Rasul Chabdarov balances on the border between rustic directness and urban delicacy of human stupidity. His concerts range from unobtrusive portraits of Caucasian life to observations on nationalism, dialects and mass culture heroes like MMA stars and Danila Bagrov. The idea that being one's own and an outsider at the same time is sometimes harder than going up against Khabib in the ring.
Female drama, family tantrums and irritating domestic absurdity line up in a series of unanswered questions: why do we need all these gates and why do we have to preserve our dignity more often than we'd like? Chabdarov calibrates reality, straddling the line between the emigrant's fatigue and the inner ghost wolf, which, if it howls, it does so only quietly - at its viewer.
The anxiety of the era, visible in the details of everyday life, sounds like a tired laughter at the very attempts to understand why the hell we are still here. The most valuable thing is the feeling of recognizability and total bewilderment before life, which is spilled with a subtle background of irony, like a draught from an unfinished aula.
