5/8 : radio

коля аветисян — 5/8 : radio at at letnik , 31.05.2026 by 5/8 : Radio

kikok (live) — 5/8 : radio at at letnik , 31.05.2026 by 5/8 : Radio

сосна и липа dj's — 5/8 : radio at at letnik , 31.05.2026 by 5/8 : Radio

anton kalinin — 5/8 : radio at sol kazan, 15.05.2026 by 5/8 : Radio

vokbud — 5/8 : radio at sol kazan, 15.05.2026 by 5/8 : Radio

tag ear — 5/8 : radio at sol kazan, 15.05.2026 by 5/8 : Radio

bankai — 5/8 : radio at sol kazan, 15.05.2026 by 5/8 : Radio

You're riding an old bicycle along a dirt road through a dacha cooperative. Every time you hit a bump, the rusty bell and the slightly wobbly rear rack give a little jingle. In the distance, you can see a wall of towering pine crowns. The sky is clouding over, promising rain soon. You pedal past wooden houses with peeling paint on their walls, overgrown garden plots, lopsided fences tightly woven with ivy, concrete posts plastered with sun-yellowed ads for crushed stone, and apple trees bending low toward the ground. For some reason, you feel like you need to keep going — down to the creek, deep into the forest. But you stop. Somewhere far away, through the singing of unknown birds, the whine of a chainsaw, and the bark of a lonely dog, the melodies of the kikok mix for 5/8: radio reach your ears — and suddenly, you feel a sense of peace you haven't felt in a long, long time.

You're standing in front of a monumental building made of concrete and glass. The wind blows dry leaves across a small square paved with stone tiles arranged in a pattern that looks like your grandmother's living room rug. Under a wide canopy, an old-fashioned sign glows with cold neon light: "Cultural Center." A young man in a turtleneck sweater—with a strikingly familiar face—dashes out of the lobby, only to be called back by a girl in thick glasses: "Borya, what nonsense are you up to now?" But Boris disappears into a shady alley lined with towering firs. The wind picks up, and an unusually large moon peeks out from behind the clouds. Swarms of young people rush past you toward the building. You catch fragments of conversation: "I don't need a lab assistant job—I need to lie on a pebble beach." "Lyubochka, you don't pine over men in hideous shoes like those." Suddenly, a captivating voice over the speakers announces that they're about to play the call weirdo's mix for 5/8: radio — and your feet carry you forward, straight toward the Cultural Center. Because missing something like this is simply not an option.

Cloower Wooma — 5/8 : Radio #257 by 5/8 : Radio

You're standing on the embankment of an old town, pieced together like a construction kit from dozens of different places you've already been. Ahead lies a wide strait, where large cargo ships glide slowly past. On the opposite shore, veiled in a light haze, are the crimson lights of a TV tower and the sharp spire of a town hall, hemmed in on all sides by intricate old houses. You absolutely must get there. Against the sunset sky, painted in every shade of orange, seagulls circle noisily. In your hand is a crumpled paper ticket for the ferry, which stubbornly refuses to dock, though it's long overdue. Suddenly, from the cheap eatery behind you — where middle-aged men in loose shirts, sitting at plastic tables with empty shot glasses and unlabeled bottles of cheap liquor, are locked in a chess match — a mix by shtozh poigraem for 5/8: radio begins to play. And you want to stay. To listen to the music, to watch the waves break against the embankment stones, and to wait for the night to descend upon the city

Maybe it’s the pattern of the paving stones, or maybe it’s the design on a stranger’s scarf in the metro, but something suddenly reminds you of that apartment carpet. The very apartment that, not so long ago — just yesterday, it feels — was the very definition of home. With its old, creaky parquet in the hallway, the clothesline with multicolored pegs on the balcony, the sideboard from a city starting with a "B" (Bucharest? Budapest? Bryansk?), the terrifyingly gas water heater, and, of course, the big living room carpet. Now, it is home to completely different people. People who know nothing about the sideboard, or about how you used to love studying the patterns on that very carpet, watching the shadows of the towering poplars outside the window while your grandmother conjured up lunch by the stove in the kitchen. And doing so would have been a hundred times more pleasant with Andrey Panin's mix for 5/8: Radio playing in the background. That much is certain

You notice that nearly all the leaves have fallen from the trees outside your window, and through their bare branches, you can now clearly see the lights on in the bulding across the street. It suddenly brings back a memory of an autumn evening many years ago. It had grown dark with startling speed. Your parents were taking you with them to visit friends — there was no one to leave you with at home — and all you wanted in the world was to stay behind and watch cartoons. Under the soles of your small, disliked shoes, you felt the squelch of puddles, the slick of wet asphalt, and the soft decay of rotting leaves. A commuter train hummed in the distance. In the twilight of the back courtyards, you could just barely make out the silhouettes: a woman in a puffer jacket with a German shepherd on a leash, the building of a long-shuttered shoe repair shop, a man in a huge coat drinking alone on a bench, and the old garages where a group of teenagers was leaping across the rooftops. But what captivated you most was the light in the windows of the surrounding apartments. It was so fascinating to peer through the bare branches of the poplars and chestnut trees. The only pity is that on that walk, you had no way to play the Grisha Gerg mix for 5/8: Radio

Suddenly, you catch a faint, familiar scent — an aroma you first encountered in a far-off country. And it makes you wonder: does anyone there remember you, or that you once walked their streets? Maybe it's the woman in the green car, singing loudly along to the radio, who stopped for you at a crosswalk late one evening. Or the freckled cashier with braces, who rang up your bottle of ice-cold soda on a day when the sun was relentlessly hot, and you wished you could be a smooth, small stone at the bottom of the sea. Or perhaps it's the older laborer in his dusty overalls, passing his lunch break with a glass of beer at a plastic table in a cheap diner. And of course, remembering all these strangers in foreign cities, whose eyes you briefly met, is a far more pleasant experience when you're listening to the matteo just mix for 5/8: radio through your headphones

