One of the trickiest and most baffling questions for me has always been: “What kind of music do you listen to?” Back in my barefoot youth, you could—under certain circumstances—catch a punch to the face for the “wrong” answer, but that’s not the point.
Even at a pretty tender age, choosing just one musical genre felt like an artificial limitation. Rammstein lured me in with their mysterious language. Bomfunk MC’s dropped a video for “Freestyler” so cool it made you want to buy massive baggy pants, get dreads, and wander the streets shouting: “Freestyla! Raka maka fo!” And then there were those special emotional strings tugged by Ruki Vverh! — when they ask some random girl where she managed to get legs that were designed in such an exceptionally attractive way.
After getting out of the army, I desperately wanted a break from all the uniforms, emergency drills, and endless marching drills. So when Pasha suggested a week-long escape to Krasnodar Krai to party hard under the soundtrack of our favorite tunes, I didn’t hesitate much.
The village of Vesyolovka—literally meaning “Cheerfulville”—promised us a few unforgettable days, and who was I to doubt a place with such a convincing name?
Like conspirators plotting something shady, we hit the road well past midnight. Bags packed, money and documents double-checked, coffee downed. The Nissan Micra let out a cheeky roar from its fiery little engine and carried us off toward music, sunshine, and alcohol.
Since we were seriously pressed for time and desperate to catch Noize MC’s set, Pasha was tearing down the road with majestic disregard for the speed limit. Which, unsurprisingly, came back to bite us.
At some point, a striped police baton waved in the air, and we had to pull over — because outrunning the cops hadn’t been part of the plan. A nameless Krasnodar lieutenant approached the car, clearly puzzled by where a vehicle with such non-local plates was rushing off to. He gathered all his confusion and deep disdain for traffic law violators from Lipetsk into one perfectly concise phrase, aimed straight at Pasha: “Have you lost your f*cking mind?!”
Our chances of making it to the festival on time were shrinking fast. Only the greed and moral flexibility of the local law enforcement could save the day. We both started talking over each other, explaining where we were going and why it was so important. We swore we were totally enchanted by the beauty of the southern region, that we’d drive no faster than 60 km/h on the way back, and that we’d help every old lady cross the road — even if they weren’t particularly interested in crossing it.
Altruism and repentance didn’t work.
But for 3,500 rubles, the lieutenant decided the speed limit could’ve been higher. He advised us not to push it like that again unless we planned on blowing our whole budget before even arriving.
Finally, the brakes screeched, and gravel mixed with sand sprayed out from under the tires. Like overexcited champagne corks, we shot out of the car — and in the heavy southern air floated the chords of “Ustroy Destroy.” (“Wreak some havoc”)
We made it!
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We dumped our stuff in the designated tent zone, mumbling half-hearted promises to actually set up the tent later, and sprinted toward the stage—to soak up the festival spirit and see Ivan live.
By the time we squeezed closer to the stage, he was already playing the heartbreakingly nostalgic “Palevo!”(“Sketchy vibe”) Then came “Rugan’ iz-za steny,” (“Swearing from behind the wall”) “Iz okna,” (“Out of the window”) and of course, “Davai prikolemsya.” (“Let's have some fun”) Ivan knew exactly what his fans—who’d come from all corners of the country—wanted to hear.
Fun fact: that year, Ivan came to the festival with his whole family and stayed for all five days. So after knocking out his set on Day 1, he turned into a full-blown “Kubanoid,” and kept popping up in random corners of the event like a seasoned festival spirit guide.
The festival lasts five days, and remembering everything is just impossible.
Emotions layer on top of one another, competing in intensity and how brightly they burn into your memory. What stays are serotonin-soaked flashes of brilliance: like when gorgeous Rothmans cigarette promoters strolled around the festival grounds wearing outfits that were, let’s say... revealing. They handed out full packs of smokes to anyone who wanted them.
Handed out. For free. Only during those five days could you witness hardcore smokers casually tossing out a few fresh cigarettes from a pack—just to make space for a new lighter.
So, there we are, on a boat tour headed straight into a field of sacred lotus flowers. They’re a protected species, something the guide reminded us of about three hundred times. Naturally, we plowed right into the heart of the thicket, slicing through the thick, meaty stalks with the boat motor. The girls on board nearly fell overboard in their attempts to snatch a souvenir flower or two.
Now, another fascinating part of the festival was the eco-camp. These guys set up a cleanliness system across the entire area that was both wildly original and very European:
You could sell your trash for cash.
