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SAMIZDAT Zine Issue 3 February 2011 Adelaide, Australia Rga, Latvija samizdat.zine@hotmail.com www.myspace.com/samizdatzine

Samizdat (Russian: ) was the name given to the process and products of underground writing, publishing and reproduction of suppressed and illegal material in the Soviet Union. Samizdat was used to print liberal and sometimes very dangerous views and if caught the publishers were often sentenced to lengthy prison terms. Etymologically, the word samizdat" is made out of sam" (Russian: , self, by oneself") and izdat" (Russian: , shortened , izdatel'stvo, publisher")

We all have those friends whom we meet only very occasionally. Despite your rare encounters, the two of you feel very close and comfortable with each other. It's always difficult to organise these very occasional meetings and it can never be forced. But when you finally get together with this friend it's always a terribly splendid time; much is talked over and there's rarely any empty reminiscing which happens too often with your other friends. After the meeting you feel rejuvenated, like you've been in a therapy session, and it kind of puts things in better order in your head (at least for me). Samizdat is one of these friends. I hope you enjoy the fruits of our most recent meeting. MM

As humans, we like to think that were changing all the time. To some extent, this is true, but maybe not exactly how we think. We might live in different places, do different things, have different goals, see different people, spend our time at different bars, but looking back upon a period of months or years, its hard to tell if we have really changed at all. This issue of Samizdat comes almost three years after our first efforts at writing and publishing. Although the changes that I feel have taken place in that time are too numerous to mention, as I read between these pages I realise that the words and pictures come from much the same place as they did a few years ago. In many ways, its a comforting feeling. No matter how circumstances may vary, at any point in the past or the future a part of us remains the same. And maybe thats all there is to it. The only thing that really changes is our awareness of that small part of us that doesnt change. Im glad this issue of Samizdat helps. KS

The French Women in My Life recently auctioned his car to raise money for charity. The best bit is that this head of state wasn't boosting around in a Touareg or a shiny Mercedes, but a well-aged 1977 Peugeot 504. Seeing the news of this auction washed me in a wave of nostalgia and I started reminiscing about the beautiful French dames who have been in my life. My father owns a beguiling orange Peugeot 504. I spent a good deal of my childhood sitting in its back seat and have also had the pleasure of taking it on a trip from Adelaide to Sydney and back. The first 504 was made in 1968 and due to its popularity and reliability the last one was made under licensed production way later in 2006. Fuck the Volkswagen beetle or the Mini Cooper, the 504 is the duck's nuts. They're beautiful and sturdy and reliable and just simply brilliant.

My first (and as yet, only) car bought by me and for me was a cute little avocado-green Renault 12 sedan which set me back 200AUD (a friend bought a Renault 12 station-wagon from the same guy for 35 bucks and it trooped on for a whole three months). She was very pretty and I adored her. Her vinyl upholstery was almost good-as-new and she was a pleasure to drive. The doors wouldn't lock and she had a little rust, but the fuel economy was great and she smelled tremendous I would often sit in her just for the smell. I sold her for 300 dollars to a friend who was moving to Sydney and we (three solid men) drove the little girl, fully-laden with my friend's worldly possessions, all the way there. Driving through Sydney's South-Western suburbs we pulled up at the traffic lights and a car-full of Lebanese whipper-snappers, noticing how low to the ground she was sitting, yelled 'sick mate, you lowered it!!'.

The poor French girl who, was built with a mild European climate in mind, almost overheated en-route and we had to drive 1,500 odd kilometres with the heater on the highest setting. Our half-naked bodies became adhered to the vinyl, the radio was amplifying the revs of the engine, and sometimes it was tricky to get her into second gear....but we were extraordinarily happy and it was much more fun than a road-trip with the smooth, quiet, air-conditioned ride of a newfangled sedan with DVD screens and drink -coolers. We nicknamed her 'Jeka' and wrote an affectionate song about her which we performed once on stage while hungover as hell. She graced the bitumen surfaces of Sydney (with an odd trip down the coast or up to Brisbane...no worries) for another two years or so in the care of my good friend. She drew her last breaths through her carburettor flanges while attempting to freight kegs of home-made ale from Sydney to Adelaide for an ethnic festival. My friend, and his beer, hitched a ride with a Norwegian nomad but not before sensibly snatching the little Renault's badge for memory's sake. I believe she's resting peacefully somewhere in Gundagai; she served us well and I miss her dearly.

