A Chinese Canadian Metalhead's Experience in Russia (part 3): Reflections on Language and Identity

Who are we if not the stories we tell ourselves and about ourselves to others?

The question of identity is something I've always...not quite struggled with, but certainly it's something that's always been interesting for me.

If I introduce myself as Chinese Canadian, does saying it like that imply anything about the order of those identities as they pertain to me, personally? Or anything about the objective "ranking" of those identities as cultures? Or is it all a matter of semantic construction, i.e. does it make sense in English to say "Canadian Chinese"?

This is part of what fascinates me so much about languages as a communication tool and as an art. Yes, language is art. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise.

In fact, let's start there.

Language as the Highest Art

Another day, another bold, attention-grabbing claim from me. Why do I say that language is the highest art? If you, dear reader, are able to accept the (shockingly controversial) premise that art is all about the power to express oneself and to tell a story, then you ought to agree with me. As a tool for expression and communication and especially for storytelling, language is superior to music, visual art, dance, non-verbal forms of expression, and any combination or variation of those things. Please, none of this "they're just different and everyone has their preferences" drivel. Language is superior. Period.

The problem with music - pure auditory art - is that while it can convey feelings intensely, it fails as a storytelling method. When it comes to musical composition, it's either a case of a composer putting music to an existing story or topic (e.g. Verdi's Otello based on Shakespeare's story) or a case of a listener putting a story to the music (e.g. me listening to Penderecki's Threnody for the Victims of Hiroshima and imagining the implied, morbid images in my head).

On its own, music can only convey feeling, not story - the latter still requires the use of language, one way or another. Music is therefore unwieldy, imprecise. It provides embellishment to existing stories we tell each other or ourselves to add flavour: nothing more, nothing less.

Moreover, it is more than possible to express emotion through language - even written language. No music has ever been able to capture Lovecraftian horror; no wistfully nostalgic tune has described "love" better than Tolstoy's pen; no death metal anthem can make you as angry as the first time you read about Villefort destroying the letter that would have saved Edmond Dantès; no ecclesiastical hymn can open your eyes to the potential nobility within each human being better than the final words uttered by Sydney Carton; no sorrowful violin can make you as miserable as the moment Gavroche meets his untimely end.

Some examples of music conveying emotion without story (which, to be honest, is when music is at its best) follow:

Visual art is a more effective storytelling medium than music. Whether it be comics, paintings, films, or something else, the precarious balance between emotional impact and storytelling is quite unique to visual art. But take a second to think about the most timeless stories in the world: fairy tales, fables, legends. What made them endure so long? What was the magic ingredient?

I would argue that it was their facelessness: stories are more effective when the storyteller provides the story's bones and the one experiencing the story fills out the flesh. How many times do we hear "the book was way better than the movie"? It's not because the director changed plot points A, B, and C in the movie, it's because putting the story into visual form destroyed the superior story we told ourselves in our heads.

And let's not forget the sheer idiocy of the saying, "a picture is worth a thousand words". Whoever thought of this quote surely did not think the whole thing through, and clearly did not understand the concept of verbal irony - otherwise, he or she would have found a way to express the point in a visual manner (perhaps a painting?) that would have entered the world's collective consciousness. Instead, we still have to use language to say that visual art is better than language. Ridiculous.

A work by Takato Yamamoto

A photo from the Catacomb Saints collection by Paul Koudounaris, now colloquially known as "Indiana Bones".
Interesting story behind this collection, I highly recommend reading up on it/seeing it.

A work titled "Revival" by Guang Yang. You can find him on Deviantart,
the dude has made some amazing metal album covers.

"The Magnificent Joop van Ooms" by Jason Rainville ("Rhineville" on Deviantart)

"The Garden of Earthly Delights" by Hieronymus Bosch. Probably the most recognizable one here.

Dance is like music, except, quite ironically, it is even less able to stand on its own. And similar to music, it is able to tell a story, just through motion rather than sound, but it is equally as imprecise and unwieldy. It leaves too much to be desired in terms of clarity and precision, which is fine when you want to convey a vague, universal mood, but woefully inadequate when you want to communicate at a nuanced level. Also, try watching any number of dances in any style without the accompanying music. Or indeed, with completely different music. It's quite painful.

Then, we have the miscellaneous non-verbal forms of communication. Rhetorical question: have you ever heard someone say something like "the way a person _________ says a lot about them"? Of course you have. This romantic, but highly destructive notion that there are non-verbal things we cannot hide about ourselves that are constantly laid bare for the world to see - the problem is that the assumptions we hold about these non-verbal cues can be woefully, hilariously wrong. Whether it be culturally divergent interpretations of the same non-verbal cues or just individual misunderstandings.