You look out the window, then at your phone screen, then out the window again. Why is it getting dark so early? Suddenly, images from a similarly cool August evening many, many years ago appear in your mind. The dim glow of a couple of yard lamps (there were three altogether, but the third one, as always, was out). An old bench with peeling paint. The creak of swings on the playground. The clingy orange taste of cheap chewing candy. Zhenka’s classmate’s ridiculously wide sweatpants. A lone rusty shell-shaped garage covered with the first yellow leaves (remember how you always wondered what was inside?). The metallic smell on your palms after hanging on the monkey bars. A throbbing bruise on your knee from falling off your bike at the dacha. And that strange, uneasy premonition that carefree life — the one you’d grown so used to over those three months — was about to end. All of that was there, of course. The only thing missing was Marques’ mix for 5/8: radio. And yes, that’s a terrible omission

This mixtape was recorded for the farewell disco of the senior group of the third stream of the Poseidon children camp 15 km from Varna in Bulgaria.

You were woken by the cries of seagulls circling above the neighboring house. A memory surfaces — so distant it feels almost imagined: a waffle cone with an enormous scoop of strawberry ice cream in your hand, old fishing boats rocking at the pier, a bandage proudly displayed on your knee after a tumble down the steep limestone stairs (was rushing to the pool really worth it?), a dusty little truck creeping along the cobblestone promenade with the glass bottles rattling ominously in plastic crates in its bed, a sharp pebble lodged in your sandal that you stubbornly ignore. Soon, your parents will return from the souvenir shop in that ancient tile-roofed house, bringing you a garishly printed sunhat — the one you’ll leave behind on the bus ride home. For now, though, you listen to the seagulls wheeling high above, though this moment deserved nothing less than Victor M’s mix for 5/8: radio. But how could you have known that back then?

5/8 : radio at letnik — dima safronov b2b dima studitsky by 5/8 : Radio

5/8 : radio at letnik — lapti b2b dj wedding by 5/8 : Radio

5/8 : radio at letnik — dirty glassez by 5/8 : Radio

5/8 : radio at letnik — politkovsky b2b anya zakharova by 5/8 : Radio

5/8 : radio at letnik — interesnye oshysheniya by 5/8 : Radio

5/8 : radio at letnik — tim obscure b2b ayokeh by 5/8 : Radio

5/8 : radio at letnik — ratomskiy b2b manons by 5/8 : Radio

5/8 : radio at letnik — stereosobaka b2b kruchinski, 1.06.2025 by 5/8 : Radio

You suddenly hear the distant clatter of train wheels somewhere far away. And in your memory surfaces a summer day when you were still very young. A winding forest path. The crunch of pine cones under your feet. Clouds glimpsed through the branches of towering trees. You already know — what comes next is everything you once loved: the creak of the old metal gate at the dacha, the rope swing hanging from the willow bowed over the pond, ice cream melting in the summer heat from the kiosk in the neighboring garden settlement, the echo of your footsteps through abandoned pioneer camp buildings, the smell of your mother's vegetable soup wafting from the kitchen, the locomotive's whistle and the rhythmic clatter of express trains rushing past the station. The only thing missing would be kaisou's mix for 5/8: radio. And that, of course, is a rather regrettable oversight

You notice the badly faded by the time painted name «Oleg» on the concrete fence, behind which there once stood a furniture factory, now — construction site for just another residential complex. Suddenly, you catch yourself wondering: what kind of person was this Oleg twenty years ago? Which sneaker did he usually put on first — left or right? Did he like how he looked in those group photos from yet another shashlik trip? How often, before falling asleep, did he replay all the things he should’ve done and said differently? Could he dive gracefully like a fish, or did he prefer cannonballing into the water with a splash? And finally — would he have liked mishxn’s mix for 5/8: radio? Though why even ask? Of course he would’ve loved it!

You spot a large crow sitting on a chestnut tree branch. Suddenly you go back ten, maybe twenty years. An endlessly long literature class. To kill time, you look at the dusty leaves of the ficus on the windowsill, the utterly expressionless face of Fyodor Dostoevsky in the portrait above the blackboard, the deeply carved letter "A" on the desk, the delicate gold-rimmed glasses of Yulia Alexandrovna, the frozen soap streaks on the laminate floor, the scuffed shoes of your classmate Sashka, the tube of a fluorescent lamp that burned out six months ago and still hasn’t been replaced… and the large crow sitting on the branch of an old birch tree in the schoolyard. If Tomo’s mix for 5/8: radio had existed back then, you would’ve gladly slipped on your headphones and drowned in it. But alas. So instead, you had no choice but to watch the crow

You notice a pair of “weary” sneakers abandoned on the street near a trash bin. For some reason, your mind begins to wander, imagining the countless steps taken in them — through the streets of familiar and unfamiliar cities, all in an attempt to outpace bad thoughts. Sometimes it worked, and sometimes it didn’t. You picture them on a bright summer day, riding in a commuter train as the view outside shifted from dachas to forests and back to dachas again. You imagine them stepping into strangers’ apartments, left in hallways for a few hours, or sometimes until dawn. You see them standing by a bar, waiting for another glass of beer, the lively chatter of beautiful people filling the air. And finally, you think of how they occasionally tapped in rhythm to a pleasant tune — on a subway car, in an elevator, at a supermarket checkout, or even by the office water cooler. Music like Patricia Brito’s mix for 5/8: radio