The car which I was driving before hiking my arse over to Latvia was a grey manual Peugeot 505 my Dad bought for my brother and me to use. I guess you'd call it an old car, but it had electric windows, power steering, and airconditioning. Driving her felt like you were commandeering a boat an easy-to-commandeer boat and I would often, if not always, take the long route anywhere just so I could saviour the simple pleasure of driving her. I miss her too, and hope she'll still be there when, or if, I get back.

I have this feeling in my stomach which is like a subtle form of dread. I get it when I stupidly worry that while I'm away everyone is thrashing out my favourite op-shops, and I'm getting it now because I want to make sure I grow old with another gorgeous French girl in my life...it'll be okay, I hope. MM

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Double Penetration when I was about 11 years old. Because they were in my neighbourhood, I kind of always knew about them, and saw them occasionally, but never had the courage to do anything about it. In fact, being 11 at the time, I'm quite sure I wouldn't know what to do with them even if somebody told me. Not surprisingly, it was a friend who introduced me to them and led me through the process. So I did it. It was fun at the time, I guess, but over time I let it slip to the back of my head, and just forgot about the whole thing. Until recently... Actually, I've never slept with any real twins; the twins I'm talking about are not real people, and are not even made-up for the purposes of a good anecdote. Rather, the Twins, as they are known in the urbex community, are actually a set of stormwater drains that run parallel for about 1.5km under a backstreet in the eastern suburbs of Adelaide and into the River Torrens. I apologise for being misleading; but when talking twins, such concrete dimensions are best left unspoken until the moment of reckoning. It is true, however, that at age 11 I was convinced to explore these two beauties for the first time, and only recently did I learn that the Twins are well known throughout Australia as a common site for urban exploration. Trekking through them is actually not as uncommon as I may have believed. So with any chance of a threesome with sisters left firmly in the realm of imagination, it was with some trepidation that my co-editor and I decided recently to take it upon ourselves to meet and greet the Twins (again) and amuse ourselves with the linguistic possibilities of the numerous double entendres that the excursion would supply. Our nubile minds bursting with ideas, we set off one Saturday last year to explore the Twins' cavities and check out their pipes. There is certainly some kind of undeniable attraction to the underground, beyond the irrefutable sexual connotations of the word spelunking. Somehow, like a mild bifter over breakfast, it gives us the same feeling of power, adrenaline, non-locality, or being deprived or confused by one's senses. And in those moments our minds have a tendency to create abstract thoughts and bizarre ideas that seem to appear out of nowhere. It's almost as though in a moment of transcendence, our imagination is untethered from everyday problems and concerns and given some freedom. In a clich sense, the experience of tunnels, sewers, mineshafts, and abandoned buildings, is a different world where different parameters apply to one's senses, and change one's feeling of being. That being said, I'll admit that I was a little bit disappointed that it wasn't my first time. Not being a virgin like my fellow urbexplorer, I was less concerned with the threats of flash floods, than with opening a frothy on the protective sewer grate and thinking of what amazing indelible piece I would be able to put up inside thanks to the spray can in my pocket. With thoughts wandering, I was a victim of my own hubris as it became clear that I had not packed anywhere near enough candlepower to see anything meaningful, and my feet

were slowly softening up in the inch or so of water. Rainwater, I hoped. The concept of altering sensory perception to change a mental state isn't a new idea. Most religions recommend darkness, quiet, fasting, and isolation as effective methods to get in touch with God. And even as someone who follows the Good Book of Nick Cave and doesn't believe

