At first, AnTrop’s bootleg records looked like perfect copies of the originals. But a closer look revealed subtle — and sometimes not-so-subtle — differences. Some covers were slightly changed or had extra visual elements added. Others were completely redrawn.
How the redesigns were handled varied. There were a lot of ideas, some of which were great, some of which weren’t. But there weren’t enough skilled illustrators to make them happen. Two artists in particular became AnTrop’s go-to designers: Nikolai Kibalchich and Yuri Trifonov.
Even though they’re so important, these two men have managed to stay pretty much out of the spotlight. They don’t do interviews, they don’t have websites or emails, and they still use old push-button phones. Beyond that, they couldn’t be more different.
But why even do that? In the Soviet Union, it was technically legal to make copies of music, but not to copy the original cover art. As music journalist Andrei Burlaka explained:
“We had to change the artwork because music copyrights didn’t apply to the design. The design was separate. You could write “Recorded from a broadcast” or “From Kolya Vasin’s collection” for the music source, but that didn’t fly for the sleeves — the law didn’t allow it. So we decided to create our own covers, ‘based on’ the originals.”
This wasn’t just AnTrop’s thing. Before Tropillo, the state label Melodiya and other semi-official outfits had done similar things — releasing Western albums with heavily modified or generic covers. As the Melodiya staff later admitted, they had two options: release nothing, or release something altered, so that listeners in the USSR could at least have something.
Alexander Morozov, the producer and founder of Moroz Records, shared some thoughts on the matter. He says AnTrop’s releases were sort of in this legal gray area:
“The copyright law on authors’ and related rights didn’t come around until 1993. Before that, we technically didn’t have any obligations to anyone. After 1993, the law allowed reissuing material released before 1973, but even then you had to clear rights with the authors. I can’t say for sure if it was completely legal or not, though. But from a business perspective, it was a smart move.”
Redesigning the Covers
Nikolai Kibalchich
Kibaltchich and producer Andrei Troppillo first met during their army service. They’ve been close ever since. It was Kibaltchich who helped Troppillo move a five-ton press into a basement to start the first underground vinyl production in Leningrad. Later on, he worked as a designer at the same cultural building that housed Troppillo’s first studio, sometimes stopping by while Soviet rock legends were laying down tracks.
In our conversation, Kibalchich recalled the moment it all started:
“One day, Troppillo stopped by my first apartment. He saw that I had been redrawing record sleeves and labels. Why? Just for fun. Back then, people were obsessed with anything Western because we had nothing like it. We’d grab any pretty plastic bag we could find. People would just patch them up with tape so they could keep using them. That was just the norm back then — sort of a fetishism of the time.”
When Troppillo later started pressing records, he remembered Kibaltchich’s hobby and offered him paid work.
He called me and said, ‘Kolya, you used to redraw those covers — want to design some for me?’ I was working at a military plant at the time, earning 300 rubles a month, and here he was offering 600, plus extra pay for each cover. For me, it was like escaping from a life sentence at that factory.”
To mark his contributions, Kibalchich often signed his work with the initials NKO (Cyrillic: НКО), which Troppillo encouraged.
Selected albums, designed by Nikolai Kibalchich
Yuri Trifonov
Kibalchich was a practical guy, but Yuri Trifonov was more of a romantic. Trifonov is a lifelong Beatles collector and an “artist without formal training.” He had been drawing theater posters and logos when Kibaltchich invited him to collaborate with AnTrop.
“We didn’t have formal meetings to plan things,” Trifonov said. “Everyone just threw in their own ideas. Nikolai probably trusted me more than himself when it came to art, but he was way more into the production side than I ever was.”
Trifonov’s passion was — and still is — the Beatles. His apartment has gradually transformed into a shrine, packed with memorabilia, including a 90-kilogram bust of John Lennon.
Back in ’66, tape recorders were a rare luxury, but my neighbor across the hall had one. The older kids from the building would often hang out at his place. There was no drinking, no parties — just music. We didn’t really understand most of the song titles, but we memorized every Beatles album.
He only finished three covers and three label designs, but there were a lot more drafts that never made it to print. His design proposals for Plastic Ono Band and McCartney would’ve looked totally different from what was eventually released.
“I wanted the Beatles records to have covers that were totally unique — originals that had never existed before. I mentioned this to Troppillo. He thought about it for a minute and said, ‘People won’t recognize the records.’ But how could you not recognize the Beatles? It would have been way more interesting!”
Trifonov wasn’t in it for the money or a sense of mission, unlike Kibalchich:
“I did it because I’m passionate about it, not for the money. Back then, there were easier and more fun ways to make money. I never thought of myself as part of some great rock ‘n’ roll movement. I was just the artist carrying out the work. But it was fun. Anything to do with the Beatles was always fun for me.”
He never signed his covers, and he still finds that funny:
“Why would I? I was pretty happy with the work itself. I didn’t need to promote myself.”
Albums, designed by Yuri Trifonov
The Production Process
Unfortunately, almost none of the original sketches or mock-ups have survived. Everything was done in a hands-on, analog style: collage, cutouts, and hand lettering. Once the layout was approved, the physical mock-up went straight to production — and the artist never saw it again.
“I don’t know what happened to them,” Trifonov admits. “Maybe they’re in AnTrop’s archive, maybe they were just thrown out. It didn’t bother me back then. I got my records as payment — that was enough.”
Early attempts to design sleeves digitally were abandoned due to poor quality. The team switched to a more professional analog method using color slide film. Photographer Andrei Baranovsky handled the high-quality transfers, often for payment in hard currency.
“He was a pro with great equipment,” Kibaltchich recalls. “He’d make the slides, and then I’d take them to the Aprelevka plant in Moscow, where they had the best printing presses. That’s where the final covers were made.”
Since the USSR didn’t make professional-grade slide film, they had to import materials, often from East Germany, which made the process take a lot of time and money. But the results were unmatched.
© 2024 Artur Netsvetaev, interviews with Nikolai Kibalchich, Yuri Trifonov, Andrei Burlaka, Alexander Morozov
© beatlesvinyl.com.ua (images)
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