5/8 : radio

You suddenly hear the distant clatter of train wheels somewhere far away. And in your memory surfaces a summer day when you were still very young. A winding forest path. The crunch of pine cones under your feet. Clouds glimpsed through the branches of towering trees. You already know — what comes next is everything you once loved: the creak of the old metal gate at the dacha, the rope swing hanging from the willow bowed over the pond, ice cream melting in the summer heat from the kiosk in the neighboring garden settlement, the echo of your footsteps through abandoned pioneer camp buildings, the smell of your mother's vegetable soup wafting from the kitchen, the locomotive's whistle and the rhythmic clatter of express trains rushing past the station. The only thing missing would be kaisou's mix for 5/8: radio. And that, of course, is a rather regrettable oversight

You notice the badly faded by the time painted name «Oleg» on the concrete fence, behind which there once stood a furniture factory, now — construction site for just another residential complex. Suddenly, you catch yourself wondering: what kind of person was this Oleg twenty years ago? Which sneaker did he usually put on first — left or right? Did he like how he looked in those group photos from yet another shashlik trip? How often, before falling asleep, did he replay all the things he should've done and said differently? Could he dive gracefully like a fish, or did he prefer cannonballing into the water with a splash? And finally — would he have liked mishxn's mix for 5/8: radio? Though why even ask? Of course he would've loved it!

You notice a pair of “weary” sneakers abandoned on the street near a trash bin. For some reason, your mind begins to wander, imagining the countless steps taken in them — through the streets of familiar and unfamiliar cities, all in an attempt to outpace bad thoughts. Sometimes it worked, and sometimes it didn't. You picture them on a bright summer day, riding in a commuter train as the view outside shifted from dachas to forests and back to dachas again. You imagine them stepping into strangers' apartments, left in hallways for a few hours, or sometimes until dawn. You see them standing by a bar, waiting for another glass of beer, the lively chatter of beautiful people filling the air. And finally, you think of how they occasionally tapped in rhythm to a pleasant tune — on a subway car, in an elevator, at a supermarket checkout, or even by the office water cooler. Music like Patricia Brito's mix for 5/8: radio

You spot a large crow sitting on a chestnut tree branch. Suddenly you go back ten, maybe twenty years. An endlessly long literature class. To kill time, you look at the dusty leaves of the ficus on the windowsill, the utterly expressionless face of Fyodor Dostoevsky in the portrait above the blackboard, the deeply carved letter "A" on the desk, the delicate gold-rimmed glasses of Yulia Alexandrovna, the frozen soap streaks on the laminate floor, the scuffed shoes of your classmate Sashka, the tube of a fluorescent lamp that burned out six months ago and still hasn't been replaced… and the large crow sitting on the branch of an old birch tree in the schoolyard. If Tomo's mix for 5/8: radio had existed back then, you would've gladly slipped on your headphones and drowned in it. But alas. So instead, you had no choice but to watch the crow

You see a large Labrador tied up at the entrance of a supermarket. He is anxiously waiting for his owner to return. For some reason, it reminds you of a summer day in the 90s: you and your mom were flying to the seaside, she asked you to watch the suitcases and left, disappeared into the crowd. People bustled noisily around you, an irritated female voice crackled over the loudspeakers, calling yet another passenger to the check-in counter, and planes roared into the sky —some bigger, some smaller. Time passed, and you began to feel like your mom might not come back. That thought terrified you: what if you were left alone on that uncomfortable bench, and then, late at night… someone would bring you a little uniform and a broom, and you'd have to sweep the floors here until you grew old. But she did return, helped you put on your backpack, adjusted her old-fashioned sunglasses, and you headed to the gate. There was so much more after that: jellyfish, cypress trees, terrible juice, riding an inflatable banana, and even a sunstroke. But now, as Sasha Vepr's mix for 5/8 starts playing in your headphones, the radio takes over, and there's no room left for nostalgia

