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Comrade RockstarThey lay there until they sobered up enough to get up and go home. That night I didn't care. I wanted a bed. In my room, I fell asleep with half my clothes still on. The next morning, I went looking for Art Troitsky, who had come from Moscow to Leningrad to meet us. I gave him a bottle of Advocaat liqueur I'd bought in the duty-free shop on the way out. We had coffee in the dining room, and Art said he had just been to London, Paris, New York, Los Angeles, and Graceland, and that he had enjoyed the West. Still, he said, he wished he had escaped the USSR illicitly in the bad old days, wished he had done it in a balloon. Traveling business class on a 747 seemed pretty tame to Art and even though this was one of his conceits, the rock life was becoming a little dull for him. Once rock and roll had been a dangerous game; Art's writings were banned; people were condemned for listening to what was called "Musical Aids." Now in 1988, even the apparatchiks were listening to the metallisti. "Hmm, Metal," they would say, stroking their chins. "Very interesting." "My Father is a Fascist" was currently the biggest hit in Leningrad ...» |
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