in an interventionist God, I can look at the empirical evidence of psychologists who contend that in excess, the methods recommended by religions for intense meditation will certainly lead to eventual hallucinations. I suppose then, it's not all that strange that some people are drawn to dark, quiet places, away from the normal world and into the mysterious world of the underground. With enough practise, you could find your own personal Jesus lurking in there. On this journey, with what my companion lacked in omnipotence, he made up for in good conversation and a steady gait. Truth be told, there's not much to see when you can't see anything and conversation tends to flow freely. We spoke about the other supposed urban tunnels and underground spaces in Adelaide that we had heard about. We both independently knew of the Cave Clan, a group of underground explorers whose existence was proved not only by the graffiti in the tunnels, but also by their very non-subversive presence on the Internet. We had heard of other underground spaces; notably the tunnels under the Treasury in King William St (confirmed, blocked off), the tunnels behind Government House (old underpass for graziers, filled in), as well as numerous other underground spaces (codenamed Twins, Schweppervescence, Eli's Tomb, etc.) There were also rumours that we had heard and could not substantiate. Amongst these was an old train station in the Hills where psilocybin mushrooms were known to grow, and a tunnel from a silver mine that led to a large underground cavern from someone's backyard in the foothills.

After about a kilometre the anatomy of the pipe changed, and not without some relief, soon we could see the light at the end of the tunnel. Strangely enough, we both felt like we had become accustomed to the darkness and the quiet, and the outside world seemed somehow difficult to emerge into. There was a divide between the underground and the surface and some type of deeper change that was beyond a simple light adjustment. The outside world seemed crisper and brighter, and we seemed more alive, looking for new challenges. So having successfully gotten an urbex load off, we proceeded to Schweppervescence, a tunnel that I had never been through in my formative years as a drainer, due to permanent and excessive water flow, the enemy of all subterranean seekers. This time, although the drain looked safe, comprising about an inch of water on concrete, I was unfortunately struck by two of the pitfalls of urban exploration. Not realising that the green surface of the drain was actually a fine coating of algae, I slipped and fell on my back, letting out a very vocal 'good gracious', or perhaps something a little stronger. This, unfortunately, alerted an inconveniently placed local council security guard, who proceeded to humiliate himself with an outstanding display of fuzzy logic as to why we should get out of the drain and begin acting like ordinary citizens. Given that the real sore point was in my back and not in his argument, we let him take the honours with his parting words, Conversation, over!", and climbed up to join him on his higher moral ground.

Later, resting, I thought a little bit more about our excursion and what had created that feeling of enjoyment in the Twins. I realised that it probably came down to simply doing something different for a change; being somewhere odd and seeking out a new sensory experience that changes our view of the environment. I told myself to keep trying to establish and accept challenges as often as possible, and appreciate that this small city can provide all sorts of opportunities to do so. I vowed to one day make it back to Schweppervescence and finish off the exploration, but first, I thought, I'll have to try get into some twins. KS