You see a large Labrador tied up at the entrance of a supermarket. He is anxiously waiting for his owner to return. For some reason, it reminds you of a summer day in the 90s: you and your mom were flying to the seaside, she asked you to watch the suitcases and left, disappeared into the crowd. People bustled noisily around you, an irritated female voice crackled over the loudspeakers, calling yet another passenger to the check-in counter, and planes roared into the sky —some bigger, some smaller. Time passed, and you began to feel like your mom might not come back. That thought terrified you: what if you were left alone on that uncomfortable bench, and then, late at night… someone would bring you a little uniform and a broom, and you’d have to sweep the floors here until you grew old. But she did return, helped you put on your backpack, adjusted her old-fashioned sunglasses, and you headed to the gate. There was so much more after that: jellyfish, cypress trees, terrible juice, riding an inflatable banana, and even a sunstroke. But now, as Sasha Vepr’s mix for 5/8 starts playing in your headphones, the radio takes over, and there’s no room left for nostalgia

Apartment one hundred and thirty-fifth, seventh floor. Boris is hopelessly glued to the multi-colored Christmas garlands in the windows of the panel building across the street. He is mortally tired of the hustle and bustle of late December and has sinking deeper and deeper into memories of New Year's Eve of 1992. The dining table was set in the living room. The air smelled of boiled potatoes, cigarette smoke, and sparkling wine. Uncle Oleg has pulled out his guitar, while aunt Vika was loudly complaining to his mother about another troublesome boyfriend. he could see his father inexplicably handing money to Santa Claus. A few minutes later, Boris would read a poem to this deeply inebriated man in a scarlet robe with little enthusiasm and receive a small LEGO set with an airplane as a gift. The magic of the holiday had, of course, fallen apart at that moment, but everything felt not so hopeless after all while he holding the box with a bunch of colorful plastic pieces in his small hands. And the only thing that could give him that same feeling right now was a bit of drum-and-bass in a mix Nepogodin for 5/8: radio.

Apartment one hundred twenty nine, sixth floor. Zoya was about to leave the house when all of a sudden it hit her: how tired she was of all of this. Squeezing the last bits of toothpaste from a tube folded multiple times. Writing and deleting messages she desperately wanted to send. Walking along Shosseynaya Street on a winter evening, watching the dim light in the windows of the apartment blocks. Listening to the loud cough of her neighbor from apartment 130. Sitting through seemingly endless conference calls (which, of course, could have been emails). Seeing the reflection of her tired face in the windows of a rusty BMW in the neighboring courtyard. Awkwardly trying to get the bartender's attention on Friday evening, in the timid hope of ordering another unnecessary glass of beer. And constantly choosing something – what to wear, what to watch, which cheese to buy on sale… but then a frunk29 mix for 5/8: radio started playing in her headphones. The stream of nagging thoughts in Zoya's head stopped, and she felt calmer and happier, so calm and happy that she even wanted to live

Central Clinical Hospital For a brief period around 2010, small flash mp3 players replaced cassettes as the preferred medium for mixtapes, and were often included in care packages sent to hospital patients. This iriver s7 mp3 player was found at the third entranceway of the Central Clinical Hospital on November 27.

Eighty-nine apartment, fifth floor. On his way home, somewhere between the 24-hour store called "The Elk" and the "Milana" hair salon, Ignat spotted a playing card with the queen of clubs lying alone on the pavement. Now he can only think about that loose black shirt with a bold deck-of-cards pattern that his mother’s friend, Uncle Slava, used to wear. All Ignat remembers about him: the gleaming gold tooth, the habit of rubbing his neck with his palm, a trip together to the lake in a beige Lada, when he felt an extra more than ever). And also, the fact that one crisp January morning in 1997, Uncle Slava was met by three gunshots as he was leaving the apartment building. But most of all, Ignat remembers that card-patterned shirt. It’s forever etched in his memory, just like the first time he heard Undervann's mix for 5/8: radio — a lone tear of happiness slid down his cheek, and his feet couldn’t help but start to dance

Lemonade Baby - 5/8 Radio #242 by 5/8 : Radio

Apartment 140, ninth floor. Yegor stuck his large shaved head out of the bedroom window. Low in the night sky, the lights of a plane were gliding by, and soon the familiar hum of jet engines would catch up. Yegor wished he could be there on board right now. And not flying to some far away place, but coming home. Fidgeting in a not-so-comfortable seat, waiting for the landing, and looking out of the window at the familiar concrete high-rises on the outskirts of the city, the occasional cars on the roads, and the streetlights casting a soft yellow glow on the empty yards and streets. Then there would be the taxi ride with an overly chatty driver, the familiar clank of the key in the door lock, and a home that feels and smells a little different after a long absence. Like putting on a winter coat for the first time in a year. And when the floor in the living room creaks underfoot, as it always does, there will be a sudden, special kind of comfort — just like the feeling when you turn on the Sasha Foam mix for 5/8: radio.

Apartment 21, fifth floor. Gleb is washing a plate with a neat yellow rim. A barely visible steam rises beautifully from the hot water. The foam pleasantly runs down into the sink. For some reason, at that very moment, while looking at the steam, the foam, the shiny tiles of the kitchen backsplash, and his slouched reflection in the window, he suddenly remembered a story so old, it felt like it happened in a past life. A scorching day in Budapest, he ordered an espresso tonic at a café. Around him were bare concrete walls, pots with ficus plants, and posters in an unfamiliar language. The smiling cashier in a coral-colored t-shirt handed him a change. With a cute Eastern European accent, she complimented his recent tattoo of Pierrot's head in a cap. Oh God, how embarrassed he was! He couldn’t think of anything better to say than something like, “Well, you’ve got a great tattoos too”… except she didn’t have any. At least none that he could see. An awkward pause. He quickly forced a smile, took the change (a couple of coins, of course, fell loudly to the floor, so he had to spend time picking them up), waited for his drink, and dashed out into the July heat without looking back, trying to forget the embarrassing incident. Suddenly, Gleb felt just as awkward as if that scene had just happened now, right there in his kitchen. Poor boy, if only he knew there is a perfect remedy to quickly distract from embarrassing memories (and everything else), and that is the Solid Angle mix for 5/8: radio.

