"Many don't know we are Belarusians." Musicians from Serebryanka sang in French and became stars
"A band from Serebryanka making French synth-pop" — sounds like the beginning of a joke. Like something for which the word "niche" was invented. Like something for which, according to the band members themselves, "they might have gotten beaten up in the neighborhood." But here's an official fact: this is Parade of Planets — one of the most frequently played Belarusian bands on the radio, performing at major venues across the country. And many of you have probably heard their songs at least once, but it never even crossed your mind that they are "ours," writes "Onliner."
Tender and romantic music from two guys and a girl who previously opened for The Prodigy and rocked out at biker festivals. Refined and unattainable images from those with whom you could also "have a beer on the curbs." From these strange contradictions, one of the brightest Belarusian bands is woven.
French school, The Prodigy, and depression
Journalists met with Parade of Planets at their rehearsal point in Partizanka, in a building that timidly aspired to the laurels of an architectural monument to Soviet futurism. It's surprising how even in the greenish light of the glass blocks on the staircase, these guys and a girl manage to look Frenchly elegant.
Gold and platinum records hang on the studio wall. Above them — a neon sign in French.
— What does it say there?
— "Believe in your star."
— So you're just romantics…
— Well… It's so we can look at it when we're here, sweating, and rerecording a track for the thirtieth time, — they joke.
Misha, Yulya, and Lyosha — not a single trilled "r" in their names, not a single baguette on the studio shelves, their passports mostly listing Serebryanka street names. How did they end up creating French synth-pop?
— Misha and I studied at the same school with an advanced French program; as children, we went to Thiers, Clermont-Ferrand, and lived with French families. There, whether you want to or not, you have to speak. The school gave us a very cool foundation. My class teacher helped us with lyrics right up to the last album — we even left her special thanks in the booklets.
To be fair: French synth-pop didn't appear immediately. Each of them played in various projects before they found each other. At 16, Yulya with her "pop songs" hit the "Hit FM" charts. Later, with Lyosha, they played in the rather famous rock band U.G.oslavia. Misha's situation was even more interesting.
— I had my own breakbeat project, The Playfellow. For ten years, we toured, opened for The Prodigy in Minsk, then toured with their former member Leeroy Thornhill — there's even a video of him dancing his signature move backstage to our track. In short, I was writing harsh alternative electronics and wasn't even thinking about synth-pop.
— What's Leeroy like in real life? Did you manage to become friends?
— A very simple, kind, and open guy. I can't say we became close friends, but he played our songs, we often got together to chat on tour. I liked how enthusiastically he talked about the beginning of The Prodigy's career and the raves of the nineties. When thousands of people dance in sync with them, there's only love around, no aggression — wow. And they're from a deep British province, where besides these raves, there wasn't much else going on. Imagine if someone suddenly turned Zhodino into the capital of electronic music for us. That's what it was like for them.
How to make a hit from a creaking swing
Over time, Yulya began to realize that she had outgrown the U.G.oslavia project. She could no longer jump on stage to rock-n-roll with the same genuine enthusiasm as before — at home and in her car, she listened to completely different music. Lyosha admitted he felt the same way.
— I realized that I was just going on stage and playing. I wasn't that chubby, crazy girl anymore. I wanted to change everything radically, to go into electronic sound. I remembered Misha. The last time we tried to write music together was in ninth grade.
— It didn't turn out so well, by the way: I still have that demo, but I hope no one ever hears it.
— Yeah. But I knew you were a really cool electronic musician with tons of performances now, and you probably wouldn't have time for us. So I called just to timidly ask if you knew anyone suitable.
— You called at just the right time. I was actually in a depression then and didn't know what to do. My project suddenly ended, and my partner went into game sound design, which he still does. And I was left alone, without concerts or prospects. I'm a team player by nature; I need someone else, I'm not a lone warrior. So I agreed without thinking.
Misha arrived, listened to Yulya and Lyosha's demos, frowned, and started redoing everything. They sat in his apartment for weeks: the old laptop would screech if there were more than three instruments in the arrangement, Misha's eye twitched, and for entertainment, they'd go smoke on the balcony. That was ten years ago. Soon, these raw demos would become their first album. Then three more would be born, and their French would be heard on radio stations in 31 countries worldwide (Italy, Germany, USA, UK, and so on), and their concerts at home and in neighboring countries would consistently fill decent halls.
It's amusing to realize how people simply allowed themselves to do what came naturally, to trust to chance — and it all worked out. Even the band's name was once invented by Yulya out of thin air, and only later did she realize that, in fact, she had long ago had a tattoo of planets aligned in a row on her arm.
— There's another story from the realm of cool coincidences. Exactly to the question, "Where is Serebryanka in our creativity?" We were writing the second album at Lyosha's house. He went out on the balcony while I was working on the beat for the track "Flash," and suddenly he heard a boy in the yard swinging on a swing, and it was squeaking piercingly, Serebryanka-style. And it fit so coolly! As a result, those swings became a sound effect in the chorus, and Yulya wrote lyrics about childhood to it.
