I’VE PROBABLY TAKEN over one hundred flights in the last three years, but none has scared me so much as the ancient Antonov that flew us from Dushanbe to Bishkek over the Pamir mountains – one of the most dangerous ranges for aeroplanes. It wasn’t just the rugged peaks jutting up at us, but the aircraft itself.
Decked out in the green and oranges of sixties designs with floors covered in mis-matched carpet and a twinkly, metallic bathroom straight out of the set of Buck Rogers in the 25th century. Every chair wobbled and even the windows creaked.
Bishkek is a very westernised city that used to have a thriving rock scene. But as the Russians have slowly left since independence, pop and rap has become more popular. As you can see, it took us a while to find our crowd, but after playing a few empty venues, we discovered an underground club called “Pulse” in the basement of the Russian theatre, where a mixed and young crowd of Kyrgyz and Russians are making their own brand of rock.