Signs about it were hanging everywhere, and the volunteers reminded people regularly. Say you just finished a beer. You’re left holding a can. Maybe even a cup too. Instead of chucking it in a garbage bin, you scanned for the nearest volunteer station, brought them your empty treasures, and cashed in. 10 rubles per item.
I saw some broke dudes walking around with massive trash bags stuffed with bottles, cans, and plastic cups — some making 2 to 3 thousand rubles in one go, only to immediately blow it all on more fun.
Later we joked they should’ve paid 1 ruble per cigarette butt — we’d have sifted every single grain of sand on the beach clean with a tea strainer.
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And if anyone wanted to prove they were a true hardcore festival veteran, Kubana gave them the perfect opportunity. See, upon arrival, you had to exchange your printed ticket for an actual one — which meant getting a fabric wristband clamped onto your arm, so tight it could only come off by cutting it. Tearing it off was basically impossible. They were specifically designed to survive every abuse the average Kubanoid could inflict after being properly marinated
in beer, seawater, and ungodly amounts of decibels.
But these wristbands had one more function — arguably the most important one: anyone who kept theirs on, uncut, for an entire year got into the next year’s festival for free. I saw a group of punks who, by the start of Kubana 2012, still had faded, greasy strips of fabric dangling on their wrists — labeled Kubana 2011, Kubana 2010, and even the very first one: Kubana 2009.
Morning breaks again, and our tent turns into a convection oven. Still, we sleep — since we only passed out a few ridiculously short hours ago. But in the air, the voice of the incredible Daria Stavrovich, a.k.a. Nookie, starts to drift in. Her band, SLOT, is doing their soundcheck.
So, we groggily crawl out of our human-sized air fryer, and slither toward the line for the portable showers.
Later, we’re lazily drifting on inflatable mattresses, the gentle waves rocking us into near-nap territory — when suddenly, booming from the main stage speakers, comes the unmistakable voice of Sergey Shnurov. In classic Shnur style, he’s shouting instructions to the band:
“Guys, remember—if I’ve got this kind of face during the show, it means I forgot the lyrics.”
“Valentin, why the hell do you have to introduce yourself to everyone every time? We came. We played. We got the money. We f***ed off.”
I honestly don’t know which parts were for show and which were actual band coaching, but the beach erupted in unified laughter and whistles.
And then… the opening riffs of “WWW” blasted from the stage.
People still soaking in the sea instantly forgot the schedule. Like lemmings drunk on sun and beer, they launched themselves into motion — an uncoordinated wave charging toward the stage, screaming:
“V-V-V, LENINGRAD! SPB TOCHKA RU!”
One of the big discoveries for me was a gypsy-punk band called Gogol Bordello.For over an hour, they lit up the stage with a wild cocktail of Russian, Ukrainian, and Balkan madness. In terms of drive, chaos, and unfiltered energy, they gave it a full 200%.
The frontman performed in shorts and a bare chest. At one point, seemingly overcome by thirst, he grabbed a bottle of wine and poured about as much on himself as he drank. The rest of the band weren’t far behind in that department either. Fueled by this extravagant hydration method, they launched into their track “Immigraniada” with such raw power and conviction that the dust kicked up by the dancing crowd didn’t even have time to settle — it just hung in the air like a rock’n’roll fog machine.
Beyond the daytime El Dia KUBANA stage, there was also the nighttime alter-ego: La Noche KUBANA.
It was there that the elusive Andrei Lysikov, better known to fans as Dolphin, performed. To be honest, his music never really clicked with me, but Pasha dragged me toward the stage with eyes so lit up that refusing would’ve felt like an offense against friendship itself. Out of his whole set, I only knew the track “Vesna”, but I’ll give him this—his show was accompanied by some truly mesmerizing visuals.
When it comes to full-throttle, all-night dance marathons though, I’m more of a Pendulum guy — those hyped-up Aussie electronic wizards. Under the pounding beat of “Blood Sugar”, I jumped and thrashed with the crowd until my legs gave out from cramps. After the riotous stomp-fest that was Gogol Bordello, I thought I had nothing left to give — but somewhere deep down, a switch flipped.
I suddenly believed I could party like it was a proper techno rave, and not only survive — thrive. Then I stumbled into an Atari Teenage Riot set. Watching the crowd go feral to their breakcore-punk-industrial fusion, I realized that despite being in my twenties, I just don’t have that kind of health — and probably never did.
Almost the entire The Subways performance had me scratching my head, thinking, “Where the hell have I heard these tracks before?” That lasted right up until the opening notes of “Rock & Roll Queen” kicked in. Suddenly, snap—everything clicked into place: the warm glow of 2008, Guy Ritchie, a young Gerard Butler, the film RocknRolla. No one pleads the case for being your Rock & Roll Queen quite like Billy Lunn and Charlotte Cooper.