These yellowed plastic cassettes contain music that accompanied people's romantic experiences. This one was recorded in June 1996 in Porto. On that day, when it rained again, he waited for a bus for an hour, just to see it racing by with a glowing notice “fora de service”. He walked. Probably, it was an unknown to him local holiday, for on his way he couldn’t find anything open: no bakery, café, bookshop to distract him from his melancholy. Eventually though there were some festive sounds coming out of lottery house he never saw operating before. Inside of the preserved mid-century interior music to his liking played. Men and women in uniforms danced with small beers in hands. Those were bus drivers, postmen, nurses, waiters. He joined the party that seemed like a salvation for him. Once the music finished and the strangers shuffled out, clinking bottles neatly on the marble floor, he went to the old-fashioned audio system, out of which he ejected a tape marked “Fora de Horas”.

Fifth apartment, second floor. Valya is hurriedly getting ready for going out to the bar. She's late as usual. Why is it today her hair is looking so messy, and her favorite longsleeve is so crumpled? It's unpleasant, but it wouldn't be an obstacle to have a drink. But only one glass… well, two at most. Tomorrow is Thursday after all. Out of the corner of her eye she notices the light of a dim street lamp, barely penetrating the dense foliage of the poplars growing opposite the house. And either it shines in a special way today, or she is in such a sentimental mood, but Valya suddenly realizes that what she really wants is not to go to the bar or even to have perfectly styled hair, but to drive on a late September evening of 1997, lying on the back seat of her mother’s beige «Zhiguli» car. She really want to see the same dim streetlights quickly replace each other outside the window, and her mom deftly light another cigarette from the car lighter, and smell through the open windows the inexorably approaching autumn. Could anything be better? Only if Anton Rekov's mix for 5/8: radio

Только представь: жаркий июльский день, ты сидишь в любимом кабаке, вальяжно раскинувшись на старом стуле – тебе никуда не нужно. Планов на завтра нет (да и есть ли оно – завтра?), привычные тревога и беспокойство бесследно растворились, периодически возникающие на экране телефона уведомления совершенно тебя не волнуют, даже не хочется проверять, что там. Все, что сейчас по-настоящему важно – это запотевший бокальчик лагера в твоей изящной руке. Пышная шапка пены медленно тает, капли конденсата приятно холодят кончики твоих пальцев. Вот бы каждый день был таким. Ах, мечты-мечты. Красиво уходим в короткий отпуск под ритмы грандиозного микса Миши Политковского, записанного для недавнего фестиваля «Ветерок» в баре «Ровесник». Целый час аудиального блаженства про вторую самую важную вещь для нас всех (помимо музыки, конечно же) – пивко, пивасик, пивчик, пивандрий.

Apartment 73, first floor. Valera lies in his bed, staring at the ceiling. His left leg is sticking out from under the blanket as usual. The scents of damp soil and lilac waft in from the street. The rain drums on the leaves of a young maple in the front yard. In that social network that Valera now visits only once every couple of months, a notification popped up about the birthday of someone he met only once, about ten years ago, and now he cannot calm down. That evening used to exist in his memory in the finest detail, but now it's like a series of random snapshots: a long strand of his date’s hair, that she kept tucking behind her ear, the broadcast of the «Milan»-«Lazio» football match in the bar (the «Rossoneri» won 3:1, if he recalls correctly), and a recently painted dark-brown bench – they almost landed on it when they were already quite tipsy. Valera can't shake the question «I wonder if she ever thought about that meeting in August? Maybe on her way home in a taxi or just like this — in her bedroom on an early weekend morning?». There is a magical pill that could distract him from such pointless questions — xinyi mix for 5/8: radio. But unfortunately, he doesn't even know it exists. So he continues to lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, with his left leg still sticking out from under the blanket.

nikita zabolotskiy — 5/8 : radio at veterok fest by 5/8 : Radio

azole — 5/8 : radio at veterok fest by 5/8 : Radio

dx2ov — 5/8 : radio at veterok fest by 5/8 : Radio

andrei zhilin — 5/8 : radio at veterok fest by 5/8 : Radio

anya zakharova — 5/8 : radio at veterok fest by 5/8 : Radio

ivan solimani-lezhnev (ruby goon) — 5/8 : radio at veterok fest by 5/8 : Radio

bilgesez — 5/8 : radio at sol kazan, 18.05.2024 by 5/8 : Radio

tyutchenko — 5/8 : radio at sol kazan, 18.05.2024 by 5/8 : Radio

pasha yves — 5/8 : radio at sol kazan, 18.05.2024 by 5/8 : Radio

glamour pashok — 5/8 : radio at sol kazan, 18.05.2024 by 5/8 : Radio

robsn b2b dima safronov — 5/8 : radio night at kuznyacruise II by 5/8 : Radio

vasya saiko — 5/8 : radio night at kuznyacruise II by 5/8 : Radio

Apartment 66, eighth floor. Tanya looks at the beautiful lipstick imprint on the wine glass. The last guests have just left: she can still hear the elevator rumbling down, carrying Ildar and Sasha. Someone left the turquoise lighter on the kitchen table next to a cup of cold coffee. It became completely quiet and therefore a little melancholic. Perhaps she should have slowed down a bit. Then she wouldn't have felt the urge to tell that childhood story about summer camp in front of everyone (yes, the guests laughed, but it seemed more out of pity) or to plan a joint trip for the upcoming weekend (it's already clear – no one is going anywhere). And she definitely wouldn't have wanted to write that message to that person while stepping out to smoke on the balcony (of course, he read it and didn't reply). Tanya stretches her legs and closes her eyes. The interior of her tiny kitchen with a glowing garland, silly magnets on the fridge, and a pile of dirty dishes in the sink, smoothly transitions into spinning abstract paintings. Ahead lies an uneasy ten-hour sleep and a heavy morning, which can only be improved by a painkiller pill and a mix from 5/8: radio by our buddy Dima Krylov from Samara