Scratchy Tapes in a Dusty Hyundai around the leafy suburbs of the foothills of Adelaide in our post-pubescent years, my friends and I used to listen to home-made cassettes by a guy who goes by the moniker of 'Smooth Pete'. Pete had obviously got his hands on an old Casio keyboard and he'd rap, scat, and beat-box to a simple backing track. My friend got hold of the cassettes from Pete himself as he attended the same eastern-suburbs high school and, admittedly, we initially listened to his tapes because we simply had nothing else to listen to. We spent many weekends and long school holidays exploring windy roads in the hills, sitting in lookout car-parks, and driving to parties in all corners of Adelaide Pete was always with us. We got used to Pete being there and we began to form a respect for this unusual homerecording stranger. Many Smooth Pete tracks would begin with dialogue I remember one track about school, I think and Pete would often inhabit several personae. This was usually followed by a rudimentary Casio backing track or Pete's unique beat-boxing, and many minutes (many songs are longer than 5 minutes) of 'scatting' and wonderfully innocent rapping. Oh, and I should probably mention that this young guy is incredibly prolific and has released approximately 20 whole albums. My friend's cassettes have since been lost, mistakenly taped over, or damaged from over-use and I've often lamented this loss as I thought I would never hear Pete's breaks again. Part of it has to do with nostalgia for a more care-free period of my life but another part has to do with being down-right interested in this strange character. My friend hardly remembered Pete, let alone his real name, and all I knew was that he was from Adelaide and owned a keyboard. Who the hell is Smooth fucking Pete? Not long ago I remembered all of this about those cassettes and those beautiful weekends spent exploring Adelaide and I decided I would try and track down Smooth Pete...no, I decided I had to find him. It took me probably two or three days sitting at work and scouring the internet. A simple google search of Smooth Pete" frustratingly didn't come up with much but after fervent scouring through Youtube video comments and cached skater forum pages I found what seemed to be Smooth Pete's music on MySpace!! I was understandably jubilant.

I was eventually able to get in contact with Pete I couldn't believe it for a while and I thought about reviewing all 20 albums in the vein of Stan Mahoney's 'The Complete Home for the Def' but I realised that would surely ruin my social life and physical condition. Instead I asked Pete a few questions and this is what he wrote back (unedited): I Have Always admired Music especially at a young age. Growing up I listened a lot to harmonic and percussive sounds enjoyably. Ive collected inspirations all around not just from Music but also in Television visually, absorbing the best I remember. Collecting creative forms of Imagination as cleverly as possible. In an older age having know I can beat-box, I remember hearing music very attentively since age 4, messing with my own turntable and listening to music from my Brother and Sisters music stash sleeping while listening at Age 6. My Scope has always been piecing the best theme to then create a story in my Projects. Fast ideas occur when I feel something , as it comes together in my mind. Which Syncs then constructs a form of beats in progress, then its time to record. In build of ideas I always love to write just like my poetry. I have a delightful way of putting together words in my music. The rhymes become natural when I record especially in what track Im creating. After I have recorded something, I listen back and see what I need to improve on. Once its in progress I mould the track in to form resulting the right recipe released. Ive learnt to compose music with my beat-box and fantasy to work with and then apply instrumental props to accompany the tune, so it sounds put together. In most tracks I have mixed up using my Turntable sets and it resulted well . I find it enjoyable to mix up as much as possible in the right time with a track Im constructing. In the present time I hope to conclude my skills with bright ideas, I am currently studying music to deliver more of my best with my music recordings. MM

Some of Smooth Pete's music can be found here: http://www.myspace.com/ smoothnout

Smooth Pete's 'blog' with three albums available for download: http:// www.strangeholiday.com/

(Photo credits: Smooth Pete)

