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They are played with a guitar by the campfire.
They are sung in yards, sung by soldiers in quiet moments.
They are found on old cassettes, sung in karaoke, at graduations, on mothers' birthdays.
They are used to confess love. They are used to grieve.
Scriabin's songs are a part of our lives.
But the way they sound live - they do not sound anywhere else.
Because even after Andrey's death, his musicians sound the same:
the same instruments, the same parts, the same - Scriabin's - homely, lively, powerful energy.
Although, perhaps, now it sounds even more exasperating.
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