Old Slavic fairy tales dragged screaming into the mosh pit. Baba Yaga's hut rides a crushing groove, Koschei rattles his chains in double-bass thunder, and the firebird ignites a wall of distortion. Folklore, reforged in iron.
Nine thousand, two hundred and eighty-nine kilometres of steel, snow and sleepless nights. A track-by-track ride down the Trans-Siberian Railway, where every station trades its own breed of metal — frostbitten thrash, taiga doom and the heavy swagger of the far east.
An alternate history riveted together with rocket fuel and feedback. The Union didn't just reach the stars — it conquered them with marching grooves, red-planet riffs and zero-gravity solos. A space-metal saga of cosmonauts, steel moons and engines that never sleep.
A howl from the underground, where the state has outlawed the riff itself. Smuggled tapes, hidden venues and amplifiers wrapped in rags - every track is an act of defiance against a totalitarian regime that would silence the sound of rebellion. Heavy metal played at the risk of everything.
Two forces collide on a blank canvas: the red wedge of revolution against the white void of the avant-garde. Inspired by Soviet Constructivism — El Lissitzky's sharp red triangles and Malevich's floating white squares — these tracks hurl pure geometry into motion. No plot, no words: just the kinetic clash of sharp angles smashing through static space.