His posture is good, so he must be confident. No, actually, his parents just beat him whenever he slouched, so now he has a problem with authority.

She's showing so much skin, she must be a slut. No, actually, she's a straight A student at MIT and the biggest comic book nerd around, and hasn't even kissed a guy before. But feel free to keep living in the 20th century.

He dresses like his girlfriend does his shopping, so he's probably not into girls. Metrosexual =/= homosexual.

She's not looking me in the eye when she speaks, so she must be lying. No, she just comes from a country where eye contact is considered aggressive and confrontational.

The point is this: two sides on every coin, six sides on every die, 52 cards in every deck. The game of life is complicated; can you always be sure you haven't been playing with a rigged toolset? These vaunted non-verbal cues are completely terrible indicators of identity and personhood.

Music speaks in emotions, visual art speaks in metaphors, dance speaks in moods, and non-verbal storytelling is a liar. The only effective storytelling tool that can stand on its own is language - written or verbal.

Now comes the big question: what the Hell does any of this have to do with my experiences in Russia?

As a reward for your patience...read on.

Language and Cultural Identity

When asked to define "culture", it is often one of those words that people default to giving examples to demonstrate, rather than explain as a definitive concept. And that's fair enough, the word encompasses quite a number of things - indeed, the list of what "culture" includes or implies is as expansive as the number of cultures in the world.

When people give examples to explain what culture is, they often point to art, music, literature, values, and even history. They often neglect to mention language itself. Indeed, if who we are as individuals are the stories we tell ourselves and to others, then surely, who we are as cultures are...the stories we tell ourselves and to others? And those stories are encapsulated through art, music, literature, dance - this is all true, but surely we tell our stories the most through language?

Let me point out some examples.

Many Russian novelists have dealt exclusively with one topic: the Russian soul. The idea that a soul can be of a nationality is, I'm sure, controversial to some. But this simple yet vague concept, distilled into two simple words, has given awareness to an intangible idea of shared cultural identity. To write a novel about the Russian soul is to define Russian identity, and thus, culture.

But what is more Russian? To be able to have a conversation about Pushkin and Rimsky-Korsakov while pouring black tea for each other from a silver samovar, or to be able to speak мат fluently with a bunch of tatted-up воры?

While we're on that topic, what is more English? To be able to analyze lines from The Canterbury Tales, Beowulf, and David Copperfield, or to be able to say "oi bruv, 'ow the bloody 'ell ah ya?" without being beaten up for alleged mockery?

We'd all love for the stories we tell about ourselves and our cultures to be...well, cultured. But the truth of the matter is that to give intrinsic value to one form of "culture" over another, especially within a bigger culture, is more than a little pointless. Whether we like it or not, the "unsavoury" elements of a culture are just as representative of it as the sophisticated ones.

My Identity Crisis

To bring this all back to my personal experiences in Russia, in my social circles among both Russian and international (read: mostly European) students, I find myself being the sole representative of both Canada and China. No pressure, right?

This resonates with me very, very deeply.

It's strange. Many people I've spoken to have said, almost word for word, that "speaking with you is the longest conversation I've ever had with a Chinese person". While I take it as a compliment, the implication almost seems to be that I'm not Chinese enough. Like I've ripped them off by not being "genuinely" Chinese. I certainly get the feeling that most people here see me as more Canadian than Chinese. Certainly, when I say "what's up?" and my flatmate proceeds to actually tell me how he's doing, I feel 200% Canadian. Or when someone steps on my foot and I immediately say "sorry!"

It makes me wonder, though: am I actively, subconsciously suppressing my Chinese identity to fit in? Is it like when I used to tell racist jokes about China and being Chinese just to make it more comfortable for other people to talk about my identity, like some messed-up invitation for them to ask questions?

Upon further reflection, and after speaking with another 东北哥们儿 here,  I realized that it was actually because my Chinese identity only shows itself when I actually speak Mandarin. My identity and personality are fundamentally tied to the language I happen to be speaking. In English, I sound like a quirky Canadian metalhead who occasionally becomes loquacious and a tiny bit philosophical. In Chinese, I'm pretty sure I sound like a comparatively reserved nerd with traditional family values. And I don't think I'm doing it on purpose; it's the natural result of how I grew up.

What I do with this information is completely a mystery to me at the moment. Do I "practice being more Chinese" with Europeans and Russians as a way to preserve that part of my identity? What would that even mean? Speaking to them less? Taking them to Chinese-style karaoke? Inviting them to a gargantuan meal they'll never forget? It's an interesting dilemma, to be sure.