Cultural Capital hipsters are indefinable. As a group, they prefer to be considered individuals, although it is clear there are many common characteristics, such as an interest in non-mainstream music, media, fashion, and alternative lifestyles. Hipsters eschew anything that is overtly popular or identifiable with modern culture, but that skinny guy riding his fixie to the local community garden wearing black glasses without lenses and sporting a curly moustache is probably the archetype. As Time wrote: Hipsters are the friends who sneer when you cop to liking Coldplay. They're the people who wear tshirts silk-screened with quotes from movies you've never heard of... They sport cowboy hats and berets and think Kanye West stole their sunglasses. Everything about them is exactingly constructed to give off the vibe that they just don't care. Now dont get me wrong, I have nothing against hipsters as individuals and to a large extent I like the characteristics of the movement. I like to think that I can measure people independently of their associations and even see within myself a couple of stereotypical hipster traits, not the least of which is writing an article in a zine about them. I enjoy indie music, op-shops, foreign films, vintage bikes, home cooking, and street art. I just think its interesting that one of the main characteristics of a culture which is so obvious is the rejection of identification within a larger group, and discomfort or even disbelief that such a group exists. To some extent I find hipsters confusing; in Adelaide I have met some of the most amazingly gifted and exciting people who have disappointed me through obsessively collecting popular paraphernalia for their image. In the last few years, social anthropologists have gained many a cheap doctorate theorising about the trend. As always, some of their conclusions are academic garbage, but some of it is really quite interesting. For instance, Mark Grief, from alternative publisher N+, labels hipsters as people who judge others by the wealth of their cultural capital, a phrase that has delighted academics in discourse regarding hipsters since. In an internet society where education and knowledge are readily available and the economic future is uncertain, Grief points towards culture as the most important commodity. When identifying and accepting likeminded people, youth have reneged the importance of earning money, being highly educated, or being physically attractive, in favour of a knowledge of culture and the ability to apply abstract and underground cultural memes to oneself. We all know the hipster train of thought; for example, with music, Jack Johnson is populist shit, Belle & Sebastian are OK but so mainstream these days, oOoOO and the proliferation of Houston witch-house

screwgaze is un-fucking-believable, but you should check out this minimalist psych-band called ! that are playing at a warehouse party during the next gibbous moon phase. Id go but Ill be too high on Alprazolam to fully understand it. So, what does all this hipster gibberish mean? Hipsters, like all youth, are alienated and unsure of their identity and future. Were all a little scared of the world and often try to ground ourselves by being just a little bit better at something the person next to us thinks is important. The problem with trying to be a hipster, however, is that knowledge of culture is such an incredibly abstract and everchanging yardstick with which to measure oneself, and will leave you as confused and disillusioned as ever. For example, these days, its no longer hip to be interested in lomography, as the iPhone application Hipstamatic means that 10 year olds can upload their lomo art on Facebook almost instantaneously. I mean, who can keep up with this shit? To use a quote from Paul Keating, the Hipster movement is all tip and no iceberg - no matter how quickly people catch on to what is culturally cool, the amount of people that will be at the tip of what is fresh and exciting will always be limited to just a few. As soon as something is popular, it is no longer worth anything as a cultural commodity. So to be a successful hipster, you basically need to like things that no-one else knows about and before they are popular. Right... I really like the idea of culture being important in how people relate to each other, but I think hipster practice takes it too far. Discussing abstract thoughts and modern music, playing with the power of new media and considering alternative options are all OK with me, but judging others simply because their cultural knowledge and interests are perceived as common and therefore worthless doesnt resonate well with me. Like I said, I kind of identify with hipsters, but I try to look at what I do objectively. We should always be aware of our motivations and our actions, especially if we are judging others for not being the same as us. The same is true of any of our beliefs that estrange us from other people; we all yearn for acceptance and struggle to find our individuality, but that doesnt mean we should follow the crowd. Critical thought and awareness of our identities is far more important than knowing what is going to be the next big thing. And if you agree and would like to spend your cultural cash somewhere else, then youre cool with me. KS

Soviet Knitwear I recently bought a small book of knit-patterns published in Sovietera Russia from a local second-hand store. Translated, the title would be 'For you, ladies', but it only has patterns of male sweaters. These four featured Russian dudes are lucky enough to know women with top-notch knitting skills.

Mikhail, 33, is a foreman on a hydroelectric-dam construction site. Misha has recently become engaged and when he's not overseeing building operations and logistics - in his dark-grey sweater/mitten/cap ensemble of course - he dabbles in recreational hunting.

Kiril, 27, is a good-hearted economist from Omsk. Married and with his first child on the way, Kiril enjoys socialising on the weekends and thinks his handsome jade-green vest is perfect for a casual dinner-party.

Dimitry, 38, is happily married with two young daughters. Dimitry holds a prestigious government job and savours weekends away at his country property, pottering in the garden in his dashing ochre vest.

