Legendary Russian sculptor dies
According to Sergey Shagulashvili, Tsereteli suffered heart failure at 1:30am on Tuesday in Moscow. Later, his staff said that a farewell service would take place in the iconic Cathedral of Christ the Savior, but he would be buried in his native Georgia.
Tsereteli, the president of the Russian Academy of Arts since 1997, was widely regarded as a defining figure in Soviet and Russian monumental art. Among his most recognized works is the towering Peter the Great statue in Moscow. Standing 98 meters (322 feet) tall, the monument was unveiled in 1997 to commemorate 300 years of the Russian Navy. It remains one of the tallest statues in the world.
Internationally, Tsereteli is known for 'Good Defeats Evil', a bronze sculpture installed at the United Nations headquarters in New York. The artwork depicts St. George slaying a dragon crafted from fragments of dismantled Soviet and American nuclear-capable missiles, symbolizing the end of the Cold War and victory over the specter of the nuclear Armageddon.
Another notable work is the 'Tear of Grief', (also known as 'To the Struggle Against World Terrorism') a 10-story monument in Bayonne, New Jersey, dedicated to the victims of the September 11 attacks. The sculpture features a large stainless-steel teardrop suspended within a cracked tower. It was presented as a gift from Russia and unveiled in 2006.
Throughout his career, Tsereteli created more than 5,000 art works that spanned beyond architecture to include paintings and frescoes. He received numerous honors, including the title of People's Artist of the USSR and the French Legion of Honor.
Russian Foreign Ministry spokeswoman Maria Zakharova has offered her condolences, describing Tsereteli as 'an artist of international renown and a true public figure who knew no borders or barriers in the cause of peace and creativity.'
'[He was] a true people's diplomat. He will live not only in our hearts but also in his works: in the stained glass and enamels decorating embassies, in monuments and sculptures placed around the world, in the lush flowers and bouquets that he painted with such passion. He knew how to love and how to give love,' she added.
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Russia Today
a day ago
- Russia Today
It's time to learn about the Russian sound you hear every time you scroll
Not long ago, 'internet music' meant something soft, silly, or ironic. Think 'Nyan Cat', vaporwave edits, lo-fi loops. Even TikTok's early soundtracks leaned toward mellow, melodic moods. But in the past three years, something has shifted. Internet music got louder. Faster. Harder. One meme captures the moment perfectly: Three pirates from a Soviet cartoon strut across a beach with absurd confidence. The animation is exaggerated, the visuals low-res. But paired with a cowbell-heavy, distorted beat, it suddenly looks – incredibly – cool. The clip goes viral. The music? Pure phonk. Today, phonk is everywhere: In gym edits, drift montages, anime cuts, sports highlights. Its raw, lo-fi rhythms have become the default soundtrack of short-form video culture. And yet, few know the names behind the sound. The tracks rack up millions of plays, but the artists remain anonymous. There's a reason for that: Most of them are Russian. Phonk didn't just find a home in Russia – it was reborn there. In the absence of industry infrastructure, labels, or PR teams, the genre evolved in unexpected ways. What began as an underground echo of 1990s Memphis rap has become something new: A Russian internet-native genre reshaping global soundscapes. To trace phonk's roots, you have to go back to Memphis in the early 1990s – a city where a new kind of rap was taking shape in bedrooms, basements, and borrowed tape decks. Memphis rap was bleak. Dark. The lyrics were grim, even by hip-hop standards – raw accounts of street violence, poverty, drug paranoia, and death. There were no anthems, no aspirations. Just survival and menace, spat into handheld mics in airless rooms. The sound matched the message. These tracks were muddy, lo-fi, and haunting – warped by cheap gear, copied across dying cassette tapes, soaked in static and hiss. Melodies were scarce. Basslines throbbed like threats. And then there was the cowbell: A cheap percussion hit that somehow made the darkness danceable. It became a signature – a sharp clang cutting through the murk like a flicker of light. Though Memphis rap never broke into the mainstream, its shadow lingered. It helped shape the rise of Southern hip-hop and gave birth to entire branches of modern trap. But for a small group of producers, the real magic wasn't in the verses – it was in the atmosphere. They stripped away the vocals, looped the beats, and amplified the distortion. That was the beginning of phonk. An underground genre formed from the bones of Memphis rap, early phonk was rough, instrumental, and ghostlike – the sound of a memory sampled and reassembled. It lived mostly online, drifting through forums and obscure playlists. And then, halfway across the world, someone in Russia heard it – and something clicked. By the early 2010s, Russian music was