5/8 : Radio

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

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 t

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.

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 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 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