Apartment 91, fifth floor. Ilya slowly stirs cheap coffee in an old mug with the picture of the Egyptian pyramids (his younger sister brought it from vacation in Hurghada about ten years ago). Just one more day to endure. Then he'll head to the train station in the evening and hop on the suburban train. It will be hot and stuffy in the carriage, his shirt will instantly stick to his body. Outside the window there will be graffiti-adorned concrete fences, garage cooperatives, auto repair shops, old houses, vacant lots, new houses, more concrete fences, other people's dachas, and finally, dense forest. He'll get off at a station with a funny name and walk along a sandy road between fields overgrown with tall grass. In the country house inherited from his grandfather, it will smell familiarly of an old books. Ilya will brew strong coffee in his favorite red polka-dot mug (for some reason it will taste better than at home) and, sitting on the porch, will listen as unfamiliar nocturnal birds sing beyond the fence in the twilight-darkened pine forest. The itching need to transplant the distant raspberry bush growing by the tilted barn will swiftly push out all other thoughts and desires. He will finally take a deep breath—feeling oddly pleasant and serene, as if he had turned on Perez's mix for 5/8: radio.

@accidentalpoint @sheva_music It's a sunny day, late March. You're smiling. Maybe it's because it's Saturday, you don't have to think about work, and there's an empty glass of lager on the counter in front of you. Or in your memory suddenly arose a picture from your childhood: you are driving your father's old car out of town for the first kebabs, in the trunk rattles disassembled brazier, and you anticipate how you will pedal along the paths of the dacha cooperative on an old "Desna". What? Do you really remember how beautiful looked in the sunset sunlight slightly disheveled hair of that very man (you are still shy and do not admit anything), while you went out for a smoke for five minutes? Or maybe there's a 5/8 broadcast playing in your headphones right now: radio from the Accidental Point space? Yeah, probably the latter.

@accidentalpoint It's a sunny day, late March. You're smiling. Maybe it's because it's Saturday, you don't have to think about work, and there's an empty glass of lager on the counter in front of you. Or in your memory suddenly arose a picture from your childhood: you are driving your father's old car out of town for the first kebabs, in the trunk rattles disassembled brazier, and you anticipate how you will pedal along the paths of the dacha cooperative on an old "Desna". What? Do you really remember how beautiful looked in the sunset sunlight slightly disheveled hair of that very man (you are still shy and do not admit anything), while you went out for a smoke for five minutes? Or maybe there's a 5/8 broadcast playing in your headphones right now: radio from the Accidental Point space? Yeah, probably the latter.

@accidentalpoint @uladzimirkolb It's a sunny day, late March. You're smiling. Maybe it's because it's Saturday, you don't have to think about work, and there's an empty glass of lager on the counter in front of you. Or in your memory suddenly arose a picture from your childhood: you are driving your father's old car out of town for the first kebabs, in the trunk rattles disassembled brazier, and you anticipate how you will pedal along the paths of the dacha cooperative on an old "Desna". What? Do you really remember how beautiful looked in the sunset sunlight slightly disheveled hair of that very man (you are still shy and do not admit anything), while you went out for a smoke for five minutes? Or maybe there's a 5/8 broadcast playing in your headphones right now: radio from the Accidental Point space? Yeah, probably the latter.

Apartment 35, ninth floor. Yana closed the iron front door with a clatter («Nina Valentinovna from 36th apartment will come to argue again soon») She carelessly put the heavy grocery bag on the tiled floor and the jar of pickles at the bottom of it clanged loudly («I hope it hadn’t crash!»). She couldn't get out of her head that Luzin was standing in line in front of her. The same senior high school student, Luzin, whom she secretly had a crush on in school. Now there was almost nothing left of that curly handsome football player she remembered: he had ballooned up like a ball and lost almost all of his curls. And those awful patent leather shoes... She wonders, if she and Luzin were a couple now («There was zero chances, but still»), would she notice all this? Or would he still remain in her eyes the same wide-smiling guy in silly tracksuits, just scoring a goal in the dusty backyard football box on Krasnaya Street. It was getting dark outside, the highway was humming as usual, the windows of the house opposite lit up with violet light from the phyto-lamps, and if there was anything that could save Yana from the spiraling thoughts of her unrealized life right now, it would only be Vanya's mix for 5/8: radio.

«Заполярье 16.02.24» by 5/8 : Radio

Apartment 113, second floor. Diana is standing under the hot shower. She doesn't like the vintage blue colored tiles, pink towel hooks made of cheap plastic, and the long crack in the sink. If only this was her apartment... The water makes a pleasant noise. It smells like shower gel (the aroma is «apple with caramel», she bought it on sale). For some reason, thoughts about the stooped man with sad eyes keep spinning in her head - a stranger she's been seeing on the way to the metro for about a year now, more or less in the same place. She hasn't seen him for a week now. Maybe he's sick? Changed jobs? Moved? What if he started deliberately avoiding her? All these questions, of course, will remain unanswered - neither in a week, nor even a month the man will not reappear. Diana will think about him from time to time, but over time she will not even be able to remember what he exactly looked like. In her memories, the stranger will turn into a faceless figure, walking towards her somewhere between the 24-hour pharmacy and the «Lenta» supermarket. In seven or eight minutes, she'll turn off the water, wrap herself in a huge purple terry towel, step out of the bathroom into the narrow hallway (feeling chilly in the first few seconds), the parquet floor will squeak under her feet as usual, and for a moment, she'll freeze and listen - a very pleasant and completely unfamiliar melody will be playing in the apartment on the floor above. Diana doesn't suspect it, but it's a mix by LVRIN for 5/8: radio.

