Review Summary: Pack a blanket and some sandwiches. This Piknik isn't one to miss.
Though the deeply unsettling prog metal album art may initially lead you to believe otherwise, Piknik is, apparently, one of Russia's most prolific and beloved rock bands. It’s an institution, popular enough to sell out massive venues decades after its heyday and old enough to remember when Russia was known by a different name. The charmingly titled
Harakiri, a nod to an ancient Japanese practice of self-disembowelment, was released in 1991, the same year the Soviet Union performed a national seppuku of its own.
I’d love to toss out a clean and concise musical analogy to capture Piknik’s sound, but Piknik eludes comparison. The record’s second song immediately calls to mind “Moving in Stereo” (and that can only be a good thing), but I wouldn’t say Piknik sounds a whole lot like The Cars. The album is firmly rooted in the new wave/post punk extended universe, yet the average Piknik song has little in common with whatever you might find on a Spotify-curated “new wave classics” playlist. And though the generous serving of organs calls to mind Emerson, Lake & Palmer, Piknik’s approach lacks the technical wizardry or bombast endemic to that flavor of prog. Theirs is more reserved, content to let the compositions breathe and the unnerving, vaguely gothic atmosphere take center stage.
As far as comparisons go, “Jethro Tull meets Depeche Mode, but a little weirder and a lot more Russian” is about the best I can muster.
After a tasteful, efficient twenty seconds of strings, the opening track roars to life with a steady, organ-backed groove and some satisfyingly crunchy guitar. Paired with a casual, almost rambling vocal style, it’s an unquestionably eccentric introduction — yet I’d hesitate to call it inaccessible. It’s got no shortage of hooks, from highly memorable vocal phrases to charmingly dated synth riffs. At the end of the day, this is music for the masses, and it’s all the better for it.
Even the record’s more adventurous moments don’t stray too far from the warm embrace of accessibility. Track 3, with its walking bassline and loungy piano, conjures images of a smoky speakeasy where Russian heavies gather to play craps and guzzle vodka. It’s no doubt an off-kilter piece of music, but one with enough character and whimsy to stave off the derisive descriptors that are often hurled at bands of this ilk. This “ambitious, but never quite pretentious” approach is a common thread throughout the record, and it’s a balancing act that Piknik pulls off quite admirably.
The fourth track is a clear highlight, with an up-tempo groove and a charming, charismatic vocal performance. This thing is absolutely loaded with hooks, from infectious background vocals to kickass guitar work. It’s a song as enjoyable as it is stereotypically Russian, which is to say it’s very much both of those things.
As much as I’ve enjoyed my time with
Harakiri, I wouldn't call it the most consistent listen. The handful of slower, moodier tracks don’t pack enough surprises to justify their length, and their presence brings the record’s momentum to a screeching halt. The fifth track, for example, never truly feels like it finds its footing, a sin that would be more forgivable if not for its five-minute runtime.
The album closer, an instrumental, suffers a similar fate. Whereas truly great instrumentals like Rush’s YYZ or Camel’s Rhayader guide the listener on a journey, I’d liken this one more to a scenic yet meandering stroll. In a vacuum, it’s a perfectly pleasant piece of prog, but as an album closer, I’d consider it lacking.
Pacing quibbles aside,
Harakiri is an unquestionably great slice of esoteric rock, and its obscurity outside of the band’s home country is a damn shame. If you’re craving a record that’s as adventurous as it is accessible, this Piknik is one you’d be wise to attend.