Apartment one hundred and thirty-fifth, seventh floor. Boris is hopelessly glued to the multi-colored Christmas garlands in the windows of the panel building across the street. He is mortally tired of the hustle and bustle of late December and has sinking deeper and deeper into memories of New Year's Eve of 1992. The dining table was set in the living room. The air smelled of boiled potatoes, cigarette smoke, and sparkling wine. Uncle Oleg has pulled out his guitar, while aunt Vika was loudly complaining to his mother about another troublesome boyfriend. he could see his father inexplicably handing money to Santa Claus. A few minutes later, Boris would read a poem to this deeply inebriated man in a scarlet robe with little enthusiasm and receive a small LEGO set with an airplane as a gift. The magic of the holiday had, of course, fallen apart at that moment, but everything felt not so hopeless after all while he holding the box with a bunch of colorful plastic pieces in his small hands. And the only thing that could give him that same feeling right now was a bit of drum-and-bass in a mix Nepogodin for 5/8: radio.

Apartment one hundred twenty nine, sixth floor. Zoya was about to leave the house when all of a sudden it hit her: how tired she was of all of this. Squeezing the last bits of toothpaste from a tube folded multiple times. Writing and deleting messages she desperately wanted to send. Walking along Shosseynaya Street on a winter evening, watching the dim light in the windows of the apartment blocks. Listening to the loud cough of her neighbor from apartment 130. Sitting through seemingly endless conference calls (which, of course, could have been emails). Seeing the reflection of her tired face in the windows of a rusty BMW in the neighboring courtyard. Awkwardly trying to get the bartender's attention on Friday evening, in the timid hope of ordering another unnecessary glass of beer. And constantly choosing something – what to wear, what to watch, which cheese to buy on sale… but then a frunk29 mix for 5/8: radio started playing in her headphones. The stream of nagging thoughts in Zoya's head stopped, and she felt calmer and happier, so calm and happy that she even wanted to live

Central Clinical Hospital For a brief period around 2010, small flash mp3 players replaced cassettes as the preferred medium for mixtapes, and were often included in care packages sent to hospital patients. This iriver s7 mp3 player was found at the third entranceway of the Central Clinical Hospital on November 27.

Eighty-nine apartment, fifth floor. On his way home, somewhere between the 24-hour store called "The Elk" and the "Milana" hair salon, Ignat spotted a playing card with the queen of clubs lying alone on the pavement. Now he can only think about that loose black shirt with a bold deck-of-cards pattern that his mother's friend, Uncle Slava, used to wear. All Ignat remembers about him: the gleaming gold tooth, the habit of rubbing his neck with his palm, a trip together to the lake in a beige Lada, when he felt an extra more than ever). And also, the fact that one crisp January morning in 1997, Uncle Slava was met by three gunshots as he was leaving the apartment building. But most of all, Ignat remembers that card-patterned shirt. It's forever etched in his memory, just like the first time he heard Undervann's mix for 5/8: radio — a lone tear of happiness slid down his cheek, and his feet couldn't help but start to dance

Lemonade Baby - 5/8 Radio #242 by 5/8 : Radio

Apartment 140, ninth floor. Yegor stuck his large shaved head out of the bedroom window. Low in the night sky, the lights of a plane were gliding by, and soon the familiar hum of jet engines would catch up. Yegor wished he could be there on board right now. And not flying to some far away place, but coming home. Fidgeting in a not-so-comfortable seat, waiting for the landing, and looking out of the window at the familiar concrete high-rises on the outskirts of the city, the occasional cars on the roads, and the streetlights casting a soft yellow glow on the empty yards and streets. Then there would be the taxi ride with an overly chatty driver, the familiar clank of the key in the door lock, and a home that feels and smells a little different after a long absence. Like putting on a winter coat for the first time in a year. And when the floor in the living room creaks underfoot, as it always does, there will be a sudden, special kind of comfort — just like the feeling when you turn on the Sasha Foam mix for 5/8: radio.

