Andrei Rodionov: Russia's Slam King

Andrei Rodionov is missing part of his right ear. His Mr. Clean-like dome is barely covered by the shadow of a crew cut. And when he speaks, he spits words out of a lopsided sneer, like Popeye croaking around his pipe. But Rodionov’s crude demeanor is deceiving: He’s actually an award-winning poet and king of Moscow’s slam scene.

Still, even that’s not as glamorous as it sounds. “Many people consider our readings an ugly show,” he says through a translator. “They think slam has nothing to do with literature.”

His detractors are right in one respect: This is not academic, professor-bred poetry with a pedigree. According to Rodionov, ’90s poet Glory Kuritsyn brought slam to Moscow from Germany’s bar scene, where he’d seen the art form evolve in low-lit pubs, the free-flowing drinks transforming jokes into stories and stories into poetry. In 2006, Rodionov became Kuritsyn’s successor, holding meetings and contests, and even awarding a $500 prize to one slam winner. But however dressed-up and official the meetings may seem, their barfly roots are apparent. “Although the audience laughs a lot, it has a tragic hue,” Rodionov says. “And sometimes people get violent. Once a loser smashed a mug over the winner’s head.”

This is the heart and soul of contemporary Russian literature, which (since the country boasts very few MFA programs) has gradually grown away from universities and toward the unwashed masses. Still, poetry blogs like Valilon get thousands of hits each week, and children memorize and perform portions of Pushkin’s Eugene Onegin before they’re out of grade school. Poetry offered a voice of protest before the Iron Curtain’s collapse, and it still hasn’t completely transcended its status as a pop art form.

The slam scene testifies to this, and Rodionov is its transfixing figurehead. When he performs, unleashing his rough cacophonies of cascading words, he clenches his fists, sways his hips and hums with a low growl. His voice grows like a swelling note and erupts into barely contained shouts, often professing broken affection for his nation. He rasps, “When the blast of … tenderness booms / like Hiroshima, my trusting city absorbs it all.”