On boundless open spaces of Russia where bears drunk with vodka in valenoks go, and exchanging caps with ear-flaps, play balalaikas, in wooden hut lives Alex Ro55a. Waking up every morning from sound of cuckoo knocking on snow-covered trees, he climbs down from the furnace, and, having dressed bast shoes, goes to put samovar. Having drunk fragrant tea on pine cones, under percussion log crash in the furnace it strums melody on accordion, beating off thus rhythm foot, knocking to it on timber floor. So each its new musical composition impregnated with beams of sunlight, cosiness and heat, covering with the veil of positive mood of all people on planet is born.