Apartment 21, fifth floor. Gleb is washing a plate with a neat yellow rim. A barely visible steam rises beautifully from the hot water. The foam pleasantly runs down into the sink. For some reason, at that very moment, while looking at the steam, the foam, the shiny tiles of the kitchen backsplash, and his slouched reflection in the window, he suddenly remembered a story so old, it felt like it happened in a past life. A scorching day in Budapest, he ordered an espresso tonic at a café. Around him were bare concrete walls, pots with ficus plants, and posters in an unfamiliar language. The smiling cashier in a coral-colored t-shirt handed him a change. With a cute Eastern European accent, she complimented his recent tattoo of Pierrot's head in a cap. Oh God, how embarrassed he was! He couldn't think of anything better to say than something like, “Well, you've got a great tattoos too”… except she didn't have any. At least none that he could see. An awkward pause. He quickly forced a smile, took the change (a couple of coins, of course, fell loudly to the floor, so he had to spend time picking them up), waited for his drink, and dashed out into the July heat without looking back, trying to forget the embarrassing incident. Suddenly, Gleb felt just as awkward as if that scene had just happened now, right there in his kitchen. Poor boy, if only he knew there is a perfect remedy to quickly distract from embarrassing memories (and everything else), and that is the Solid Angle mix for 5/8: radio.

These yellowed plastic cassettes contain music that accompanied people's romantic experiences. This one was recorded in June 1996 in Porto. On that day, when it rained again, he waited for a bus for an hour, just to see it racing by with a glowing notice “fora de service”. He walked. Probably, it was an unknown to him local holiday, for on his way he couldn't find anything open: no bakery, café, bookshop to distract him from his melancholy. Eventually though there were some festive sounds coming out of lottery house he never saw operating before. Inside of the preserved mid-century interior music to his liking played. Men and women in uniforms danced with small beers in hands. Those were bus drivers, postmen, nurses, waiters. He joined the party that seemed like a salvation for him. Once the music finished and the strangers shuffled out, clinking bottles neatly on the marble floor, he went to the old-fashioned audio system, out of which he ejected a tape marked “Fora de Horas”.

Fifth apartment, second floor. Valya is hurriedly getting ready for going out to the bar. She's late as usual. Why is it today her hair is looking so messy, and her favorite longsleeve is so crumpled? It's unpleasant, but it wouldn't be an obstacle to have a drink. But only one glass… well, two at most. Tomorrow is Thursday after all. Out of the corner of her eye she notices the light of a dim street lamp, barely penetrating the dense foliage of the poplars growing opposite the house. And either it shines in a special way today, or she is in such a sentimental mood, but Valya suddenly realizes that what she really wants is not to go to the bar or even to have perfectly styled hair, but to drive on a late September evening of 1997, lying on the back seat of her mother's beige «Zhiguli» car. She really want to see the same dim streetlights quickly replace each other outside the window, and her mom deftly light another cigarette from the car lighter, and smell through the open windows the inexorably approaching autumn. Could anything be better? Only if Anton Rekov's mix for 5/8: radio

Только представь: жаркий июльский день, ты сидишь в любимом кабаке, вальяжно раскинувшись на старом стуле – тебе никуда не нужно. Планов на завтра нет (да и есть ли оно – завтра?), привычные тревога и беспокойство бесследно растворились, периодически возникающие на экране телефона уведомления совершенно тебя не волнуют, даже не хочется проверять, что там. Все, что сейчас по-настоящему важно – это запотевший бокальчик лагера в твоей изящной руке. Пышная шапка пены медленно тает, капли конденсата приятно холодят кончики твоих пальцев. Вот бы каждый день был таким. Ах, мечты-мечты. Красиво уходим в короткий отпуск под ритмы грандиозного микса Миши Политковского, записанного для недавнего фестиваля «Ветерок» в баре «Ровесник». Целый час аудиального блаженства про вторую самую важную вещь для нас всех (помимо музыки, конечно же) – пивко, пивасик, пивчик, пивандрий.