In some ways I feel like I relate to Russian culture: feeling the pull from both East and West, refusing to pigeonhole myself to one or the other. The difference is that Russians reject both, while I claim to belong to both.

《根在東，心向西》 Roughly translated, "Roots in the East, Heart facing to the West."
I thought up this phrase to express how I feel, and my father promptly proceeded to write them for me.
It's as close to telling me he's proud of me as he's ever gotten.

Russian Metalheads

Of course, the question of identity becomes significantly simpler when we turn to that part of my identity. Yes, I'm talking about being a metalhead. It's the best feeling in the world, knowing that no matter where I go, I'll have a family of long-haired, black-clad freaks.

Roughly, I said "Greetings to my metalhead brothers from Russia", and some girl called me out for
not including my sisters. Of course, she was right, but so was the guy who came after.

A Chinese Canadian Metalhead's Experience in Russia (part 2)

Here we are (rock you like a hurricane...).

In a previous post about my time in Bergen, I expressed the sentiment that "home" could be anywhere for me, as long as there is a metal community. I find it interesting that Saint Petersburg is the place where this view is further validated.

After all, what could possibly be better than a damp, cold, cloudy city in a post-Soviet country with a bloody history and a dying belief in a "separate path" (Sonderweg much?) divorced from both Europe and Asia?

The answer, of course, is all of that plus 100% unadulterated, bone-crushing, face-melting, ear-splitting, soul-stirring metal music. Ask your physician before trying. Side effects may include inordinate happiness, excessive headbanging, outrageous levels of beer consumption, and encyclopedic knowledge of serial killers and Nazis (and nuclear apocalypses, and obscure historical battles, and the works of the great J.R.R.) bordering on unhealthy obsession. Not to mention an obnoxious tendency to inject the topic of metal into even the most tangentially related conversations.

Abandon thine eardrums, ye who enter here. (Yes, it's "thine", not "thy", because the immediately following word begins with a vowel.).

You've been warned.

How the Russian Metal was Tempered

As the esteemed and perspicacious reader may note, this section's title is a reference to a well-known socialist novel by Nikolai Ostrovsky. I didn't read it, there's no deep connection to that book, I just wanted to make a lame joke. You're welcome.

Anyway, before diving into an examination of my personal experiences so far with the metal subculture in St. P, a brief introduction to what I knew about Russian rock and metal before coming here can help to contextualize the information to follow.

To my eternal shame, my knowledge of Russian metal was quite lacking. Like many fans of folk metal, I first found my way to Arkona/Аркона. "От Сердца к Небу" ("From the Heart to the Sky") and "Одна" ("Alone") are badass songs that speak to the pagan Slav in all of us, and I still blast them regularly. This is the kind of music that makes you want to put a wreath on your head and dance around a fire to the sweet sound of a калюка into the wee hours of the night. With this band, every night can be Иван-Купала.

Beyond that, I was also infatuated with Russian atmospheric black metal, particularly the transcendental music of Elderwind. I can't adequately express, in any language I know, just how sublime it feels to lie down in a gloomy room and listen to the tranquil sound of mother nature's intrinsic darkness. This is the kind of music that drags you thousands of kilometers away from the trappings of civilization, gently lays you down in a snowy clearing in the vast Siberian forest, and speaks directly to the most primal parts of mind, body, heart, and soul.

Then, of course, we have national socialist black metal (henceforth NSBM). Russia is home to many of the world's neo-Nazis, and this has certainly been reflected in the metal subculture. If you can learn to divorce the lyrics from the music (which isn't hard since most people are too lazy to even try to understand metal lyrics anyway), Russian NSBM is actually quite good for what black metal is meant to be. Dissonant, torturous, grim, extreme. This is the kind of music that should make you want to slaughter communists and inferior races to protect white purity, but if you only listen to the music and not the lyrics, you'll probably just want to kill everybody indiscriminately. Not going to link any NSBM bands for reasons that should be obvious, but if you're that curious, feel free to listen to some Wolfkrieg.

Russia's avant-garde metal scene is also a wildly fascinating topic. The band Shrezzers (previously Shredding Brazzers) is best described as a progressive metal band that features clean singing that you would find in emo bands or alternative rock as well as a metalcore growl (for the less cultured crowd, this is "that Satanic shit with the screaming"). This is layered on top of guitar riffs and solos engineered expressly for the purpose of melting your face off, and - get this - a saxophone used very tastefully to add a sexy groove to it all. This is the kind of music that - well, I don't actually have a description for this one yet, but I aim to find one. They're based in St. Petersburg.

