate on a deserted street stands a man, a thick black winter coat snug around his rotund body. A black curtain hangs behind him, and against it you can clearly see his breath—thick and heavy like smoke. An electric heater, which may or may not be on, is next to him. A clipboard is clutched in his bare hands.

I am on one side of the gate. He checks the board. Now I am on the other.

I pass through the curtain and hang a quick left. A cement passage into a subterranean lair beckons me, English letters on the wall spelling out “Decadance.”

Beyond a door lies a club—one of the city’s most respected and, well, decadent. And tonight a humble worker, born and raised in Tajikistan, and more recently working in a warehouse on the outskirts of Moscow, will grace its stage.

It was in that warehouse that a co-worker coaxed the man to perform his unique act on video for the first time, uploading the grainy cell phone footage to YouTube. Stardom ensued, or some digital version of it: his videos have garnered hundreds of thousands of hits, respected Russian publications like Bolshoi Gorod have written him up and a few concerts were booked, from which the reaction was generally positive. Finally, The New York Times ran a story late last year.

“The great cities of Russia are still strange to Baimurat Allaberiyev,” Ellen Barry began, adding, he “cannot walk through a crowd in the Russian capital without being stopped by fans.”

Yet none of the Russians I questioned at St. Petersburg State University had ever heard of him. Maybe those weren’t fans stopping him after all. Just the police asking for the papers of another dark-complexioned chuvak from the Caucasus or Central Asia.

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The dim, airplane hangar-sized garage was thick with paint fumes. The black beret-clad guards (more commando than French) informed us that we had to put on the neon orange wristbands, and it didn’t seem wise not to comply. From the garage we exited into a bright and mostly empty, linoleum-floored room-cum-large hallway that looked like the ass-end of any sports stadium in America. But this particular one happened to be St. Petersburg’s Ledovy Dvorets (Ice Palace), home to Russia’s S.K.A., (“Soviet Red Army”) hockey team. But anachronistically named sports teams were nowhere to be found tonight, as the arena was instead the setting for the Legends of Russian Rap—namely, Guf, Smoki Mo and Basta.

But especially Basta.

Rap is not at the same level of popularity as in America, making this arena concert a relative rarity in Russia and particularly in this second most populous of cities. The rappers Guf, Smoki Mo, and Basta are as close to superstars as you can get in the Russian hip-hop scene, but that still doesn’t necessarily indicate enormous crowds. Ledovy Dvorets has a capacity of around 10,000, but with only part of the main floor filled, the crowd looked to be in the 2-3,000 range. That said, this was still a bona fide Arena Show, complete with Jumbotron, fancy lighting and multiple camera crews shooting the stage and sweeping over the enthusiastic audience with a crane—and, of course, with sound that left much to be desired.

But audience members, who paid around $25 to attend this show, didn’t come for the acoustics, they came for the experience, for the community. Because more than anything, the best word to describe the Russian hip-hop scene is just that: community.

The Russian scene is more like a local hip-hop scene in America, magnified to fit the scale of the largest country in the world. As in smaller American scenes, all the artists know each other, collaborate with each other, share fans and keep things tightly knit, more by necessity than choice.

Due to some typical confusion about starting times, I missed most of the sets by Guf and Smoki Mo. But I did make it in time for the most well-known name of the night. If Russian hip-hop were big enough to have a Jay-Z, Basta would be it.

Like a lot of Russian hip-hop, Basta’s music draws heavily on the early 90’s New York hip-hop scene. Beats tend to be sample-centered, nostalgic, key-and string-driven affairs clearly influenced by producers like Rza and Pete Rock. Basta’s gruff, low-mid range voice matches well with the rich beats, and his delivery—straightforward, but dexterous—injects just the speed needed to keep the plodding beats engaging.

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“I know how much that camera is because I saw it at Frys,” volunteers the young man with the Eastern European accent. “That’s $500.” We’re outside a small San Francisco club, part of a small crowd of young men and women with accents.