shifting. Rap and electronic sounds had finally gone mainstream, even among older listeners raised on Soviet pop. But inside the industry, many producers were restless. Tired of making safe, generic beats for big-name rappers, they began searching for something different. Some drifted into battle rap and small indie labels. Others stumbled onto phonk. One of the first was Kirill Shoma. He discovered phonk online and wanted to make it – but couldn't find any Russian-language tutorials. So he taught himself, then recorded one. That video became a kind of seed: Dozens of young producers copied his method, sharing beats made on cracked software and budget gear in makeshift bedroom studios. Shoma wasn't signed to any label. His tracks didn't meet industry standards – they were too raw, too lo-fi, too niche. So he simply uploaded them online, with no licensing, no copyright protections, no monetization. But that made them perfect for creators. Russian car vloggers – especially those filming drift videos – began using his tracks. The music was fast, punchy, and copyright-safe. No strikes. No takedowns. Soon, entire playlists labeled 'Drift Phonk' began to circulate. Shoma's beats added rhythm and tension to dashboard footage and smoky turns. The genre wasn't just a sound anymore. It became a visual language – internet-native, DIY, and made to move. Then, in 2020, something changed. Shoma's friends told him he was blowing up on TikTok. Curious, he opened the app – and saw that his track had been used in over 200,000 videos. The number was growing daily. He still wasn't earning money from it. But people were listening. And the right people were starting to notice. For years, no label wanted Shoma. His tracks were too raw, too repetitive, too niche. But after his TikTok explosion, that changed. A team from the international label Black 17 reached out and offered him professional collaboration – his first. He had tried before, but no one was interested. Phonk's trademark sound seemed too rough, too amateur, too far from mainstream standards. Later, Kiljo – a Russian producer working at Black 17 – recalled how industry experts who had passed on Shoma were kicking themselves for missing the wave. With label support, Shoma gained access to streaming platforms and formal distribution. But he wasn't alone for long. A Russian curator at Black 17 launched a major phonk playlist on Spotify – first centered around Shoma's tracks, then expanding to include a wide range of new artists. Many of them had learned the basics from his early tutorials. But each phonker had their own take. DVRST, one of the most well-known names, leaned into internet nostalgia, mixing phonk beats with samples from anime, video games, and vintage commercials. His remix of the Soviet pop track 'Komarovo', recorded for the alt-futurist video game 'Atomic Heart', became a viral favorite. SHADXWBXRN blended classic phonk elements with ambient textures, building a strong connection with his online audience. LXST CXNTURY, by contrast, pushed toward heavier, more aggressive sounds – but kept a low profile, avoiding interviews and personal promotion. There was no formula. No dominant style. No single voice. Just a growing cluster of independent Russian producers, each building their own version of phonk – track by track, feed by feed. Like most underground genres, phonk eventually hit a turning point. As more producers joined in, the genre began to mutate. Some Russian phonkers started adding vocals – not brags or flexes, but raw emotional lyrics. It turned out that cowbells and vulnerability could coexist surprisingly well. Others rapped about their favorite game, 'Dota 2' – a cornerstone of Russian internet culture. A new subgenre, Dota rap, emerged. A few dared to touch the sacred cow: Russian pop. One remix of the ballad 'Zima' racked up millions of views – despite disapproval from the original artists. Phonk had started as texture. Now, it was voice. As Russian phonk gained traction online, it began echoing far beyond its point of origin. Tracks by little-known producers – some with barely a profile picture – started showing up in memes, fight montages, football promos, and streetwear ads. The sound was everywhere. The names behind it? Still obscure. One of the most successful examples of this crossover was KORDHELL – British producer Michael Kenney – who rode the phonk wave to global visibility. Like many before him, he turned to phonk after growing tired of the constraints of commercial rap. His tracks embraced the genre's signature darkness and repetition – and quickly became internet hits. By this point, Russian phonk had stopped being a regional scene. It had become a global aesthetic: Minimal, aggressive, anonymous, and instantly memeable. In a way, it was the perfect genre for the algorithm – high-impact, easy to sync, emotionally blank enough to be reshaped by whatever visuals it accompanied. And yet the cultural asymmetry remained. Clips from major European football clubs now routinely feature Russian phonk beats, often set to videos of players entering the stadium or warming up. The lyrics – if there are any – are in Russian. The