From the ashes of the Soviet empire, from the flames of history, rises PROXY. Post 9/11 rave vibes cloaked in Muscovite angst. A line drawn in smoking rubble along the border dividing East and West, Stüssy and Spetsnaz.
1997. The Year of Tar and Horses. The Prodigy plays Red Square in Moscow. Hundreds of thousands of people attend the show, but only one is truly changed. By the crushing sound. By people absolutely losing their shit to synths and sustained aggression.
The experience causes PROXY to question the quality and purpose of Russian “electrica” acts like Nu-Lag Xpressions and Sweatislav. There was simply no scene from which to emerge. “Whatever a fool does, he does it wrong. A poor dancer is impeded even by his own balls,” he recalls.
In a decade’s time, PROXY would be remixing Prodigy and opening for them on a massive tour of Russia.
“My music tells you what to do, but never why. Your ear may be afraid, but your body completes its labor.”