And then came Sum 41. At some point during their set, the frontman realized the crowd had no idea how to properly represent their band name with hand signs. He decided to fix that. During a break between songs, he addressed the thousands of wide-eyed fans and gave a masterclass:
- Shout "SUM" as loud as you can.
- With your right hand, form the number 4 — tuck your thumb in and stretch out the other four fingers. Then turn your hand 90 degrees so the fingers are horizontal.
- With your left hand, show the ancient Roman salute known as digitus infamis —
or as it’s now called, the middle finger. That’s your “1”.
Congratulations, you’ve now mastered the official, somewhat vulgar but undeniably punk rock, Sum 41 salute.
When Sergei Mikhalok, frontman of Lyapis Trubetskoy, suddenly began reciting poetry after a song, I was genuinely thrown off — I had no idea this was something he did. Later, some seasoned fans clued me in: this poetic detour is actually a regular thing at Lyapis shows.
One line stuck with me like a sucker punch:
Not time to kneel in surrender,
To cower where old fears fester,
While devils tear Earth asunder —
Their tribe grows bold and severs.
Doom’s preached by cowardly pygmies,
From sidelines meek and twitching.
Hear that? The cannons are singing!
I'm alive — so the fight's still kicking!
They also told me there’s a fan theory: if the band really liked how the crowd responded, they’d always end with the song “Vso, rebyata, khare, otrabotali lave” ("Alright folks, we’re done here, we’ve earned our pay").
Needless to say, that hot August night — they closed with it.
To give our trampled legs some mercy, the stage welcomed a more nostalgic vibe: Dune took the stage. No, not the sandworm kind with blue-eyed Zendaya and Chalamet — I’m talking the Dune, the band whose hits had been blaring out of cassette decks for over two decades.
Rybin and crew served up every cult classic and screaming out lyrics like “Kommunal’naya kvartira” (“Сommunal apartment”) and “More piva” (“A Sea of Beer”) with thousands of equally hoarse voices?
Blissful. Absolute bliss.
And then… there was Jonathan Davis of KORN. Commanding the crowd like a dark wizard, he conjured a forest of hands like the phrase was invented just for that moment. And then — he pulled out (I swear) a full-blown bagpipe and shredded the hell out of it. Because of course he did. Why the hell not?
When Leningrad took the stage, a low growl of satisfaction rippled through the human sea.
The night was about to get anything but quiet. Even the most introverted souls were ready to scream out every word of “Mamba” from sheer muscle memory.
Shnurov emerged wearing a bucket hat, tank top, knee socks, and breezy boxer shorts covered in hearts. Alongside Yulia Kogan, they whipped the crowd into full-blown hysteria. For maximum authenticity, I forced my way up almost to the front of the stage.
What followed was a musical blackout.
At some point, I emerged from the writhing pudding of human bodies — voice gone, soaked in beer, feet completely destroyed — but happy as hell.
On the final day, we reached the monumental endgame of debauchery. We stayed by the stage almost nonstop, jumping and singing with new friends. When our legs failed, we’d sit right there in the sand, continuing our sacred duty of singing while horizontal.
Periodically, someone would disappear to a tent or the food court, returning with liters of beer and snacks, to prevent collapse at a crucial moment.
As the evening settled in, a mysterious figure named Zhenya materialized out of nowhere with a jerry can of vodka and a devilish glint in his eyes. Then came some weird chocolate energy drink. Then, possibly, aviation fuel. We were spiraling so deep into the vortex of revelry that alcohol no longer got us drunk — it simply kept us standing.
Only a band with real fire could close out a festival like this.
Enter: The Offspring.
Not only did they present a new album, but also steamrolled the crowd with their classics —
flinging everyone back to the golden age of Walkmans and shared mixtapes.
“The Kids Aren’t Alright,” “Original Prankster,” “You’re Gonna Go Far, Kid,”
and, of course — OF COURSE — “Pretty Fly.”
It felt like all 150,000 people at the festival were at that beach, by that stage, on those bleachers,
screaming their lungs out in unison. Flares burst through the crowd, flags waved, people danced like mad, and massive circle pits churned in euphoric chaos.
Over those five days, I blew out my voice four times, but somehow — thanks to Krasnodar beer, the sea, and the sun — it magically restored itself every morning.
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Leaving a festival like this is brutal. You wander the emptying grounds in a daze, refusing to believe that almost a week has flown by.
You replay the highlights in your head. You swear you’ll come back.
And as for me? I kept that promise.
But that…is another story.
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