artists are uncredited. But the views number in the millions. No one is really hiding the source. But no one's advertising it either. Still, the producers benefit. Fans dig through track IDs, repost clips, build comment threads. A track might go viral in Istanbul or Sao Paulo, and within a day, the name behind it starts trending – on Telegram, on SoundCloud, on niche Discord servers. Phonk, in this sense, reflects a shift in how global music works. It's not just about contracts, tours, or chart positions. It's about being everywhere at once – even if no one knows your name. The rise of short-form video rewired how we consume content. Attention became instant and disposable. To survive the scroll, a clip had to hit fast, look sharp, and never slow down. Phonk fits this rhythm perfectly. It's fast, repetitive, atmospheric. No intros. No soft fades. Just impact. Whether it's street drifting, gym reels, or aesthetic edits, phonk drives the visuals forward. But the genre also plays with contrast. Put a mundane scene under a phonk track – a walk to the store, a vintage cartoon, a guy tying his shoes – and it becomes something else. Stylized. Absurd. Cool. That's the trick: Phonk makes anything look intentional. Maybe that's why it traveled so well. It doesn't demand attention. It hijacks it. It doesn't explain. It enhances. There's no need to know who made it, or why. In a feed, it just works. Phonk didn't ask for permission. It didn't arrive through curated scenes or label deals. It slipped in sideways – through smoke, static, and memes – and took over the internet without showing its face. And somehow, that feels fitting. Its traits – lo-fi grit, emotional blankness, dark momentum – echo a broader cultural mood: Speed without direction, visibility without identity, noise without resolution. A post-Soviet undertone in a post-algorithmic world. I once interviewed Russian bare-knuckle boxer Denis 'Hurricane' Dula. When I asked why so many fighters walk out to phonk, he shrugged: 'Some pick folk songs to show their roots. I get it. But no offense – I think phonk fits better. Feels more Russian right now.' He couldn't explain why. But somehow, he was right.
Russia Today
3 days ago
- Russia Today
Your feed is full of Russian music. You just didn't know it.
Not long ago, 'internet music' meant something soft, silly, or ironic. Think 'Nyan Cat', vaporwave edits, lo-fi loops. Even TikTok's early soundtracks leaned toward mellow, melodic moods. But in the past three years, something has shifted. Internet music got louder. Faster. Harder. One meme captures the moment perfectly: Three pirates from a Soviet cartoon strut across a beach with absurd confidence. The animation is exaggerated, the visuals low-res. But paired with a cowbell-heavy, distorted beat, it suddenly looks – incredibly – cool. The clip goes viral. The music? Pure phonk. Today, phonk is everywhere: In gym edits, drift montages, anime cuts, sports highlights. Its raw, lo-fi rhythms have become the default soundtrack of short-form video culture. And yet, few know the names behind the sound. The tracks rack up millions of plays, but the artists remain anonymous. There's a reason for that: Most of them are Russian. Phonk didn't just find a home in Russia – it was reborn there. In the absence of industry infrastructure, labels, or PR teams, the genre evolved in unexpected ways. What began as an underground echo of 1990s Memphis rap has become something new: A Russian internet-native genre reshaping global soundscapes. To trace phonk's roots, you have to go back to Memphis in the early 1990s – a city where a new kind of rap was taking shape in bedrooms, basements, and borrowed tape decks. Memphis rap was bleak. Dark. The lyrics were grim, even by hip-hop standards – raw accounts of street violence, poverty, drug paranoia, and death. There were no anthems, no aspirations. Just survival and menace, spat into handheld mics in airless rooms. The sound matched the message. These tracks were muddy, lo-fi, and haunting – warped by cheap gear, copied across dying cassette tapes, soaked in static and hiss. Melodies were scarce. Basslines throbbed like threats. And then there was the cowbell: A cheap percussion hit that somehow made the darkness danceable. It became a signature – a sharp clang cutting through the murk like a flicker of light. Though Memphis rap never broke into the mainstream, its shadow lingered. It helped shape the rise of Southern hip-hop and gave birth to entire branches of modern trap. But for a small group of producers, the real magic wasn't in the verses – it was in the atmosphere. They stripped away the vocals, looped the beats, and amplified the distortion. That was the beginning of phonk. An underground genre formed from the bones of Memphis rap, early phonk was rough, instrumental, and ghostlike – the sound of a memory sampled and reassembled. It lived mostly online, drifting through forums and obscure playlists. And then, halfway across the world, someone in Russia heard it – and something clicked. By the early 2010s, Russian music was shifting. Rap and electronic sounds had finally gone mainstream, even among older