Apartment 73, first floor. Valera lies in his bed, staring at the ceiling. His left leg is sticking out from under the blanket as usual. The scents of damp soil and lilac waft in from the street. The rain drums on the leaves of a young maple in the front yard. In that social network that Valera now visits only once every couple of months, a notification popped up about the birthday of someone he met only once, about ten years ago, and now he cannot calm down. That evening used to exist in his memory in the finest detail, but now it's like a series of random snapshots: a long strand of his date's hair, that she kept tucking behind her ear, the broadcast of the «Milan»-«Lazio» football match in the bar (the «Rossoneri» won 3:1, if he recalls correctly), and a recently painted dark-brown bench – they almost landed on it when they were already quite tipsy. Valera can't shake the question «I wonder if she ever thought about that meeting in August? Maybe on her way home in a taxi or just like this — in her bedroom on an early weekend morning?». There is a magical pill that could distract him from such pointless questions — xinyi mix for 5/8: radio. But unfortunately, he doesn't even know it exists. So he continues to lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, with his left leg still sticking out from under the blanket.

nikita zabolotskiy — 5/8 : radio at veterok fest by 5/8 : Radio

azole — 5/8 : radio at veterok fest by 5/8 : Radio

dx2ov — 5/8 : radio at veterok fest by 5/8 : Radio

andrei zhilin — 5/8 : radio at veterok fest by 5/8 : Radio

anya zakharova — 5/8 : radio at veterok fest by 5/8 : Radio

ivan solimani-lezhnev (ruby goon) — 5/8 : radio at veterok fest by 5/8 : Radio

bilgesez — 5/8 : radio at sol kazan, 18.05.2024 by 5/8 : Radio

tyutchenko — 5/8 : radio at sol kazan, 18.05.2024 by 5/8 : Radio

pasha yves — 5/8 : radio at sol kazan, 18.05.2024 by 5/8 : Radio

glamour pashok — 5/8 : radio at sol kazan, 18.05.2024 by 5/8 : Radio

robsn b2b dima safronov — 5/8 : radio night at kuznyacruise II by 5/8 : Radio

vasya saiko — 5/8 : radio night at kuznyacruise II by 5/8 : Radio

Apartment 66, eighth floor. Tanya looks at the beautiful lipstick imprint on the wine glass. The last guests have just left: she can still hear the elevator rumbling down, carrying Ildar and Sasha. Someone left the turquoise lighter on the kitchen table next to a cup of cold coffee. It became completely quiet and therefore a little melancholic. Perhaps she should have slowed down a bit. Then she wouldn't have felt the urge to tell that childhood story about summer camp in front of everyone (yes, the guests laughed, but it seemed more out of pity) or to plan a joint trip for the upcoming weekend (it's already clear – no one is going anywhere). And she definitely wouldn't have wanted to write that message to that person while stepping out to smoke on the balcony (of course, he read it and didn't reply). Tanya stretches her legs and closes her eyes. The interior of her tiny kitchen with a glowing garland, silly magnets on the fridge, and a pile of dirty dishes in the sink, smoothly transitions into spinning abstract paintings. Ahead lies an uneasy ten-hour sleep and a heavy morning, which can only be improved by a painkiller pill and a mix from 5/8: radio by our buddy Dima Krylov from Samara

Apartment 91, fifth floor. Ilya slowly stirs cheap coffee in an old mug with the picture of the Egyptian pyramids (his younger sister brought it from vacation in Hurghada about ten years ago). Just one more day to endure. Then he'll head to the train station in the evening and hop on the suburban train. It will be hot and stuffy in the carriage, his shirt will instantly stick to his body. Outside the window there will be graffiti-adorned concrete fences, garage cooperatives, auto repair shops, old houses, vacant lots, new houses, more concrete fences, other people's dachas, and finally, dense forest. He'll get off at a station with a funny name and walk along a sandy road between fields overgrown with tall grass. In the country house inherited from his grandfather, it will smell familiarly of an old books. Ilya will brew strong coffee in his favorite red polka-dot mug (for some reason it will taste better than at home) and, sitting on the porch, will listen as unfamiliar nocturnal birds sing beyond the fence in the twilight-darkened pine forest. The itching need to transplant the distant raspberry bush growing by the tilted barn will swiftly push out all other thoughts and desires. He will finally take a deep breath—feeling oddly pleasant and serene, as if he had turned on Perez's mix for 5/8: radio.

@accidentalpoint @sheva_music It's a sunny day, late March. You're smiling. Maybe it's because it's Saturday, you don't have to think about work, and there's an empty glass of lager on the counter in front of you. Or in your memory suddenly arose a picture from your childhood: you are driving your father's old car out of town for the first kebabs, in the trunk rattles disassembled brazier, and you anticipate how you will pedal along the paths of the dacha cooperative on an old "Desna". What? Do you really remember how beautiful looked in the sunset sunlight slightly disheveled hair of that very man (you are still shy and do not admit anything), while you went out for a smoke for five minutes? Or maybe there's a 5/8 broadcast playing in your headphones right now: radio from the Accidental Point space? Yeah, probably the latter.

