"The mayor of the city was crawling under the ceiling, hanging spotlights for us"

Artemiy Krichevskiy is an iconic figure for the Minsk scene. His band Spoonfull (the name was always spelled with a double l) became practically the first purely blues ensemble from Belarus. Beyond that, Krichevskiy, nicknamed "Batka" by the younger generation of blues musicians, has played in countless reggae and rock projects.

From 2003 to 2006, Artemiy Krichevsky became the full-time guitarist of Svet Boogie Band, with whom he recorded the famous Live in JVL DVD and the studio album Nothing But Love, better known as "the green one."

Krichevsky on how he taught Sveta to play the harmonica, why the latter nicknamed him "Big Mouse" (as written in the albums), about the trip to France and a concert for dangerous Polish rockers.

Svet and Artemiy Krichevsky

Getting Acquainted

I studied at a technical college, my friend put together a band called "Mukha," and we played whatever we liked—basically "Akvarium" mostly. And we recorded something in my basement in Avtozavodskiy.

And Vanya, our leader, had a younger brother Denis, who was studying in school at the time in the same class as Svet. And so they came to one of our rehearsals.

We had a piano there, and Svet started playing something on it. I think it was "Bohemian Rhapsody." But he'd play it like this: he'd start the intro, get to the lyrics, sing "Ma-maaaaa" and then just stop.

So we decided to play together. It turned out to be kind of nonsense, a couple of rehearsals and that was it—everyone scattered: summer, vacation time.

That's how they met, it turned out, when Svet was still in school.

Vanya later recorded something with "Mukha," and I started creating my own band, oriented toward blues.

Spoonful

When I was finishing technical college, I got to a Voronov concert at the Palace of Unions. We were poor students, always trying to sneak our way into places. We found some guy there—either a janitor or a doorman. We brought him two bottles of port wine, I remember. Because we knew he could be bribed.

I remember Voronov performing in this long shirt with huge daisies on it. That concert just blew my mind. And then I managed to watch the film "Crossroads." One thing on top of another, and another thing, and that was it. I was completely hooked.

And so we just started playing on our own.

My friend Antony, who once got me hooked on the Beatles, used to say: "There. Nothing better has been invented yet," but then he moved to Moscow and came back a year later a completely different person—totally obsessed with blues. He didn't play himself, but he listened with real dedication. He had this attitude that a person should master the information, you know.

And he started from the very roots, his principle was simple: the more modern, the less authentic. The deeper you dig, the cooler it gets. He bought this hefty English-language tome, Who's Who in Blues, and kept sending me photocopies from Moscow.

It feels like I was born with the blues, but that understanding came gradually, over time.

And we started playing in the little courtyard of the "Penguin" ice cream café: a small mixer, drums, bass, two guitars—everything running through one speaker.

And it turned out that our guitarist Andrei Svetlitskiy lived in the same entrance as Gennady Starikov, who started organizing a blues club, basically got the whole thing going in Minsk. And he held concerts regularly. That's where our entire blues community would cross paths.

Over time, Spoonfull somehow stopped playing, and Svet called me: "look, we need a guitarist."

Harmonica

Back at the Mukha, when we first met, I was already playing a bit of harmonica. And Svet became interested. So it turned into this Minsk harmonica legacy.

There was this really good harmonica player, Makhs (he spelled his name with an "kh" for some reason), and I saw him at some kind of benefit concert. Well, I'd already watched that film "Crossroads" by that point, so I wanted to play harmonica too, but I couldn't figure out how they made those bends. I'd blow and blow, but nothing. Turns out you have to draw the air in, not push it out. And he just showed me, and after that I couldn't put the harmonica down until I got my first bend right, and once I got that first bend, I just never let go of it.

And when Svet asked, I showed him the same thing that Maks had shown me. How to make bands, and the rest already depends on your own perception. But Svet surpassed me by far in skill, of course. Whatever he took on, he brought it to perfection.