listeners raised on Soviet pop. But inside the industry, many producers were restless. Tired of making safe, generic beats for big-name rappers, they began searching for something different. Some drifted into battle rap and small indie labels. Others stumbled onto phonk. One of the first was Kirill Shoma. He discovered phonk online and wanted to make it – but couldn't find any Russian-language tutorials. So he taught himself, then recorded one. That video became a kind of seed: Dozens of young producers copied his method, sharing beats made on cracked software and budget gear in makeshift bedroom studios. Shoma wasn't signed to any label. His tracks didn't meet industry standards – they were too raw, too lo-fi, too niche. So he simply uploaded them online, with no licensing, no copyright protections, no monetization. But that made them perfect for creators. Russian car vloggers – especially those filming drift videos – began using his tracks. The music was fast, punchy, and copyright-safe. No strikes. No takedowns. Soon, entire playlists labeled 'Drift Phonk' began to circulate. Shoma's beats added rhythm and tension to dashboard footage and smoky turns. The genre wasn't just a sound anymore. It became a visual language – internet-native, DIY, and made to move. Then, in 2020, something changed. Shoma's friends told him he was blowing up on TikTok. Curious, he opened the app – and saw that his track had been used in over 200,000 videos. The number was growing daily. He still wasn't earning money from it. But people were listening. And the right people were starting to notice. For years, no label wanted Shoma. His tracks were too raw, too repetitive, too niche. But after his TikTok explosion, that changed. A team from the international label Black 17 reached out and offered him professional collaboration – his first. He had tried before, but no one was interested. Phonk's trademark sound seemed too rough, too amateur, too far from mainstream standards. Later, Kiljo – a Russian producer working at Black 17 – recalled how industry experts who had passed on Shoma were kicking themselves for missing the wave. With label support, Shoma gained access to streaming platforms and formal distribution. But he wasn't alone for long. A Russian curator at Black 17 launched a major phonk playlist on Spotify – first centered around Shoma's tracks, then expanding to include a wide range of new artists. Many of them had learned the basics from his early tutorials. But each phonker had their own take. DVRST, one of the most well-known names, leaned into internet nostalgia, mixing phonk beats with samples from anime, video games, and vintage commercials. His remix of the Soviet pop track 'Komarovo', recorded for the alt-futurist video game 'Atomic Heart', became a viral favorite. SHADXWBXRN blended classic phonk elements with ambient textures, building a strong connection with his online audience. LXST CXNTURY, by contrast, pushed toward heavier, more aggressive sounds – but kept a low profile, avoiding interviews and personal promotion. There was no formula. No dominant style. No single voice. Just a growing cluster of independent Russian producers, each building their own version of phonk – track by track, feed by feed. Like most underground genres, phonk eventually hit a turning point. As more producers joined in, the genre began to mutate. Some Russian phonkers started adding vocals – not brags or flexes, but raw emotional lyrics. It turned out that cowbells and vulnerability could coexist surprisingly well. Others rapped about their favorite game, 'Dota 2' – a cornerstone of Russian internet culture. A new subgenre, Dota rap, emerged. A few dared to touch the sacred cow: Russian pop. One remix of the ballad 'Zima' racked up millions of views – despite disapproval from the original artists. Phonk had started as texture. Now, it was voice. As Russian phonk gained traction online, it began echoing far beyond its point of origin. Tracks by little-known producers – some with barely a profile picture – started showing up in memes, fight montages, football promos, and streetwear ads. The sound was everywhere. The names behind it? Still obscure. One of the most successful examples of this crossover was KORDHELL – British producer Michael Kenney – who rode the phonk wave to global visibility. Like many before him, he turned to phonk after growing tired of the constraints of commercial rap. His tracks embraced the genre's signature darkness and repetition – and quickly became internet hits. By this point, Russian phonk had stopped being a regional scene. It had become a global aesthetic: Minimal, aggressive, anonymous, and instantly memeable. In a way, it was the perfect genre for the algorithm – high-impact, easy to sync, emotionally blank enough to be reshaped by whatever visuals it accompanied. And yet the cultural asymmetry remained. Clips from major European football clubs now routinely feature Russian phonk beats, often set to videos of players entering the stadium or warming up. The lyrics – if there are any – are in Russian. The artists are uncredited. But the views number in the millions. No one is