Oleg, a physics major at University, lives with his mother in St. Petersburg. He likes to collect exotic fishes and enjoys brisk autumns because he's always cosy in his charcoal/ brown buttoned sweater.

MM

MIX TAPE (SIDE A) Making a mix tape of folk-metal is harder than I thought. Since the genre boomed in the 1990s, the folk music larder of almost every country has been ravaged by metal bands who were sick of hitting power chords and trying to come up with meaningful lyrics. Despite the stereotype, however, there is still a bunch of folk-metal bands throughout the world comprised of seriously talented musicians who are very much aware of their respective musical and cultural histories. The following list could have stretched on and on, but Ive tried to give you a small sample of bands who play some amazing music and a broad taste of the genre. It includes distorted pan pipes from Peru, lap-harps played like metal guitars from Latvia, pirate metal sea shanties from Scotland, hurdy-gurdys, mandolins, drums, flutes, bagpipes, melodic harmonies and death growl battle screams. Whilst I have to admit that Im not the biggest fan of metal, there is something that definitely draws me to many of these songs. Perhaps its because lots of the melodies and instruments from which the songs are created have stood the test of time. In some cases, theyre songs that in one form or another have been played for many hundreds of years. So... revolutionary twist or sacrilegious rubbish? Look up some of these tracks on YouTube (they might not be at your local music shop!) and decide for yourself.

Heidevolk (Netherlands) - Het Gelders Volkslied Chaska (Peru) - Nymph Of The Lake Korpiklaani (Finland) - Tuli Kokko Equilibrium (Germany) - Blut Im Auge

Mnegarm (Sweden) Hemfrd

Metsatll (Estonia) Ma Laulaks Seda Luguda Eluveitie (Switzerland) - Uis Elveti Alestorm (Scotland) Keelhauled Skyforger (Latvia) - Migla Migla, Rasa Rasa

KS

MIX TAPE (SIDE B) It's pretty easy to do a reggae cover of a song I reckon. It doesn't take too much imagination to strum a guitar on the 2nd and 4th beats and put on a shitty Jamaican accent and pretend you're free-spirited and that you're cool with dirty hair. What takes balls is doing a reggae cover of a song and doing the original some justice, kicking some Rastafari pride into that mofo and taking it to town. When pressed with the task of coming up with half-a-dozen or so good reggae covers, I found it difficult, to tell you the truth. Don't get me wrong, I'm a big fan of reggae and most of its manifestations, but a good deal of reggae cover versions just don't cut the grade. Firstly, the original song has to be able to stand up to the abuse put to it by reggae's sometimes foolhardy ways and then the cover version has to bring something new to the table, something unique. The reggae cover is a fickle creature, it can produce amazing results (reggae made me enjoy a John Denver song) but can also fall to the dank depths of yuck (UB40's 'Can't Help Falling In Love'). My coeditor and I were in a band once which recorded a reggae version of a traditional Latvian folk song; we certainly thought we were being pretty cool, but I'd recommend you listen to these instead:

The Tennors - Weather Report (cover of Simon and Garfunkel's 'The Only Living Boy in New York') Jackie Opel - You Send Me (Sam Cooke) Easy Star All-Stars - Exit Music (For a Film) (feat. Sugar Minnot) (Radiohead) Toots and the Maytals - Take Me Home, Country Roads (John Denver) The Mighty Diamonds - Lay Lady Lay (Bob Dylan) Tony Tribe - Red, Red Wine (Neil Diamond) Blood Sisters - Ring My Bell (Anita Ward) Easy Star All-Stars - Money (Pink Floyd)