Big Mouse

And then Svet called—their guitarist Lesha Shilovich was planning to go somewhere to England, and they needed a replacement. They already had a repertoire lined up. And over time, Svet decided that playing was fine and all, but they needed to actually make some money doing it.

Svet is very sociable, he strikes up acquaintances instantly, even friendships. In Moscow he had Volodya, who organized concerts. And at every concert Svet would introduce everyone at the end and would always say: "And there in the hall, in the corner, that big bearded man, that's our director." He was always calling everyone different things, but always in a kind way.

He tells me, I need to introduce you somehow, you know, when you're playing a solo, or you've already played one, or you're about to start playing, so it sounds cool and funny and doesn't hurt anyone's feelings.

He noticed that when I start playing the saw, my face gets all scrunched up and my mustache twitches. Like a mouse's whiskers when it sees cheese. That's how I became a mouse, just a big one. Mister Big Mouse.

France

What stuck with me most was the trip to France — it was incredibly intense. The impression came mainly from the people, a completely different culture. Everyone there seemed kind somehow. I practically didn't notice any mean people.

Although there were plenty of revolutions in France. I suppose they have enough anger there when they need it.

Well, the architecture is nothing special, to be honest. Though Tyoma Gavryushin, our bassist, was always running around filming everything, absolutely everything he could capture. Down to the carved door handles.

And the last concert is the one that stuck with me.

We lived in a small village and played a free concert there as a farewell. A friend of ours, Sveta Letitia, invited us to France—he later wrote a song about her called "Little Tia." She was living in that village with her husband.

In two weeks we played ten concerts, and Leticia and her husband drove us everywhere. They went ahead in this little "heel" with all the equipment, and we followed in our own car.

And so the time came to part ways. In this little village there was something like a school, and in it a gymnasium that doubled as a dining hall, and that's where we played.

I liked that even in such a small town there was a mayor. And this mayor himself was climbing around on ladders, screwing in some lights, like little spotlights. He was doing it himself, climbing around, connecting them.

Inside, by feeling, when you play not for money, but just like that for people, you play completely differently. To be honest, much better. For me personally.

Billiards

We played in Poland, in a club, but not a blues club—just a regular one with a pool hall. We arrived in the morning, said hello, got ready, and we had about four hours before the concert.

And regulars started coming there—the kind who hang around from morning to night, rockers with beards, skulls on their shirts, leather jackets, the type who are clearly into Metallica.

And we're in little suits, ties, just like the band "Sekret." Svет says: "It looks kind of sketchy, but okay, we'll pull through."

And I've loved billiards since childhood. My grandfather taught me—he was from Nikolayev, not far from Odessa, where billiards is a serious business. Anyway, I asked them to give me a cue.

Started knocking balls around: one-two, hadn't played in ages. This "rocker" type comes up to me. And offers to play. I don't speak Polish, so the conversation went something like: some English here, some Polish there, some Belarusian here and there.

He offered to play for beer. Fine, let's go. Honestly, I wasn't really nervous. It's just beer, what's there to worry about? But the guy was kind of aggressive, or maybe just weird. He clearly wanted to show who was in charge. And he started playing real decisively, like he was going into battle. Made a bunch of mistakes. And I'm playing nice and easy, taking my time. I sank about five, he only got two.

Here Svet came over, Babty came over. That's what Svet called our bassist. At first it was "babunya," because he's big and kind-hearted, but then it became "Babty," because it sounds shorter.

And there they stand, already sort of rooting for him. "Come on, come on, Artemiy, come on." That's exactly what I didn't need. Just don't get in the way. A stroke. He had one too. And such a lucky stroke that I couldn't possibly miss after that.

I say: "Alright, buddy, a beer on you." He understood me in Russian. He brought a bottle, and I say: "Get my assistants some too." The bartender sets down this plastic pack of fifteen cans. I still remember it now—Holsten.

The concert went over great with that audience. They weren't expecting guys dressed like that to deliver such powerful blues-boogie.

Svet immediately told us: "You can't get through to these soft guys, we'll start right off with the blues numbers."

And it worked. Probably the only time we played for an audience like that.