Apartment 105, ninth floor. Slava slowly stirs sugar in a cup of black tea. Its porcelain surface is adorned with a pattern of flowers, birds, and gilding. The wall clock ticking loudly. Mom is slicing a waffle cake with nuts ("your favorite"), dad is talking about the road to the dacha, which, of course, is being cleared of snow, but not very well. Slava suddenly notices how much they have aged. But the apartment, on the contrary, seems unchanged since that evening in May several years ago when he walked out of its threshold with a suitcase full of his belongings. Here, everything still smells of soup, his childhood photo with a silly «bowl» haircut sits on one of the shelves in the living room, the carpet in the hallway covers the mark from a dropped cigarette of his school sweetheart, and there are traces of tape on the wallpaper in the small room where he used to hang posters. And Slava feels oddly pleased, about as pleased as someone who has put on the dx2ov mix for 5/8: radio.

Apartment 54, fifth floor. Sveta is smoking on the open balcony, wrapped in an old puffer jacket. It's the typical timelessness of a weekend day when it's impossible to tell exactly what time it is. Children in snowsuits that make a «whoosh-whoosh» sound while walking are dragging a huge snow tubing somewhere, and a group of red-faced men, drinking on the bench in front of the building, just emptied another bottle of vodka. But Sveta isn't here — she's in Sochi twenty-something years ago. Blond-haired Sasha sees her off at the platform. He arrived ten minutes before departure: his eye is bruised («last night got into a fight with a guy from Tambov, nothing to worry about»), and he's holding flowers, plucked from a flowerbed. He promises to call. But it never happens. Where is he now? And on which balcony would she smoke, if he had called twenty-something years ago? If Sveta knew about the Sanguine’s mix for 5/8: radio, which helps distract from persistent thoughts about things that never happened, she would immediately turn it on. But she doesn't know

- a legendary project founded in 1983 in the secret Ural city of Chelyabinsk-70 (later Snezhinsk) by Igor "Gosha Ryzhiy" Shaposhnikov and Vladimir "Vova Siny" Emelev. The basic instruments of the project were tape recorders and magnetic tape rings, which served as artisanal samplers. Such musicians as Vitaly Stern, who later founded with Igor Kolyadny the cult electronic project "Vida Ryb", Andrey Kireev (Shake), Sergey Alexandrov (OMMIX) and Alexey Alexeev (Nikolai Kopernik) collaborated with the band. The project became a legend of experimental Soviet rock of the 80s-90s, and in 2023 celebrated its 40th anniversary with a jubilee concert at MMOMA.

- electronic duo specializing in such music directions as ambient, intelligent techno, experimental, spoken word. They use various instruments of sound production: grooveboxes, samplers, synthesizers, flute and voice, organically combining improvisation with prepared material, and traditional approach with experiments - conscious and intuitive.

Stropharia is a Moscow project formed by Dmitry Polikarpov 30 years ago, in 1993, on the wave of fascination with industrial culture, psychedelic electronics and the transgressive side of the rave scene. Over the three decades of the project's history, everything has turned upside down, but the most important things have remained in place: smart electronics, radical beats, digital hardcore, acid trance and the unchanging charisma of the speaker. At MMOMA, Dmitry Polikarpov's improvisation interacted with Alexei Chulansky's poetic recitation.

A nine-story panel building, four entrances, a hundred something apartments. Perhaps, every morning, you pass by this building on your way to the subway station, or its gray walls were visible from the window of a room in which you have not been for so long, and perhaps will never be again. In the tenth apartment on the third floor, six-year-old Vitalik wakes up. He breathes heavily. This horrible dream again about a huge red excavator trying to bury him. The old refrigerator hums in the kitchen. On the walls there are shadows of a tall birch standing in the front garden. In the next room, the TV is barely audible – Mom drank cognac again and fell asleep during the evening news. Vitalik wraps himself in a heavy blanket with a tiger pattern. In his little curly head, an unknown melody starts playing, and suddenly, it becomes somehow calmer and happier. Later, in the future, he will turn on the the Bevissthet mix for 5/8: radio, he will unmistakably recognize it, and on a particular evening, he will also become a bit calmer and happier.

You're falling asleep. Rare fireworks are going off outside the window. And behind the wall, in the living room, glasses are still clinking, your parents have taken out their guitars and are singing songs about "those at sea" and "the new turn", which you don't like. But you don't care anymore. You plunge into the viscous space of dreams, where you will find yourself an old garage in the suburbs of Lyubertsy, an Italian, rushing down the serpentine on his convertible, a snag on a steep mountainside, a tired passenger on a night bus. Some of this will echo decades later with unexpected deja vu, but much, of course, will be forgotten in the morning, when you suddenly wake up to the smell of potatoes, which your father will heat on a frying pan. And accompanying all these dreams is music that you will later, in the future, unmistakably identify as a mix recorded for 5/8: radio by Maggie Tra, founder of Hanoi Community Radio

This time we got into our hands a cassette without any indication where it was taped. From the handwritten caption, we know that it was meant for a party after a corporate meeting on December 8, 1999. Somewhere, some people did business, and afterwards they danced to the tape.

