Alexander Grishaev is a comedian who squeezes irony out of everyday hopelessness, where the ghosts of past decisions live in one-room apartments with Soviet furniture, and death argues with household loans. His concerts are sad chronicles of adult life, written in ink from fatigue, strange absurdities of post-Soviet realities and worn-out habits.
Instead of shouting - tired mumbling, instead of fashionable slogans - dry fatigue and cynical honesty about oneself and the world. Emigration, theater and punk rock in Grishaev's monologues look equally ridiculous, but invariably recognizable: from attempts to escape from migrant stamps to outright hatred of mosquitoes and hornets. Each of his stories sounds as if there is no one else to talk to anyway - except laziness or another unsent application for summer life.
Grishaev is someone who always has something to add to other people's failures, but he is also the first to laugh at his own.