“Actually, more like $2500 all together.” My friend and photographer Justin mutters.

“Wow!” The man exclaims. “You could buy a motorcycle for that!”

I ask him if he is a fan of the artist who will be performing tonight.

“Not really,” he responds.

I tell him I’m writing an article, and he asks me if I’m Russian.

“Not really,” I respond.

He asks me if I’ve got Russian blood.

“Kind of.”

“Jewish?”

Not sure I want to answer this one. Maybe we should just continue talking about Justin’s camera.

“Kind of,” I say.

“I knew it. Me, too.”

Maxim, my newly acquired Jewish friend from Minsk, retreats back to his cigarette and Justin and I continue into the club, where the musician Maxim isn’t really a fan of is about to begin his set.

Leonid Fedorov was born in Leningrad in 1963 and by the late 70’s was writing and playing music with his first group. Assuming its final form in the early 80’s, the band took the name Auktyon and soon were installed as a major part of the burgeoning Leningrad rock music scene. By the mid 80’s the band had recorded its first studio album, and Leonid Fedorov, the band’s guitarist, lyricist and frequent vocalist, was on his way to becoming a towering figure in Russian rock and avant-garde scenes.

The Russian music writer Andrei Burlaka describes Auktyon’s music as having evolved from “80’s punk and post-punk, through new wave, ska, reggae, through the ethnic music of Southern Europe and the Middle East, and through fusion and acid-jazz.” While many of these more “exotic” musical styles often have negative connotations, Fedorov’s music is truly a staggering hybrid of diverse influences. Yet together they form a singular—and captivating—body of work.

While Auktyon is still very active, nowadays you can often find Leonid Fedorov working on one of his many side projects, such as at this San Francisco show. Billed as a collaboration with the stand-up jazz bassist and multi-instrumentalist Vladimir Volkov, owing to visa issues the concert ended up as a solo affair.

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I think a homeless man is calling me a faggot. I’m standing in the cold outside a club in downtown Portland, Oregon, waiting for the doors to open. An employee comes out and tells a group of about 10 diehard fans, ranging from mid-20’s to late-50’s, that sound check has run late and doors won’t open until 8:30. Rushing up, I tell him I’m supposed to interview the band and, after a double-check of my ID, am allowed to slip inside. Looking over my shoulder, I realize the guy wasn’t yelling at me after all, but at a blonde Russian woman standing close by.

It is Saturday night, and I am at Berbati’s Pan for the Mumiy Troll show. The Russian outside wasn’t an exception. The crowd turns out be almost entirely Russian, but with good cause, as the group performing tonight is one of Russia’s most famous rock bands.

Mumiy Troll formed in the USSR in the early 80’s in the remote, far eastern port city of Vladivostok. The band, started by lead singer and guitarist Ilya Lagutenko, recorded and even played in people’s bedrooms during that time but didn’t really hit it big until after the collapse of the Soviet Union. Having left Russia to work in both London and China, Lagutenko returned to record and release the band’s first official album in 1997. The album, introducing the band’s signature “rokapops” sound, was a hit.

“Basically in six months, it played everywhere. So we started touring, and have continued touring since—it never stops,” chuckles Ilya.

Which leads us back to now and Mumiy Troll more than halfway through their first full American tour, in preparation for their first American release, Comrade Ambassador, an anthology of songs from their last two Russian albums.

Before the show, Lagutenko talks about the rock music scene in Vladivostok during the Soviet Union (almost non-existent), about the music in his home growing up (his mom had the “solo albums of John Lennon, Paul McCartney, but no Beatles albums, for some reason”), and the first time he heard Elvis Presley and Deep Purple, the English band that was freakishly popular in the USSR and are reportedly current Russian president Dmitry Medvedev’s favorite group.

