Artem Potemkin

I often see one and the same dream: I have to go on air in an hour, but I can’t because I’m stuck in some other city. That’s my worst nightmare.

"Russkoe radio" — is a place where you learn a lot, and also a valuable record in your employment history. But there’s so much more to my life than this. Say, music, it’s one of my top priorities. I dedicate as much time to it as to my official job. I can’t really turn around and say that I’m a crap journalist, if not for other reasons, than just because I’ve spent 5 years obtaining relevant education, but the thing is that I do know other people who’re far more professional, which brings me to the point where being a plankton, regardless of the sphere, is so not me. I’d rather be a great singer, which is rare in our country, than one of the millions and millions of average journalists.

Being a radio presenter is really cool, because you don’t really have to be a great radio presenter for that, you just have to make sure you pretend well enough. So far, I’ve managed to succeed (laughs).

I always laugh when I read gossips about myself. I think I’ll make a special chapter about it in my memoir.

Our show business contradicts the general rule that stars are born and not made. We’ve got our own rules: sugar daddies and just daddies exchange money for producers, stylists, make-up artists, PR experts, and there we go — a new star is ready to shine. In our country, the truly talented ones find their own way to success, but it’s the mediocrities who, for some reason, get all the help and support.

Moscow is the best place in the world to realize that Moscow is by far not the best place in the world.

Music has to be either ingenious, or hilariously funny, or a hell of a rip off. As for all this half-and-half stuff, I just don’t get it. My player is filled with Maroon 5, Panayotov, Madonna, Noskov, Singing Panties, me, my sister, musicals, various jazz, and French lessons. Now I know how to say “my little birdie” in French — Mon petit oiselet.

I love those moments in my life that force me to do something, invent something, write, read, paint. Doesn’t matter what it is as long as I’m doing something. Because when I’m not doing anything, I go dumb.

My favourite sound is the noise produced by a glowing cigarette as it’s burning away. You’re the only one who can hear it. This turns the whole process of inhaling nicotine into a sacred ritual. This is my way of justifying my bad habit.

All we are is just puppets who’ve learnt to walk, smile charmingly, and fish a Vertu out of a Louis Vuitton.

Things I enjoy most are sleeping and singing. I even sing in my sleep.

I can’t understand those fans of mine who write to me saying that they want to have kids with me, or call my girlfriend and tell her that she’s a bitch. First of all, how can you want to have kids with someone you don’t even know, and second, how come do they know my girlfriend so well (laughs).

A man and a woman who believe they’re friends have either already been lovers once in the past, or are only going to be in future.

I am so irritated by the candy-sweet girls with those mushy pet names they call you, and all those “eww”, and “fa-a-a-a-a-ashion”, and “mwah mwah mwah”. It’s so disgusting that I just want to grab something heavy and hit them straight on their sugary-blank faces. What’s the whole excitement of parking in a restaurant talking about who’s got cooler tan and where, and whose man’s got a bigger...yacht!? The worst thing is that they wouldn’t even be able to tell an employment history from an employment contract. I wonder what they’re going to do when their admirers’ yachts leave without them?

I’d never have the guts to commit suicide, I love myself too much.

The hardest part of an interview is to remain yourself. One wrong word can cost you a career or a job. Take any interview of any public person — it’s just a reflection of a certain image open to the media. Everything is fake here, starting from names and finishing with thoughts.