5/8 : radio

Central Clinical Hospital For a brief period around 2010, small flash mp3 players replaced cassettes as the preferred medium for mixtapes, and were often included in care packages sent to hospital patients. This iriver s7 mp3 player was found at the third entranceway of the Central Clinical Hospital on November 27.

Eighty-nine apartment, fifth floor. On his way home, somewhere between the 24-hour store called "The Elk" and the "Milana" hair salon, Ignat spotted a playing card with the queen of clubs lying alone on the pavement. Now he can only think about that loose black shirt with a bold deck-of-cards pattern that his mother’s friend, Uncle Slava, used to wear. All Ignat remembers about him: the gleaming gold tooth, the habit of rubbing his neck with his palm, a trip together to the lake in a beige Lada, when he felt an extra more than ever). And also, the fact that one crisp January morning in 1997, Uncle Slava was met by three gunshots as he was leaving the apartment building. But most of all, Ignat remembers that card-patterned shirt. It’s forever etched in his memory, just like the first time he heard Undervann's mix for 5/8: radio — a lone tear of happiness slid down his cheek, and his feet couldn’t help but start to dance

Lemonade Baby - 5/8 Radio #242 by 5/8 : Radio

Apartment 140, ninth floor. Yegor stuck his large shaved head out of the bedroom window. Low in the night sky, the lights of a plane were gliding by, and soon the familiar hum of jet engines would catch up. Yegor wished he could be there on board right now. And not flying to some far away place, but coming home. Fidgeting in a not-so-comfortable seat, waiting for the landing, and looking out of the window at the familiar concrete high-rises on the outskirts of the city, the occasional cars on the roads, and the streetlights casting a soft yellow glow on the empty yards and streets. Then there would be the taxi ride with an overly chatty driver, the familiar clank of the key in the door lock, and a home that feels and smells a little different after a long absence. Like putting on a winter coat for the first time in a year. And when the floor in the living room creaks underfoot, as it always does, there will be a sudden, special kind of comfort — just like the feeling when you turn on the Sasha Foam mix for 5/8: radio.

Apartment 21, fifth floor. Gleb is washing a plate with a neat yellow rim. A barely visible steam rises beautifully from the hot water. The foam pleasantly runs down into the sink. For some reason, at that very moment, while looking at the steam, the foam, the shiny tiles of the kitchen backsplash, and his slouched reflection in the window, he suddenly remembered a story so old, it felt like it happened in a past life. A scorching day in Budapest, he ordered an espresso tonic at a café. Around him were bare concrete walls, pots with ficus plants, and posters in an unfamiliar language. The smiling cashier in a coral-colored t-shirt handed him a change. With a cute Eastern European accent, she complimented his recent tattoo of Pierrot's head in a cap. Oh God, how embarrassed he was! He couldn’t think of anything better to say than something like, “Well, you’ve got a great tattoos too”… except she didn’t have any. At least none that he could see. An awkward pause. He quickly forced a smile, took the change (a couple of coins, of course, fell loudly to the floor, so he had to spend time picking them up), waited for his drink, and dashed out into the July heat without looking back, trying to forget the embarrassing incident. Suddenly, Gleb felt just as awkward as if that scene had just happened now, right there in his kitchen. Poor boy, if only he knew there is a perfect remedy to quickly distract from embarrassing memories (and everything else), and that is the Solid Angle mix for 5/8: radio.

These yellowed plastic cassettes contain music that accompanied people's romantic experiences. This one was recorded in June 1996 in Porto. On that day, when it rained again, he waited for a bus for an hour, just to see it racing by with a glowing notice “fora de service”. He walked. Probably, it was an unknown to him local holiday, for on his way he couldn’t find anything open: no bakery, café, bookshop to distract him from his melancholy. Eventually though there were some festive sounds coming out of lottery house he never saw operating before. Inside of the preserved mid-century interior music to his liking played. Men and women in uniforms danced with small beers in hands. Those were bus drivers, postmen, nurses, waiters. He joined the party that seemed like a salvation for him. Once the music finished and the strangers shuffled out, clinking bottles neatly on the marble floor, he went to the old-fashioned audio system, out of which he ejected a tape marked “Fora de Horas”.

Fifth apartment, second floor. Valya is hurriedly getting ready for going out to the bar. She's late as usual. Why is it today her hair is looking so messy, and her favorite longsleeve is so crumpled? It's unpleasant, but it wouldn't be an obstacle to have a drink. But only one glass… well, two at most. Tomorrow is Thursday after all. Out of the corner of her eye she notices the light of a dim street lamp, barely penetrating the dense foliage of the poplars growing opposite the house. And either it shines in a special way today, or she is in such a sentimental mood, but Valya suddenly realizes that what she really wants is not to go to the bar or even to have perfectly styled hair, but to drive on a late September evening of 1997, lying on the back seat of her mother’s beige «Zhiguli» car. She really want to see the same dim streetlights quickly replace each other outside the window, and her mom deftly light another cigarette from the car lighter, and smell through the open windows the inexorably approaching autumn. Could anything be better? Only if Anton Rekov's mix for 5/8: radio

Только представь: жаркий июльский день, ты сидишь в любимом кабаке, вальяжно раскинувшись на старом стуле – тебе никуда не нужно. Планов на завтра нет (да и есть ли оно – завтра?), привычные тревога и беспокойство бесследно растворились, периодически возникающие на экране телефона уведомления совершенно тебя не волнуют, даже не хочется проверять, что там. Все, что сейчас по-настоящему важно – это запотевший бокальчик лагера в твоей изящной руке. Пышная шапка пены медленно тает, капли конденсата приятно холодят кончики твоих пальцев. Вот бы каждый день был таким. Ах, мечты-мечты. Красиво уходим в короткий отпуск под ритмы грандиозного микса Миши Политковского, записанного для недавнего фестиваля «Ветерок» в баре «Ровесник». Целый час аудиального блаженства про вторую самую важную вещь для нас всех (помимо музыки, конечно же) – пивко, пивасик, пивчик, пивандрий.

Apartment 73, first floor. Valera lies in his bed, staring at the ceiling. His left leg is sticking out from under the blanket as usual. The scents of damp soil and lilac waft in from the street. The rain drums on the leaves of a young maple in the front yard. In that social network that Valera now visits only once every couple of months, a notification popped up about the birthday of someone he met only once, about ten years ago, and now he cannot calm down. That evening used to exist in his memory in the finest detail, but now it's like a series of random snapshots: a long strand of his date’s hair, that she kept tucking behind her ear, the broadcast of the «Milan»-«Lazio» football match in the bar (the «Rossoneri» won 3:1, if he recalls correctly), and a recently painted dark-brown bench – they almost landed on it when they were already quite tipsy. Valera can't shake the question «I wonder if she ever thought about that meeting in August? Maybe on her way home in a taxi or just like this — in her bedroom on an early weekend morning?». There is a magical pill that could distract him from such pointless questions — xinyi mix for 5/8: radio. But unfortunately, he doesn't even know it exists. So he continues to lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, with his left leg still sticking out from under the blanket.

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