really hiding the source. But no one's advertising it either. Still, the producers benefit. Fans dig through track IDs, repost clips, build comment threads. A track might go viral in Istanbul or Sao Paulo, and within a day, the name behind it starts trending – on Telegram, on SoundCloud, on niche Discord servers. Phonk, in this sense, reflects a shift in how global music works. It's not just about contracts, tours, or chart positions. It's about being everywhere at once – even if no one knows your name. The rise of short-form video rewired how we consume content. Attention became instant and disposable. To survive the scroll, a clip had to hit fast, look sharp, and never slow down. Phonk fits this rhythm perfectly. It's fast, repetitive, atmospheric. No intros. No soft fades. Just impact. Whether it's street drifting, gym reels, or aesthetic edits, phonk drives the visuals forward. But the genre also plays with contrast. Put a mundane scene under a phonk track – a walk to the store, a vintage cartoon, a guy tying his shoes – and it becomes something else. Stylized. Absurd. Cool. That's the trick: Phonk makes anything look intentional. Maybe that's why it traveled so well. It doesn't demand attention. It hijacks it. It doesn't explain. It enhances. There's no need to know who made it, or why. In a feed, it just works. Phonk didn't ask for permission. It didn't arrive through curated scenes or label deals. It slipped in sideways – through smoke, static, and memes – and took over the internet without showing its face. And somehow, that feels fitting. Its traits – lo-fi grit, emotional blankness, dark momentum – echo a broader cultural mood: Speed without direction, visibility without identity, noise without resolution. A post-Soviet undertone in a post-algorithmic world. I once interviewed Russian bare-knuckle boxer Denis 'Hurricane' Dula. When I asked why so many fighters walk out to phonk, he shrugged: 'Some pick folk songs to show their roots. I get it. But no offense – I think phonk fits better. Feels more Russian right now.' He couldn't explain why. But somehow, he was right.
Russia Today
05-05-2025
- Russia Today
Trump to hit non-US films with 100% tariff
US President Donald Trump announced on Sunday that he would impose a 100% tariff on foreign-produced films, marking the first time his restrictive trade policies have been extended to the entertainment industry. In his post on the Truth Social platform, Trump claimed the American film industry was dying a 'very fast death' due to incentives offered by foreign countries to lure US filmmakers. Since returning to office in January, Trump has imposed sweeping tariffs, culminating in his 'Liberation Day' tariffs introduced on April 2. They target more than 90 US trade partners. Most were paused for 90 days, though a baseline 10% remains in effect. China was excluded from the pause and was hit with a tax of 145% on all imports. Beijing retaliated with 125% tariffs and new export controls on US goods. Trump said he had directed agencies, including the Commerce Department, to begin 'immediately' imposing a 100% tariff on all foreign-produced films entering the US. 'We're on it,' Commerce Secretary Howard Lutnick responded on X. It remains unclear, however, whether the measure would target foreign studios, US companies filming abroad, or both. The US president also framed foreign film productions as a national security threat, asserting that other countries were using cinema as a vehicle for 'messaging and propaganda.' 'WE WANT MOVIES MADE IN AMERICA, AGAIN!' he declared. Trump's post came after weekend meetings at his Mar-a-Lago Club with actor Jon Voight and his manager, Steven Paul, Bloomberg said citing people familiar with the matter. They reportedly presented the president with their plans for more federal tax incentives for US film and TV production. In January, Trump appointed Voight, along with actors Mel Gibson and Sylvester Stallone, as special ambassadors to Hollywood to help promote US job growth in the entertainment sector. Hollywood production has been increasingly shifting overseas, as countries such as the UK, Canada, Australia, and New Zealand expand tax incentives to attract film and TV projects. Film and television production in Los Angeles has declined by nearly 40% over the past decade, according to FilmLA, the region's film office. The trend has contributed to a decline in US-based shoots, with studios seeking lower costs and bigger rebates abroad. According to Ampere Analysis, global content spending is expected to hit $248 billion in 2025, driven largely by streaming platforms – further fueling the push for more affordable production hubs. Trump's move follows China's decision last month to 'moderately reduce' the number of Hollywood films permitted in the country, a retaliatory step against his aggressive tariff policies. William Reinsch, a former senior Commerce official and CSIS fellow, warned that retaliation against Trump's film measures could be devastating. 'We have a lot more to lose than to gain,' he told Reuters, adding that justifying tariffs on national security or emergency grounds would be difficult.