When his mom took him to a foreign film festival screening of the 1973 Malcolm McDowell film “O Lucky Man!”, Ilya knew music was for him. “To be honest, I didn’t understand anything, because I was eight or nine, but I still remember when the movie started, and you got this guy who played keyboards for the Animals [Alan Price], and he played this song, and it totally blew my mind. This image of this band playing guitars and keyboard, and I was, like, whatever it is, I want to be that guy.”

Now eight (official) albums, arena tours, and MTV Russia’s “Legend of MTV” award later, Ilya and the band are finally ready to take over America.

“You hear everywhere the world is changing, America is changing, America is more open to the world, so we have to look at things differently now. Why not Russian rock?” muses Ilya, the band having begun their tour in DC the day after the presidential inauguration.

Whether they will succeed is hard to say. But the excitement of being able to cross America—the place where rock and roll was invented—on a tour bus and play in clubs every night, Lagutenko assures me, is more than worth the effort.

When Mumiy Troll finally takes the stage, the half-capacity crowd of about 200 Russians makes up for their relatively small number with a large amount of raw energy. A giant, thuggish man with a shaved head and big trench coat throws his arm around his friend, and they both swing back and forth, totally drunk and deliriously happy. Later, more men join together in a long fraternal chorus line, swinging side to side, as Ilya and the band jam through a fast and melodic set. While bromance dominates the mood, the female fans are no less enthusiastic, loudly singing and dancing along to their favorite Russian rockers.

Ilya tells the crowd about the long journey that has brought the band from far away Vladivostok all the way to Portland. But looking out at the sea of camera phones and ecstatic faces, an outsider can wonder only one thing: why don’t they make that journey more often?

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Despite being together just a couple of years, the electro-pop trio Tesla Boy are already well known in Moscow’s vibrant club scene. Their popularity continues to grow throughout greater Russia—by way of Live Journal (Russia’s answer to the blogosphere) and a scattering of shows among the country’s plentiful time zones—and has now begun to creep west into Europe and beyond.

Their swift rise is not all that surprising though, as their music—and image in general—is extremely well-calculated. Tesla Boy’s brand of synth-pop draws heavily on groups like Soft Cell and Depeche Mode—the latter, a band that not only conjures fond memories for many Russians, but remains extremely popular here—as well as the resurgence of indie dance music throughout the US and Europe over the last few years. With saturated synths, sexually charged lyrics, and clothes and hairstyles ripped from 1982, Russia’s hipster youth no longer have to look to the West when they want to dance.

Donoschik talked to Tesla Boy’s frontman, Anton Sevidov, about making a living as musician and growing up under the sway of both Rachmaninov and David Bowie.

Donoschik: How did you get into music?

Anton Sevidov: Music was always playing at my parents’ home. I was born with it playing. My father had a huge collection of vinyl, and he regularly enriched it with the help of friends who had an opportunity to visit Europe. My grandpa often brought us brand-new music from abroad, too. He was a music addict, too, just like my father. I think the first time I realized that I wanted to become a musician was at a birthday party where my father’s friends—jazz musicians—were playing. I was sitting by a grand piano for several hours, astonished, and when I came home I told my parents that I wanted to be a musician. Later I sang in a choir, and still later, got my first synthesizer. That’s the story in short.

What was the music scene like in Russia when you were growing up?

Horrible, pathetic crap on TV. And as always an army of unknown talented musicians. It became more fun when an alternative club-scene appeared. Lots of local djs and electro-bands emerged, together with parties which people threw like they were end-of-the-world feasts, preparing and buying costumes a week prior. It became much better when stars from abroad began to tour to Russia.

How is the scene in Russia today?

The scene is quite big today. There’re a lot of talented guys who were sitting at home in suburbia writing their stuff in Fruity Loops [sampling software], and now have got the scene and audience at their service. The thing is that the Internet wasn’t well spread in Russia till the ’00s, and media wasn’t (and actually isn’t) that progressive. So with the Internet, these guys were given an opportunity to present their stuff to an audience on the web and then come out to the clubs.