— This is a very important song for us. My grandfather died then, and I realized that my childhood had ended. The French language helps me to be more sincere — in it, I can say such personal things that I would be afraid to utter in Russian.
— The main thing is not to remember that the demo for this song on my computer was called Boobs, — Lyosha jokes, lightening the mood. — Only inadequate people give adequate names to demos.
— Aren't you sorry that most of your listeners don't understand the underlying meanings? French, after all…
— Quite the opposite: I'm pleased that there are people who take the time to delve in and translate the lyrics. It doesn't require much effort today, but it makes such a person more valuable to us. And what's surprising and pleasant is that at concerts now, the front rows sing along to all the words. In St. Petersburg, they even managed to shout the backing vocals where needed — we were shocked.
— Some thank us and say that through us, they started learning French in general. One girl even came to a concert with her tutor: she says they constantly analyze our lyrics in their lessons. The idea to sing in French once came naturally — simply because we knew it. And not to run from ourselves in this regard was the most correct decision.
They show gifts from their last sold-out concert at Prime Hall. This wonder was handed to them by a trembling fan at a Meet 'n' Greet. Journalists joke that they don't look much like it here, but it's still wow.
— Our fans, of course, can be interesting. There are twin girls who literally come to every concert, stand in the front rows, fight for us in the comments. Someone said Yulya wasn't stylish — bam, and they're already laying into the unfortunate person. But the most touching moment was when a guy told us that our song helped him get through his sister's death. He listened to the track on repeat and remembered all the good things associated with her. In such moments, you realize that you're not doing all this for nothing.
Performances on school desks and radio broadcasts worldwide
Now Parade of Planets are big radio stars. They are officially one of the most frequently played Belarusian bands on the radio, so you've probably stumbled upon their music at least once in your car on the way to work. And, most likely, you didn't realize they were Belarusians.
— We have such a problem. Very frequent feedback from people: "What do you mean Belarusians! They look French, sound French — what Serebryanka?" People even write to Yulya that she has a Parisian accent.
— Well, I have to say — thanks to my tutor: she's French, very active, energized, loves our work, and helps immensely with lyrics and pronunciation.
— Talking to you, one realizes that you are quite simple, down-to-earth people. But this French mystique, your cosmic costumes by Natalia Lyakhovets, and the stage images and music videos make you seem unattainable. Don't you feel that way?
— Oh, if you only knew how hard it is to put them on… We love them very much, but I can't even wear underwear under this jumpsuit. Once it's on — you have to sit down properly "on the haunches," wave your legs to make everything settle correctly. We're so refined on stage. Backstage, we're a bit punk.
— I still can't accept that people in the front rows just tremble at pre-concert meet-and-greets, run up to Yulya and ask breathlessly: "Oh my God, what perfume did you have on, it's wonderful!" I want to go up, hug them, calm them down. It's nice, but we ourselves are embarrassed: we are not deities. We are ordinary people — you can even have a beer with us.
— But maybe let everything stay as it is. Why ruin someone's fairy tale.
They recall their most unglamorous performance.
— It was in Zhilichi, at the opening of the local palace. Everyone was very nice, the concert itself went great, but, for example, they gave us a dressing room with five windows that looked directly into the auditorium. And for me to get into my costume, I just have to take everything off. So Lyosha and Misha were desperately dragging wardrobes, trying to cover me somehow. And for them, on stage, instead of DJ stands, they put school desks — it was very funny to watch Lyokha play, bent over one. But everything went perfectly.
During further conversation, it turned out that Lyosha plays bass in one of Minsk's most famous cover bands, "Natalya Lavrentyevna," in his free time. There, they classically rock the old good TNT rock club — without fancy costumes, in working-class "addidas." Misha fondly remembers the electronic mosh pit of ten years ago at the legendary Kazantip, Yulya — with a smile, the biker rock festivals. But they all agree that they are proud of what they do together.
— For a long time, it felt like we were pushing this project uphill with our last strength. And now, finally, it seems to be rolling on its own. And we are very grateful for that. And the main thing is that we are absolutely sincere in what we do. There is no more delicate and romantic person at heart than someone who grew up on heavy metal and harsh electronics. In "Parade of Planets," we have been revealing this vulnerable side of ourselves for ten years. And if it resonates with so many people, then we are doing everything right.
On the magnetic board behind their backs, the marker-written song titles from the new album are not yet erased. There were as many as 30 compositions in total, but only 11 were selected for the record. One of them has already become a hit, judging by the soaring listens. Just yesterday, they released a live performance of this song from a packed Prime Hall.
We share this beauty with you — so that next time, hearing a song on the radio, you turn to your car neighbor and surprise them with your "Oh, do you know they're ours, from Serebryanka?!"
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