@accidentalpoint It's a sunny day, late March. You're smiling. Maybe it's because it's Saturday, you don't have to think about work, and there's an empty glass of lager on the counter in front of you. Or in your memory suddenly arose a picture from your childhood: you are driving your father's old car out of town for the first kebabs, in the trunk rattles disassembled brazier, and you anticipate how you will pedal along the paths of the dacha cooperative on an old "Desna". What? Do you really remember how beautiful looked in the sunset sunlight slightly disheveled hair of that very man (you are still shy and do not admit anything), while you went out for a smoke for five minutes? Or maybe there's a 5/8 broadcast playing in your headphones right now: radio from the Accidental Point space? Yeah, probably the latter.

@accidentalpoint @uladzimirkolb It's a sunny day, late March. You're smiling. Maybe it's because it's Saturday, you don't have to think about work, and there's an empty glass of lager on the counter in front of you. Or in your memory suddenly arose a picture from your childhood: you are driving your father's old car out of town for the first kebabs, in the trunk rattles disassembled brazier, and you anticipate how you will pedal along the paths of the dacha cooperative on an old "Desna". What? Do you really remember how beautiful looked in the sunset sunlight slightly disheveled hair of that very man (you are still shy and do not admit anything), while you went out for a smoke for five minutes? Or maybe there's a 5/8 broadcast playing in your headphones right now: radio from the Accidental Point space? Yeah, probably the latter.

Apartment 35, ninth floor. Yana closed the iron front door with a clatter («Nina Valentinovna from 36th apartment will come to argue again soon») She carelessly put the heavy grocery bag on the tiled floor and the jar of pickles at the bottom of it clanged loudly («I hope it hadn't crash!»). She couldn't get out of her head that Luzin was standing in line in front of her. The same senior high school student, Luzin, whom she secretly had a crush on in school. Now there was almost nothing left of that curly handsome football player she remembered: he had ballooned up like a ball and lost almost all of his curls. And those awful patent leather shoes... She wonders, if she and Luzin were a couple now («There was zero chances, but still»), would she notice all this? Or would he still remain in her eyes the same wide-smiling guy in silly tracksuits, just scoring a goal in the dusty backyard football box on Krasnaya Street. It was getting dark outside, the highway was humming as usual, the windows of the house opposite lit up with violet light from the phyto-lamps, and if there was anything that could save Yana from the spiraling thoughts of her unrealized life right now, it would only be Vanya's mix for 5/8: radio.

«Заполярье 16.02.24» by 5/8 : Radio

Apartment 113, second floor. Diana is standing under the hot shower. She doesn't like the vintage blue colored tiles, pink towel hooks made of cheap plastic, and the long crack in the sink. If only this was her apartment... The water makes a pleasant noise. It smells like shower gel (the aroma is «apple with caramel», she bought it on sale). For some reason, thoughts about the stooped man with sad eyes keep spinning in her head - a stranger she's been seeing on the way to the metro for about a year now, more or less in the same place. She hasn't seen him for a week now. Maybe he's sick? Changed jobs? Moved? What if he started deliberately avoiding her? All these questions, of course, will remain unanswered - neither in a week, nor even a month the man will not reappear. Diana will think about him from time to time, but over time she will not even be able to remember what he exactly looked like. In her memories, the stranger will turn into a faceless figure, walking towards her somewhere between the 24-hour pharmacy and the «Lenta» supermarket. In seven or eight minutes, she'll turn off the water, wrap herself in a huge purple terry towel, step out of the bathroom into the narrow hallway (feeling chilly in the first few seconds), the parquet floor will squeak under her feet as usual, and for a moment, she'll freeze and listen - a very pleasant and completely unfamiliar melody will be playing in the apartment on the floor above. Diana doesn't suspect it, but it's a mix by LVRIN for 5/8: radio.

