Yakov Kvas looks at the world the way a master craftsman looks at a manual: with slight contempt and persistent suspicion. His concerts are a methodically assembled collection of everyday absurdities, where scooters, hemorrhoids and the fish diet of the homeless meet at the same dacha plot, and all the cultural heroes, if any, have remained in the ranks, it is only in the form of an old servant dog.
He keenly feels the pain of modern adulthood, from failed jobs and trips to the drugstore to annoyingly expensive underwear. Kwas's life is a perpetually drawn-out absurdity test, with genuine highs flickering between unfinished beers and idiotic YouTube recommendations. Truly, the answer to the question "is all this normal?" won't be necessary - things aren't vile enough as it is.