A rainy autumn day. You're quickly walking down a familiar street that steeply descends towards the embankment. It's barely noon, yet wine glasses already clinking in the corner bar – elderly folks loudly arguing about yesterday's match. A group of couriers speeds by on mopeds, honking and gesturing at cars at the intersection. Your long black hair, hoodie, and tote bag with textbooks are decently soaked. Whatever! Those thirty minutes of awkward hugs and shy kisses by the entrance door were worth it. Dios mío, the whole neighborhood probably saw it! In front of the «Carrefour», teenagers have gathered – eagerly munching on pastries, begging passersby for cigarettes. Near the vegetable stand, a petite dry woman watching a young curly-haired loader, looking like an ancient statue, unloads crates of artichokes. Suddenly, you decide to look up at the grey sky, cold raindrops falling on your face. How wonderful! Just as wonderful as it feels when you listening to nastya mira's mix for 5/8: radio.

It's late in the early winter evening. You are standing near the entrance to a chain supermarket. One of the windows of the five-story building across the street is illuminated by the violet light of a phytolamp. Large flakes of snow lay beautifully on the beat-up Audi, carelessly abandoned in the parking lot in front of the store. A girl in a short down jacket walks past with a quick step, sniffing her nose, she's holding a lit cigarette in her fingers shaking from the cold. You're probably better off somewhere else. But you're not going anywhere, because you're an empty bottle of good light beer left by someone in a snowdrift. And there's nothing more beautiful than the glint of your greenish glass in a streetlight. Except for a mix by a member of the \DEMO*/ collective named mirvnoutri for 5/8: radio. Hats off to Tanya @ta.tiani for working on it.

A frosty morning in the middle of winter. A small park not far from your home: pine trees with snow caps and a ski tracks parallel to the footpaths. You're wearing an unloved heavy sheepskin coat (but it's so cool to draw patterns on it with your fingers) and fleece pants which make funny rustle noises. The sky is so blue it hurts to look at it. You're riding on the sled down the steep slope of a dried up pond. The wind whistles in your ears and your eyes become watery because of the cold wind. Somewhere behind your back standing your parents: mother has a blush on her cheeks, father has probably pulled out a pack of «Marlboro». After all of that there will be hot tea from a Chinese thermos and a marmalade candies, which lying now in cellophane bag. Would it ever get any better? Of course it will. For example, when in a couple of decades you turn on the 5/8 mix: radio by Lay-Far, music producer, DJ, owner of In-Beat-Ween Music label and author of the album «True, Necessary, Kind» (we’re highly recommended to turn it on right after the mix)

@flacudm x zalman x пустыни и пустоши In Izhevsk in the late 80's - early 90's a phenomenon was mysteriously born that became a phenomenon: musicians, artists and directors, experimenting with everything they could get their hands on, formed an amazing sound, picture and image, imprinted in the minds of all witnesses as a myth, echoes of which we still hear today.

@flacudm x zalman x пустыни и пустоши In Izhevsk in the late 80's - early 90's a phenomenon was mysteriously born that became a phenomenon: musicians, artists and directors, experimenting with everything they could get their hands on, formed an amazing sound, picture and image, imprinted in the minds of all witnesses as a myth, echoes of which we still hear today.

@flacudm x zalman x пустыни и пустоши In Izhevsk in the late 80's - early 90's a phenomenon was mysteriously born that became a phenomenon: musicians, artists and directors, experimenting with everything they could get their hands on, formed an amazing sound, picture and image, imprinted in the minds of all witnesses as a myth, echoes of which we still hear today.

@flacudm x zalman x пустыни и пустоши In Izhevsk in the late 80's - early 90's a phenomenon was mysteriously born that became a phenomenon: musicians, artists and directors, experimenting with everything they could get their hands on, formed an amazing sound, picture and image, imprinted in the minds of all witnesses as a myth, echoes of which we still hear today.

Вступление: Дж. Буль — Почему ты спрашиваешь? Маша: Некая булькающая среда — Нескончаемый дождь Андрей: Закрытое предприятие — Я пьян Федор: Петля Нестерова — Кто здесь? Алена: Глухой телефон — Вези меня Саша: Sputnik — Полная Луна Ксюша: Наталья Ветлицкая — Волшебный сон Степан: Татьяна Анциферова — Дело не в погоде Арина: Татьяна Буланова — Я сведу тебя с ума Кирилл: Рейн — Проходящие мимо За эфирами «Откликов» также можно следить в Телеграме: https://t.me/radiootkliki

It's a late evening in mid-autumn. You are about to finish another cigarette, standing on an unfamiliar balcony. A chilly wind is blowing. Your fingers are terribly cold. An empty bus is slowly creeping along the street in front of the house. You hide your hands in your pockets, casually fumble in the left one for a coin that reminds you of that very person. In one of the windows of the house across the street, you see an old woman in a terrycloth robe stirring the contents of a large frying pan. Your eyes water, either because of the wind or because of the memories. Outside the balcony door, a dozen people you don't know well are drinking wine from beautiful glasses. After a couple of rounds of dry red (and a shot of something stronger) your evening will finally become pleasant, as pleasant as a kokorocore mix for 5/8: radio.

An unusual sunny day in September. You’re walking down a familiar street. Dry autumn leaves and small twigs crunching under your feet. A warm breeze sways the young maple tree growing near the small football pitch. Your back is slightly tired from the heavy backpack. The playground swings are creaking. Your fingers still have a hint of cigarette smoke. Two heavily sun-tanned old men are playing ping pong on the old metal table. Suddenly, you remember that you won't have to sit in stuffy classrooms for the next two days (the worst of all is the physics, with the stern faces of Niels Bohr and Georg Ohm over the blackboard), worry about yet another test, or attempt to climb that silly rope in gym class. You’re smiling widely. A decade (or even a couple of decades) will pass, and on a sunny autumn day you will smile just as widely when the mix by Apollon Telefax for 5/8: radio starts playing in your headphones