Apartment 105, ninth floor. Slava slowly stirs sugar in a cup of black tea. Its porcelain surface is adorned with a pattern of flowers, birds, and gilding. The wall clock ticking loudly. Mom is slicing a waffle cake with nuts ("your favorite"), dad is talking about the road to the dacha, which, of course, is being cleared of snow, but not very well. Slava suddenly notices how much they have aged. But the apartment, on the contrary, seems unchanged since that evening in May several years ago when he walked out of its threshold with a suitcase full of his belongings. Here, everything still smells of soup, his childhood photo with a silly «bowl» haircut sits on one of the shelves in the living room, the carpet in the hallway covers the mark from a dropped cigarette of his school sweetheart, and there are traces of tape on the wallpaper in the small room where he used to hang posters. And Slava feels oddly pleased, about as pleased as someone who has put on the dx2ov mix for 5/8: radio.

Apartment 54, fifth floor. Sveta is smoking on the open balcony, wrapped in an old puffer jacket. It's the typical timelessness of a weekend day when it's impossible to tell exactly what time it is. Children in snowsuits that make a «whoosh-whoosh» sound while walking are dragging a huge snow tubing somewhere, and a group of red-faced men, drinking on the bench in front of the building, just emptied another bottle of vodka. But Sveta isn't here — she's in Sochi twenty-something years ago. Blond-haired Sasha sees her off at the platform. He arrived ten minutes before departure: his eye is bruised («last night got into a fight with a guy from Tambov, nothing to worry about»), and he's holding flowers, plucked from a flowerbed. He promises to call. But it never happens. Where is he now? And on which balcony would she smoke, if he had called twenty-something years ago? If Sveta knew about the Sanguine's mix for 5/8: radio, which helps distract from persistent thoughts about things that never happened, she would immediately turn it on. But she doesn't know

- a legendary project founded in 1983 in the secret Ural city of Chelyabinsk-70 (later Snezhinsk) by Igor "Gosha Ryzhiy" Shaposhnikov and Vladimir "Vova Siny" Emelev. The basic instruments of the project were tape recorders and magnetic tape rings, which served as artisanal samplers. Such musicians as Vitaly Stern, who later founded with Igor Kolyadny the cult electronic project "Vida Ryb", Andrey Kireev (Shake), Sergey Alexandrov (OMMIX) and Alexey Alexeev (Nikolai Kopernik) collaborated with the band. The project became a legend of experimental Soviet rock of the 80s-90s, and in 2023 celebrated its 40th anniversary with a jubilee concert at MMOMA.

- electronic duo specializing in such music directions as ambient, intelligent techno, experimental, spoken word. They use various instruments of sound production: grooveboxes, samplers, synthesizers, flute and voice, organically combining improvisation with prepared material, and traditional approach with experiments - conscious and intuitive.

Stropharia is a Moscow project formed by Dmitry Polikarpov 30 years ago, in 1993, on the wave of fascination with industrial culture, psychedelic electronics and the transgressive side of the rave scene. Over the three decades of the project's history, everything has turned upside down, but the most important things have remained in place: smart electronics, radical beats, digital hardcore, acid trance and the unchanging charisma of the speaker. At MMOMA, Dmitry Polikarpov's improvisation interacted with Alexei Chulansky's poetic recitation.

A nine-story panel building, four entrances, a hundred something apartments. Perhaps, every morning, you pass by this building on your way to the subway station, or its gray walls were visible from the window of a room in which you have not been for so long, and perhaps will never be again. In the tenth apartment on the third floor, six-year-old Vitalik wakes up. He breathes heavily. This horrible dream again about a huge red excavator trying to bury him. The old refrigerator hums in the kitchen. On the walls there are shadows of a tall birch standing in the front garden. In the next room, the TV is barely audible – Mom drank cognac again and fell asleep during the evening news. Vitalik wraps himself in a heavy blanket with a tiger pattern. In his little curly head, an unknown melody starts playing, and suddenly, it becomes somehow calmer and happier. Later, in the future, he will turn on the the Bevissthet mix for 5/8: radio, he will unmistakably recognize it, and on a particular evening, he will also become a bit calmer and happier.