MM

Getting Your Whisk On of wet birch leaves; naked and dripping with sweat, I endured an exhausting thrashing from my second cousin. Now, don't raise your eyebrows; for, you see, I wasn't in the Appalachians at a wedding reception, but in a sauna somewhere in the countryside in Eastern Europe. In the dimly-lit room where I was lying down, one could hear the wet slapping of birch leaves on skin and the laboured breathing of both whacker and whackee. And when Ernest was satisfied with the session and I was wearily close to my heat-endurance threshold, I could exit the hot little room. Suitably fatigued and with a helping hand, I stumbled out into the twilight air, inebriated from the experience, light-headed and unable to utter anything comprehensible. I was then treated to a bucket of ice-cold water poured over my steaming body and then lay down on the cool grass in front of the little saunahouse. In a strange sort of euphoria I thought nothing of the other people sitting just several metres away, chatting quietly and sipping tea, or what I had done earlier, or will do later. I was content with staring up into the darkening sky...I felt wonderful. While saunas are now found all over the world, the first saunas are from what is today the area of Finland. Saunas date back at least a millennium in Finland and are an important part of the culture, traditions, and history of Finland and the Baltic States (modern-day Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania) and are still regularly used by people today. Most, if not all, farmTraditional sauna (pirts) near Smiltene, Latvia steads in the countryside will still have a sauna. Families would communally wash in their saunas, often using whisks made from small branches or meadow flowers with which they whack and rub their skin. These whisks (most commonly from birch trees) and the 'whisking' process, promote good blood circulation, opens the pores and, depending on the type of whisk used, uphold good skin health and have healing and rejuvenating properties. Honey can also be smeared on to the skin for these same reasons. Many different abrasives may be rubbed onto the skin while in the sauna for an exfoliating effect, including salt and bi-carb soda, coffee, oats, and many different plants (rhubarb leaves are great for this, trust me). I tell you know, you've never felt completely clean until you've had a proper sauna.

Several types of traditional sauna exist, but the oldest form is the 'smoke' sauna (known as 'black' saunas in Latvia) which consist simply of a room with a fire in the middle surrounded by rocks. Because it is heated throughout the day, the smoke blackens the walls and leaves a pleasant smoky smell within; once it has been sufficiently heated, the smoke is let out and one can start sweating. These types of saunas are preferred by the 'die-hard' sauna aficionados and provide a much more intense experience (I have had the pleasure of a phat session in an old black sauna right out in the country-side). Not only were saunas used for health and well-being, but for other practical uses. Because of their cleanliness, sterility, access to water and warmth in winter, saunas were commonly used for childbirth and the preparation of the dead. It would probably even be possible today to find people still alive who were born in a sauna...pretty cool when you think about it. It's all fine reading about saunas, but what I want you to know is that you too can obtain a rather satisfying sauna experience without having to leave suburbia for the fog-blanketed countryside of Finland. Many gyms will have a sauna which would be very suitable, you just need to 'pimp' it a bit neo-pagan style. Try and find a gym where you only have to pay a daily (casual) fee to use the sauna and wet-area. I must Estonian folk-metal band Metsatll (see mixtape) stress that you must find the type of sauna with the rocks on top of the heater; most if not all of these will be electric but this is perfectly fine...I'm yet to find a gym with a birch-timber fuelled fire! And please please please (let me get what I want) don't assume that the saunas which are essentially rooms full of generated steam are actually proper saunas. These, as a tip, are bollocks. A whisk is optional, but if you know of a birch, maple, oak, or even eucalyptus tree in your neighbourhood then tie some leafy branches together and Joonas is your uncle! You mustn't start whisking until you've been in and out a few times (remember to keep smashing those rocks with ladles of water to get a good sweat up and to jump under a COLD shower every time you come out). I'm sure you've already assumed that you need someone else to whack you, so if you're not cool with that then you probably shouldn't even be reading this zine. Anyway, put shortly, you need to have a good combination of wafting, brushing, whacking, rubbing, and pressing to get the full experience. The rest is up to you and your imagination you dirty, filthy thing. MM

SAMIZDAT Contributors

Marti Medenis, Latvija

and

Karlis Stemsands, Australia

Smoke my ballbag, Ozone

- Skinpin

c
2011