Irina Prikhodko doesn't act as if emigration is something heroic or finally understandable. Instead of cautionary tales, there are pro-life absurdities: the coziness between hamam and dictatorship, where even a vacation becomes an excuse to peek at one's own insecurities and frustrations.
Her concerts are bitter observations of how ordinary life becomes a collection of minor catastrophes: language, the body, family domesticity, aging and trash wars over an inch of personal space. All of this is presented with a tired irony - no pathetics, just a cynical belief that even happiness requires instruction, and that you can only survive together with a sense of humor.
Instead of glib conclusions, there is a simple confession: you have to laugh while personal belongings are still circling between countries and avatars of friends are lost among European faces without smiles.