Maggie Tra - 5/8 Radio #229 by 5/8 : Radio

This time we got into our hands a cassette without any indication where it was taped. From the handwritten caption, we know that it was meant for a party after a corporate meeting on December 8, 1999. Somewhere, some people did business, and afterwards they danced to the tape.

A rainy autumn day. You're quickly walking down a familiar street that steeply descends towards the embankment. It's barely noon, yet wine glasses already clinking in the corner bar – elderly folks loudly arguing about yesterday's match. A group of couriers speeds by on mopeds, honking and gesturing at cars at the intersection. Your long black hair, hoodie, and tote bag with textbooks are decently soaked. Whatever! Those thirty minutes of awkward hugs and shy kisses by the entrance door were worth it. Dios mío, the whole neighborhood probably saw it! In front of the «Carrefour», teenagers have gathered – eagerly munching on pastries, begging passersby for cigarettes. Near the vegetable stand, a petite dry woman watching a young curly-haired loader, looking like an ancient statue, unloads crates of artichokes. Suddenly, you decide to look up at the grey sky, cold raindrops falling on your face. How wonderful! Just as wonderful as it feels when you listening to nastya mira's mix for 5/8: radio.

It's late in the early winter evening. You are standing near the entrance to a chain supermarket. One of the windows of the five-story building across the street is illuminated by the violet light of a phytolamp. Large flakes of snow lay beautifully on the beat-up Audi, carelessly abandoned in the parking lot in front of the store. A girl in a short down jacket walks past with a quick step, sniffing her nose, she's holding a lit cigarette in her fingers shaking from the cold. You're probably better off somewhere else. But you're not going anywhere, because you're an empty bottle of good light beer left by someone in a snowdrift. And there's nothing more beautiful than the glint of your greenish glass in a streetlight. Except for a mix by a member of the DEMO*/ collective named mirvnoutri for 5/8: radio. Hats off to Tanya @ta.tiani for working on it.

A frosty morning in the middle of winter. A small park not far from your home: pine trees with snow caps and a ski tracks parallel to the footpaths. You're wearing an unloved heavy sheepskin coat (but it's so cool to draw patterns on it with your fingers) and fleece pants which make funny rustle noises. The sky is so blue it hurts to look at it. You're riding on the sled down the steep slope of a dried up pond. The wind whistles in your ears and your eyes become watery because of the cold wind. Somewhere behind your back standing your parents: mother has a blush on her cheeks, father has probably pulled out a pack of «Marlboro». After all of that there will be hot tea from a Chinese thermos and a marmalade candies, which lying now in cellophane bag. Would it ever get any better? Of course it will. For example, when in a couple of decades you turn on the 5/8 mix: radio by Lay-Far, music producer, DJ, owner of In-Beat-Ween Music label and author of the album «True, Necessary, Kind» (we're highly recommended to turn it on right after the mix)

@flacudm x zalman x пустыни и пустоши In Izhevsk in the late 80's - early 90's a phenomenon was mysteriously born that became a phenomenon: musicians, artists and directors, experimenting with everything they could get their hands on, formed an amazing sound, picture and image, imprinted in the minds of all witnesses as a myth, echoes of which we still hear today.

@flacudm x zalman x пустыни и пустоши In Izhevsk in the late 80's - early 90's a phenomenon was mysteriously born that became a phenomenon: musicians, artists and directors, experimenting with everything they could get their hands on, formed an amazing sound, picture and image, imprinted in the minds of all witnesses as a myth, echoes of which we still hear today.

@flacudm x zalman x пустыни и пустоши In Izhevsk in the late 80's - early 90's a phenomenon was mysteriously born that became a phenomenon: musicians, artists and directors, experimenting with everything they could get their hands on, formed an amazing sound, picture and image, imprinted in the minds of all witnesses as a myth, echoes of which we still hear today.

@flacudm x zalman x пустыни и пустоши In Izhevsk in the late 80's - early 90's a phenomenon was mysteriously born that became a phenomenon: musicians, artists and directors, experimenting with everything they could get their hands on, formed an amazing sound, picture and image, imprinted in the minds of all witnesses as a myth, echoes of which we still hear today.