At the concert in memory of Shatunov, fans had a drinking party

“Take the flag,” at the entrance to the concert hall, a lady in a purple hat handed me a paper flag with the inscription “Yuri Shatunov – a legend.”

The flash mob with flags was invented by a group of fans who have been fighting for the name of the Shatunov square in Moscow for several years now. I met with the initiators of the idea earlier at the artist’s funeral, then at the opening of the monument at the Troekurovsky cemetery.

“So far to no avail, no one is listening to us, but we will not give up,” a woman in a T-shirt “There will be a square!” reported on the work.

In the hall they sold badges, magnets, T-shirts, and posters with Shatunov’s image.

People surrounded the shop with souvenirs. Those gathered were gawking more than they were buying.

– A bit expensive. Unless I go broke on a magnet,” the pensioner handed over 100 rubles.

The most popular items were a badge for 200 rubles, a poster for 300, and a rubber bracelet with the inscription “Yura was here!”

People can’t afford the rest.

“Hoodie for 8,000 thousand rubles, we’re going crazy,” the girl grumbled at the counter. – I understand everything, but it’s too much…

“Audio cassette – 1500, disc – 2500, crazy prices,” the others agreed with her.

Among the buyers, I noticed those who still bought in bulk.

– Most of the fans didn’t make it to the concert, they didn’t pay for it, so now they’re ordering me. I think how much, I write them an SMS, they send me money,” explained the woman in a T-shirt with a portrait of Shatunov.

“You have 5200,” the girl at the checkout indicated the amount.

“Natasha, give me another 300 rubles, it’s not enough,” the customer shouted into the phone. – In real life, I don’t have an extra 300 rubles in my pocket.

Ninety percent of those gathered at the concert were women over the age of forty. Representatives of the stronger sex looked alien here.

I approached a man who clearly felt out of place at this celebration of life: he stood to the side, propped up the wall, and held a handbag in his hand.

-Why did you come? – I asked.

“You’d better ask my wife,” he muttered in response and turned away.

My second interlocutor turned out to be more talkative. The plump man introduced himself as Sergei. I caught him in line for sandwiches and alcohol. He also didn’t fit into the party atmosphere.

“You’re not having much fun,” I turned to him.

“Wait, I’ll drink, I’ll have some fun… I’ll have 100 grams and apple juice,” I made an order. – The prices are such that you can’t really go wild. I should have taken it with me. Look, someone managed to smuggle in alcohol.

“Mom, I’m thirsty,” the teenager whined nearby.

– Look at the prices. “Give me one water for two,” his mother whispered to him.

The class difference was felt in the concert hall. People who bought cheap balcony tickets preferred stronger and cheaper drinks. Those who allowed themselves a place in the stalls took something more elite.

“There are only a few of the most devoted fans here.” Judge for yourself, who can afford to buy a ticket for five grand these days? – shared a young lady with luxuriant hair. – This is not a funeral, where admission is free. I know that some fans saved money for the concert, and my friend even took out a loan to come here from Vladivostok.

“Insults were thrown at Soso Pavliashvili”

Sitting next to me were two fans of Shatunov, about fifty years old.

“Today, many fans who came from other cities went to Yura’s cemetery in the morning, laid flowers at the monument, and then straight here,” my neighbor Olga shared. – Do you know how many people came from other cities? There are plenty of them. True, some did not have enough money for a hotel, so people spent the night at the station, at the airport, just to get to the concert.

The color in the hall was turned off. “Yura, Yura, Yura,” the audience shouted and unanimously took out their phones.

“The fans who were lucky enough to get here promised to broadcast the performance and post it in fan chats,” Olya explained.

It looked like half the room was broadcasting.

The children’s choir was the first to take the stage. At the piano is Igor Krutoy.

“Oh, he’s lost so much weight, he’s become haggard,” a fan noted.

Next came SHAMAN in a white T-shirt with a portrait of Shatunov. The artist sang “And Gray Night Again.” “I always wanted to perform this song, I hope I didn’t ruin it,” SHAMAN addressed the audience.

“What do you mean by our Yura,” Olga winced.

Then Shatunov’s songs were performed by Dolina, Alsou, Malikov…

My neighbor threatened: “I’ll sing now, I won’t be able to stand it. I might start dancing, I warn you.”

A small incident happened when Soso Pavliashvili appeared on stage. Someone shouted insults at the artist from the balcony. Pavliashvili tensed a little, but continued to perform.

In the middle of the concert, I went out into the street where the fans were praying. The trash can near the entrance was filled with alcohol bottles. One of the women could not stand on her feet, collapsed, hit her head and laughed.

“Well, it happens, it’s not a holiday every day,” her friend was not at all embarrassed.

At the entrance back, the guard forced me to open a bottle of water. He sniffed: “Come in.” This is the first time we’ve seen something like this, there are a lot of drunk people, it’s just terrible.”

I returned to the hall. The presenters, Andrei Malakhov and Lera Kudryavtseva, at that moment addressed Shatunov’s wife and children, who were sitting in the stalls.

Fans jumped out of their seats and ran towards the family to film them.

In general, the organizers did their best, the concert turned out to be soulful, although Olga’s fan still had complaints about the arrangement of Shatunov’s songs. “No matter how hard you try, you can’t outdo our Yura,” the woman bawled after each composition.

At the end of the concert, people again crowded the souvenir shops. The tipsy audience no longer skimped on badges and magnets.

“We only live once, we’ll think about the empty wallet tomorrow, I’d rather save on food,” said one customer.

On the way out, people bought photos of Shatunov from their hands. There was a brisk trade in discs.

“Buy a bird – a symbol of love and fidelity,” a young man with stuffed birds on his shoulder became attached to me.

The Myakinino metro station platform was crowded.

The people no longer remembered Shatunov; people were plunged into everyday problems.

One woman complained that she broke her heel because her boots were old and she had no money to buy new ones. Two pensioners were discussing the rise in food prices. “Yes, life is hard, but today the holiday was a success,” the lady with Shatunov’s poster under her arm summed up the evening.

Read the material “Because of Razin’s curses, Sergei Zhukov was afraid to participate in the concert in memory of Shatunov”