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Lost in a place in Siberia, the 231 create music. They are Father, Mother, and two little children. Foresteppe, from somewhere in Russia about 4000 km away, create music, a sort of non-folk.
Homemade folk, abstract folk enclosed in the rooms of daily life. Eyes rubbed in the morning, the smell of coffee, children’s chatter, cookies, and kids. They play toy instruments, the children laugh and are happy. Xylophone, toy instruments, laughter, mom and dad. Minimal, innocent melodies that open the heart with their purity. It’s not a record but perhaps a happy day.
Russia, about 4000 km away, Foresteppe, with their more professional play, create a guiding thread of a non-music, trying to connect infantile emotions that adults miss. Dreams on little guitars.
Music, perhaps. Life, certainly. The few instruments’ notes are mistaken, the children laugh, a happy day that brings to mind when at Christmas you were gifted tiny toy pianos and tried to tune melodies that only a pure mind can grasp.
Music that opens magical doors, a silver key that brings back forgotten sensations.
Innocence on a sheet of music that flies on the wings of memory, when smiles were still easy. Sheet music with sweet jellies instead of notes, smiles with a missing tooth, words spoken poorly, and the memory of an almost forgotten maternal smile.
Envy for those who dare, for those who open the treasure chest of daily life, transforming it into notes that open the heart to the few fortunate enough to catch them, smiling with simple emotions that take you by the hand and make you dream of unconfessable desires for adults all put together with their nice house, the nice mortgage, the job they hate, the wife they no longer understand, the new car, and strange children.
A silver key to dream, to open a forgotten chest in a heart hardened by life.
Photo album of happiness that only those who live can still browse through.
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