After years of searching, a few close calls, and some truly bizarre auditions, we were just about ready to throw in the towel. The gaping hole left in our band’s creative core—thanks to our founding member and guitar wizard Constantin permanently migrating to the capital of this great nation—felt impossible to fill.
In a last-ditch effort, Les consulted his Russian-speaking connections once again. “Why don’t you ask Boris?” they said. Boris? That Boris? The guy who melts faces at our local speakeasy, Barsuk, with the kind of guitar sorcery that makes grown musicians question their life choices? Could he handle prog? Would he even want to?
Turns out, Boris is not only a huge King Crimson fan but also shreds a Parker Fly guitar just like Adrian Belew—with the skills to match. Naturally, we were skeptical. Too many had failed to survive even our easiest songs. “Give him the hardest tune,” we said. “We don’t want to waste anyone’s time.”
Next week, Boris walked in, obliterated the track with terrifying precision, and left Kyree jumping and squealing like she just won a lifetime supply of Moog synthesizers. Then he immediately dove into the new album, crafting so much face-melting material that we nearly had to schedule emergency reconstructive surgery.
So, without further ado, we present our newest band member, the one and only Boris Kalantyr —the axe-wielding, prog-bending, tone-summoning sorcerer of Half Past Four. We’re honored to have him on board, and working with him has been nothing short of a pleasure.

A long time ago, in a galaxy suspiciously close to here, we were a Russian-speaking psych-rock band with an eight-person lineup. Yes, eight. Two guitars, bass, drums, djembe (because why not), two keyboards, and a backing singer. Basically, if you shook us, we’d rattle like a bag of percussion instruments.
One fateful day, someone—probably while hallucinating from too much "caffeine"—decided we needed to cover Pink Floyd’s "Money." Because nothing says “we’re ready” like odd time signatures and zero people who can play the solo.
Our keyboardists tried. They failed. Heroically. Constantin, our guitar wizard, squinted into the existential void and said,
“I know a guy.”
Next rehearsal, in walks this absurdly young, suspiciously serious-looking dude. He sits down, casually annihilates the solo with surgical precision, probably solving advanced calculus equations in his head simultaneously. Then, just to flex, he shreds through Deep Purple, ELP, Yes, and maybe summoned a small thunderstorm out of sheer force of will.
Our two keyboardists resigned the next day, citing “irreversible incompetence.” (They were actually great—we just watched their souls deflate like forgotten party balloons.)
The problem? We didn’t even know if the guy wanted to join us.
We asked.
He shrugged and said: "Yes."
And that’s how Igor “Iggy” Kurtzman accidentally became the backbone of Half Past Four. Since then, he’s been:
* A human jukebox (requests? Anything from Stravinsky to Mario Bros. to probably whale calls)
* The arranger, melody wizard, and knower of literally everyone’s parts (yes, including yours)
* Band treasurer, promoter, tour organizer—basically our CEO, CFO, and GPS
* A jazz sorcerer who once jammed with faculty teachers just to see if they were real
Iggy’s the glue that held us together through thick, thin, and moments where gravity itself seemed optional.
It’s been an absolute honor to share this ride with him. Here’s to Iggy—the guy who said "Yes" and accidentally became the backbone of Half Past Four.
 

At the dawn of the millennium, Half Past Four had a mission: go full prog. But we had two major problems—no proper singer, and all our deeply poetic, mind-expanding lyrics were in Russian.
Enter the one and only Kyree Vibrant. Her first audition? She auditioned us! We played our weirdest material, and instead of running for the hills, she declared: “You guys are my new favorite band.”
Skeptical, we handed her our only English song, Missing Seventh. Next rehearsal? She absolutely obliterated it. Theater, emotion, pure prog magic—we knew instantly she was the missing piece.
Kyree didn’t just translate our songs—she reinvented them with masterful English lyrics, all while writing brand-new mind-bending material. Then she became our video director, harmony coach, and prog evangelist, shaping our sound and securing our place in the scene.
Without Kyree, Half Past Four wouldn’t exist as you know it. All hail the mighty Kyree! 

Meet Dmitry “Les” Lesov—because “Les” means “Forest” in Russian, and apparently, that’s the exact amount of mystery he wanted in his nickname. As a founding member of Half Past Four, Les is the guy who’s been holding down the low end since before we figured out how many time signatures were too many (answer: there’s no such thing).
Les doesn’t just play bass. He engineers basslines—intricate, melodic patterns that slither, bounce, and occasionally throw a surprise party for your eardrums. His grooves are so complex that we suspect they have their own tax returns.
But why stop there? Les also plays the Chapman Stick, an instrument that looks like a bass and a guitar got into a heated argument and decided to merge out of spite. It has more strings than your average conspiracy theory, and somehow Les makes it sound like the most natural thing in the world.
Oh, and he sings, because of course he does. Both lead and backing vocals. Because why be just a bassist when you can be the full rhythm section and a choir?
Les is a relentless riff machine, constantly dropping new ideas like they’re on clearance. His creativity fuels the band’s evolution, ensuring that no song is safe from sudden bursts of “What if we made this weirder?”
Here’s to Les—the bass wizard, Stick sorcerer, melody architect, and the only person who can make 14/8 sound like a casual stroll

Introducing Roberto Bitti – the rhythmic wizard who keeps us in time (mostly) and the secret ingredient in our recent creative revival.
Just before COVID crashed the party, we invited Roberto to join us for a Zappa tribute show. That show, much like a well-intentioned New Year's resolution, never materialized. But in true Zappa fashion—where the unexpected is often the best part—we discovered a drummer who not only grooves like a beast but also sings with a passion that could make a stone cry. Case in point: his rendition of "Why Does It Hurt When I Pee" is so gut-wrenching, it could bring tears to a cinder block.
When we asked if he’d be up for playing our original music, his enthusiasm was so contagious we almost had to quarantine it. The result? A flood of creativity that led to our upcoming release. We’re thrilled to have him aboard—because as Frank himself might say, without deviation from the norm, progress is not possible!