The purpose of this section has been to highlight the fact that Russia loves metal and is home to some amazing music that should be remembered and celebrated alongside the likes of Rachmaninoff, Shostakovich, Tchaikovsky, Mussorgsky, Rimsky-Korsakov, and Kalinnikov. Unfortunately, electronic music (grime in the UK, hardbass here in Russia, dubstep or the utter drivel they play at raves seemingly everywhere else) is king nowadays. Stravinsky is turning in his grave.

My Personal Experiences

So far, I've attended three metal concerts in St. P (yeah I know, those are rookie numbers, but the best is yet to come). Unfortunately they were all foreign bands, so I haven't gained any insight into differences, if any, between them and local bands. But I've had plenty of interaction with the Russian metalhead clan, and this is what interested me in the first place.

First was Necrophobic, the blackened death metal maestros from Sweden. Of course, this type of music attracts a very specific crowd everywhere it goes, and Russia is no exception. Most of the guys at this show looked like the type of person whose daily schedule consists of goat sacrifices in the morning, a nutritious brunch of human entrails, followed by leisurely church burnings in the afternoon and a relaxing evening devoted to musically worshipping our Lord and Saviour, Belial. I jest, of course. Partially.

What is important to note, however, is that I definitely found that sense of camaraderie I had missed so much. It seems that learning Russian is not the only way to overcome the language barrier. The number of fist-bumps, handshakes, and glances and grunts of approval from my Russian metalhead brothers and sisters finally made me feel at home. Even the blackest sheep in a family of black sheep is still...a black sheep. Sorry, no clever play on words here.

Necrophobic, Feb. 15, 2019 @ MOD Club. I'm in there somewhere.

Then, there was Tankard, the thrash metal veterans from Germany who have been writing songs about beer for 38 years. Yes, 38 years. The 90s failed to kill them with grunge (sorry, Kurt). The 2000s failed to kill them with emo pseudo-rock. The 2010s failed to kill them with pop punk and alt rock. Long may they reign. And drink.

As a sidenote, I have yet to see a German band who didn't blow me away. Scorpions, Blind Guardian, Kreator, and now Tankard - very different bands playing wildly different music, but all with a live presence that puts any new band from the last 10 years to shame. Must be that Teutonic blood that brought Rome to its knees.

Anyway, the Tankard show is where I had the most fun. The mosh pit was brutal and beautiful, and the beer flowed like there was a direct line to the Biergärten in München. At one point, I stopped moshing for a few minutes, and one Russian metalhead pulled me back into the madness as a brotherly gesture. Towards the end, I ended up in a line of very drunk and tired metalheads who grabbed each others' shoulders for support as we headbanged in unison. Pure magic.

The thrash metal breed is naturally an altogether different beast than Necrophobic fans. Lots of long, unkempt hair, lots of tattoos, lots of battle jackets covered in patches, lots of spikes, lots of swearing. In other words, the most blyatiful individuals to be found in Russia.

Tankard, Mar. 1, 2019 @ MOD Club. This was one for the history books.

I learned from some German friends that the name "Kevin" has certain connotations, specifically that they're uneducated and hopeless dregs of society. This is hilarious, because to me, a Canadian, Kevin is perhaps the nerdiest name possible. A German Kevin would be the bully to a Canadian Kevin's victim in a primary school playground. What was the point of this tangent? Well, basically, Tankard fans are the Kevins of the metal world. Both kinds. Because only an absolute child would be simple enough to associate long hair, tattoos, and a dirty mouth with intellectual deficiency.

After my body had sufficiently recovered (it wasn't easy), the next show was Amaranthe. I had seen them already in Bergen, and I remember being impressed at how well their simple gimmick worked. One female vocalist with a pop orientation, one male vocalist with power metal undertones, and another male vocalist with impressive growls, all spread over rather generic, but tight guitar, bass, and drum work. To be honest, I wasn't as impressed this time around. The music took a turn for the worse, with too much focus on Elize's soft vocals and not enough on Henrik's booming growls from the bowls of Hell. Too much Katy Perry, not enough Satan.

Amaranthe fans are again a completely different story than Necrophobic and Tankard fans. For one thing, at least half of the audience was female. Clothing was more casual. Nobody had battle jackets. Some had Amaranthe shirts. The guys had short hair. In other words, these were the metalheads that would be mistaken for a normal person if they walked down the street. Which would be a mistake, because there was nothing normal about the amount of energy they brought to this show.

Amaranthe, Mar. 12, 2019 @ ZAL.

The Verdict

Russian metalheads certainly know how to have a good time. 11/10, would headbang with them again. In fact, I most certainly will. Powerwolf, In Flames, Amorphis, and more are all coming.

The goal now is to find some local Russian metalheads, but they've remained elusive. I need to actually make friends with a Russian metalhead, and for that I have to improve my Russian.