Bryan Ferry. Friday, September 29th. Kremlin Palace. 19.00

First things first, folks: Bryan Ferry is a god. A goddamn god. He’s got his a plush little seat right there in the Mount Olympus of late 20th Century avant-garde pop heroes, along with Lou Reed, Iggy Pop, Mark E. Smith and Will Oldham. But what separates Ferry from the bunch is that Ferry has more heart and pain than the lot of them put together. He is the muse of self-pity, and folks, if the 20th C. wasn’t all about upgrading your self-pity software, then we just don’t know what the heck we were doing then. Bryan has been there, seen it all, done that, and is probably the only great rockster to age gracefully. He’s gone through his decadent speedball phase, and lived to tell about it in “Casanova”, and still managed to get it up for Jerry Hall. Unlike the other gods. Lou Reed has devolved into a grating little art-fag, Iggy long ago sank into self-parody, while Mark E. is just an exoskeleton of a crank. But Bryan, well, he looks and behaves and sings exactly how you’d like to at age 55. Let’s give you a little Cliff Notes history on Bryan. He got his start by launching Roxy Music in 1972, an all-star avant-garde glam band featuring future art-rock gurus Brian Eno and Phil Manzanera. Their schtick was space-age 50s rock, compared to everything from Sha Na Na to Gary Glitter (without the little boy fondling), and while the first two Roxy albums are among rock’s finest ever, they also have little in common with the later evolution of Ferry. Their first album was produced by Sex Pistols’ producer Chris Thomas, and was a mind-blowing event for its time. Ferry booted art-fag Eno out of the band (there weren’t room ‘nuf for two Egos in that town) in 1973, and started venturing into solo territory, laying the groundwork for his lugubrious Cole Porter on smack style of later years. Roxy broke up in 1975 after their only hit in America, “Love Is The Drug”, but Bryan soon went the O.J. Simpson route by marrying super-model Jerry Hall. Within two years, Hall dumped Bryan for Mick Jagger, leaving Bryan to put out one of the greatest albums of pain and self-pity, “The Bride Stripped Bare”, an album that quickly fell into total obscurity. By the late 70s, New Wave, that embarrassing post-punk compromise movement, was taking the pop music world by storm, or something like that. And nearly every band listed Roxy Music as their influence, giving Bryan another shot at pop pinnacles. Some, like Pere Ubu, were genius; some, like Ultravox, doable; but most, like Haircut 100, Flock of Seagulls, Spandau Ballet, and yes, Duran Duran, were downright criminal (well, okay, Duran Duran did have its fine moments). So Ferry called the band back together in 1979, and showed ‘em all how to do this whole New Romantics thing right, creating a new atmospheric style of music which he perfected on Avalon, and has pursued ever since. Now, Bryan’s coming to Moscow, sporting is oh-so-suave aging Gestapo-aristocrat look. He’s the greatest artist to set in Russia since this paper started (not counting Nazareth, of course). He’s here to promote his collection of greatest ballad hits over the last 30 years, “Slave To Love”, which you can pick up for next to nothing at Gorbushka, and bawl your little eyes out. Editor Mark Ames admits to sobbing like a bitch during a recent Ferry concert, particularly during his tear-duct-jarring versions of “Carrickfergus”, “Smoke Gets In Your Eyes”, and “Song For Europe”. You would all do yourselves wise to see Bryan. It could only make your lives more complete. Tix: expensive enough to make you cry twice

ChestARTfield. Saturday, September 16th. Hermitazh Club (See Parizhskaya Zhizn’). 18.00

If you were at that rave bash at Gostiny Dvor a while back, the one with the L&M door-flatheads marching out front, then you’ll have a good idea what to expect from this rave-a-ganza. Our own Kevin McNuggets described that fest as “annoying”, since you could only smoke in designated areas, scoring beer was worse than tapping in 8th grade, and the crowd was low-rent techno. This could be different though, because you’re going to have your body art thing, some graffiti stuff, some other arty things, a modeling and fashion show, and yes, the ubiquitous DJ Sanches and Sukhova. It’s taking place mostly outdoors, which would be a good thing if this wasn’t the coldes fucking August-September since Napoleon came to town. The whole thing is brought to you by the wonderful people at Philip Morris, who obviously have no intention of using this youth festival in order to hook another generation of pre-pubescents on cigarettes. Mind you, we’re all for drug pushers, just wish the drug they pushed got you a bit higher and made you cough less, that’s all. Tix: call us nutz, but we think it’ll be free, so long as you show up with a pack of Chesterfields. Don’t think that if you’re under 18 you’ll be off the hook! Nuh-uh!

Tarakany. Friday, September 15th. R-Club. 19.00

If you need your punk rock fix, then come to this show. Tarakany are hittin it old school when it comes to local punk rock. Should draw all the local Moscow punk dorks wasted on the shittiest unpasteurized beer that Russia has to offer. Tarakany are a descent straight-ahead punk outfit which has gone a little bit Billy Idol, but not completely, so scope it out, dude. Tix: probably like 50R

Voply Vydoplyasova. Saturday, September 23rd. Sports Bar. 22.00

In a word, these Ukrainian alcoholic madmen kick serious khokhliye zhopa. If you can’t stand being at the techno gig at Hermitazh, then come here for an intimate, high-octane live concert by one of the CIS’s bestest bands.