@bonny-clabber

@user-421955822-60159261 b2b @d_krylov

@dj-lishniy

tilly - 5/8 : radio on air at hvat , samara 16.09.2023 by 5/8 : Radio

It's a cloudy day in the end of September or already in October. You're standing in an old garage site. On the left there is a noisy highway, on the right — a neighborhood with 16-storey Brezhnev-era panel buildings. You don’t look very good: rust can be seen under the peeling paint and the gates is overgrown with moss. A large old man in dirty overalls, everyone calls him Uncle Slava, as always doing something with his «Volga» car. He won't go anywhere, he hasn't been going anywhere for a long time. A stray dog greedily drinks from a dirty puddle. A kid in Kappa sweatpants is pushing his broken moped somewhere deep into the garage site. What did your owner look like? He seemed to have blond curls and a habit of wearing sunglasses even at night. Stop! Or he had a slicked back dark hair, deep scar above the eyebrow and a ring on his pinky? You don't remember anymore. All he left behind was a calendar on the wall (March 1997, a faded photo of a topless brunette girl with a seascape on the background), a tin can filled with cigarette butts, and beige «Lada» with a pine tree air freshener hanging on a mirror in the interior. If there is anything that can intrigue more than the fate of the garage owner who disappeared in the maelstrom of the 90s, then it will be Vika Shishatskaya's mix for 5/8: radio

gurugroova — 5/8 : radio on air at sol kazan, 26.08.2023 by 5/8 : Radio

rockid — 5/8 : radio on air at sol kazan, 26.08.2023 by 5/8 : Radio

sergey nasekin — 5/8 : radio on air at sol kazan, 26.08.2023 by 5/8 : Radio

zakary tuktarov — 5/8 : radio on air at sol kazan, 26.08.2023 by 5/8 : Radio

rin — 5/8 : radio on air at sol kazan, 26.08.2023 by 5/8 : Radio

Winter night. You are sitting in a compartment of an intercity train. Outside the window there are silhouettes of warehouses and garage cooperatives on the outskirts of the city, which you do not want to leave. One of your fellow travelers, a painfully thin man in a wrinkled shirt, has already turned his back to the wall on the top bunk and is snoring loudly. The train is passing by an old two-story house made of light brick: a dim light is on in one of the windows, cars in the yard are covered with snow caps, a figure in a long down jacket wearing it next to his or her skin is smoking near the entrance. Your second companion, a large man in a loose tracksuit, sighing heavily as he getting up from his bunk and goes out for a tea to the conductor (out of politeness, he offers to grab a cup of tea for you as well, but for some reason you refuse). You're leaning your head against the cold glass and familiar melodies suddenly appearing in your beautiful head. Maybe in the middle of the night, when you wake up from the loud snoring of one of your fellow travelers, or already in the morning, when the train is slowly crawling towards the station and more than anything in the world you will urgently want to get into a hot shower, you will suddenly remember that it were the tracks from the Mary Roman mix for 5/8: radio, and you will feel very good

Truly hot summer day. You are lying in your small creaky bed on the second floor of the country house, trying to escape from the midday heat. It smells like mom's vegetable soup and old wood. Dust particles flying in the rays of the sun, breaking through the curtains. Right now, more than anything in the world, you want to dive into water, no matter where: maybe in the fire pond, where Sanyok severely cut his leg with a bottle bottom last year, or even in the old bathtub filled with rainwater, standing in the middle of the garden for absolutely no reason, which tadpoles swim in. From the street you can hear the engine noise of a neighbor's scooter, the sound of an electric saw and enchanting music that you will unmistakably recognize decades later in the Orchid mix for 5/8: radio

Tatyana Andrianova - 5/8 Radio #220 by 5/8 : Radio

Winter evening. You lie in your bed beneath an absurdly heavy blanket. The TV is on in the next room — Jose Ignacio and Laura seem to be flirting. Your eye itches, but your hands feel so enormous that you're afraid to move them. The kettle loudly whistles in the kitchen. You have a fever, buddy. Your ears, cheeks, and even your lips feel are «on fire». Your mom will enter the room soon with a large cup of tea with lemon and honey in her hand. She'll touch your forehead with her cold palm. And she’ll say that you definitely won't go to school tomorrow. You'll try to smile in response, but it will only come out as the grimace of a dying martyr. Of course, at some point, you'll completely forget about all of this. And then, by pure chance, you'll listen to the mix by Kom Kom for 5/8: radio, start nodding your head to the rhythm, and recall that feverish evening in bed with an inexplicable but deeply pleasant nostalgia.

Vegetable gardens have become an unexpected treasure troves of mixtapes. Gardeners, whether for practical purposes of scaring away birds or in bursts of inspiration akin to communal art, put into use CD-Rs, long-forgotten by their children, and hang them on the vegetable plots, hardly suspecting the musical gems these discs contain. We found one of these CD-Rs in a garden in Avdotino. There are the words written on it in blue: «For the car. 03.06.2002»

@debbi0013 + @markesin Cloudy day in early summer. You're sitting at work and cannot wake up. Outside the window — a gray sky, as if covered with a film, and small drops of rain drumming on the metal roof of an old multi-storey opposite building. There is a cold coffee in your mug (perhaps it’s time to properly wash it). The letters on your computer screen seems blurred and you re-reading one sentence several times, but still can't catch the meaning. You close your eyes for a moment and imagine today's evening: the cramped courtyard of your favorite bar, the smiling guy behind the bar counter, a glass with a cold lager beer in your hand and a cigarette bummed from a pretty stranger in your mouth. If anything can help you get through those unbearably long hours of waiting for it — it’s the mix by debbie0013 and mark esin for 5/8: radio

dima safronov - 5/8 : radio at rovesnik bar, 4.06.2023 by 5/8 : Radio

olya semenova - 5/8 : radio at rovesnik bar, 4.06.2023 by 5/8 : Radio

okolo poludnya (dj-set) - 5/8 : radio at rovesnik bar , 4.06.2023

aman po-kaifu - 5/8 : radio at rovesnik bar, 4.06.2023